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 LECTURES 
 
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 RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES; 
 
 ORIBFLY FROM THE 
 
 LECTURES OF DR. BLAIR. 
 
 BY ABRAHAM MILLS, A. M. 
 
 AUTHOR OP AN IMPROVED EDITION OF ALISON ON TASTE, ETC. 
 
 A NEW EDITION, 
 
 NEW- YORK: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY ROE LOCKWOOD 
 
 AT HIS SCHOOL BOOK DEPOSITORY 
 
 411 Broadway. 
 
 1842. 
 
.R>4 
 
 Entered according to act of Congress, by James Conner, in the Cferk r a 
 Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. 
 
 
 ^ TE %m 
 
 ftPRVU 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Dr. Blair's Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres are 
 in the hands of every one pretending to taste and polite learn- 
 ing ; and to argue in favor of their merits, would be like 
 attempting to persuade the lovers of poetry, that they ought 
 to admire the Deserted Tillage of Goldsmith, or the Plea- 
 sures of Hope of Campbell. 
 
 The author of the present volume has, therefore, adhered 
 to the original text as closely as possible; and in every 
 case, where the design of the work rendered it necessary 
 to deviate from it, he has uniformly endeavored to identify 
 the alterations and additions with Dr. Blair's own style and 
 manner of writing, that no discrepancy might be perceived. 
 It was not the author's ambition to attempt any thing original ; 
 but to offer to Professors and Teachers of this delightful 
 science, a text book, which, from its convenience and appro- 
 priateness, might meet their approbation. 
 
 Though the practice of using questions in books of in- 
 struction, is still objected to by some well informed persons 
 connected with the business of education, yet it is appre- 
 hended that this objection rests rather on the very defective 
 manner in which questions are generally prepared, than on 
 the questions themselves : for, surely, as the object of com- 
 mitting the text without them, is, that the whole body of the 
 work may be learned, so, if the questions be properly con. 
 structed, they must necessarily include the literal whole of 
 the author. That the student, therefore, may enjoy every 
 possible facility while studying this work, the author has 
 endeavored to draw his questions from the work itself; 
 involving in them, and the answers which they require, all 
 
 that the text contains. Some, however, may still object to 
 
 1* 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 questions, however carefully they may be formed. To such 
 the author would only observe, that as these are appended 
 to the work, and not incorporated in it, they may, without 
 any inconvenience to the teacher, be omitted altogether. 
 
 With regard to the analyses affixed to the lectures, it must 
 be remembered that they are intended to be used in the form 
 of review — that after the student shall have learned the text 
 of a lecture thoroughly, he should then be directed to commit 
 the analysis perfectly to memory, and, by it, recapitulate the 
 subject as one whole. 
 
 It was remarked to the author, when he commenced this 
 work, that a different arrangement of the lectures would be 
 a judicious improvement. But, upon reflection, he thought 
 it most advisable to follow the order of the original. Should 
 others, however, think differently, they may pursue the 
 course that first suggested itself — to commence the work 
 with the lecture on the Rise and Progress of Language, and 
 introduce the II., III., IV., and V. lectures immediately 
 after the Criticisms on Mr. Addison's Style, in the Spectator. 
 
 New York, November, 1832 
 
LECTURE I. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 One of the most distinguished privileges that Providence 
 has conferred upon mankind, is the power of communicating 
 their thoughts to one another. Without this power, reason 
 would be a solitary, and, in some measure, an unavailable 
 principle. Speech is the great instrument by which man 
 becomes beneficial to man ; and it is to the intercourse and 
 transmission of thought, by means of speech, that we are 
 chiefly indebted for the improvement of thought itself. Small 
 are the advances which a single unassisted individual can 
 make towards perfecting any of his powers. What we call 
 human reason, is not the effort or ability of one, so much 
 as it is the result of the reason of many, arising from lights 
 mutually communicated, in consequence of discourse and 
 writing. 
 
 It is obvious then, that writing and discourse are objects 
 entitled to the highest attention. Whether the influence of 
 the speaker, or the entertainment of the hearer, be consulted 
 — whether utility or pleasure be the principal aim in view ; 
 we are prompted by the strongest motives, to study how we 
 may communicate our thoughts to the best advantage. In 
 the language, even of the rudest and most uncultivated tribes 
 of men, we can trace some attention to the grace and force of 
 those expressions which they used, when they sought to 
 persuade or to effect ; and among nations in a civilized state, 
 no art has been cultivated with more care, than that of lan- 
 guage, style, and composition. The attention paid to it, 
 may, indeed, be assumed as one mark of the progress 
 of society towards its most improved period ; for, accord- 
 ing as society improves and flourishes, men, by means of 
 reasoning and discourse, acquire more influence over one 
 another. 
 
 What is one of the most distinguished privileges that Providence has 
 conferred upon mankind 1 Without this power, what would reason be 1 
 Of speech, what is remarked ; and what follows 7 What is what we call 
 human reason ; and from what does it arise 1 Of writing and discourse 
 then, what is obvious ; and why'? In the language of the rudest and 
 most uncultivated tribes of men, what can we trace ; and of nations in a 
 civilized state, what is observed 1 As what, may the attention paid to it 3 be 
 assumed ; and why 1 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. [Lect 1. 
 
 The study of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, not only sup- 
 poses, but requires a proper acquaintance with the rest of the 
 liberal arts. As it embraces them all within its circle, and 
 recommends them to the highest regard, the first care of such 
 as wish, either to write with reputation, or to speak in public, 
 so as to command attention, must be to extend their know- 
 ledge — to lay in a rich store of ideas relating to those subjects, 
 on which the occasions of life may call them to discourse or 
 to write. Hence, among the ancients, it was a fundamental 
 principle, and frequently inculcated, that the orator ought to 
 be an accomplished scholar, and conversant in every part ol 
 learning. It is, indeed, impossible to contrive an art, and 
 very pernicious it were, if it could be contrived, which should 
 give the stamp of merit to any composition, rich or splendid 
 in expression, but barren or erroneous in thought. They 
 are the wretched attempts towards an art of this kind, which 
 have so often disgraced oratory, and debased it below its true 
 value. The graces of composition have been employed to 
 disguise or to supply the want of matter ; and the temporary 
 applause of the ignorant has been courted, instead of the 
 lasting approbation of the discerning. But such imposture 
 can never maintain its ground long : knowledge and science 
 must furnish the materials that form the body and substance 
 of any valuable composition. Rhetoric serves to add the 
 polish ; and we know that none but firm and solid bodies 
 can be polished well. 
 
 To speak or to write with perspicuity and purity, with 
 grace and strength, are attainments of the utmost consequence 
 to all who purpose, either by speech or writing, to address 
 the public ; for, without being master of these attainments, 
 no man can do justice to his own conceptions. And so far 
 are they from being of that kind, for which we are indebted 
 to nature alone, that among the learned, it has long been a 
 contested, and, indeed, still remains an undecided question, 
 
 With what does the study of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres require a 
 proper acquaintance 'I As it embraces them all within its circle, and re- 
 commends them to the highest regard, what should be the first care of 
 such as wish, either to write with reputation, or to speak in public, so as 
 to command attention 1 Hence, what was, among the ancients, a funda- 
 mental principle, and frequently inculcated 1 An art of what sort, if it 
 were possible to contrive such an one, would be very pernicious 1 Of the 
 wretched attempts towards an art of this kind, what is observed ; for what 
 have the graces of composition been employed ; and what follows % But 
 why cannot such imposture maintain its ground long 1 What are attain- 
 ments of the utmost consequence ; to whom, and why 1 What, among the 
 learned, has long been a contested, and still remains an undecided question 1 
 
Lect. 1.] INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 whether nature or art contributes most towards excellence 
 in them. 
 
 With respect to the manner in which art can most effec- 
 tually furnish assistance for such a purpose, there may be 
 diversity of opinions ; and it would be presumption to say, 
 that mere rhetorical rules, how just soever, are sufficient to 
 form an orator. Private application and study, supposing 
 natural genius to be favorable, are certainly superior to 
 any system of public instruction. But though rules and in- 
 structions cannot comprehend every thing which is requisite, 
 they may afford considerable advantage. They cannot, it is 
 true, inspire genius ; but they can direct and assist it. They 
 cannot render barrenness fruitful ; but they may correct 
 redundancy. They point out the proper models for imita- 
 tion ; they bring into view the chief beauties that ought to 
 be studied, and the principal faults that ought to be avoided ; 
 and thereby tend to enlighten taste, and to lead genius from 
 unnatural deviations into its proper channel. Though they 
 are incapable, perhaps, of producing great excellencies, they 
 may, at least, be subservient to prevent the commission of 
 considerable mistakes. 
 
 All that regards the study of eloquence and composition, 
 merits the higher attention, upon this account, that it is inti- 
 mately connected with the improvement of our intellectual 
 powers. For it must be allowed, that when we are employ- 
 ed, after a proper manner, in the study' of composition, we 
 are cultivating reason itself. True rhetoric, and sound logic, 
 are very nearly allied. The study of arranging and express- 
 ing our thoughts with propriety, teaches us to think as well 
 as to speak accurately ; for by putting o-ur sentiments into 
 words, we always conceive them more distinctly. Every 
 one who has the slightest acquaintance with composition, 
 knows that the defects of his style, can almost always be 
 traced back to an indistinct conception of his subject. 
 
 As rhetoric has been sometimes thought to signify nothing 
 
 About what, may there be diversity of opinions ; and to say what, would 
 ; be presumption 1 What are superior to any system of public instruction 1 
 "What cannot rales and instructions effect ; yet what can they do 1 
 Though they are incapable of producing great excellencies, yet what may 
 they prevent *? Why does all that regards the study of eloquence and com- 
 position, merit attention 7 What must be allowed to be its effect 1 What are 
 very nearly allied 1 What effect does the study of arranging and express- 
 ing our thoughts properly produce ; and why 1 What does every one, who 
 has the slightest acquaintance with composition, know 1 What has rhetoric, 
 sometimes, been thought to magnify; and haw has criticism been considered % 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. |Xect. 1. 
 
 more than the scholastic study of words, and phrases, and 
 tropes ; so criticism has been considered as merely the art 
 of finding faults — as the frigid application of certain technical 
 terms, by means of which, persons are taught to cavil and 
 censure in a learned manner. But this is the criticism of 
 pedants only. True criticism is a liberal and humane art. 
 It is the offspring of good sense and refined taste. It aims 
 at acquiring a just discernment of the real merits of authors. 
 It promotes a lively relish of their beauties, while it preserves 
 us from that blind and implicit veneration which would con- 
 found their beauties and faults in our esteem. 
 
 In an age when works of genius are so frequently the 
 subjects of discourse, when every one ereets himself into a 
 judge, and when we can hardly mingle in polite society 
 without bearing some share in such discussions ; studies of 
 this kind, it is not to be doubted, will appear to derive part of 
 their importance from the use to which they may be applied 
 in furnishing materials for those fashionable topics of dis- 
 course, and thereby enabling us to support a proper rank in 
 social life. But it would be much to be regretted, if we could 
 not rest the merit of such studies on somewhat of solid and 
 mtrinsical use, independent of appearance and show. The 
 exercise of taste and of sound criticism is, in truth, one of the 
 most improving employments of the understanding. To ap- 
 ply the principles of good sense to composition and discourse ; 
 to examine what is beautiful, and why it is so ; to employ 
 ourselves in distinguishing accurately between the specious 
 and the solid, between affected and natural ornament, must 
 certainly improve us not a little in the most valuable part of 
 all philosophy — the philosophy of human nature. For such 
 disquisitions are very intimately connected with the know- 
 ledge of ourselves. They reasonably lead us to reflect on 
 the operations of the imagination, and the movements of the 
 heart ; and increase our acquaintance with some of the most 
 refined feelings which belong to our frame. 
 
 Of whom is this the criticism 1 What is true criticism j and at what 
 does it aim 1 What does it promote ; and from what preserve us 1 In an 
 age like the present, from what will studies of this kind appear to derive 
 part of their importance ; but what would be, at the same time, much to 
 be regretted ? Of the exercise of taste, and of sound criticism, what is 
 observed ; and what must certainly improve us in the philosophy of human 
 nature 1 With what are such disquisitions very intimately connected ; to 
 reflect on what, do they necessarily lead us; and with what do they 
 increase out acquaintance % 
 
Lect. 1.] INTRODUCTION, 11 
 
 To Belles Lettres belongs, also, all that relates to beauty, 
 harmony, grandeur, and elegance ; all that can soothe the 
 mind, gratify the fancy, or move the affections. They also 
 exercise the mind without fatiguing it ; leading to inquiries 
 acute but not painful ; profound, but not dry nor abstruse. 
 The pleasures of taste occupy a middle station between the 
 pleasures of sense and those of pure intellect. To be entirely 
 devoid of relish for eloquence, poetry, or any of the fine arts, 
 is justly considered an unpromising symptom in youth ; and 
 raises suspicions of their being prone to low gratifications, or 
 destined to drudge in the more vulgar and illiberal pursuits 
 of life. A cultivated taste increases sensibility to all the ten- 
 der and humane passions, by giving them frequent exercise ; 
 while it tends to weaken the more violent and fierce emotions. 
 These polished arts have humanized mankind, 
 Soften* d the rude, and calm'd the boist'rous mind. 
 
 The elevated sentiments and high examples which poetry, 
 eloquence, and history, are often bringing under our view, 
 naturally tend to nourish, in our minds, public spirit, the 
 love of glory, contempt of external fortune, and the admira- 
 tion of what is truly illustrious and great. From reading 
 the most admired productions of genius, whether in poetry 
 or prose, almost every one rises with some good impressions 
 left upon his mind ; and though these may not always be 
 durable, they are, at least, to be ranked among the means of 
 disposing the heart to virtue. One thing is certain, that 
 without possessing the virtuous affections in a strong degree, 
 no man can attain to eminence in the sublime parts of 
 eloquence. He must feel what a good man feels, if he 
 expects greatly to move, or to interest mankind. The ardent 
 sentiments of honor, virtue, magnanimity, and public spirit 
 only, can kindle that fire of genius, and call up into the 
 mind those high ideas, which attract the admiration of ages ; 
 and if this spirit be necessary to produce the most dis- 
 tinguished efforts of eloquence, it must be necessary also to 
 the relishing of them with proper taste and feeling. 
 
 To Belles Lettres, also, belongs what 1 They also exercise the mind with- 
 out what ; and lead to inquiries of what kind 1 What station do the pleasures 
 of taste occupy 1 What is justly considered an unpromising symptom in 
 youth ; and of what does it raise suspicions % What is the effect of a cul- 
 tivated taste 1 Repeat the poetic illustration. What do the elevated senti- 
 ments and high examples which poetry, eloquence, and history, are often 
 bringing under our view, naturally tend to nourish in our minds 1 How is this 
 remark illustrated 1 What is certain ; and why 1 What, only, can kindle that 
 fire of genius, which attracts the admiration of ages ; and what remark follows 1 
 
LECTURE II. 
 
 TASTE. 
 
 There are few subjects on which men talk more loosely 
 and indistinctly than on taste ; few which it is more difficult 
 to explain with precision ; and none which in these lectures 
 will appear more dry and abstract. In our remarks on the 
 subject, we shall pursue the following order :- — First, explain 
 the nature of taste as a power or faculty of the human mind : 
 next, consider how far it is an improvable faculty : then 
 show the sources of its improvement* and its characters in 
 its most perfect state : and in the last place, examine the 
 various fluctuations to which it is liable, and inquire whether 
 there be any standard to which the different tastes of men 
 can be brought, in order to distinguish the false from the true. 
 
 Taste may be defined, " The power of receiving pleasure 
 from the beauties of nature and of art." The first question 
 that occurs concerning it is, whether it is an internal sense. 
 or an exertion of reason ? Reason is a very general term ; 
 but if we understand by it that power of the mind which in 
 speculative matters discovers truth, and in practical matters 
 judges of the fitness of means to an end, it is evident that 
 taste cannot be resolved into any such operation. It is not 
 merely through a discovery of the understanding or a deduc- 
 tion of argument, that the mind receives pleasure from a 
 beautiful prospect or a fine poem. Such objects often strike 
 us intuitively, and make a strong impression, when we are 
 unable to assign the reason of our being pleased. They 
 sometimes strike, in the same manner, the philosopher and 
 the peasant ; the boy and the man. Hence the faculty by 
 which we relish such beauties, seems more nearly allied to a 
 feeling of sense, than to a process of the understanding ; and, 
 accordingly, from an external sense it has borrowed its name. 
 But, though taste be ultimately founded on a certain natural 
 
 Of the subject of this lecture, what is observed 1 In our remarks upon 
 it, what order shall we pursue 1 How may taste be defined ; and what is 
 the first question that occurs concerning it 1 Of reason what is remarked ? 
 How does it appear evident that taste cannotbe resolved into any operation 
 of reason ; and why 1 What farther illustration of this remark follows 1 
 Hence, of the faculty by which we relish such beauties, what is observed ] 
 But, though taste be ultimately founded on a certain natural instinctive 
 sensibility to beauty, yet what follows ? 
 
Lect. 2.J TASTE. 13 
 
 instinctive sensibility to beauty, yet reason assists it in many 
 of its operations, and serves to enlarge its power. 
 
 Taste is a faculty common, in some degree, to all man- 
 kind. Nothing that belongs to human nature is more general 
 than the relish of beauty of one kind or other ; of what is or- 
 derly, proportioned, grand, harmonious, new, or sprightly 
 In children, the rudiments of taste discover themselves very 
 early, in a thousand instances ; in their fondness for regular 
 bodies, their admiration of pictures and statues, and their 
 strong attachment to whatever is new or marvellous. The 
 most ignorant peasants are delighted with ballads and tales, 
 and are struck with the beautiful appearance of nature in the 
 earth and heavens. Even in the deserts of America, where 
 human nature appears in its most uncultivated state, the 
 savages have their ornaments of dress, their war and their 
 death songs, their harangues and their orators. The prin- 
 ciples of taste must, therefore, be deeply founded in the 
 human mind. To hav some discernment of beauty, is no 
 less essential to man, than to possess the attributes of speech 
 and reason. 
 
 But although none be wholly devoid of this faculty, yet 
 the degrees in which it is possessed, are widely different. 
 In some men, only the feeble glimmerings of taste appear ; 
 the beauties which they relish are of the coarsest kind ; and 
 of these they have but a weak and confused impression : 
 while in others, taste rises to an acute discernment, and a 
 lively enjoyment of the most refined beauties. In general, 
 it may be observed, that in the powers and pleasures of taste, 
 there is a more remarkable inequality among men, than is 
 usually found in point of common sense, reason, and judg- 
 ment. This inequality is, doubtless, to be ascribed, in part, 
 to the different frames of their natures ; to nicer organs, and 
 finer internal powers, with which some are endowed beyond 
 others : yet it is owing, still more, to culture and education. 
 
 Taste is certainly one of the most improvable faculties 
 which adorns our nature. Of the truth of this remark, we 
 
 From what does it appear that taste is a faculty, common, in some degree, 
 to all men ; and how is this remark fully illustrated 1 Of the principles of 
 taste, therefore, what is observed, and why 1 Though none be,.entirely 
 devoid of this faculty, yet from what does it appear that the degrees in 
 which it is possessed are widely different 1 What may, in general, be 
 observed ; and to what is this inequality to be ascribed ? How may we 
 be convinced of the truth of the remark, that taste is one of our most 
 improvable faculties'? 
 
 2 
 
14 TASTE. [lie*. % 
 
 may easily be convinced, by only reflecting on the immense 
 superiority which education and improvement give to civi* 
 lized above barbarous nations, in refinement of taste ; and on 
 the superiority which they give in the same nation to those 
 who have studied the liberal arts, above the rude and un- 
 taught vulgar. The difference is so great, that there is, 
 perhaps, no one particular in which these two classes of men 
 are so far removed from each other, as in respect of the 
 powers and the pleasures of taste : and assuredly for this 
 difference, no other general cause can be assigned, but cul- 
 ture and education. 
 
 Exercise is the chief source of improvement in all our 
 faculties, either bodily or mental ; and even in our external 
 senses, though these are less the subject of cultivation than 
 any of our other powers. We see how acute the senses 
 become in persons whose trade or profession leads to nice 
 exertions of them. Of this we have a clear proof in that 
 part of taste, which is called an ear for music. Only the 
 simplest and plainest compositions are relished at first ; prac 
 tice extends our pleasure ; teaches us to relish finer melody, 
 and by degrees enables us to enter into the intricate and com- 
 pounded pleasures of harmony. So an eye for the beauties 
 of painting, is never at once acquired. It is gradually 
 formed by being conversant among pictures, and studying 
 the works of the best masters. In the same manner, with 
 respect to the beauties of composition and discourse, atten- 
 tion to the most approved models, study of the best authors, 
 comparisons of lower and higher degrees of the same beau- 
 ties, operate towards the refinement of taste. At first, the 
 sentiment is obscure and confused ; but, by experience, the 
 taste, at length, becomes more enlightened and exact. We 
 not only perceive the character of the whole, but the beauties 
 and defects of each part ; and are able to describe the peculiar 
 qualities which we praise or blame. 
 
 But although taste be ultimately founded on sensibility, it 
 must not be considered as instinctive sensibility alone. Rea- 
 
 Of the greatness of the difference between these classes, what is ob- 
 served ; and for this difference, what cause, only, can be assigned % Of 
 the effect of exercise, upon both our bodily and mental faculties, what is 
 remarked ; and even in our external senses also 1 How is this remark 
 illustrated, in what is called an ear for music ; an eye for the beauties of 
 painting; and, also, the beauties of composition and discourse % Though 
 taste be ultimately founded on sensibility, yet why may it not be considered 
 instinctive sensibility alone 1 
 
Lect. 2.] TASTE. 16 
 
 son and good sense have so extensive an influence on all the 
 operations and decisions of taste, that a thoroughly good taste 
 may well be considered as a power compounded of natural 
 sensibility to beauty, and of improved understanding. To 
 be convinced of the truth of this position, we may observe, 
 that the greater part of the productions of genius, are no 
 other than the imitations of nature — representations of the 
 characters, actions, and manners of men. The pleasure 
 which we receive from such imitations, as representations, 
 is founded on mere taste : but to judge whether they be 
 properly executed, belongs to the understanding, which 
 compares the copy with the original. In reading, for 
 instance, such a poem as the iEniad, a great part of our 
 pleasure arises from the plan or story being well conducted, 
 and all the parts being joined together with probability and 
 due connection — from the characters being taken from nature, 
 the sentiments being suited to the characters, and the style to 
 the sentiments. The pleasure which is derived from a poem 
 so conducted, is felt or enjoyed by taste as an internal sense ; 
 but the discovery of this conduct in the poem is owing to 
 reason ; and the more that reason enables us to discover such 
 propriety in the conduct, the greater will be our pleasure. 
 
 From these two sources then, first, the frequent exercise of 
 taste, and next, the application of reason to the objects of taste, 
 taste as a power of the mind receives its improvement. But 
 we must not forget to add, that as a sound head, so likewise 
 a good heart is a very material requisite to just taste. The 
 moral beauties are not only themselves superior to all others, 
 but they exert an influence, either more near or more remote, 
 on a great variety of other objects of taste. He who has no 
 admiration of what is truly praiseworthy, nor the proper 
 sympathetic sense of what is soft and tender, must have a 
 very imperfect relish of the highest beauties of eloquence 
 and poetry. 
 
 The characters of taste, when brought to its most improved 
 state, are all reducible to two ; Delicacy and Correctness. 
 
 To be convinced of the truth of this proposition, what may we observe % 
 On what is the pleasure which we receive from such imitations founded ; 
 but how do we judge whether they be properly executed 1 How is this 
 remark illustrated, from the reading of such a poem as the yEniad 1 From 
 what two sources, then, docs taste receive its improvement 1 But what 
 remark must we not forget to add ; and of moral beauties, what is ob- 
 served 1 Who must have a very imperfect relish of the highest beauties of 
 eloquence and poetry. What are the characters of taste, when brought 
 to. its most perfect state 7 
 
18 TASTE. [Lect.2. 
 
 Delicacy of taste respects, principally, the perfection of 
 that natural sensibility on which taste is founded. It implies 
 those finer organs or powers which enable us to discover 
 beauties that lie hid from the vulgar eye. It is judged of 
 by the same marks, by which we judge of the delicacy of an 
 external sense. As the goodness of the palate is not tried by 
 strong flavors, but by a mixture of ingredients, where, not- 
 withstanding the confusion, we remain sensible of each ; in 
 like manner, delicacy of internal sense appears, by a quick 
 and lively sensibility to its finest, most compounded, or most 
 latent objects. 
 
 Correctness of taste, respects chiefly* the improvement 
 which that faculty receives through its connection with the 
 understanding. A man of correct taste is one who is never 
 imposed on by counterfeit beauties ; who carries always in 
 his mind that standard of good sense which he employs in 
 judging of every thing. He estimates with propriety the 
 comparative merit of the several beauties which he meets 
 with in any work of genius ; refers them to their proper 
 classes ; assigns the principles, as far as they can be traced, 
 whence their power of pleasing flows ; and is pleased himself 
 precisely in that degree in which he ought to be pleased, and 
 no more. DeJicacy and correctness of taste, it is true, 
 mutually imply each other. No taste can be exquisitely 
 delicate without being* correct ; nor can it be thoroughly cor- 
 rect without being delicate : but still a predominancy of one 
 or other quality in the mixture is often visible. The power 
 of delicacy is chiefly seen in discerning the true merit of a 
 work ; the power of correctness, in rejecting false pretensions 
 to merit. Delicacy leans more to feeling ; correctness more 
 to reason and judgment : the former is more the gift of 
 nature ; the latter, more the product of culture and art. 
 
 The variations of taste have been so great and frequent. 
 as to create a suspicion with some, whether, in relation to it 
 there be any standard, by which a true taste m.n.j be dis- 
 tinguished from one that is corrupt. In architecture, in 
 
 What docs delicacy of taste principally respect ; and what doe? it imply 1 
 By what marks is it judged of; and how is this illustrated] "What does 
 correctness of taste chiefly respect] Of a man of correct taste, what is 
 remarked ] How does it appear that delicacy and correctness of taste 
 mutually imply each other ; but still, what is often visible ] In what is the 
 power of delicacy chiefly seen ; and in what the power of correctness ] 
 To what do they respectively lean ; and whence are they derived ] Of 
 what have the variations of taste created a suspicion 1 How is this illus- 
 trated, from architecture, poetry, and eloquence ? 
 
Lect. 2.] TASTE. 17 
 
 poetry, and in eloquence, not only one nation, but also one 
 age, has differed from another. But let it be observed, that, 
 if there be no such thing as a standard of taste, all tastes 
 are equally good ; the taste of a Hottentot or a Laplander, is 
 as delicate and as correct, as that of a Longinus, or an Addi- 
 son. There must then be a good and a bad, a right and a 
 wrong, in taste, as well as in other things. It is not, how- 
 ever, in matters of taste, as in questions of mere reason, 
 where there is but one conclusion that can be true, and all 
 the rest erroneous. Truth, which is the object of reason, is 
 one ; beauty, which is the object of taste, is manifold. Taste, 
 therefore, admits of diversity of objects ; but this can take 
 place only where the objects themselves are different. Where 
 one man condemns that as deformed, which another pro- 
 nounces to be highly beautiful, there is no longer a diversity, 
 but a direct opposition of taste ; the one must be right, the 
 other wrong. 
 
 The standard of taste to which the ultimate appeal must 
 ever lie, is the sense of mankind — the taste of men in polished 
 and nourishing nations, where arts are cultivated and man- 
 ners refined ; where works of genius are subjected to free 
 discussions, and taste is improved by science and philosophy. 
 Even among such nations, however, the proper operations of 
 taste may be warped by the state of religion, or the form of 
 government ; by a licentious court, or an admired genius ; 
 by envy, popular humor, or party spirit. But in the course of 
 time, the genuine taste of human nature will again disclose it- 
 self, and gain the ascendancy over any fantastic and corrupted 
 modes, which casual circumstances may have introduced. 
 
 That taste is not an arbitrary principle, and subject to the 
 fancy of every individual, is evident. Its foundation is 
 the same in every human mind. It is built upon senti- 
 ments and perceptions which belong to our nature ; and 
 which, in general, operate in the same uniformity as our 
 
 But, if there be no standard of taste, what consequence will follow ; and 
 what must, therefore, exist 1 Whether the same thing holds in matters of 
 taste, that holds in questions of mere reasoning, what is observed ; and of 
 truth and beauty what is remarked 1 Though taste admits of diversity o* 
 objects, yet where, only, can this diversity take place ; and how is this 
 illustrated % What is the standard of taste, to which the ultimate appeal 
 must ever lie 1 Among such nations, however, by what may the proper 
 operations of taste be warped ; but, in the course of time, what will take 
 place 1 What evidence have we that taste is not an arbitrary principle ; 
 and on what is it built % 
 
 2* 
 
18 TASTE. [Lect. 2. 
 
 other intellectual principles. When these sentiments are 
 perverted by ignorance and prejudice, they are capable of 
 being rectified by reason. Their sound and natural state is 
 ultimately determined, by comparing them with the general 
 taste of mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please, 
 concerning the caprice and the uncertainty of taste, it is 
 found, by experience, that there are beauties which, if they 
 be displayed in a proper light, have power to command last- 
 ing and general admiration. In every composition, what 
 interests the imagination and touches the heart, pleases all 
 ages and all nations. There is a certain string, to which, when 
 properly struck, the human heart immediately vibrates. 
 
 Hence the universal testimony which the most improved 
 nations of the earth have united, throughout a long series of 
 ages, to bestow on some few works of genius ; such as the 
 Iliad of Homer, and the iEniad of Virgil. Hence the 
 authority which such works have acquired, as standards, in 
 some degree, of poetical composition ; since, from them, we 
 are able to collect what the sense of mankind is concerning 
 those beauties which give them the highest pleasure, and 
 which, therefore, poetry ought to exhibit. Authority or pre- 
 judice may, in one age or country, give a short-lived repu- 
 tation to an insipid poet, or a bad artist ; but when foreigners, 
 or when posterity examine his works, his faults are dis- 
 cerned, and the genuine taste of human nature appears. 
 Time overthrows the illusions of opinion, but establishes the 
 decisions of nature. 
 
 When these sentiments are perverted by ignorance and prejudice, how 
 may they be restored ; and how is their sound and natural state ultimately 
 determined 1 Though men may declaim concerning the caprice of taste, 
 yet what is found by experience to be true 7 Of every composition what is 
 observed ; and why is this the case 1 Hence, on what works has the universal 
 testimony of mankind been bestowed 1 Why have such works obtained 
 authority as standards of poetical composition ? What may authority or 
 prejudice do ; but when his works come to be examined, what will follow % 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. The division of the subject. 
 
 2. The definition and nature of 
 
 Taste. 
 
 A. Instinct and Reason. 
 
 B. The universality of Taste. 
 
 C. The various degrees of Taste 
 
 D. The sources of its improve- 
 
 ment, 
 a. Exercise. 
 
 b. Reason and good sense. 
 
 c. Morality. 
 
 3. The characters of Taste. 
 
 A. Delicacy. 
 
 B. Correctness. 
 
 4. The variations of Taste. 
 
 5. The standard of Taste. 
 
 A. Arguments in favor of 
 standard. 
 
LECTURE III. 
 
 CRITICISM— GENIUS— PLEASURES OF TASTE- 
 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 
 
 Criticism is the application of taste and of good sense to 
 the several fine arts. Its object is to distinguish what is 
 beautiful and what is faulty in every performance ; from 
 particular instances to ascend to general principles ; and so 
 to form rules or conclusions concerning the several kinds of 
 beauty in works of genius. 
 
 The rules of criticism are not formed by a train of 
 abstract reasoning, independent of facts and observations. 
 Criticism is an art founded wholly on experience — on the 
 observation of such beauties as have been found to please 
 mankind most generally. For example : Aristotle's rules 
 concerning the unity of action in dramatic and epic compo- 
 sitions, were not rules first discovered by logical reasoning, 
 and then applied to poetry ; but they were drawn from the 
 practice of Homer and Sophocles : they were founded upon 
 observing the superior pleasure which we receive from the 
 relation of an action which is one and entire, beyond what 
 we receive from the relation of scattered and unconnected 
 facts. Such observations arising at first from feeling ssid 
 experience, were found, on examination, to be so consonant 
 to reason and to the principles of human nature, as to pass 
 into established rules, and to be conveniently applied for 
 judging of the excellency of any performance. 
 
 A masterly genius, it is true, will, of himself, untaught, 
 compose in such a manner as shall be agreeable to the most 
 material rules of criticism ; for, as these rules are founded 
 in nature, nature will suggest them in practice. Homer, it 
 is more than probable, was acquainted with no system of 
 the art of poetry. Guided by genius alone, he composed, 
 in verse, a regular story, which all succeeding ages have 
 
 What is criticism ; and what is its object ? Of the rules of criticism, 
 what is observed % On what is criticism founded ; and what illustration 
 is given 1 Of such observations, what is observed 1 In what manner 
 may a masterly genius, though untaught, compose ; and why 'i What 
 illustration of this remark is given 1 
 
20 CRITICISM. [Lect. 3. 
 
 admired. But this is no argument against the usefulness 
 of criticism as an art : for as no human genius is perfect, 
 there is no writer but may receive assistance from critical 
 observations upon the beauties and faults of those who have 
 gone before him. No rules can, indeed, supply the defect of 
 genius, or inspire it where it is wanting, but they may often 
 direct it into its proper channel : they may correct its 
 extravagances, and point out to it, the most just and proper 
 imitations of nature ? Critical rules are designed chiefly to 
 show the faults that ought to be avoided. To nature we 
 must be indebted for the production of eminent beauties. 
 
 It has long been the custom of petty authors to inveigh 
 against both critics and criticism. They represent critics as 
 the great abridgers of the native liberty of genius, and the 
 imposers of unnatural shackles and bonds upon writers. 
 In these representations they proceed upon the supposition 
 that critics judge altogether by rule and not by feeling ; 
 which, however, is so far from being true, that they who 
 judge in this manner are mere pedants, not critics. For all 
 the rules of genuine criticism are ultimately founded on 
 feeling; and taste and feeling are necessary to guide us in 
 the application of these rules to every particular instance. 
 
 An objection more plausible may be formed against criti- 
 cism, from the applause that some performances have received 
 from the public, which, when accurately considered, are 
 found to violate the rules established by criticism. Now, 
 although the public is the ultimate judge in this matter, yet 
 it should be remembered that its judgment is often too hastily 
 given. The genuine public taste does not always appear 
 in the applause that a work may, on its first publication, 
 receive ; for, by complying with prevailing prejudices, an 
 author may gain great temporary reputation ; but it will be 
 only temporary : for the judgment of true criticism, and the 
 voice of the public, when once become unprejudiced, and 
 dispassionate, will ever coincide. 
 
 Why is this no argument against the usefulness of criticism as an art 1 
 Though no rules can supply the defect of genius, or inspire it where it 
 is wanting, yet what may they do 1 For what are critical rules designed ; 
 and for what must we be indebted to nature 1 What has long been the 
 custom of petty authors ; and how do they represent critics 1 In these 
 representations, upon what supposition do they proceed ; and of those who 
 judge in this manner, what is observed ; and why 1 From what may an 
 objection, more plausible, be formed against criticism'? Of the public as 
 the ultimate judge in this matter, what is remarked 1 How may an author 
 gain great temporary reputation ; but why will it be only temporary \ 
 

 Lect. 3.J GENIUS. 21 
 
 There are, it is true, some works that have acquired 
 general, and even lasting- admiration, notwithstanding the 
 gross transgressions of the laws of criticism which they 
 contain ; but then we are to remark, that it is not for these 
 transgressions that they have gained the public admiration, 
 but in spite of them. They possess other beauties which 
 are conformable to the strictest rules ; and the force of 
 these beauties has been so great as to overpoAver all censure, 
 and to give the public a degree of satisfaction superior to 
 the disgust arising from their blemishes. 
 
 As the terms taste and genius are frequently joined 
 together, and therefore, by inaccurate thinkers, confounded, 
 it is necessary to point out the difference between them. 
 Taste consists in the power of judging ; genius, in the power 
 of executing. Genius, therefore, deserves to be considered 
 as a higher power of the mind than taste : it always imports 
 something inventive or creative ; which does not rest in mere 
 sensibility to beauty, where it is perceived, but which can 
 produce new beauties, and exhibit them in such a manner 
 as strongly to impress the minds of others. Refined taste 
 forms the critic ; but genius is necessary to form the poet, or 
 the orator. 
 
 Genius, in the common acceptation of the word, extends 
 much farther than to the objects of taste. It signifies that 
 talent or aptitude which we receive from nature, for excelling 
 in any one thing whatever. Thus we speak of a genius for 
 mathematics, for poetry, for war, for politics, or for any of 
 the mechanical arts. 
 
 Genius may be greatly improved by art and study ; but 
 being derived from nature, by them alone it cannot be 
 acquired. As it is a higher faculty than taste, it is ever, 
 according to the usual frugality of nature, more limited 
 in the sphere of its operations. It is not uncommon to meet 
 with persons who have an excellent taste in several of the 
 polite arts ; such as music, poetry, painting, and eloquence : 
 
 There are, however, some works that have acquired what ; and why 
 is this the case 1 Why is it necessary to point out the difference between 
 taste and genius ; and in what do they, respectively, eonsist 1 How does 
 genius, therefore, deserve to be considered ; and what does.it always import 1 
 Which forms the critic, and which, the poet or the orator ? What does 
 genius, in the common acceptation of fhe word, signify; and thus we 
 speak of a genius for what % How may genius be greatly improved ; but 
 why can it not, by them alone, be acquired 1 As it is a higher faculty than 
 taste, what follows'? To meet with persons of what description is net un- 
 common ; but what is much more rare 1 
 
22 PLEASURES OF TASTE. [Lect. 3. 
 
 but to find one who is an excellent performer in all these 
 arts, is much more rare ; or rather, indeed, such a one is 
 not to he looked for. A sort of universal genius, or one who 
 is equally and indifferently inclined towards several different 
 professions and arts, is not likely to excel in any. Although 
 there may be some few exceptions, yet, in general, it is true, 
 that when the bent of the mind is wholly directed towards 
 some one object exclusively, there is the fairest prospect of 
 success in that, whatever it may be. The rays must con- 
 verge to a point, in order to glow intensely. Youth are 
 highly interested in this remark, since it may teach them to 
 examine with care, and to pursue with ardor, that path which 
 nature has marked out for their peculiar exertions. 
 
 The nature of taste, the nature and importance of criti- 
 cism, and the distinction between taste and genius, being thus 
 explained, the sources of the pleasures of taste are next to 
 be considered. Here opens a very extensive field ; no less 
 than all the pleasures of the imagination, as they are com- 
 monly called, whether afforded to us by natural objects, or 
 by the imitations and descriptions of them. It is not, how- 
 ever, necessary to the purpose of this work, that all of these 
 should be examined fully ; the pleasure which we receive 
 from discourse or writing, being the main object of them. 
 All that is proposed is to give some openings into the plea- 
 sures of taste in general; and to insist more particularly 
 upon sublimity and beauty. 
 
 We are far from having yet attained to any system con- 
 cerning this subject. A regular inquiry into it, was first 
 attempted by Mr. Addison, in his Essay on the Pleasures of 
 the Imagination. He has reduced these pleasures under 
 three heads — beauty, grandeur, and novelty. His specu- 
 lations on this subject, if not exceedingly profound, are, 
 however, very beautiful and entertaining; and he has the 
 merit of having opened a track, which was before unbeaten. 
 The advances made since his time, in this curious part of 
 
 Of a sort of universal genius, what is observed! In what remark 
 are youth highly interested; and for what reason'? The nature of 
 taste, &c., being thus explained, what are next to be considered'? Here 
 how extensive a field opens before us ; but why are not all these to 
 be examined fully'? What, only, is it proposed to do 1 By whom was a 
 regular inquiry into this subject first attempted; and where? Under 
 what three heads has he reduced these pleasures ; and of his speculations 
 on this subject, what is remarked ? Why have not the advances made 
 since his time, in this part of philosophical criticism been very considerable 1 
 
Lect. 3.] PLEASURES OF TASTE. 23 
 
 philosophical criticism, are not very considerable ; owing, 
 doubtless, to that thinness and subtilty which are found to be 
 properties of all the feelings of taste. It is difficult to 
 enumerate the several objects that give pleasure to taste : it 
 is more difficult to define all those which have been dis- 
 covered, and to reduce them under proper classes; and 
 when we would go farther, and investigate the efficient 
 causes of the pleasure which we receive from such objects, 
 here we find ourselves at the greatest loss. For instance, 
 we all learn by experience, that certain figures of bodies 
 appear to us more beautiful than others. On inquiring 
 farther, we find that the regularity of some figures, and the 
 graceful variety of others, are the foundation of the beauty 
 which we discern in them ; but when we attempt to go a 
 step beyond this, and inquire why regularity and variety 
 produce, in our minds, the sensation of beauty, any reason we 
 can assign is extremely imperfect. 
 
 It is some consolation, however, that although the efficient 
 cause be obscure, the final cause of these sensations lies, in 
 many cases, more open : and here we must observe, the 
 strong impression which the powers of taste and imagi- 
 nation are calculated to give of the benignity of our Creator. 
 By endowing us with such powers, he has widely enlarged 
 the sphere of the pleasure of human life ; and those, too, of 
 a kind the most pure and innocent. The necessary purposes 
 of life might have been abundantly answered, though our 
 senses of seeing and hearing had only served to distinguish 
 external objects, without conveying to us any of those refined 
 and delicate sensations of beauty and grandeur, with which 
 we are now so much delighted. 
 
 The pleasure which arises from sublimity or grandeur, 
 deserves to be treated at some length, both, because it has a 
 character more precise and distinctly marked than any 
 other of the pleasures of the imagination, and because it 
 coincides more directly with our main subject. F?v the 
 greater distinctness, the grandeur or sublimity of external 
 
 What is a difficult task ; and where do we find ourselves at the greatest 
 loss'? What do we all learn by experience; and from farther inquiry 
 what results 1 What, however, is some consolation ; and here, what 
 must we observe 1 By endowing us with such powers, what has our 
 Creator done ; and how might the necessary purposes of life have been 
 answered 1 Why does the pleasure which arises from sublimity, deserve 
 to be treated at some length ; and in considering them, what course is 
 pursued % 
 
24 SUBLIMITY OF OBJECTS. [Lect. 3. 
 
 objects themselves, shall first be considered; and afterwards, 
 the description of such objects, or, what is called the sublime 
 in writing. 
 
 The simplest form of external grandeur, appears in the 
 vast and boundless prospects presented to us by nature; 
 such as wide extended plains, to which the eye can see no 
 limits ; the firmament of heaven, or the boundless expanse 
 of the ocean. All vastness produces the impression of 
 sublimity. It is to be remarked, however, that space ex- 
 tended in length, makes not so strong an impression as 
 height or depth. Though a boundless plain be a grand 
 object, yet a high mountain, to which we look up, or an 
 awful precipice or tower, whence we look down on the 
 objects which lie below, is still more so. The excessive 
 grandeur of the firmament arises from its height, joined to 
 its boundless extent ; and that of the ocean, not from its 
 extent alone, but from its perpetual motion and irresistible 
 force. Wherever space is concerned, it is clear that ampli- 
 tude, or greatness of extent, in one dimension or other, is 
 necessary to grandeur. Remove all bounds from any object, 
 and you immediately render it sublime. Hence, infinite 
 space, endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind 
 with great ideas. 
 
 The most copious source of sublime ideas seems to be 
 derived from the exertion of great power and force. Hence 
 the grandeur of earthquakes and burning mountains ; of 
 great conflagrations ; of the boisterous ocean ; of the tem- 
 pestuous storm ; of thunder and lightning ; and of all the 
 uncommon violence of the elements. A stream which 
 glides along gently within its banks is a beautiful object; 
 but when it precipitates itself with the impetuosity and noise 
 of a torrent, it immediately becomes a sublime one. A race 
 horse is beheld with pleasure, but it is the war horse, 
 "whose neck is clothed with thunder," that carries grandeur 
 in its idea. The engagement of two great armies, as it is the 
 highest exertion of human might, combines a variety of sources 
 
 In what does the simplest form of external grandeur appear ; and what 
 instances are mentioned 1 What effect does all vastness produce ; yet what 
 is to be remarked ; and how is this illustrated 1 From what does the 
 excessive grandeur of the firmament arise ; and from what, that of the 
 ocean 1 Wherever space is concerned, what is clear 1 Remove all bounds 
 from any object and what will follow ; and hence what fills the mind with 
 great ideas 1 Whence is the most copious source of sublime ideas 
 derived ; and hence what follows '? How is this remark fully illustrated ? 
 
Lect. 3.] SUBLIMITY OF OBJECTS. 25 
 
 of the sublime ; and has, accordingly, been always consider- 
 ed one of the most striking and magnificent spectacles 
 that can be either presented to the eye, or exhibited to the ima- 
 gination in description. 
 
 For the farther illustration of this subject, it is proper to 
 remark, that all ideas of the solemn and awful kind, and 
 even bordering on the terrible, tend greatly to assist, the 
 sublime ; such as darkness, solitude, and silence. The 
 firmament when filled with stars scattered in such vast 
 numbers, and with such magnificent profusion, strikes the 
 imagination with a more awful grandeur than when Ave view 
 it enlightened by all the splendor of the sun. The deep 
 sound of a great bell, or the striking of a great clock, are, 
 at any time, grand ; but when heard amid the silence and 
 stillness of the night, they become doubly so. Darkness 
 is very commonly applied for adding sublimity to all our 
 ideas of the Deity. " He maketh darkness his pavilion ; 
 he dwell eth in the thick clouds." So Milton : 
 
 -How eft, amidst 
 
 Thick clouds and dark, does Heaven's all-ruling Sire 
 
 Choose to reside, his glory unobscur'd, 
 
 And with the majesty of darkness round 
 
 Circles his throne. Book II. 263, 
 
 Obscurity, we may farther remark, is also favorable to 
 the sublime. Though it render the object indistinct, yet 
 the impression may be great ; for, as Mr. Burke has 
 ingeniously observed, it is one thing to make an idea clear, 
 and another, to make it affecting to the imagination. Thus, 
 almost all the descriptions given us of the appearances of 
 supernatural beings, carry some sublimity, though the con- 
 ceptions which they afford us be confused and indistinct. 
 Their sublimity arises from the ideas, which they always 
 convey, of superior power and might, joined with an awful 
 obscurity. No ideas, it is plain, are so sublime as those 
 taken from the Supreme Being ; the most unknown, but the 
 greatest of all objects ; the infinity of whose nature, and 
 the eternity of whose duration, joined with the omnipotence 
 
 For the farther illustration of this subject, what is it proper to remark ; 
 and what examples are given 1 How is this, also, illustrated 1 For what 
 is darkness very commonly applied ; and what illustrations follow 1 What 
 is also favorable to the sublime ; what is remarked of it ; and what has Mr. 
 Burke ingeniously observed 1 How is this illustrated in the descriptions 
 of supernatural beings ; and from what does their sublimity arise 1 Of 
 the Supreme Being, and of the ideas taken from him what is observed ? 
 
26 SUBLIMITY OF OBJECTS. [Lect. 3 
 
 of his power, though they surpass our conceptions, yet 
 exalt them to the highest. 
 
 As is obscurity, so disorder, too, is very compatible with 
 grandeur ; nay, it frequently heightens it. Few things that 
 are strictly regular and methodical, appear sublime. We 
 see the limits on every side ; we feel ourselves confined ; 
 there is no room for the mincl to exert any great effort. 
 Though exact proportion of parts, often enters into the 
 beautiful, yet it is altogether disregarded in the sublime. A 
 great mass of rocks, thrown together by the hand of nature 
 with wildness and confusion, strikes the mind with more 
 grandeur, than if they had been adjusted to one another 
 with the most accurate symmetry. 
 
 There still remains to be mentioned, one class of sublime 
 objects, which may be called the moral, or sentimental 
 sublime ; arising from certain exertions of the human mind — 
 from certain affections and actions of our fellow-creatures. 
 These will be found chiefly of that class, which comes under 
 the name of magnanimity or heroism : and they produce an 
 effect extremely similar to what is produced by the view of 
 grand objects in nature ; filling the mind with admiration, 
 and elevating it above itself. Y/herever, in some critical 
 and dangerous situation, we behold a man uncommonly 
 intrepid, and resting upon himself; superior to passion and 
 to fear ; animated by some great principle to the contempt 
 of popular opinion, of selfish interest, of dangers or of death ; 
 we are struck with a sense of the sublime. Thus Porus, 
 when taken prisoner by Alexander, after a gallant defence, 
 and asked how he wished to be treated, answering " Like 
 a king ;" and Cassar, chiding the pilot, who was afraid to 
 set out with him in a storm, " Quid times ? Cagsarem vehis ;" 
 are good instances of the sentimental sublime. 
 
 Various theories have been formed, to ascertain whether 
 we are able to discover some one distinct quality, in which 
 all the different objects that produce the sublime, coincide. 
 Some have imagined that amplitude, or great extent, joined 
 with simplicity, is either immediately, or remotely, the fun- 
 
 As is obscurity, so also what is very compatible with grandeur ; and how 
 is this fully illustrated 1 What class of sublime objects still remains to 
 be considered ; and from what do they arise 1 Under what name do they 
 come ; and what effect do they produce ] When are we struck with a 
 sense of the sublime ; and what instances of illustrationfollow 1 To ascer- 
 tain what, have various theories been formed ? What have some imagined 
 to be the fundamental quality of the sublime ; but. of it. what is observed 7 
 
Lect. 3.] SUBLIMITY OF OBJECTS. 
 
 27 
 
 damental quality of whatever is sublime ; but we have seen 
 that amplitude is confined to one species of sublime objects 
 only, and cannot, without violent straining, be applied to 
 them all. Mr. Burke supposes that terror is the great source 
 of the sublime ; and that no objects have this character, but 
 such as produce impressions of pain and danger. It is, 
 indeed, true, that many terrible objects are highly sublime ; 
 and that grandeur does not refuse an alliance with the idea 
 of danger. But the sublime does not consist wholly in 
 modes of danger, or of pain. In many grand objects, there 
 is not the smallest coincidence with terror ; as in the mag- 
 nificent prospect of wide extended plains, and of the starry 
 firmament ; or in the moral dispositions and sentiments, 
 which we contemplate with high admiration. In many 
 painful and terrible objects also, there is evidently no sort 
 of grandeur. The amputation of a limb, or the bite of 
 a snake, are exceedingly terrible ; but are destitute of all 
 claim whatever, to sublimity. Mighty force or power, per- 
 haps, whether attended by terror or not, whether employed 
 in protecting or in alarming us, has a better title, than any 
 thing that has yet been mentioned, to be considered the fun- 
 damental quality of the sublime. There appears to be no 
 sublime object, into the idea of which, strength and force, 
 either enter not directly, or with which they are not inti- 
 mately connected, in conducting our thoughts to some 
 astonishing power, as concerned in the production of the 
 object. 
 
 What is Mr. Burke's theory ; and what is remarked of it 1 "What 
 has a better title than any thing that has yet been mentioned, to be con- 
 sidered the fundamental quality of the subiime ; and why 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Criticism. 
 
 A. The definition of Criticism. 
 
 B. Its nature and object. 
 
 C. Objections to it considei'ed. 
 
 2. Genius. 
 
 A. Taste and Genius distin- 
 
 guished. 
 
 B. The nature of Genius, and 
 
 its connection with Taste. 
 
 3. The pleasures of Taste. 
 A. Mr. Addison's theory. 
 
 B. The sources of the pleasures 
 
 of Taste. 
 Sublimity in external objects. 
 
 A. The nature of Sublimity. 
 
 B. The sources of Sublimity. 
 
 a. Solemn and awful objects. 
 
 b. Obscurity. 
 
 c. Disorder. 
 
 C. Moral Sublimity. 
 
 D. The foundation of the Sub- 
 
 lime. 
 
LECTURE IV. 
 
 THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 
 
 Having treated of grandeur or sublimity in external 
 objects, the way seems now to be cleared, for treating 1 , with 
 more advantage, of the descriptions of such objects ; or, of 
 what is called the sublime in writing. 
 
 The true sense of the sublime in composition is, undoubt- 
 edly, such a description of objects, or exhibition of senti- 
 ments, which are, in themselves, of a sublime nature, as 
 shall give us strong impressions of them. Its foundation 
 must always be laid in the nature of the object described. 
 Unless it be such an object as, if presented to our eyes, if 
 exhibited to us in reality, would raise ideas of that elevating, 
 that awful and magnificent kind, which we call sublime ; the 
 description, however finely drawn, is not entitled to come 
 under this class. This excludes all objects that are merely 
 beautiful, gay, or elegant. Besides, the object must not 
 only be, in itself, sublime, but it must be set before us in 
 such a light as is most proper to give us a clear and full 
 impression of it ; it must be described with strength, with 
 conciseness, and simplicity. This depends, chiefly, upon 
 the lively impression which the poet, or orator, has of the 
 subject which he exhibits ; and upon his being deeply 
 affected, and warmed, by the sublime idea which he would 
 convey. If his own feelings be languid, he can never 
 inspire us with any strong emotion. Instances, which are 
 extremely necessary on this subject, will clearly show the 
 importance of these requisites. 
 
 It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient authors, 
 that we are to look for the most striking instances of the 
 sublime. The early ages of the world, and the rude un- 
 cultivated state of society, appear to have been peculiarly 
 
 Having treated of grandeur, or sublimity in external objects, for what 
 does the way now seem cleared 1 What is the true sense of the sublime 
 in composition; and where" must its foundation always be laid 1 That the 
 description may come under this class, it must be an object of what kind ; 
 and what objects does this exclude] Besides being in itself sublime, how 
 must the object be set before us, and described % On what does this de- 
 pend ; and if his own feelings be languid, what will follow 1 Among 
 what authors are we to look for the most striking instances of the sublime \ 
 and why 1 
 
Lect. 4.] THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 29 
 
 favorable to the strong emotions of sublimity. The genius 
 of mankind was then very prone to admiration and astonish- 
 ment. Meeting continually with new and strange objects, 
 their imagination was kept glowing, and their passions were 
 raised to the utmost. They thought and expressed them- 
 selves boldly, and without restraint. In the progress of 
 society, the genius and manners of men have undergone a 
 change more favorable to accuracy, than to strength or 
 sublimity. 
 
 Of all writings, ancient or modern, the Sacred Scriptures 
 afford us the highest instances of the sublime. The descrip- 
 tions of the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble — both 
 from the grandeur of the object, and the manner of repre- 
 senting it. What an assemblage, for instance, of awful 
 and sublime ideas is presented to us, in that passage of the 
 XVIIIth Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is 
 described : "In my distress I called upon the Lord : he 
 heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before 
 him. Then, the earth shook and trembled ; the foundations 
 also of the hills were moved ; because he was wroth. He 
 bowed the heavens, and came down, and darkness was under 
 his feet ; and he did ride upon a Cherub, and did fly ; yea, 
 he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness 
 his secret place ; his pavilion round about him were dark 
 waters, and thick clouds of the sky." Here, the circum- 
 stances of darkness and terror, are applied with great 
 propriety and success, for heightening the sublime. The 
 noted instance given by Longinus, from Moses, " God said, 
 let there be light ; and there was light," belongs to the true 
 sublime ; and the sublimity of it arises from the strong con- 
 ception it gives, of an exertion of power, producing its 
 effect with the utmost speed and facility. A thought of the 
 same kind is magnificently amplified in the 24th, 27th, and 
 28th verses of the LXIVth chapter of Isaiah. 
 
 Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics, has 
 
 To what was the genius of mankind then prone ; and what follows 1 
 In the progress of society, what change have the genius and manners 
 of men undergone 1 Of all writings, which affords us the highest instances 
 of the sublime ; and of the descriptions of the Deity in them, what is 
 observed 1 Repeat the passage from the XVIIIth Psalm, illustrative of this 
 remark : and of it what is observed 1 What instance is given by Longi- 
 nus, from Moses ; and from what does its sublimity arise 1 Where is a 
 thought of the same kind magnificently amplified 1 What is observed of 
 Homer : and to what is he indebted for his sublimity 1 
 
 3* 
 
30 THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. [Lect. 4. 
 
 been greatly admired for his sublimity; and ho is much 
 indebted for it, to that native and unaffected simplicity which 
 characterizes his manner. His description of hosts en- 
 gaging ; the animation, the fire, and rapidity which he 
 throws into his battles, present to every reader of the Iliad, 
 frequent instances of sublime writing. His introduction of the 
 gods, tends often to heighten, in a high degree, the majesty 
 of his warlike scenes. In the XXth book, where all the 
 gods take part in the engagement, according as they severally 
 favor either the Grecians or the Trojans, the poet's genius 
 is signally displayed, and the description rises into the most 
 awful magnificence. All nature seems to be in commotion. 
 Jupiter thunders in the heavens ; Neptune strikes the earth 
 with his trident ; the ships, the city, and the mountains 
 shake ; the earth trembles to its centre ; Pluto starts from 
 his throne, in dread, lest the secrets of the infernal regions 
 should be laid open to the view of mortals. The following 
 is Mr. Pope's translation of the passage alluded to ; which, 
 though, perhaps, inferior to the original, is yet highly ani- 
 mated and sublime. 
 
 But when the powers descending swell'd the fight, 
 Then tumult rose, fierce rage, and pale affright : 
 Now through the trembling shores Minerva calls, 
 As now she thunders from the Grecian walls. 
 Mars, hov'ring o'er his Troy, his terror shrouds 
 In gloomy tempests, and a night of clouds ; 
 Now through each Trojan heart he fury pours, 
 With voice divine, from Ulion's topmost towers — 
 Above, the sire of gods his thunder rolls, 
 And peals on peals redoubled, rend the poles ; 
 Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground, 
 The forests wave, the mountains nod around ; 
 Through all her summits tremble Ida's woods, 
 And from their sources boil her hundred floods : 
 Troy's turrets totter on the rocking plain, 
 And the toss'd navies beat the heaving main. 
 Deep in the dismal region of the dead, 
 The infernal monarch reared his horrid head, 
 Leap'd from his throne, lest Neptune's arm should lay 
 His dark dominions open to the day ; 
 And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes, 
 Abhorr'd by men, and dreadful e'en to god's. 
 Such wars the immortals wage ; such horror's rend 
 The world's vast concave when the gods contend. 
 
 What present, to every reader of the Iliad, frequent instances of sublime 
 writing ] What is observed of his introduction of the gods ; and of the 
 passage from the XXth. book what is remarked 1 Repeat Mr. Pope's 
 translation of it. 
 
Lect.4.] SUBLIME IN WRITING. 31 
 
 The works of Ossian abound with examples of the sublime. 
 The subjects of which that author treats, and the manner in 
 which he writes, are particularly favorable to it. He 
 possesses all the plain and venerable manner of the ancient 
 times. He deals in no superfluous or gaudy ornaments ; 
 but throws forth his images with a rapid conciseness, which 
 enables them to strike the mind with the greatest force. 
 AniGng poets of more polished times we are to look for 
 the graces of correct writing, for just proportion of parts, 
 and skilfully conducted narratives. But amidst the rude 
 scenes of nature and of society, such as Ossian describes ; 
 amidst rocks and torrents, and whirlwinds and battles, 
 dwells the sublime ; and naturally associates itself with that 
 grave and solemn spirit which distinguishes the author of 
 Fingal. 
 
 These instances have been produced, in order to show how 
 essential conciseness and simplicity are to sublime writing. 
 Simplicity is properly opposed to studied and profuse orna- 
 ment ; and conciseness to superfluous expression. Why a 
 defect, either in conciseness or simplicity, is peculiarly hurt- 
 ful to the sublime, may be easily seen. The emotion ex- 
 cited in the mind by some great or noble object, raises it 
 considerably above its common pitch. A sort of enthusiasm 
 is produced extremely agreeable while it lasts ; but from which 
 the mind is tending every moment to fall into its ordinary 
 tone. When an author, therefore, has brought us, or is 
 attempting to bring us into this state ; if he multiplies words 
 unnecessarily, if he decks the sublime object on all sides with 
 glittering ornaments ; nay, if he throws in any one decoration 
 which falls, in the least, below the principal image, that mo- 
 ment he altars the key ; he relaxes the tension of the mind ; 
 the strength of the feeling is emasculated ; the beautiful may 
 remain, but the sublime is gone. Homer's description of 
 the nod of Jupiter, as shaking the heavens, has been admired 
 in all ages, as highly sublime. Literally translated, it runs 
 thus : " He spoke, and bending his sable brows, gave the 
 awful nod ; while he shook the celestial locks of his immor- 
 
 What is observed of the works of Ossian ; and why are they so sublime i 
 For what are we to look among poets of more modern times ; but where 
 dwells the sublime, and with what does it naturally associate itself 1 Why 
 have these instances been produced ; and to what are they respectively 
 opposed] Why is a defect in either, peculiarly hurtful to the sublime 1 
 What is remarked of Homer's description of the nod of Jupiter ; and how 
 is it literally translated 7 
 
22 SUBLIME IN WRITING: [Lect. 4. 
 
 tal head, all Olympus was shaken," The following is Mr. 
 Pope's translation : 
 
 He spoke : and awful bends his sable brows, 
 Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod. 
 The stamp of fate, and sanction of a god. 
 High heaven with trembling the dread signal took, 
 And all Olympus to its centre shook. 
 
 The image is spread out, and attempted to be beautified ; 
 but it is, in reality, weakened. The third line — " The stamp 
 of fate, and sanction of a god," is merely expletive, and 
 introduced for no other reason than to fill up the rhyme ; 
 for it interrupts the description and clogs the image. For 
 the same reason, Jupiter is represented as shaking his locks 
 before he gives the nod ; — " Shakes his ambrosial curls and 
 gives the nod ;" which is trifling and insignificant : whereas, 
 in the original, the hair of his head shaken, is the effect of 
 his nod, and makes a happy picturesque circumstance in the 
 description. 
 
 The boldness, freedom, and variety, of our blank verse, 
 is infinitely more favorable than rhyme, to all kinds of 
 sublime poetry. The fullest proof of this is afforded by 
 Milton — an author, whose genius led him eminently to the 
 sublime. The whole first and second books of Paradise 
 Lost, are continued instances of it. Take only, for an 
 example, the following noted description of Satan, after his 
 fall, appearing at the head of the infernal host : 
 
 He, above the rest, 
 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 Stood like a tower ; his form had no* yet lost 
 All her original brightness, nor appeared 
 Less than archangel ruined; and the excess 
 Of glory obscur'd : as when the sun new risen, 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air, 
 Shorn of his beams; or from behind the moon, 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 On half the nations, and with fear of change 
 Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone 
 Above them all th' archangel. 
 
 Here concur a variety of sources of the sublime : the 
 principal object eminently great ; a high superior nature, 
 
 What is Mr. Pope's translation ; what is observed of it ; and why 1 
 Of our blank verse what is observed'? By whom is the fullest proof of 
 this offered ; and of his genius, what is remarked 1 What books are 
 continued instances of this ; and what example is given 1 Of this passage 
 what is remarked'? 
 
Lect.4.] SUBLIME IN WRITING. 33 
 
 fallen indeed, but erecting itself against distress ; the 
 grandeur of the principal object heightened, by associating 
 it with so noble an idea as that of the sun suffering an 
 eclipse ; this picture shaded with all those images of change 
 and trouble, of darkness and terror, which coincide so finely 
 with the sublime emotion ; and the whole expressed in a 
 style and versification, easy, natural, and simple, but mag- 
 nificent. 
 
 Besides simplicity and conciseness, strength, also, is 
 essentially necessary to sublime writing. The strength of 
 description arises, in a great measure, from a simple concise- 
 ness ; but it also implies something more ; namely, a proper 
 choice of circumstances in the description, so as to exhibit 
 the object in its full and most striking point of view. For 
 every object has several faces, so to speak, by which it 
 may be presented to us, according to the circumstances with 
 which we surround it ; and it will appear eminently sublime, 
 or not, in proportion as all these circumstances are happily 
 chosen, and of a sublime kind. In this the great art of the 
 writer consists ; and it is, indeed, the principal difficulty of 
 sublime description. If the description be too general, and 
 divested of circumstances, the object appears in a faint light ; 
 and makes either a feeble impression, or no impression at all, 
 on the reader. At the same time, if any trivial or improper 
 circumstances are mingled, the whole is degraded. 
 
 The nature of the emotion aimed at in sublime descrip- 
 tion, is such, as to admit of no mediocrity, and cannot subsist 
 in a middle state ; but must either highly transport us, or, if 
 unsuccessful in the execution, leave us greatly disappointed 
 and displeased. We attempt to rise along with the writer ; 
 the imagination is awakened, and put upon the stretch ; but 
 it requires to be supported ; and if, in the midst of its efforts, 
 you desert it unexpectedly, down it comes with a painful 
 shock. When Milton, in his battle of the angels, describes 
 them as tearing up the mountains, and throwing them at one 
 another ; there are, in his description, as Mr. Addison 
 has observed, no circumstances but what are properly sub- 
 lime: 
 
 Besides simplicity and conciseness, what, also, is essential to sublime 
 writing ; and from what does it arise 1 Why is this the case % Why is 
 this the principal difficulty of sublime description 1 Of the nature of the 
 emotion aimed at in sublime description what is observed ; and why 1 
 How is this remark illustrated from Milton's battle of the angels % 
 
34 SUBLIME IN WRITING. [Lect. 4. 
 
 From their foundations loos'ning to and fro, 
 They pluck'd the seated hills, with all their load, 
 Rocks, waters, woods ; and by the shaggy tops 
 Uplifting, bore them in their hands. 
 
 This idea of the giants throwing the mountains, which is 
 in itself so grand, is rendered, by Claudian, burlesque and 
 ridiculous ; by the single circumstance, of one of his giants 
 with the mountain Ida upon his shoulders, and a river which 
 flowed from the mountain, running down along the giant's 
 back, as he held it up in that posture. In Virgil's descrip- 
 tion of mount iEtna, there is an inaccuracy of the same 
 kind. After several magnificent images, the poet concludes 
 with representing the mountain as " belching up its bowels 
 with a groan ;" which, by likening the mountain to a sick 
 or drunken person, degrades the majesty of the description. 
 
 Such instances show how much the sublime depends upon 
 a just selection of circumstances ; and with how great care 
 every circumstance must be avoided, which, by bordering in 
 the least upon the mean, or even upon the gay or trifling, 
 alters the tone of the emotion. 
 
 If it shall now be inquired, what are the proper sources of 
 the sublime, we answer, that they are to be found everywhere 
 in nature. It is not by hunting after tropes, and figures, 
 and rhetorical assistance, that we can expect to produce it ; 
 for it stands clear, for the most part, of these labored refine- 
 ments of art. It must come unsought, if it comes at all ; and 
 be the natural offspring of a strong imagination. 
 
 What is commonly called the sublime style, is, for the 
 most part, a very bad one ; and has no relation, whatever, 
 to the real sublime. Persons are apt to imagine, that magni- 
 ficent words, accumulated epithets, and a certain swelling 
 kind of expression, by rising above what is usual or vulgar, 
 contributes to, or even forms the sublime : but nothing, in 
 reality, is more false. In genuine instances of sublime 
 writing, nothing of this kind appears. " God said, let there 
 be light; and there was light." This is striking and 
 
 Repeat the passage. By whom is this idea rendered burlesque and ridicu- 
 lous ; and in what way 1 What inaccuracy of the same kind is found in 
 Virgil's description of mount iEtna? What do such instances show'? 
 Where are the proper sources of the sublime to be found ; and how is 
 this illustrated % Of what is commonly called a sublime style, what is 
 observed 1 What are writers apt to imagine ; why is this false, and what 
 illustration follows? In all good writing, where does the sublime, in 
 genera], lie; and what follows"? 
 
Lect. 4.] SUBLIME IN WRITING. 35 
 
 sublime. But put it into what is commonly called the sub- 
 lime style : " The Sovereign Arbiter of nature, by the potent 
 energy of a single word, commanded the light to exist ;" 
 and, as has been well observed, the style indeed is raised, 
 but the thought is fallen. In general it may be observed, 
 that, in all good writing, the sublime lies in the thought, not 
 in the expression ; and when the thought is truly noble, it 
 will, for the most part, clothe itself in a native dignity of 
 language. 
 
 The faults opposite to the sublime are chiefly two : the 
 frigid and the bombast. The frigid consists, in degrading 
 an object or sentiment, which is sublime in itself, by mean 
 conception of it ; or by a weak, low, and childish description 
 of it. This betrays entire absence, or at least, great poverty 
 of genius. Of this there are abundance of examples, 
 and these commented upon with much humor, in the Treatise 
 on the Art of Sinking, by Dean Swift. The bombast lies, 
 in forcing an ordinary or trivial object out of its rank, and 
 endeavoring to raise it into the sublime ; or, in attempting 
 to exalt a sublime object beyond all natural and reasonable 
 bounds. Into this error, which is but too common, writers 
 of genius may sometimes fall, by unluckily losing sight of 
 the true point of the sublime. This is also called fustian or 
 rant ; and Dryden and Lee, in their tragedies, abound with it. 
 
 We have treated thus fully of the sublime, because it is 
 so capital an excellency in fine writing, and because clear 
 and precise ideas on this head, are seldom to be met with in 
 critical writers. 
 
 What are the faults opposite to the sublime 1 In what does the frigid 
 consist ; and what does it betray ? Of these what is remarked 1 In 
 what does the bombast lie 1 How may writers of genius sometimes fall 
 into this error 1 What is this also called ; and who abound with it 1 
 Why have we treated thus fully of the sublime '] 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. The foundation of the sublime 
 
 2. Instances of sublime writing. 
 
 A. The Sacred Scriptures. 
 
 B. Homer's poems. 
 
 C. The works of Ossian. 
 
 D. Milton's poems. 
 
 3. Essentials to the sublime. 
 
 A. Conciseness and simplicity. 
 
 B. Strength. 
 
 4. The sources of the sublime. 
 
 5. The nature of a sublime emo- 
 
 tion. 
 
 6. A sublime style. 
 
 7. Opposites to the sublime. 
 
 A. Frigid style. 
 
 B. Bombastic style. 
 
LECTURE V. 
 
 BEAUTY AND OTHER PLEASURES OF TASTE 
 
 Beauty, next to sublimity, affords, beyond doubt, the highest 
 pleasure to the imagination. The emotion which it raises, 
 may be easily distinguished from that of sublimity. It is of 
 a calmer kind ; more gentle and soothing ; does not elevate 
 the mind so much, but produces an agreeable serenity. 
 Sublimity raises a feeling, too violent to be lasting ; the 
 pleasure arising from beauty admits of longer continuance. 
 It extends, also, to a much greater variety of objects than 
 sublimity ; to a variety indeed so great, that the feelings 
 which beautiful objects produce, differ considerably, not in 
 degree only, but also in kind* from one another. Hence, 
 no word in the language is used with less discrimination 
 than beauty. It is applied to almost every external object 
 that pleases the eye or the ear ; to a great number of the 
 graces of writing ; to many dispositions of the mind ; and, 
 even to several objects of mere abstract science. We talk 
 currently of a beautiful tree or flower ; a beautiful poem ; 
 a beautiful character ; and, a beautiful theorem in mathe- 
 matics. 
 
 Hence, we may easily perceive, that among so great a 
 variety of objects, to find out some one quality in which they 
 all agree, and which is the foundation of that agreeable 
 sensation which they all raise, must be a very difficult, if not 
 a vain attempt. Hypotheses, however, have been framed by 
 ingenious men, for ascertaining the fundamental quality of 
 beauty in all objects. In particular, uniformity amidst 
 variety, has been insisted on as the fundamental quality. 
 This, however, will not apply to color or motion ; nor will 
 it apply to all figured objects, since some please which have 
 very little variety, and others, which are various to a degree 
 
 How may the emotion which beauty raises, be distinguished from that 
 of sublimity 7 Of the variety of objects to which beauty extends, what is 
 remarked 1 Hence, to what is it applied ; and of what do we currently 
 talk % What must, consequently, among so great a variety of objects, be 
 a very difficult task 1 For what have hypotheses been framed ; and what 
 has been insisted on, as its fundamental quality 1 To what, however, 
 will not this apply ; and why 1 
 
LfccT.5.] BEAUTY. 8? 
 
 of intricacy. Laying systems, therefore, aside, we shall 
 give an enumeration of several of those classes of objects 
 in which beauty most remarkably appears ; and point out, 
 as far as possible, the separate principles of beauty in each 
 of them. 
 
 Color affords, perhaps, the simplest instance of beauty. 
 Here, neither variety, nor uniformity, nor any other assign- 
 able principle, can be considered as its foundation. We can 
 refer it to no other cause but the structure of the eye, which 
 determines Us to receive certain modifications of the rays of 
 light with more pleasure than others. Association of ideas, 
 it is probable, however, has some influence. Green, for 
 instance, may appear more beautiful, by being connected in 
 our ideas with rural scenes and prospects ; white, with 
 innocence ; blue, with the serenity of the sky. Independent 
 of associations of this kind, all that we can farther observe 
 respecting colors is, that those chosen for beauty are, gene- 
 rally, delicate, rather than glaring. Such are the feathers of 
 several kinds of birds, the leaves of flowers, and the fine 
 variation of colors exhibited by the sky at the rising and 
 setting of the sun. 
 
 From color we proceed to figure, which opens to us forms 
 of beauty more complex and diversified. Regularity first 
 occurs to be noticed as a source of beauty. By a regular 
 figure, is meant, one which we perceive to be formed accord- 
 ing to some certain rule, and not left arbitrary or loose in 
 the construction of its parts. Thus a circle, a square, or a 
 triangle, pleases the eye, by its regularity, as a beautiful 
 figure : yet a certain graceful variety is perceived to be a 
 much more powerful principle of beauty. Regularity ap- 
 pears beautiful to us, chiefly, if not solely, because it suggests 
 the ideas of fitness, propriety, and use, which have always a 
 more intimate connection with orderly and proportionate 
 forms, than with those which appear not constructed accord- 
 ing to any certain rule. Nature, who is, doubtless, the most 
 
 Laying systems, therefore, aside, what is proposed to be done 1 What, 
 perhaps, affords the simplest instance of beauty ; and of it, what is ob- 
 served 1 What, perhaps, has some influence ; and what illustrations are 
 given 1 Independent of such associations, what only can we farther ob- 
 serve : and what instances are mentioned'? From color, to what do we 
 proceed; and of its beauty what is observed'? What first occurs to be 
 noticed as a source of beauty ; by it what is meant ; and what are the 
 examples 1 Why does regularity appear beautiful ; and of those qualities 
 what is remarked 1 From the course that nature pursues in this respect, 
 what illustration is given 1 
 
 4 
 
88 BEAUTY. [Lect. 5. 
 
 graceful artist, hath, in all her ornamental works, pursued 
 variety with an apparent neglect of regularity. Cabinets, 
 doors, and windows, are made after a regular form, in cubes 
 and parallelograms, with exact proportion of parts, and by 
 being so formed they please the eye : for this good reason, 
 that, being works of use, they are, by such figures, the better 
 suited to the ends for which they were designed. But plants, 
 flowers, and leaves, are full of variety and diversity. A 
 straight canal is an insipid figure, in comparison of the 
 meanders of rivers. Cones and pyramids are beautiful ; 
 but trees growing in their natural wildness, are infinitely 
 more beautiful than when trimmed into pyramids and cones. 
 The apartments of a house must be regular in their dispo- 
 sition, for the convenience of its inhabitants ; but a garden 
 which is designed merely for beauty, would be extremely 
 disgusting, if it had as much uniformity and order in its 
 parts as a dwelling-house. 
 
 Motion furnishes another source of beauty, distinct from 
 figure. Motion, of itself, is pleasing ; and bodies in motion, 
 are universally preferred to those at rest. It is, however, 
 gentle ir>otion only, that belongs to the beautiful ; for when 
 it is very swift, or very forcible, such as that of a torrent, it 
 partakes of the sublime. The motion of a bird gliding 
 through the air, is extremely beautiful ; but the swiftness 
 with which lightning darts through the heavens, is mag- 
 nificent and astonishing. And here, it is proper to observe, 
 that the sensations of sublime and beautiful, are not always 
 distinguished by very distant boundaries ; but are capable, 
 in many instances, of approaching towards each other. 
 Thus, a smooth running stream, is one of the most beautiful 
 objects in nature : as it swells gradually into a great river, 
 the beautiful, by degrees, is lost in the sublime. A young 
 tree is a beautiful object ; a spreading ancient oak, is a 
 venerable and grand one. The calmness of a fine morning 
 is beautiful ; the universal stillness of the evening is highly 
 sublime. But to return to the beauty of motion ; it will 
 
 How are cabinets, doors, and windows, made ; and why do they please \ 
 But what are full of diversity and variety'? How is this subject farther 
 illustrated from a straight canal, cones, and pyramids, the apartments of a 
 house, and a garden ! What furnishes another source of beauty, distinct 
 from figure ; and of it, what is remarked ] What motion, only, belongs 
 to the beautiful; and why 1 How is this remark illustrated] Here, 
 what is it proper to observe ; and what illustrations follow '? But to return 
 to the beauty of motion, what will generally hold true ; and what instance is 
 mentioned. 
 

 Lect. 5.] BEAUTY. 39 
 
 be found to hold, very generally, that motion in a straight 
 line is not so beautiful as in a waving direction ; and motion 
 upwards is also, generally, more agreeable than motion 
 downward-s. The easy curling motion of flame and smoke, 
 is an object singularly agreeable. Mr. Hogarth observes, 
 very ingeniously, that all the common and necessary motions 
 for the business of life, are performed by men in straight or 
 plain lines ; but that all the graceful and ornamental move- 
 ments are made in waving lines — an observation worthy of 
 the attention of those who study the grace of gesture and 
 action. 
 
 Though color, figure, and motion, are separate princi- 
 ples of beauty ; yet in many beautiful objects they all meet, 
 and render the beauty both greater and more complex. 
 Thus, in flowers, trees, and animals, we are entertained, at 
 once, with the delicacy of the color, with the gracefulness of 
 the figure, and sometimes also with the motion of the object. 
 Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful objects 
 that can any where be found, is presented by a rich natural 
 landscape, where there is a sufficient variety of objects — ■ 
 fields in verdure, scattered trees and flowers, running water, 
 and animals grazing. If to these be joined some of the pro- 
 ductions of art, which suit such a scene ; as a bridge with 
 arches over a river, smoke rising from cottages in the midst 
 of trees, and the distant view of a fine building seen by the 
 rising sun ; we then enjoy, in the highest perfection, that 
 
 fay, cheerful, and placid sensation which characterizes 
 eauty. 
 The beauty of the human countenance is more complex 
 than any that we have yet considered. It includes the 
 beauty of color, arising from the delicate shades of the com- 
 plexion ; and the beauty of figure, arising from the lines 
 which form the different features of the face. But the chief 
 beauty of the countenance depends upon a mysterious ex- 
 pression, which it conveys, of the qualities of the mind ; of 
 good sense, or good humor; of sprightliness, candor, benevo- 
 
 What has Mr. Hogarth very ingeniously observed ; and of this obser- 
 vation what is remarked 1 When color, figure, and motion, all meet in the 
 same object, what is their effect 1 Thus, in flowers, trees, and animals, 
 with what are we entertained at the same time 7 By what is the most 
 complete assemblage of beautiful objects that can any where be found, pre- 
 sented ; and how may its beauty be rendered perfect ! Of the beauty of 
 the human countenance what is remarked ; and what does it include 1 
 But upon what does its chief beauty depend 1 
 
40 BEAUTY. [Lect. 5. 
 
 lence, sensibility, or other amiable dispositions. How it 
 comes to pass that a certain conformation of features, is 
 connected in our idea with certain moral qualities, belongs 
 not to us now to inquire ; but the fact is certain, that what 
 gives the human countenance its most distinguishing beauty, 
 is what is called its expression ; or an image, which it is 
 conceived to show of internal moral dispositions. 
 
 It may also be observed, that there are certain qualities of 
 the mind-, which, whether expressed in the countenance, or 
 by words, or by actions, always raise in us a feeling similar 
 to that of beauty. There are two great classes of moral 
 qualities ; one is of the high and the grave virtues, which 
 require extraordinary efforts, and turn upon dangers and 
 sufferings ; as heroism, magnanimity, contempt of pleasures, 
 and contempt of death. These excite, in the spectator, an 
 emotion of sublimity and grandeur. The other class is 
 chiefly of the social virtues, and such as are of a softer and 
 gentler kind ; as compassion, mildness, friendship, and 
 generosity. These excite, in the beholder, a sensation of 
 pleasure, so nearly allied to that excited by beautiful exter- 
 nal objects, that, though of a more dignified nature, it may, 
 without impropriety, be classed under the same head. 
 
 Having mentioned so many different species of beauty, it 
 now only remains to take notice of beauty as it is applied to 
 writing or discourse. In its proper and appropriate sense, 
 beauty of writing characterizes a particular manner, and 
 signifies a certain grace and amenity in the turn either of 
 style or sentiment, for which some authors have been pecu- 
 liarly distinguished. In this sense, it denotes a manner 
 neither remarkably sublime, nor vehemently passionate, nor 
 uncommonly sparkling; but such as raises in the reader 
 an emotion of the gentle, placid kind, similar to that which 
 is raised by the contemplation of beautiful objects in nature ; 
 which neither lifts the mind very high, nor agitates it very 
 much, but diffuses over the imagination an agreeable and 
 pleasing serenity. Mr. Addison is a writer altogether of 
 this character ; and is one of the most proper examples that 
 
 What belongs not to us now to inquire ; but what is certain 1 Of 
 certain qualities of the mind, what may also be observed % What are the 
 two great classes of moral qualities ; and what emotion do they respectively 
 excite 1 Having mentioned so many species of beauty, what only remains 
 to be noticed ] In its proper and appropriate sense, what does beauty of 
 writing signify ; and in this sense what manner does it denote 1 Who are 
 writers of this character : and what is remarked of them ? 
 
Lect. 5.] SUBLIMITY OF OBJECTS. 41 
 
 can be given of it. Fenelon, the author of the Adventures 
 of Telemachus, may be given as another example. Virgil, 
 too, though very capable of rising on occasions into the 
 sublime, yet, in his general manner, is distinguished by the 
 character of beauty and grace, rather than of sublimity. 
 Among orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful than De- 
 mosthenes, whose genius led him wholly towards vehemence 
 and strength. 
 
 Thus much it is necessary to have said upon the subject 
 of beauty ; since, next to sublimity, it is the most copious 
 source of the pleasures of taste. But it is not by appearing 
 under the forms of the sublime or beautiful only, that objects 
 delight the imagination. They likewise derive their power 
 of giving it pleasure from several other principles. 
 
 Novelty, for instance, has been mentioned by Mr. Addi- 
 son, and by every other writer on this subject. An object 
 which has no merit to recommend it, except its being un- 
 common or new, by means of this quality alone, produces 
 in the mind a vivid and an agreeable emotion. Hence, that 
 passion of curiosity which prevails so generally among 
 mankind. Objects and ideas which have been long familiar, 
 make too faint an impression to give an agreeable exercise 
 to our faculties. New and strange objects rouse the mind 
 from its dormant state, by giving it a sudden and pleasing 
 impulse. Hence, in a great measure, the entertainment 
 afforded us by fiction and romance. The emotion raised by 
 novelty is of a more lively and pungent nature, than that 
 produced by beauty ; but much shorter in its continuance. 
 For, if the object has in itself no charms to hold our atten- 
 tion, the shining gloss thrown upon it by novelty soon wears 
 off. 
 
 Besides novelty, imitation is another source of pleasure 
 to taste. This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms, the 
 secondary pleasures of imagination ; which form, doubtless, 
 a very extensive class. For all imitation conveys some 
 pleasure to the mind ; not only the imitation of beautiful or 
 
 Why is it necessary to have said thus much upon beauty ; but what fol- 
 lows 1 What has been mentioned by Mr. Addison, as affording pleasure 
 to the imagination % An object of what sort will produce an agreeable 
 emotion in the mind ; and hence what passion prevails 1 Of objects and 
 ideas that have been long familiar, what is remarked ; what effect do new 
 and strange objects produce; and hence what follows % Of the emotion 
 raised by novelty, what is observed ; and why 1 Besides novelty, what is 
 another source of pleasure to taste 1 This gives rise to what ; and why 
 do they form a very extensive class. 
 
 4* 
 
42 IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Lect. 5. 
 
 sublime objects, by recalling- the original ideas of beauty or 
 grandeur which such objects themselves exhibit ; but even 
 objects which have neither beauty nor grandeur ; nay, some 
 which are terrible or deformed, please us in a secondary, 
 or represented view. 
 
 The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to 
 taste. There is no agreeable sensation we receive either 
 from beauty or sublimity, but what is capable of being 
 heightened by the power of musical sound. Hence the 
 charm of poetical numbers, and even the more concealed and 
 looser measure of prose. Wit, humor, and ridicule, like- 
 wise open a variety of pleasures to taste, quite distinct from 
 any that has yet been considered. 
 
 At present it is not necessary to pursue the subject of the 
 pleasures of taste any farther. We have opened some of the 
 general principles ; it is time now to apply them to our chief 
 subject. If the question be asked, to what class of those 
 pleasures of taste which have been enumerated, that pleasure 
 is to be referred which we receive from poetry, eloquence, 
 or fine writing ; the answer is, not to any one, but to them 
 all. This singular advantage writing and discourse pos- 
 sess, that they encompass so large and fruitful a field on 
 all sides, and have power to exhibit in great perfection, not a 
 single set of objects only, but almost the whole of those which 
 give pleasure to taste and imagination ; whether that plea- 
 sure arise from sublimity, from beauty in its various forms, 
 from moral sentiments, from novelty, from harmony, or from 
 wit, humor, and ridicule. To whichsoever of these the 
 peculiar bent of the person's taste lies, from some writer or 
 other, he has it always in his power to receive the gratifi- 
 cation of it. 
 
 It has been usual among critical writers, to treat of dis- 
 course as the chief of all the imitative arts. They compare 
 it with painting and with sculpture, and, in many respects, 
 prefer it justly to them. But it must be observed, that 
 
 How does it appear that the pleasures of melody and harmony belong 
 also to taste ; and hence what follows 1 Of wit, humor, and ridicule, 
 what is remarked 1 As we have now opened some of the principles of the 
 pleasures of taste, what is it time to do? If the question be asked to what 
 class of those pleasures of taste which we have been enumerating is to be 
 referred, the pleasure which we receive from poetry, &c, what answer is to 
 be given ? What singular advantage do writing and discourse possess ? 
 How has it been usual among critical writers to treat of discourse ; and 
 to what do they compare it 1 But what must be observed, and how is this 
 illustrated ? 
 
Lect. 5.] IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. 43 
 
 imitation and description differ considerably in their nature 
 from each other. Words have no natural resemblance to 
 the ideas or objects which they are employed to signify ; 
 but a statue or a picture has a natural likeness to the original. 
 Hence, to describe a thing is to tell what it is ; but to imitate 
 it, is to show what it is. 
 
 As far, however, as the poet introduces into his work per- 
 sons really speaking, and by the words which he puts into 
 their mouths, represents the conversation which they might 
 be supposed to hold ; so far his art may more accurately be 
 called imitative ; and this is the case in all dramatic com- 
 positions. But in narrative or descriptive works, it can, with 
 no propriety, be called so. Who, for instance, would call 
 Virgil's description of a tempest, in the first JEniad, an 
 imitation of a storm ! Should we hear of the imitation of a 
 battle, we would naturally think of some mock fight, or 
 representation of a battle on the stage, but would never appre- 
 hend that it meant one of Homer's descriptions in the Iliad. 
 It must be admitted, at the same time, that imitation and 
 description agree in their principal effect, of recalling, by 
 external signs, the ideas of things which we do not see. 
 But though in this they coincide, yet it should not be for- 
 gotten, that the terms themselves are not synonymous — that 
 they impart different means for effecting the same end ; and, 
 of course, make different impressions on the mind. 
 
 Hence, what is the difference between describing a thing, and telling 
 what it is 1 How far may the poet's art be said to be imitative ; and in 
 what compositions is this the case 1 How is the remark illustrated, that it 
 is not so in descriptive works ; but what must, at the same time, be 
 admitted 1 But though in this they coincide, yet what should not be 
 forgotten 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Beauty. 
 
 A. The nature of beauty. 
 
 B. Hypotheses of beauty. 
 
 C. The beauty of colors. 
 
 D. The beauty of figures. 
 a. Hogarth's analysis. 
 
 E. The beauty of motion. 
 
 F. Color, figure, and motion, 
 united. 
 
 G. The beauty of the human 
 
 countenance. 
 H. Moral beauty. 
 I. Beauty of design. 
 K. Beauty of writing. 
 
 2. Novelty. " 
 
 3. Imitation. 
 
 4. Melody and harmony. 
 
 5. Writing and discourse. 
 
LECTURE VI. 
 
 RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 Language, which is the foundation of all eloquence, 
 signifies, in general, the expression of our ideas by certain 
 articulate sounds, which are used as the signs of those ideas. 
 The connection between words and ideas may, in general, 
 be considered as arbitrary and conventional, owing to the 
 agreement of men among themselves ; the clear proof of 
 which is, that different nations have different languages, or 
 a different set of articulate sounds, which they have chosen 
 for communicating their ideas. 
 
 This artificial method of communicating thought, we now 
 behold carried to the highest perfection. Language is be- 
 come a vehicle by which the most delicate and refined 
 emotions of one mind can be transmitted, or transfused into 
 another. Not only are names given to all objects around us, 
 by which means an easy and speedy intercourse is carried on 
 for providing the necessaries of life, but all the relations and 
 differences among these objects are minutely marked, the 
 invisible sentiments of the mind are described, the most 
 abstract notions and conceptions are rendered intelligible; 
 and all the ideas which science can discover, or imagination 
 create, are known by their proper names. Nay, language 
 has been carried so far as to be made an instrument of the 
 most refined luxury. Not resting in mere perspicuity, we 
 require ornament also ; not satisfied with having the con- 
 ceptions of others made known to us, we make a farther 
 demand, to have them so decked and adorned as to entertain 
 our fancy ; and this demand it is found very possible to 
 gratify. 
 
 But in order to form an adequate idea of the origin of lan- 
 
 What does language signify 1 Why may the connection between words 
 and ideas be considered arbitrary and conventional; and of this, what is a 
 clear proof"? In what state do we now behold this artificial method of 
 communication ; and what is language become 1 How is this remark illus- 
 trated 1 How does it appear that language has been carried so far as to 
 be made an instrument of the most refined luxury 1 But in order to form 
 an adequate idea of the origin of language, what is necessary ; and at 
 that time, in what condition were mankind '? 
 
Lect.6] RISE AND PROGRESS, &c. 45 
 
 guage, it is necessary to contemplate the circumstances of 
 mankind in their earliest and rudest state. They were then 
 a wandering, scattered race ; no society among them except 
 families ; and the family society, too, very imperfect, as their 
 method of living by hunting and pasturage must have sepa- 
 rated them frequently from one another. In this situation, 
 when so much divided, and their intercourse so rare, how 
 could any one set of sounds, or words, be generally agreed 
 on as the signs of their ideas ? Supposing that a few, whom 
 chance or necessity threw together, agreed, by some means, 
 upon certain signs ; yet by what authority could these be 
 propagated among other tribes, or families, so as to spread 
 and grow up into a language ? One would think, that in 
 order for any language to fix and extend itself, men must 
 have been previously gathered together in considerable 
 numbers ; society must have been already far advanced ; 
 and yet, on the other hand, there seems to have been an 
 absolute necessity for speech, previous to the formation of 
 society. For by what bond could any multitude of men be 
 kept together, or be made to join in the prosecution of any 
 common interest, until, by the assistance of speech, they 
 could communicate their wants and intentions to one another ? 
 So that, either how society could subsist previous to lan- 
 guage, or how words could rise into a language, previous 
 to the formation of society, seem to be points attended with 
 equal difficulty. And when we consider farther, that curious 
 analogy which prevails in the construction of almost all 
 languages, and that deep and subtle logic on which they are 
 founded, difficulties increase so much upon us, on all hands, 
 that there seems to be no small reason for referring the origin 
 of all languages to divine teaching, or inspiration. But sup- 
 posing language to have had a divine origin, we cannot, 
 however, suppose, that a perfect system of it was at once 
 given to man. It is much more natural to think, that God 
 taught our first parents such language only, as suited their 
 present occasions ; leaving them, as he did in other things, 
 to enlarge and improve it as their future necessities should 
 
 In this situation, what would be impossible; and what supposition fol- 
 lows ] In order for any language to fix and extend itself, what must have 
 been done ; and yet, on the other hand, what is remarked ; and why ? 
 What points, consequently, seem to be attended with equal difficulty 1 
 What farther consideration induces us to refer the origin of all languages 
 to divine inspiration 1 But, allowing that language had a divine origin, 
 what can we not suppose ; and what is much more natural 1 
 
46 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 6. 
 
 require. Consequently, those first rudiments of speech 
 must have been poor and narrow ; and we are at full liberty 
 to inquire in what manner, and by what steps, language 
 advanced to the state in which we now find it. 
 
 If we should suppose a period before any words were 
 invented or known, it is clear that men could have no other 
 method of communicating, to others, Avhat they felt, than by 
 the cries of passion, accompanied with such motions and 
 gestures as w~ere farther expressive of passion. These, 
 indeed, are the only signs which nature teaches all men, 
 and which are understood by all. One who saw another 
 going into some place where he himself had been frightened, 
 or exposed to danger, and who sought to warn his neighbor 
 of the danger, could contrive no other method of doing so, 
 than by uttering those cries, and making those gestures, 
 which are the signs of fear : just as two men, at this day, 
 would endeavor to make themselves be understood by each 
 other, who should be thrown together on a desolate island, 
 ignorant of each other's language. Those exclamations, 
 therefore, called by grammarians, interjections, uttered in a 
 strong and passionate manner, were, beyond doubt, the first 
 elements or beginnings of speech. 
 
 When more enlarged communications became necessary, 
 and na.mes began to be assigned to objects, in what manner 
 can we suppose men to have proceeded in this application of 
 names, or invention of words ? Doubtless, by imitating, as 
 much as they could, the nature of the object which they 
 named, by the sound of the name which they gave to it. As 
 a painter, who would represent grass, must employ green 
 color ; so in the infancy of language, one giving a name t j 
 any thing harsh or boisterous, would, of course, employ a 
 harsh or boisterous sound. He could not do otherwise, if 
 he meant to excite in the hearer the idea of that thing which 
 he sought to name. To suppose words invented, or names 
 given to things, in a manner purely arbitrary, is to suppose 
 
 What must, consequently, have been the state of those first rudiments 
 of speech ; and what follows 1 If we suppose a period before words 
 were invented, what method only, would men have for communicating 
 what they felt to others ; and why 1 How is this remark illustrated 1 
 What instance is given ; and what, consequently, were the first elements 
 of speech 1 When more enlarged communications became necessary, in 
 what manner did men proceed in their application of names ; and how is 
 this illustrated 1 Under what circumstances could he not do otherwise 1 
 What would be to suppose an effect without a cause ; and for what reason 1 
 
Lect.6.] OF LANGUAGE. 47 
 
 an effect without a cause. There must have always been 
 some motive that led to the assigning- of one name rather 
 than another ; and we can conceive no motive which would 
 more generally operate upon men in their first efforts towards 
 language, than a desire to paint by speech, the objects which 
 they named, in a manner more or less complete, according 
 as it was in the power of the human voice to effect this 
 imitation. 
 
 Wherever objects were to be named, in which sound, 
 noise, or motion, were concerned, the imitation by words 
 was abundantly obvious. Nothing was more natural, than 
 to imitate, by the sound of the voice, the quality of the sound 
 or noise which any external object made ; and to form its 
 name accordingly. Thus, in all languages, we find a mul- 
 titude of words that are evidently constructed upon this prin- 
 ciple. A certain bird is termed the cuckoo, from the sound 
 which it emits. When one sort of wind is said to whistle, 
 and another to roar ; when a serpent is said to hiss, any to 
 buz, and falling timber to crash ; when a stream is said to 
 flow, and hail to rattle ; the resemblance between the word 
 and the thing signified, is plainly discernable. But in the 
 names of objects which address the sight only, where neither 
 noise nor motion is concerned, and still more in the terms 
 appropriated to moral ideas, this analogy appears to fail. 
 Yet many learned men have been of opinion, that though in 
 such cases it becomes more obscure, it is not altogether lost ; 
 but that throughout the radical words of all languages, there 
 may be traced some correspondence with the object signified. 
 With regard to moral and intellectual ideas, they remark, 
 that in every language, the terms significant of them, are 
 derived from the names of sensible objects to which they 
 are conceived to be analogous ; and with regard to sensible 
 objects pertaining merely to sight, they remark, that their 
 most distinguishing qualities have certain radical sounds 
 appropriated to the expression of them, in a great variety 
 of languages. 
 
 This principle, however, of a natural relation between 
 
 Where was the imitation by words abundantly obvious ; and thus, in all 
 languages, what do we find 1 What instances are mentioned, illustrative 
 of this remark 1 But where does this analogy appear to fail ; yet many 
 learned men have been of what opinion % With regard to moral and 
 intellectual ideas, and with regard to sensible objects pertaining merely to 
 sight, what do they remark 1 When only can this principle be applied to 
 language 1 
 
48 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 6. 
 
 words and objects, can only be applied to language in its 
 most simple and primitive state. Though in every tongue 
 some remains of it can be traced, it were utterly vain to 
 search for it throughout the whole construction of any modern 
 language. As the multitude of terms increase in every 
 nation, and the immense field of language is filled up, 
 words, by a thousand fanciful and irregular methods of de- 
 rivation and composition, deviate widely from the primitive 
 character of their roots, and lose all resemblance in sound 
 to the thing signified. This is the present state of language. 
 Words, as we now employ them, taken in the general, may 
 be considered as symbols, not as imitations ; as arbitrary or 
 instituted, not natural signs of ideas. But there can be no 
 doubt, that language, the nearer we remount to its rise 
 among men, will be found to partake more of a natural 
 expression. 
 
 A second character of language, in its early state, is 
 drawn from the manner in which words were at first pro- 
 nounced. Interjections, it has been shown, or passionate 
 exclamations, were the first elements of speech. Men 
 labored to communicate their feelings to one another, by 
 those expressive cries and gestures which nature taught 
 them. After words, or names of objects, began to be intro- 
 duced, this mode of speaking by natural signs, could not be 
 all at once disused. For language, in its infancy must have 
 been extremely barren ; and there doubtless was a period 
 among all rude nations, when conversation was carried on by 
 a very few words, intermixed with many exclamations and 
 earnest gestures. The small stock of words which men as 
 yet possessed, rendered these helps absolutely necessary 
 for explaining their conceptions ; and rude uncultivated men, 
 not having always at hand even the few words which they 
 knew, would naturally labor to make themselves understood, 
 by varying their tones of voice, and accompanying their 
 tones with the most significant gesticulations they could 
 make. 
 
 Though in every tongue some remains of it can be traced, yet what were 
 utterly "vain ; and why 1 As this is the present state of language, how 
 mav words, as we now employ them, be considered ; but of what can there 
 be no doubt 1 Whence is a second character of language, in its early 
 state, drawn 1 What were the first elements of speech ; and why were 
 they % After words began to be introduced, why could not this mode of 
 speaking be, at once, disused % What rendered these helps absolutely 
 necessary ; and what follows % 
 
Lect. 6.] OF LANGUAGE. 49 
 
 To this manner of speaking-, necessity first gave rise. 
 But we must observe, that after this necessity had, in a 
 great measure, ceased, by language becoming, in process of 
 time, more extensive and copious, the ancient manner of 
 speech still subsisted among many nations ; and what had 
 arisen from necessity, continued to be used for ornament. 
 In the Greek and Roman languages, a musical and gesticu- 
 lating pronunciation was retained in a very high degree. 
 Without having attended to this, we shall be at a loss to 
 understand several passages of the classics, which relate to 
 the public speaking and theatrical entertainments of the 
 ancients. Our modern pronunciation would have appeared 
 to them a lifeless monotony. The declamation of their 
 orators, and the pronunciation of their actors upon the stage, 
 approached to the nature of recitative in music ; was capable 
 of being marked in notes, and supported with instruments ; 
 as several learned men have fully proved. 
 
 The case was parallel with regard to gesture ; for strong 
 tones and animated gestures, we may observe, always go 
 together. Action is treated of by all the ancient critics, as 
 the chief quality in every public speaker. The action both, 
 of the orators and pWers in Greece and Rome, was far 
 more vehement than what we are accustomed to now. To 
 us, Roscius would have seemed a madman. Gesture was 
 of such consequence upon the ancient stage, that on some 
 occasions, the speaking and the acting part were divided ; 
 which, according to our ideas, would form a strange exhi- 
 bition : one player spoke the words in the proper tones, 
 while another performed the corresponding motions and 
 gestures. We learn from Cicero, that it was a contest 
 between him and Roscius, whether he could express a sen- 
 timent in a greater variety of phrases, or Roscius in a 
 greater variety of intelligible significant gestures. At last, 
 gesture engrossed the stage wholly ; for, under the reigns of 
 
 To this manner of speaking what gave rise ; yet what must be observed 1 
 Of it in the Greek and Roman languages what is remarked; and without 
 having attended to this, to understand what, shall we be at a loss? How 
 would our modern pronunciation have appeared to them ; and of the 
 declamation of their orators, and the pronunciation of their actors, what 
 is observed 1 Why was the case parallel with regard to gesture ; and how 
 is action treated of by all the ancient critics % Of the action of the players 
 and orators of Greece and Rome, what is remarked ; and how would 
 Roscius have seemed to us % From the importance of gesture upon the 
 ancient stage, what practice prevailed ; and how was it conducted 1 On 
 this subject, what do we learn from Cicero % 
 
50 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 6. 
 
 Augustus and Tiberius, the favorite entertainment of the 
 public was the pantomime, which was carried on entirely by- 
 mute gesticulation. The people were moved, and wept at 
 it as much as at tragedies; and the passion for it became 
 so strong, that laws were made, for restraining the senators 
 from studying the pantomime art. Now, though in decla- 
 mations and theatrical exhibitions, both tone and gesture 
 were, doubtless, carried much farther than in common dis- 
 course ; yet public speaking of any kind, must, in every 
 country, bear some proportion to the manner which is used 
 in conversation ; and such public entertainments as have 
 now been mentioned, could never have been relished by a 
 nation, whose tones and gestures, in discourse, were as 
 languid as ours. 
 
 We are apt, upon a superficial view, to imagine, that those 
 modes of expression which are called figures of speech, are 
 among the chief refinements of speech, not invented till after 
 language had advanced to its later periods, and mankind 
 were brought into a polished state ; and that, then, they 
 were devised by orators and rhetoricians : but the truth is 
 directly the contrary. Mankind never employed so many 
 figures of speech, as when they had hardly any words for 
 expressing their meaning. 
 
 For, first, the want of proper names for every object, obliged 
 them to use one name for many ; and, of course, to express 
 themselves by comparisons, metaphors, allusions, and all 
 those substituted forms of speech which render language 
 figurative. Next, as the objects with which they were most 
 conversant, were the sensible material objects around them, 
 names would be given to those objects long before words 
 were invented for signifying the dispositions of the mind, or 
 any sort of moral and intellectual ideas. Hence, the early 
 language of men being entirely made up of words descrip- 
 tive of sensible objects, it necessarily became extremely 
 metaphorical. For, to signify any desire or passion, or any 
 act or feeling of the mind, they had no precise expression 
 
 At last, to what extent did it engross the stage ; from what does this 
 appear ; and how were the people affected by it ? What remark follows, 
 yet, to what must public speaking, in every country, bear some resem- 
 blance; and by whom could not such public entertainments, as have now 
 been mentioned, be relished '{ Of those modes of expression called figures 
 of speech, what are we apt to imagine ; but how does it appear that the 
 truth is directly the contrary 1 What are the two reasons for this 1 Hence, 
 of the early languages of men what is observed j and why was this the case § 
 
Lect.6.] OF LANGUAGE. 51 
 
 which was appropriated to that purpose, but were under the 
 necessity of painting the passion or emotion which they felt, 
 by allusion to those sensible objects which had most relation 
 to it, and which could render it, in some degree, visible to 
 others. 
 
 But it was not necessity alone that gave rise to this figured 
 style. In the infancy of all societies, men are much under 
 the dominion of imagination and passion. They live scat- 
 tered and dispersed ; they are unacquainted with the course 
 of things ; they are every day meeting with new and strange 
 objects. Fear and surprise, wonder and astonishment, are 
 their most frequent passions. Their language will neces- 
 sarily be affected by this character of their minds. They 
 will be disposed to paint every thing in the strongest and 
 most glowing colors. Even the manner in which the first 
 tribes of men uttered their words, would have considerable 
 influence on their style. Wherever strong exclamations, 
 tones, and gestures, are connected with conversation, the 
 imagination is always more exercised ; a greater effort of 
 fancy and passion is excited. Consequently, the fancy, kept 
 awake, and rendered more sprightly by this mode of utter- 
 ance, operates upon style, and renders it more lively. 
 
 These reasonings are confirmed by undoubted facts. The 
 style of all the most early languages, among nations who 
 are in the first and rude periods of society, is found, without 
 exception, to be full of figures — hyperbolical and picturesque 
 in a jiigh degree. We have a striking instance of this in 
 the American languages, which are known, by the most 
 authentic accounts, to be figurative to excess. Another 
 remarkable instance, is the style of the Old Testament, 
 which is carried on by constant allusions to sensible objects. 
 
 But as language, in its progress, began to grow more 
 copious, it gradually lost that figurative style, which was its 
 original character. The vehement manner of speaking by 
 tones and gestures, became less universal. In place of poets, 
 philosophers became the instructers of men ; and in their 
 reasonings on all subjects, introduced that plain and simple 
 style of composition, which we now call prose. The ancient 
 
 How does it appear that it was not necessity alone that gave rise to this 
 figured style 1 Why would the manner in which men pronounced their 
 words, have considerable influence upon their style'? How do these 
 reasonings appear to be confirmed by facts ; and where have we instances of 
 thisl But as language, in its progress, began to grow more copious, what 
 consequences followed 7 
 
52 
 
 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 6. 
 
 metaphorical and poetical dress of language, was now laid 
 aside from the intercourse of men, and reserved for those 
 occasions only, on which ornament was professedly studied. 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Language. 
 
 A. Its present state. 
 
 B. Its origin. 
 
 C. The earliest method of com- 
 
 municating thoughts. 
 
 D. The principle upon which 
 
 language was formed. 
 a. When this principle is ob- 
 vious. 
 . b. When it seems to fail. 
 
 2. Pronunciation. 
 
 A. Inflections. 
 
 B. Gestures. 
 
 3. The character of language 
 
 changed. 
 
 4. The style of early languages. 
 
 A. The employment of figures, 
 a. Confirmation of these rea- 
 sonings. 
 
 B. The origin of prose. 
 
Lect. 7.] OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 LECTURE VII. 
 
 RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AND 
 OF WRITING. 
 
 When we attend to the order in which words are arranged 
 in a sentence, we find a very remarkable difference between 
 the ancient and modern tongues. The consideration of this 
 will serve to unfold farther the genius of language, and to 
 show the causes of those alterations which it has undergone 
 in the progress of society. 
 
 In order to conceive, distinctly, the nature of this alter- 
 ation, we must go back, as before, to the earliest period of 
 language. Let us figure to ourselves a savage, who beholds 
 some object, such as fruit, which raises his desire, and who 
 requests another to give it to him. Supposing him to be 
 unacquainted with words, he would, in that case, labor to 
 make himself be understood, by pointing earnestly at the 
 object which he desired, and uttering, at the same time, a 
 passionate cry. Supposing him to have acquired words, the 
 first word which he uttered would, of course, be the name of 
 that object. He would not express himself according to our 
 English order of construction, " give me fruit ;" but accord- 
 ing to the Latin order, " fruit give me ;" for this plain 
 reason, that his attention was wholly directed towards fruit, 
 the desired object. This was the exciting idea ; the object 
 which moved him to speak ; and, of course, would be the 
 first named. Such an arrangement is precisely putting into 
 words the gesture which nature taught the savage to make, 
 before he was acquainted with words ; and, therefore, it may 
 be depended upon as certain, that he would fall most readily 
 into this arrangement. Hence, we might conclude, a priori, 
 that this would be the order in which words were most com- 
 monly arranged at the beginnings of language ; and, accord- 
 
 When we attend to the order in which words are arranged in a sentence, 
 what do we perceive ; and what will the consideration of this, do % How 
 shall we conceive distinctly the nature of this alteration ; and what must 
 we figure to ourselves 1 If unacquainted with words, how would he labor 
 to make himself understood 1 Suppose him to have acquired words, what 
 course would he pursue ; and why 1 Of such an arrangement, what is 
 remarked ; and, therefore, what follows % Hence, what might we conclude; 
 and in what tongues were words arranged in this order 1 
 
 5* 
 
54 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 7. 
 
 ingly, we find, in fact, that in this order, words are arranged 
 in most of the ancient tongues ; as in the Greek and Latin ; 
 and it is said, also, in the Russian, the Sclavonic, the Gaelic, 
 and several of the American tongues. 
 
 All the modern languages of Europe have adopted a 
 different arrangement from the ancient. In their prose com- 
 positions, very little variety is admitted in the collocation of 
 words ; they are chiefly fixed to one order, which may be 
 called the order of the understanding. They place first in 
 the sentence, the person, or thing, which speaks or acts ; 
 next, its action ; and lastly, the object of its action. So that 
 the ideas are made to succeed to one another, not according 
 to the degree of importance which the several objects carry 
 in the imagination, but according to the order of nature and 
 of time. 
 
 An English writer, paying a compliment to a great man, 
 would say thus : " It is impossible for me to pass over in 
 silence such remarkable mildness, such singular and un- 
 heard of clemency, and such unusual moderation in the 
 exercise of supreme power." Here we have first presented 
 to us, the person who speaks ; next, what that person is to 
 do, " impossible for him to pass over in silence ;" and, 
 lastly, the object which moves him so to do, " the mildness, 
 clemency, and moderation of his patron." Cicero, from 
 whom these words are translated, just reverses this order ; 
 beginning with the object, placing that first which was the 
 exciting idea in the speaker's mind, and ending with the 
 speaker and his action. " Tantam mansuetudinem, tarn 
 inusitatem inauditamque clementiam, tantumque in summa 
 potestate rerum omnium modum, tacitus nullo modo prsete- 
 rire possum." Here, it must be observed, that the Latin or- 
 der is more animated ; the English more clear and distinct. 
 
 In poetry, where we are supposed to rise above the 
 ordinary style, and to speak the language of fancy and pas- 
 sion, our arrangement is not altogether so limited; but 
 greater liberty is allowed for transposition and inversion. 
 Even there, however, that liberty is confined within narrow 
 
 Of the course pursued by all the modern languages of Europe, in their 
 prose compositions, what is observed ; and what is this order called 7 How 
 do they proceed ; so that what follows 1 An English writer, paying a com- 
 pliment to a great man, would say what ; and here, what have we presented 
 to us 1 What order does Cicero pursue ; and here what must be observed 1 
 "Where is greater liberty allowed for transposition and inversion ; but 
 there 3 of that liberty, what is observed % 
 
Lect. 7.] OF WRITING. 56 
 
 bounds, in comparison of the ancient languages. In this 
 respect, the different modern tongues vary from each other. 
 The Italian retains the most of the ancient transpositive 
 character ; the English, the next ; and the French, the least 
 of all. 
 
 It is proper, however, to observe, that there is one circum- 
 stance in the structure of all the modern tongues, which, of 
 necessity, limits their arrangement, in a great measure, to 
 one fixed and determined train. We have disused those 
 differences of termination, which, in the Greek and Latin, 
 distinguished the several cases of nouns and tenses of verbs 4 
 and which, thereby, pointed out the mutual relation of the 
 several words in a sentence to one another, though the 
 related words were disjoined, and placed in different parts 
 of the sentence. One obvious effect of this is, that we have 
 now, for the most part, no way left us to show the close 
 relation of any two words to each other in meaning, but by 
 placing them close to one another in the period. It was by 
 means of the contrivance of varying the termination of 
 nouns and verbs, and thereby pointing out the concordance 
 and the government of the words in a sentence, that the 
 ancients enjoyed so much liberty of transposition, and could 
 marshal and arrange their words in any way that gratified 
 the imagination, or pleased the ear. But when language 
 came to be modelled by the northern nations, who overran 
 the empire, they dropped the cases of nouns, and the different 
 terminations of verbs, with the more ease, because they 
 placed no great value upon the advantages arising from such 
 a structure of language. They were attentive only to clear- 
 ness, and copiousness of expression. 
 
 Having finished the account of the progress of speech, 
 the account of the progress of writing next demands om 
 notice. 
 
 Writing is evidently an improvement upon speech, and 
 therefore must have been posterior to it in the order of time 
 
 How do different modern languages vary in this respect ? What cir- 
 cumstance, however, must we observe, necessarily limits the structure of 
 all the modern tongues, to one fixed and determined train ; and what is 
 one obvious effect of this 1 What advantage did the ancients derive from 
 varying the terminations of nouns and verbs 1 But when, and why, were 
 these cases of nouns and terminations of verbs dropped ; and to what only, 
 were they attentive 1 Having finished the account of the progress of 
 speech, what next demands our attention '? Upon what is writing evi- 
 dently an improvement; and, therefore, what follows? 
 
56 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. 7. 
 
 At first, men thought of nothing more than communicating 
 their thoughts to one an other, when present, by means of 
 words, or sounds which they uttered. Afterwards they 
 devised this farther method of mutual communication with 
 each other, when absent, by means of characters presented 
 to the eye, which we call writing. 
 
 Written characters are of two sorts. They are either 
 signs for things, or signs for words. Of the former sort, 
 signs of things, are the pictures, hieroglyphics, and symbols, 
 employed by the ancient nations ; of the latter sort, signs for 
 words, are the alphabetical characters now employed by all 
 Europeans. 
 
 Pictures were, doubtless, the first attempt towards writing. 
 Imitation is so natural to man, that, in all ages, and among 
 all nations, some methods have obtained, of copying or 
 tracing the likeness of sensible objects. Those methods 
 would soon be employed by men for giving some imperfect 
 information to others, at a distance, of what had happened ; 
 or for preserving the memory of facts which they sought to 
 record. Thus, to signify that one man had killed another, 
 they drew the figure of one man stretched upon the earth, 
 and of another standing by him with a deadly weapon in his 
 hand. We find, in fact, that when America was first dis- 
 covered, this was the only sort of writing known in the 
 kingdom of Mexico.* It was, however, a very imperfect 
 method of recording facts ; since, by pictures, external 
 events only could be delineated. 
 
 To supply, in some degree, this defect, there arose, in 
 process of time, the invention of hieroglyphical characters, 
 which may be considered as the second stage of the art of 
 writing. Hieroglyphics consist in certain symbols, which 
 are made to represent visible objects, on account of an 
 
 * Dr. Robertson, speaking of Mexican figures, says, " They represent 
 things, not words. They exhibit images to the eye, not ideas to the un- 
 derstanding." Hist, of America, Book 7, p. 160. — Albany ed., 1822. 
 
 At first, of what «nly did men think ; and what did they afterwards 
 devise 1 Written characters are of what two sorts ; and what are ex- 
 amples of each 7 What were the first attempts towards writing ; and 
 why was this the case?- Thus, how would they signify that one man had 
 killed another 1 Where do we find this to have been the only sort of writing 
 known; and what is observed of it 1 In process of time, what invention 
 arose to supply, in some degree, this defect, and how may it be considered 1 
 In what do hieroglyphics consist ; and what examples are given 1 
 
Lect. 7»] OF WRITING. 57 
 
 analogy, or resemblance, which such symbols were supposed 
 to bear to the objects themselves. Thus, an eye, was the 
 hieroglyphical symbol of knowledge ; a circle, which has 
 neither beginning nor end, of eternity. Hieroglyphics, 
 therefore, were a more refined and extensive species of 
 painting. Pictures delineated the resemblance of external 
 visible objects ; hieroglyphics painted invisible objects, by 
 analogies taken from the external world. 
 
 Among the Mexicans, were found some traces of hiero- 
 glyphical characters, intermixed with their historical pic- 
 tures. But Egypt was the country where this sort of writing 
 was most studied, and brought into a regular art. In these 
 characters all the boasted wisdom of their priests was con- 
 veyed. According to the properties which they ascribe to 
 animals, or the qualities with which they suppose natural 
 objects to be endowed, they pitched upon them to be the em- 
 blems of moral objects ; and employed them in their writings 
 for that end. Thus, ingratitude was denominated by a 
 viper ; imprudence, by a fly ; wisdom, by an ant ; victory, 
 hj a hawk ; and a dutiful child, by a stork. But, as many 
 of those properties of objects which they assumed for the 
 foundation of their hieroglyphics, were merely imaginary, 
 and the allusions drawn from them forced and ambiguous, 
 this sort of writing was extremely enigmatical, and confused 
 m the highest degree ; and must have been a very imperfect 
 vehicle of knowledge of any kind. 
 
 From hieroglyphics mankind gradually advanced to sim- 
 ple arbitrary marks, which stood for objects, though without 
 any resemblance or analogy to the object signified. Of this 
 nature was the method of writing practised among the Peru- 
 vians. They used small cords of different colors ; and by 
 knots upon these, of different sizes, and variously arranged, 
 they contrived signs for giving information, and communi- 
 cating their thoughts to one another. The Chinese, to this 
 day, use written characters of this nature. They have no 
 
 How do hieroglyphics and pictures compare with each other ] Where 
 <Io we find some traces of hieroglyphical characters ; and where were they 
 brought to a regular art % In these characters, all of whose knowledge was 
 conveyed ; and what course did they pursue % What illustrative exam- 
 ples are given 1 But why was this sort of writing enigmatical and con- 
 fused ; and what must it, consequently, have been 1 From hieroglyphics, 
 to what did mankind gradually advance ; and what method of writing was 
 of this nature 1 How is this remark illustrated 1 Who, to this day, use 
 written characters of this nature; and having no alphabet of letters, what 
 course do they pursue 1 
 
58 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. , 
 
 alphabet of letters, or simple sounds, which compose their 
 words ; but every single character which they use in 
 writing-, is significant of an idea ; it is a mark which stands 
 for some one thing or object. The number of these charac- 
 ters must, consequently, be immense. It must correspond 
 to the whole number of objects, or ideas, which they have 
 occasion to express ; that is, to the whole number of words 
 which they employ in speech. They are said, indeed, to 
 amount to seventy thousand. To become perfectly ac- 
 quainted with them is the business of a whole life ; which 
 subjects learning, among them, to infinite disadvantage ; and 
 must have greatly retarded the progress of all science. 
 
 It is evident that the Chinese characters, are, like hiero- 
 glyphics, independent of language ; and' are signs of things* 
 and not of words. For we are told that the Japanese, the 
 Tonquinese, and the Corceans, who speak different lan- 
 guages from each other, and from the inhabitants of China, 
 use, however, the same written characters with them, and 
 thus correspond intelligibly with one another in writing, 
 though ignorant of the language spoken in their respective 
 countries. Our arithmetical figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, <fcc. are an 
 example of this sort of writing. They have no dependence 
 on words ; each figure represents the number for which it 
 stands ; and, consequently, on being presented to the eye, is 
 equally understood by all the nations who have agreed in 
 the use of these figures. 
 
 The first step to remedy the imperfection, the ambiguity, 
 and the tediousness of each of these methods of communi- 
 cation which have been mentioned, was the invention of an 
 alphabet of syllables ; which, probably, preceded the in- 
 vention of an alphabet of letters, among some of the ancient 
 nations ; and which is said to be retained to this day in 
 ^Ethiopia, and some countries of India. By fixing upon a 
 particular mark, or character, for every syllable in the lan- 
 
 To what must the number of these characters, consequently, correspond ; 
 and how many of them are they said to have? Of the difficulty of be- 
 coming acquainted with them, what is remarked : to what does this subject 
 learning ; and what must have been the consequence 1 What evidence 
 have we that the Chinese characters are, like hieroglyphics, independent 
 ot language 1 What example have we of this sort of writing ; of them what 
 is remarked, and what, consequently, follows ? What was the first step to 
 remedy the imperfection, &c, of each of these methods of communication; 
 what did it, probably precede ; and where is it said to be still retained 1 
 How was the number of characters necessary to be used in writing, much 
 reduced ; but, still, of them what is remarked 1 
 
Lect. 7.] OF WRITING. 69 
 
 guage, the number of characters necessary to be used in 
 writing, was reduced within a much smaller compass than 
 the number of words in the language. Still, however, the 
 number of characters was great ; and must have continued 
 to render both reading and writing very laborious arts. Till, 
 at last, some happy genius arose, and tracing the sounds, 
 made by the human voice, to their most simple elements, 
 reduced them to a very few vowels and consonants ; and by 
 affixing to each of these, the signs which we now call letters* 
 taught men how, by their combinations, to put in writing ah 
 the different words, or combinations of sound, which they 
 employed in speech. 
 
 To whom we are indebted for this sublime and refined 
 discovery, does not appear. Concealed by the darkness of 
 remote antiquity, the great inventor is deprived of those 
 honors which would still be paid to his memory, by all the 
 lovers of knowledge and learning. It appears from the 
 books which Moses has written, that among the Jews, and 
 probably among the Egyptians, letters had been invented 
 prior to his age. The universal tradition among the an- 
 cients is, that they were first imported into Greece by Cad- 
 mus the Phoenician ; who, according to Sir Isaac Newton's 
 system of chronology, was cotemporary with king David. 
 As the Phoenicians are not known to have been the inventors 
 of any art or science, the most probable and natural account 
 of the origin of alphabetical characters is, that they took their 
 rise in Egypt, the first civilized kingdom of which we have 
 any authentic accounts, and the great source of arts and 
 polity among the ancients. In that country, the favorite 
 study of hieroglyphical characters, had directed much atten- 
 tion to the art of writing. Their hieroglyphics are known 
 to have been intermixed with abbreviated symbols, and arbi- 
 trary marks ; whence, at last, they caught the idea of con- 
 triving marks, not for things merely, but for sounds. Accord- 
 ingly, Plato expressly attributes the invention of letters to 
 
 At last, by some happy genius, what was effected ; and in effecting this, 
 what course did he pursue ] Of the inventor of this sublime and refined 
 discovery, what is remarked ; and what appears from the books of Moses 1 
 What is the universal tradition among the ancients; and with whom was 
 he cotemporary 1 As the Phoenicians are not known to have been the in- 
 ventors of any art or science, what inference follows 1 What remarks 
 follow to justify this inference 1 To whom does Plato expressly attribute 
 the invention of them ; and who is he supposed to have been 1 
 
66 RISE AND PROGRESS [Lect. f. 
 
 Theuth, the Egyptian, who is supposed to have been the 
 Hermes, or Merc my, of the Greeks. 
 
 The alphabet which Cadmus brought into Greece was 
 imperfect, and is said to have contained only sixteen letters. 
 The rest were afterwards added, according as signs for 
 proper sounds were found to be Avanting, It is curious to 
 observe, that the letters which we use at this day, can be 
 traced back to this very alphabet of Cadmus. The Roman 
 alphabet, which obtains with us, is so plainly formed on 
 the Greek, and the Greek characters have so remarkable a 
 conformity with the Hebrew and the Phoenician, as amounts 
 to a demonstration, that they were all derived originally from 
 the same source. 
 
 The ancient order of writing was from the right hand to 
 the left, This manner of writing obtained among the 
 Assyrians, Phoenicians, Arabians, and Hebrews ; and, from 
 some very old inscriptions, appears to have obtained, also, 
 among the Greeks. Afterwards, the Greeks adopted a new 
 method, writing their lines alternately from the right to the 
 left, and from the left to the right. The inscription on the 
 famous Sigasan monument is a specimen of this mode of 
 writing, which continued down to the days of Solon, the 
 celebrated legislator of Athens. At length, the motion from 
 the left hand to the right being found more natural and con- 
 venient, this order of writing was adopted throughout all the 
 nations of Europe. 
 
 Writing was, for a long time, a kind of engraving. 
 Pillars, and tables of stone, were first employed for this pur- 
 pose, and afterwards plates of the softer metals, such as 
 lead. In proportion as writing became more common, lighter 
 and more portable substances were employed. The leaves, 
 and the bark of certain trees, were used in some countries : 
 and in others, tablets of wood, covered with a thin coat of 
 soft wax, on which the impression was made with a stylus of 
 iron. Parchment, made of the hides of animals, was an 
 
 How many letters did the alphabet of Cadmus contain ; and how were 
 the rest added 1 What is it curious to observe ; and how is this remark 
 illustrated % What was the ancient order of writing ; and among whom 
 did it obtain 1 What method succeeded; what is a specimen of it, and 
 how long did it continue 1 At length, what order was adopted ; and why 1 
 Writing was, for a long time, what ; what were, at first, employed for this 
 purpose ; and what, afterwards % As writing became more common, what 
 followed ; and what illustrations are given % Of parchment, and of the 
 invention of paper, what is observed % 
 
Lect. 8.] OF WRITING. 01 
 
 invention of later times. Paper, on which we at present 
 Write, was not invented till the fourteenth century. 
 
 Having thus given some account of the two great arts, 
 speech and writing, we shall close this subject with a few 
 remarks on their comparative advantages. The advantages 
 of writing over speech are, that it is a more extensive and 
 more permanent method of communication. More extensive, 
 as it is not confined within the narrow circle of those who 
 hear us ; but, by means of written characters, Ave can send 
 our thoughts to the most distant regions of the earth : and 
 more permanent, as it gives us the means of recording our 
 sentiments for futurity, and of perfecting the instructive 
 memory of past transactions. But, though these are great 
 advantages of written language, yet we must not forget to 
 observe, that spoken language has a great superiority over 
 written, in point of energy and force. The voice of the 
 living speaker makes a much stronger impression on the 
 mind than can be made by the perusal of any writing. The 
 tones of the voice, the looks and gestures, which accompany 
 discourse, render it, when well arranged, infinitely more 
 clear, and more expressive, than the most accurate writing : 
 for tones, looks, and gestures, are natural interpreters of the 
 sentiments of the mind. Hence, though writing may answer 
 the purposes of instruction, yet all the great and high efforts 
 of eloquence must be made by means of speech. 
 
 Having thus given some account of speech and writing, with what is 
 this subject closed 1 What are the advantages of writing over speech ; 
 and how is this illustrated % What advantages has speech over writing ; 
 and what illustration follows 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Arrangement. 
 
 A. Origin of arrangement. 
 
 B. A rrangement of ancient lan- 
 
 guages. 
 
 C. Arrangement of modern lan- 
 
 guages. 
 
 2. Wiiting. 
 
 A. signs of things. 
 
 a. Pictures. 
 
 b. Hieroglyphics. 
 
 c. Arbitrary marks. 
 B. Signs for words. 
 
 a. Alphabet of syllables. 
 
 b. Alphabetical characters. 
 Comparative advantages of 
 
 speech and writing. 
 
LECTURE VIII. 
 
 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 The structure of language is extremely artificial ; and 
 there are few sciences in which a deeper and more refined 
 logic is employed, than in grammar. Superficial thinkers 
 are apt to slight it, from an impression that it belongs to 
 those rudiments of knowledge, which were inculcated upon 
 us in our earliest youth. But what was then inculcated 
 before we could comprehend its principles, must abundantly 
 repay our study in maturer years ; and to the ignorance of it, 
 must be attributed many of those fundamental defects which 
 appear in writing. 
 
 It is not proposed, at present, to give any system, either 
 of grammar in general, or of English grammar in particular. 
 A minute discussion of the niceties of language would 
 carry us too far from other objects, which demand our atten- 
 tion in this work. But we propose to give a general view 
 of the chief principles relating to this subject ; and then to 
 make some more particular remarks on the genius of the 
 English language. 
 
 The essential parts of speech are the same in all lan- 
 guages. There must always be some words which denote 
 the names of objects, or mark the subject of discourse ; other 
 words, which denote the qualities of those objects, and ex- 
 press what we affirm concerning them ; and other words, 
 which point out their connections, and relations. Hence, 
 substantives, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, prepositions, and 
 conjunctions, must necessarily be found in all languages. 
 The common grammatical division of speech into eight 
 parts ; nouns, pronouns, verbs, participles, adverbs, prepo- 
 sitions, interjections, and conjunctions, is not very logical, 
 as might be easily shown ; as it comprehends, under the 
 
 Of the structure of language what is observed? From what impression 
 are superficial thinkers apt to slight it ; but of what was then inculcated, 
 what is remarked 1 Why is it not proposed, at present, to give any system 
 of general or particular grammar ; but what is to be given 1 From what 
 does it appear that the essential parts of speech are the same in all lan- 
 guages ; and hence, what follows 1 What is the common grammatical 
 division ; what is observed of it ; and why 1 
 
Lect.S.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 68 
 
 general term of nouns, both substantives and adjectives, 
 which are parts of speech generically and essentially- 
 distinct ; while it makes a separate part of speech of par- 
 ticiples, which are no other than verbal adjectives. Yet, as 
 these are the terms to which our ears have been most fami- 
 liarized, and, as an exact logical division is of no great con- 
 sequence to our present purpose, it will be better to make use 
 of these known terms than any other. 
 
 Substantive nouns are the foundation of all grammar, and 
 may be considered as the most ancient part of speech. For 
 when men had got beyond simple interjections, or exclama- 
 tions of passion, and had begun to communicate their 
 ideas to each other, they would be obliged to assign names 
 to the objects by which they were surrounded. And here, 
 at the commencement, something curious occurs. The 
 individual objects which surround us are infinite in number. 
 A savage, wherever he looked, beheld forests and trees. To 
 give separate names to every one of those trees, would have 
 been an endless and impracticable undertaking*. His first 
 object was to give a name to that particular tree, whose fruit 
 relieved his hunger, or whose shade protected him from the 
 sun. But observing, that though other trees were dis- 
 tinguished from this by peculiar qualities of size or appear- 
 ance, yet that they also resembled one another in certain 
 common qualities, such as springing from a root, and bear- 
 ing branches and leaves, he formed in his mind some general 
 idea of their common qualities, and ranging all that 
 possessed them under one class of objects, he called that 
 whole class a tree. Longer experience taught him to sub- 
 divide this genus into the several species of oak, pine, ash, 
 &c. according as his observation extended to the several 
 qualities in which these trees agreed or differed. 
 
 Still, however, only general terms of speech were adopted. 
 For the oak, the pine, and the ash, were names of whole 
 classes of objects ; each of which comprehended an immense 
 number of undistinguished individuals. Thus, when the 
 terms man, lion, or tree, were employed in conversation, it 
 could not be known which man, lion, or tree, was meant, 
 
 Why, then, will it be better to use these terms than any others 1 What 
 are the foundation of all grammar , and why may they be considered the 
 most ancient part of speech'? Hence, at the commencement, what 
 occurs ; and how is this fully illustrated % What did longer experience 
 teach him? Still, however, what only were adopted; why, and what 
 illustration follows 1 
 
64 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [Lect. 8. 
 
 among the multitude comprehended under one name. Hence, 
 arose a very useful and curious contrivance, for determining 
 the individual object intended, by means of that part of 
 speech called the article. The force of the article consists 
 in pointing or singling out from the common mass, the indi* 
 vidual of which we mean to speak. In English, we have 
 two articles, a and the; a is more general; the, more 
 definite. A is much the same with one, and marks only any 
 one individual of a species ; as, a lion, a king. The, which 
 possesses more properly the force of the article, ascertains 
 some known or determined individual of the species ; as, 
 the lion, the king. The Greeks have but one article, which 
 answers to our definite article the. They supply the place 
 of our article a by the absence of their article. The Latins 
 have no article, but supply its place with the pronouns, hie, 
 ille, iste. This, however, seems to be a defect in their lan- 
 guage, since articles, certainly, contribute much to accuracy 
 and precision. 
 
 To illustrate this remark, we may observe the different 
 imports of the following expressions, depending wholly on 
 the different employment of the articles : " The son of a 
 king — the son of the king — a son of the king's." Each of 
 these three phrases has an entirely different meaning, which 
 is too obvious to be misunderstood. But in Latin, " Alius 
 regis," is wholly undetermined ; and to explain in which of 
 these three senses it is to be understood, for it may bear any 
 of them, a circumlocution of several words must be used. 
 In the same manner, " are you a king?" "are you the 
 king ?" are questions of quite separate import. " Thou art 
 a man," is a very general and harmless position; but " thou 
 art the man," is an assertion, capable of striking terror 
 and remorse into the heart. 
 
 Besides this quality of being distinguished by the article, 
 
 Hence, arose what contrivance, and in what does its force consist 1 In 
 English, what articles have we ; and what is observed of them 1 i is 
 much the same with what ; what does it mark; and what examples are 
 given 1 What does the ascertain ; and what are the examples '? Of the 
 Greeks and the Latins with respect to the article, what is remarked; and 
 why does this, in the Latin, seem a defect 1 To illustrate this remark, 
 what example is given ; and of each of these three phrases, what is ob- 
 served'? Of the phrase 'filius regis, 5 what is remarked; and, in order to 
 understand in what sense it is to be taken, what is necessary? What 
 farther illustrations follow 1 Besides being distinguished by the article, 
 what affections belong to nouns? 
 
Lect. 8.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 65 
 
 three affections belong to substantive nouns ; number, gen- 
 der, and case, which require our consideration. 
 
 Number distinguishes them as one, or many of the same 
 kind, called the singular and plural ; a distinction found in 
 all languages, and which must, indeed, have been coeval 
 with the very infancy of language ; as there were few things 
 which men had more frequent occasion to express, than the 
 difference between one and many. In the Hebrew, Greek, 
 and some other ancient languages, we find not only a plural, 
 but a dual number ; the origin of which may very naturally 
 be accounted for, from separate terms of numbering not 
 being yet invented, and one, two, and many, being all, or at 
 least, the chief numerical distinctions which men, at first, 
 had any occasion to use. 
 
 Gender will lead us into a more extensive discussion than 
 number. It being founded on the distinction of the two 
 sexes, can, with propriety, be applied to the names of living 
 creatures only. All other substantive nouns, ought to belong 
 to what grammarians call the neuter gender, which is meant 
 to imply the negation of either sex. Yet, in most lan- 
 guages, a great number of inanimate objects, have been 
 ranked under the like distinctions of masculine and femi- 
 nine. Thus, in Latin, gladius, a sword, for instance, is 
 masculine ; sagitta, an arrow, is feminine ; and this assigna- 
 tion of sex to inanimate objects, appears, often, to be entirely 
 capricious ; derived from no other principle than the casual 
 structure of the language, which refers to a certain gender, 
 words of a certain termination. In the Greek and Latin, 
 however, all inanimate objects are not distributed into mas- 
 culine and feminine; but, many of them are also classed, 
 where all of them ought to have been, under the neuter 
 gender ; as templum, a church ; sedile, a seat. 
 
 In the French and Italian tongues, the neuter gender is 
 entirely unknown, and all their names of inanimate objects 
 are put upon the same footing with living creatures ; and 
 
 Number distinguishes them in what manner ; and why must this dis- 
 tinction have been coeval with the infancy of language 1 In what languages 
 do we find a dual number ; and how may its origin be accounted for 1 On 
 what distinction is gender founded ; and to what only can it be applied'? 
 To what should all other nouns belong; and what is it meant to imply % 
 Yet, in most languages, what is observed : what instances are mentioned ; 
 and from what is this assignation of sex derived 1 Of inanimate objects 
 in the Greek and Latin, however, what is remarked ; and what follows 1 
 In what languages is the neuter gender unknown ; and what course do 
 they pursue 1 
 
66 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [Lect. 8. 
 
 distributed, without exception, into masculine and feminine. 
 But, in the English language, it is remarkable that there 
 obtains a peculiarity quite opposite. In the French and 
 Italian there is no neuter gender. In the English, when 
 we use common discourse, all substantive nouns that are 
 not names of living creatures, are neuter without exception. 
 He, she, and it, are the marks of the three genders ; and 
 we always use it, in speaking of any object where there is 
 no sex, or where the sex is not known. And ours, perhaps, 
 is the only language in the known world, except the Chi- 
 nese, in which the distinction of gender is properly and 
 philosophically applied. 
 
 Hence arises a very great and signal advantage of the 
 English tongue, which it is of importance to remark. 
 Though in common discourse we employ only the proper 
 and literal distinction of sexes, yet the genius of the lan- 
 guage permits us, whenever it will add beauty to our dis- 
 course, to make the names of inanimate objects, masculine 
 or feminine, in a metaphorical sense ; and when we do so, 
 we are understood to quit the literal style, and to use one of 
 the figures of discourse. For instance ; in speaking of virtue 
 in the course of an ordinary conversation, we refer the word 
 to no sex or gender : We say, " virtue is its own reward ;" 
 or, " it is the law of our nature." But if we choose to rise 
 into a higher tone ; if we seek to embellish and animate our 
 discourse, we give a sex to virtue ; we say, " she descends 
 from heaven ;" " she alone confers true honor upon man;" 
 "her gifts are the only durable rewards." By this means 
 we have it in our power to vary our style at pleasure ; and 
 this is an advantage which, not only every poet, but every 
 good writer and speaker in prose, is, on many occasions, 
 glad to seize and improve ; and it is an advantage peculiar 
 to our own tongue. For, in other languages, every word 
 has one fixed gender ; masculine, feminine, or neuter, which 
 can, upon no occasion, be changed. It deserves, however, 
 to be farther remarked, that, when we employ the liberty 
 
 In the English language, however, what peculiarity obtains ; and 
 how is this fully illustrated 1 Of our language, what is farther re- 
 marked 1 Hence arises, what great and signal advantage of the English 
 tongue 7 How is this remark illustrated from the sentence, ' virtue is its 
 own reward ■' or, ' it is the law of our nature V By this means what have 
 we it in our power to do; and of this advantage what is remarked ; and 
 why 7 ? On this subject, however, what deserves to be farther re- 
 marked ? 
 
Lect. 8.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 67 
 
 which our language allows, of ascribing sex to any inani- 
 mate object, we have not the liberty of making it of what 
 gender we please ; but are, in general, subject to some rule 
 of gender, which the currency of language has fixed to that 
 object. The foundation of this rule is supposed to be laid 
 in a certain resemblance, or analogy, to the natural distinction 
 of the two sexes. Thus, we commonly give the masculine 
 gender to those nouns used figuratively, which are conspicu- 
 ous for the attributes of imparting or communicating; 
 which are by nature strong and efficacious, either to good or 
 evil ; or which have a claim to some eminence, whether 
 laudable or not. On the other hand, those are generally 
 made feminine, which are conspicuous for the attributes of 
 containing, and of bringing forth ; which have more of the 
 passive in their nature, than of the active ; which are pecu- 
 liarly beautiful, or amiable ; or which have respect to such 
 excesses as are rather feminine than masculine. 
 
 Having discussed gender, we proceed next to another 
 peculiarity of substantive nouns, which is their cases. Cases, 
 in declension, express the state, or relation, which one object 
 bears to another, denoted by some variation made upon the 
 name of that object ; generally, in the final letters, and by 
 some languages, in the initials. All languages, however, 
 do not agree in this mode of expression. The Greek and 
 Latin use declension ; but in the English, French, and 
 Italian, it is not found, or, at most, it exists in a very imper- 
 fect state. These languages express the relations of objects, 
 by means of the words called prepositions, which are the 
 names of those relations, prefixed to the name of the object. 
 English nouns have no case whatever, except a sort of 
 genitive, usually formed by the addition of the letter 5 to 
 the noun ; as when we say " Pope's Dunciad," meaning 
 the Dunciad of Pope. Our personal pronouns have like- 
 wise a case, which corresponds with the accusative of the 
 Latin ; i, me ; he, him ; who, whom. This, however, is 
 but a slight resemblance of that declension which is used in 
 the ancient languages. 
 
 Where is the foundation of this rule supposed to be laid ; and what 
 illustration follows 1 Having discussed gender, to what do we next pro- 
 ceed 1 What do cases express ; and how are they denoted 'i How does 
 it appear that all languages do not agree in this mode of expression ; and 
 how do the latter languages express the relation of objects 1 What case, only, 
 have English nouns ; and what illustration is given 1 Of our personal pro- 
 nouns, likewise, what is remarked ; but of this, however, what is observed 1 
 
68 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [Lect. g. 
 
 Whether the moderns have given beauty or utility to lan- 
 guage, by the abolition of cases, may, perhaps, be doubted. 
 They have, however, certainly rendered it more simple, by 
 removing that intricacy which arose from the different forms 
 of declension, of which the Romans had no less than five ; 
 and from all the irregularities of these several declensions. 
 By obtaining this simplicity, it must be confessed, we have 
 filled language with a multitude of those little words called 
 prepositions, which are perpetually recurring in every 
 sentence, and seem to have encumbered speech by an ad- 
 dition of terms ; and by rendering it more prolix, to have 
 enervated its force. The sound of modern languages has 
 also become less agreeable to the ear, by being deprived of 
 that variety and sweetness, which arose from the length of 
 words and the change of terminations, occasioned by the 
 cases in Greek and Latin. But, perhaps the greatest dis- 
 advantage we suffer by the abolition of cases, is the loss of 
 that liberty of transposition in the arrangement of words, 
 which the ancient languages enjoyed. 
 
 Pronouns are the class of words most nearly related to 
 substantive nouns ; being, as the name imports, the repre- 
 sentatives of them. I, thou, he, she, and it, are only an 
 abridged way of naming the persons, or objects, with which 
 we have immediate intercourse, or to which we are obliged, 
 frequently, to refer in discourse : accordingly they are sub- 
 ject to the same modifications with nouns, of number, gender, 
 and case. We may observe, however, that the pronouns of 
 the first and second person, I" and thou, have had no dis- 
 tinction of gender in any language ; for, since they always 
 refer to persons who are present to each other when they 
 speak, their sex must be evident, and therefore needs not to 
 be distinguished by a masculine or feminine pronoun. But, 
 as the third person maybe absent, or unknown, the distinction 
 of gender there becomes requisite; and, consequently, in 
 English, it has all the three genders belonging to it ; he, she, 
 
 What may, perhaps, be doubted ; and how have they rendered k more 
 simple 1 By obtaining this simplicity, however, what have we done ; and 
 of them, what is remarked ] How has the sound of modern languages, 
 also, become less agreeable to the ear 1 But what, perhaps, is the greatest 
 disadvantage we suffer by the abolition of cases'? Of pronouns what is 
 remarked ; and how is this illustrated ? To what are they, consequently, 
 subject : but of the first and second person, what may we, at the same time, 
 observe ; and why 1 But why does the distinction of gender, in the third 
 parson, become requisite ; and what, consequently follows 1 
 
Lect. 8.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 69 
 
 it. As to cases, even those languages that do not admit 
 them in substantive nouns, sometimes retain more of them 
 in pronouns, for the sake of the greater readiness in ex- 
 pressing relations ; as pronouns occur so frequently in 
 discourse. The personal pronouns, in English, are allowed, 
 by grammarians, to possess two cases besides the nominative ; 
 a genitive, and an accusative : I, mine, me ; thou, thine, 
 thee ; he, his, him ; who, whose, whom. 
 
 Adjectives, or terms of quality, such as, great, little, 
 black, white, are the plainest and simplest of all that class 
 of words which are termed attributive. They are common 
 to all languages, and must have been very early invented ; 
 since objects could neither be distinguished, nor treated of 
 in discourse, till names were given to their different qualities. 
 There is nothing, however, to be observed in relation to 
 them, except that singularity which attends them in the 
 Greek and Latin, of having the same form given them with 
 substantive nouns ; being declined, like them, by cases, 
 and subjected to the same distinctions of number and gender. 
 Hence, grammarians have made them belong to the same 
 part of speech, and divided the noun into substantive and 
 adjective ; an arrangement, founded more in attention to the 
 external form of words, than to their nature and force. For 
 adjectives have not, by their nature, the least resemblance to 
 substantive nouns, as they never express any thing which 
 can possibly subsist by itself; which is the very essence of 
 the substantive noun. They are, indeed, more nearly allied 
 to verbs, which, like them, express the attribute of some 
 substance. 
 
 As to cases, what is remarked 1 What cases are the personal pronouns 
 in English allowed to possess ; and what illustrations are given ? Of ad- 
 jectives, what is observed ; and from what does it appear that they must 
 have been very early invented % What, only, however, is to be observed 
 in relation to them 7 Hence, how have grammarians treated them ; and 
 of this arrangement what is observed % How does it appear that adjectives 
 have no relation to nouns ; to what are they more nearly allied ; and why 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 The parts of speech. 
 1. Nouns. 
 
 A. Distinguished by articles. 
 
 a. Indefinite and definite. 
 
 b. Their importance illus- 
 
 trated. 
 
 B. Number. 
 
 C. Gender. 
 
 a. Its philosophical application, 
 
 b. The advantages of the 
 English language. 
 D. Case. 
 
 a. Its signification. 
 
 b. Its variations. 
 
 2. Pronouns. 
 
 A. Their origin. 
 
 3. Adjectives. 
 
LECTURE IX. 
 
 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE.— ENGLISH 
 TONGUE. 
 
 Ot all the parts of speech, verbs are, by far, the most 
 complex. It is chiefly in them that the subtle and profound 
 metaphy-sic of language appears ; and from their importance 
 and necessity in speech, we may justly conclude that they 
 were coeval with the origin of language ; though a long 
 time must have been requisite to rear them up to that accu- 
 racy in which they are now found. It seems very probable, 
 that the radical verb, or the earliest form of it, in most lan- 
 guages, would be what we now call the impersonal verb ; 
 " It rains ; it thunders ; it is light ; it is agreeable ;" and 
 the like ; as this is the very simplest form of the verb, and 
 merely affirms the existence of an event, or of a state of 
 things. After pronouns were invented, such verbs became 
 gradually personal, and were extended through all the 
 variety of tenses and moods. 
 
 The tenses of the verb are contrived to mark the several 
 distinctions of time. We think, commonly, of no more than 
 the three great divisions, of past, present, and future ; and 
 we might imagine, that if verbs had been so contrived, as 
 merely to express these, no more would have been necessary. 
 But language proceeds with much greater art and subtlety. 
 It splits time into its several moments : it regards it as never 
 standing still, but always flowing ; things past, as more or 
 less perfectly completed ; and things future, as more or less 
 remote, by different gradations. Hence, the great variety of 
 tenses, found in almost every language. 
 
 The present may, indeed, always be regarded as one 
 
 Compared with other parts of speech, what is observed of the verb 1 In 
 them, chiefly, what appears ; why may we conclude that they were coeval 
 with the origin of language ; and what follows ? What seems probable 
 would be the radical verb in most languages ; and why 1 What followed 
 the invention of pronouns 1 For what are the tenses of verbs contrived 1 
 Of what divisions do we commonly think ; and under what circumstances 
 might we imagine that no more were necessary 1 But how does languago 
 proceed ; and hence what follows ? How may the present be regarded ; 
 and what example is given 1 
 
Lect.9.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 71 
 
 indivisible point, susceptible of no variety. I write, or I am 
 writing ; scribo. But it is very different with the past. 
 Even the poorest language has two or three tenses to express 
 its varieties. Ours has no less than four. 1. A past action 
 may be considered as left unfinished ; which, forms the im- 
 perfect tense, " I was writing," scribebam. 2. As just now 
 finished. This forms the proper perfect tense, which, in 
 English, is always expressed by the help of the auxiliary 
 verb, " I have written." 3. It may be considered as 
 finished some time ago ; the particular time left undeter- 
 mined. "I wrote, scripsi;" which may either signify, 
 " I wrote yesterday, or, I wrote a year ago." This is what 
 grammarians call an ororist, or indefinite past. 4. It may 
 be considered as finished before something else, which is also 
 past. This is the pluperfect. " I had written ; scripseram. 
 I had written before I received his letter." Here we must 
 perceive, with some pleasure, an advantage which we have 
 over the Latins, who have only three variations upon the 
 past time. They have no proper perfect tense, or one which 
 distinguishes an action just now finished, from an action 
 that was finished some time ago. 
 
 The varieties in the future time are two ; a simple or 
 indefinite future ; " I shall write, scribam ;" and a future, 
 relating to something else, which is also future, " I shall 
 have written, scripsero." I shall have written before he 
 arrives. 
 
 Besides tenses, or the power of expressing the distinctions 
 of time, verbs admit a distinction of voices, into the active 
 and the passive ; according as the affirmation respects some- 
 thing that is done, or something that is suffered : " I love, 
 or, I am loved." They admit, also, the distinction of moods, 
 which are intended to express the affirmation, whether active 
 or passive, under different forms. The indicative mood, for 
 instance, simply declares a proposition; " I write, I have 
 written :" The imperative requires, commands, threatens ; 
 "write thou, let him write." The subjunctive expresses 
 the proposition under the form of a condition, or in subor- 
 
 i 
 
 But, of the past, what is remarked ; and how many tenses has even the 
 poorest language 1 How many has ours ; and what are examples of each 1 
 Hence what may we, with some pleasure, perceive ; and what tense do 
 they not possess 1 How many varieties are there in the future time ; and 
 what are the examples 1 Besides tenses, what other distinction do verbs 
 admit ; and according to what 1 They admit also of what ; and for what 
 are they intended 1 How is this illustrated 1 
 
72 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [Lect. 9. 
 
 dination to some other thing-, to which a reference is made ; 
 " I might write, I could write, I should write, if the case 
 were so and so." This mode of expressing- an affirmation 
 under so many different forms, together, also, with the dis- 
 tinction of the three persons, I, thou, and he, constitutes 
 what is called the conjugation of verbs, which makes so 
 great a part of the grammar of all languages. 
 
 The. form of conjugation, or the manner of expressing the 
 varieties of the verb, differs greatly in different tongues. It 
 is esteemed most perfect in those languages which, by vary- 
 ing either the termination or the initial syllable of the verb, 
 express the greatest number of important circumstances, 
 without the help of auxiliary verbs. In the oriental tongues, 
 the verbs are said to have few tenses ; but their moods are 
 so contrived as to express a great variety of circumstances 
 and relations. In the Hebrew, for instance, they say, in one 
 word, without the help of any auxiliary, not only " I have 
 taught," but, " I have taught exactly, or often ; I have been 
 commanded to teach ; I have taught myself." The Greek, 
 which is the most perfect of all the known tongues, is very 
 regular and complete in all the moods and tenses. The 
 Latin, though formed on the same model, is not so perfect ; 
 particularly in the passive voice, which forms most of the 
 tenses, by the help of the auxiliary " sum." 
 
 In all the modern European tongues, conjugation is very 
 defective. They admit few variations in the termination of 
 the verb itself; but have almost constant recourse to their 
 auxiliary verbs, throughout all the moods and tenses, both 
 active and passive. Language has undergone a change in 
 conjugation, perfectly similar to that which it has undergone 
 in declension. As prepositions, prefixed to the noun, super- 
 seded the use of cases ; so the two great auxiliary verbs, to 
 have, and to be, with those other auxiliaries which we use 
 in English, do, shall, will, may, and can, prefixed to the 
 principal, supersede, in a great measure, the different ter- 
 
 What does this mode of expression constitute : and what is observed of 
 it? Of the form of conjugation, what is remarked ; and in what language 
 is it esteemed most perfect 1 Of verbs in the oriental tongues, what is 
 observed; and how is this illustrated from the Hebrew, the Greek, and the 
 Latin'? What is the state of conjugation in modern European tongues 1 
 What do they admit ; but to what have they almost constant recourse ? 
 How does it appear that language has undergone a change in conjugation, 
 similar to that which it has undergone in declension"? 
 
Lect. 9.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 73 
 
 minations of moods and tenses, which formed the ancient 
 conjugations. 
 
 The remaining- parts of speech, which are indeclinable, 
 or admit of no variations, will not require much discussion. 
 
 Adverbs are an abridged mode of speech, expressing, by 
 one word, what might, by a circumlocution, be resolved into 
 two or more v/ords belonging to the other parts of speech. 
 " Exceedingly," for instance, is the same as "in a high 
 degree;" "bravely," the same as, "with bravery or 
 valor;" "here," the same as "in this place." Hence, 
 adverbs may be conceived to be less necessary, and of later 
 introduction into the system of speech, than many other 
 classes of words ; and, accordingly, the great body of them 
 are derived from other words formerly established in the 
 language. 
 
 Prepositions and conjunctions, are words more essential 
 to discourse, than the greater part of adverbs. They form 
 that class of words, called connectives; and serve to express 
 the relations which things bear to each other, their mutual 
 influence, dependencies, and coherence; and thereby join 
 words together into intelligible and significant propositions. 
 Conjunctions are generally employed for connecting sen- 
 tences, or members of sentences ; as, and, because, and the 
 like. Prepositions are used for connecting words, by show- 
 ing the relation which one substantive noun bears to another ; 
 as of, from, to, &c. The beauty and strength of every 
 language depends, in a great measure, on tne proper use of 
 conjunctions, prepositions, and also those relative pronouns, 
 which serve the same purpose of connecting the different 
 parts of discourse. It is the right or wrong management 
 of these, which chiefly makes discourse appear firm and 
 compacted, or disjointed and loose ; which carries it on its 
 progress with a smooth and even pace, or renders its march 
 irregular and desultory. 
 
 Having thus briefly considered the structure of language 
 
 Of the remaining parts of speech, what is remarked 7 What are ad- 
 verbs ; and what illustrations are given % Hence, what is remarked of 
 them; and, accordingly, what follows'? What is remarked of preposi- 
 tions and conjunctions? What do they form; for what do they serve; 
 and what do they thereby do 1 What do conjunctions connect ; and what 
 are examples 1 In what manner do prepositions connect words ; and 
 what examples are given'? On what do the beauty and strength of 
 every language, in a great measure, depend ; and what is the effect 
 of the right or wrong management of them 1 Having thus considered 
 the structure of language in general, into what shall we now enter 1 
 
 7 
 
74 ENGLISH TONGUE. [Lect. 9. 
 
 in general, we shall now enter more particularly into an 
 examination of our own. 
 
 The language which has been spoken throughout Great 
 Britain, ever since the Norman conquest, is a mixture of the 
 ancient Saxon and Norman French, together with such new 
 and foreign words as commerce and learning have, in a 
 succession of ages, gradually introduced. So formed, the 
 English, like every other compounded language, must needs 
 be somewhat irregular. We cannot expect from it, that 
 correspondence of parts, that complete analogy in structure, 
 which may be found in those simple languages, which have 
 been formed, in a manner, within themselves, and built on 
 one foundation. Hence, our syntax is confined, since there 
 are few remarks in the words themselves, which can show 
 their relation to each other, or point out either their con- 
 cordance, or their government in the sentence. 
 
 But, if these be disadvantages in a compound language, 
 they are balanced by other advantages which attend it; par- 
 ticularly by the number and variety of words with which 
 such a language is commonly enriched. Few languages 
 are, in reality, more copious than the English. In all grave 
 subjects especially, historical, critical, moral, and political, 
 no writer has the least reason to complain of the barrenness 
 of our tongue. The studious reflecting genius of the peo- 
 ple, has brought together a great store of expressions, on 
 such subjects, from every quarter. We are rich, too, in the 
 language of poetry. Our poetical style differs widely from 
 prose, not with respect to numbers only, but in the very 
 words themselves ; which shows what a variety of words 
 we have it in our power to select and employ, suited to those 
 different occasions. Herein we are infinitely superior to 
 the French, whose poetical language, if it were not dis- 
 tinguished by rhyme, would not be known to differ from 
 their ordinary prose. It is chiefly, indeed, in grave sub- 
 jects, and with respect to the stronger emotions of the 
 mind, that our language displays its power of expression. 
 
 Of what is the language, spoken throughout Great Britain ever since the 
 Norman conquest, a mixture ; and what is observed of it 1 What can we 
 not expect from it ; and, hence, of our syntax, what is remarked 1 Though 
 these be disadvantages, yet, by what are they balanced 1 In what subjects, 
 particularly, is our language very copious ; and what remark follows 1 Of 
 our poetical style, what is remarked ; and what does this show 1 Hereia 
 we are superior to whom ; and of their poetical language, what is re- 
 marked 1 Where does our language display its power of expression 1 
 
Lect, 9.] ENGLISH TONGUE. 75 
 
 In expressing whatever is delicate, gay, or amusing, however, 
 the French language far surpasses ours. It is, perhaps, the 
 happiest language for conversation, in the known world ; but 
 on the higher subjects of composition, the English may be 
 justly esteemed greatly to excel it. 
 
 The flexibility of language, or its power of accommo- 
 dation to different styles and manners, so as to be either 
 grave and strong, or easy and flowing, or tender and gentle, 
 as occasions require, or as an author's genius prompts, is a 
 quality of great importance in speaking and writing. This 
 depends on the copiousness of a language, the different 
 arrangements of which its words are susceptible, and the 
 variety and beauty of the sound of those words, so as to cor- 
 respond to many different subjects. No language ever pos- 
 sessed these qualities so eminently as the Greek. To the 
 qualities already mentioned, it joined the graceful variety of 
 its different dialects ; and thereby readily assumed every 
 sort of character which an author could wish, from the most 
 simple and familiar, to the most majestic. The Latin, 
 though a very beautiful language, is inferior, in this respect, 
 to the Greek. It has more of a fixed character of stateli- 
 ness and gravity ; and is supported by a certain senatorial 
 dignity, of which it is difficult for a writer wholly to divest 
 it, on any occasion. Among the modern tongues, the Italian 
 possesses much more flexibility than the French ; and 
 appears to be, on the whole, the most perfect of all the 
 modern dialects, which have arisen on the ruins of the 
 ancient. Our own language, though, perhaps, not equal to 
 the Italian in flexibility, yet possesses a considerable degree 
 of this quality. Whoever considers the diversity of style 
 which appears in some of our best writers, will discover, in 
 our tongue, such a circle of expression, such a poAver of 
 accommodation to the various tastes of men, as redounds, in 
 the highest degree, to its honor. 
 
 In what does the French language far surpass ours ; for what is it the 
 happiest language in the world ; but where does ours greatly excel it ? 
 What quality is of great importance, either in speaking or writing ; and 
 on what does this depend 1 What, language possessed these qualities 
 most eminently 1 To the qualities already mentioned, what did it join ; 
 and thereby what did it assume 1 How does it appear that the Latin, in 
 this respect, is inferior to the Greek ? Among modern languages, what is 
 observed of the Italian 1 Of our language, in this respect, what is remarked ; 
 and what will any one discover, who considers the diversity of style which 
 appears in some of our best writers 1 
 
76 ENGLISH TONGUE. [Lect. 9 
 
 The English has been most taxed with its deficiency in 
 harmony of sound. But the melody of its versification, its 
 power of supporting poetical numbers without the assistance 
 of rhyme, is a sufficient proof, that it is far from being 
 unharmonious. Even the hissing sound with which it has 
 been taxed, obtains less frequently than has been suspected : 
 in the first syllables, particularly, where the letter 5 is 
 transformed into z, which is one of the sounds on which the 
 ear rests wi*.h pleasure ; as in has, these, loves, hears, &c. 
 
 After all, however, it must be, admitted, that smoothness, 
 or beauty of sound, is not one of the distinguishing proper- 
 ties of the English tongue. Though not incapable of being 
 formed into melodious arrangements, yet strength and ex- 
 pressiveness, rather than grace and melody, form its charac- 
 ter. It possesses, however, this property — it is the most 
 simple, in its form and construction, of all the European 
 dialects. It is free from all intricacy of cases, declensions, 
 moods, and tenses. Its words are subject to fewer variations 
 from their original form than those of any other language. 
 Its substantives have no distinction of gender, except what 
 nature has made ; and but one variation in case. Its adjec- 
 tives admit of no change, except what expresses the degree 
 of comparison. Its verbs, instead of running through all 
 the varieties of ancient conjugation, admit only four or five 
 changes in termination. A few prepositions and auxiliary 
 verbs supply all the purposes of significancy in meaning ; 
 while the words, for the most part, preserve their form 
 unchanged. B>^ce, our language acquires a simplicity 
 and facility, which is the reason why it is so frequently 
 written and spoken with inaccuracy. We imagine that a 
 competent skill in it may be acquired without any study ; 
 and that in a syntax so narrow and confined as ours, there is 
 nothing which demands attention. Hence, arises the habit 
 of writing in a loose and inaccurate manner. But the fun- 
 damental rules of syntax are the same in all languages, and 
 attention to them is absolutely necessary for writing or 
 
 With what deficiency has the English language been most taxed ; but 
 what is a sufficient proof, that it is far from being unharmonious? Of the 
 hissing sound with which it has been taxed, what is observed; and 
 what illustration follows 1 After all, however, of it what must be admitted ; 
 and what form its character 1 But what property does it possess ; from 
 what is it free ; and of its words what is remarked 1 How is this fully 
 illustrated 1 Hence, what does it acquire ; and what do we imagine ! 
 Hence, arises what habit ; but what follows 1 
 
Lect. 9.] ENGLISH TONGUE. 77 
 
 speaking- with any degree of purity, propriety, or elegance. 
 Whatever the advantages or defects of the English lan- 
 guage may be, as it is our own language, it demands a high 
 degree of our study and attention. It is well known, to 
 what an extent the Greeks and Romans, in their most polished 
 and flourishing times, cultivated their respective tongues. 
 The French and the Italians, also, have bestowed much 
 attention upon theirs. And their example deserves the 
 more to be imitated, as, whatever knowledge maybe acquired 
 by the study of other languages, it can never be communi- 
 cated with advantage, except by those who can write and 
 speak their own language with propriety and skill. Though 
 the matter of an author be ever so good and useful, his com- 
 positions will always suffer in the public esteem, if his 
 expression be deficient in purity and elegance. At the same 
 time, the attainment of a correct and elegant style, is an 
 object which demands attention and labor. If any imagine 
 that they can catch it by the ear, or acquire it by a slight 
 perusal of some of our good authors, they will find them- 
 selves much disappointed. The numerous grammatical 
 errors, and the frequent offences against purity of language, 
 committed by writers, who, in other respects, are far from 
 being contemptible, demonstrate that a careful study of the 
 language is previously requisite, in all who aim at writing it 
 correctly.* 
 
 * On this subject, the reader should study, with the greatest care, " A 
 Philosophical and Practical Grammar of the English Language," by Noah 
 Webster, Esq., and the Institutes of English Grammar, by Goold Brown. 
 
 Whatever the advantages or defects of the English language may be, 
 what does it deserve ; and why '1 Of the attention of the Greeks and 
 Romans, and the French and Italians, to their respective languages, what 
 is remarked ; and why does their example deserve to be imitated 1 How 
 is this illustrated ? At the same time, what demands attention and labor ; 
 and what remark follows 1 What is the closing remark 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Verbs. 
 
 A. Tenses, 
 a. Present, past, and future 
 
 B. Voices. 
 
 C. Moods. 
 
 D. Conjugation. 
 
 a. Of ancient languages. 
 
 b. Of modern languages. 
 C. Auxiliaries. 
 
 2. Adverbs. 
 
 3. Prepositions. 
 
 4. Conjunctions. 
 
 5. The sources of the English 
 language. 
 
 A. Its disadvantages. 
 
 B. Its advantages. 
 
 6. The flexibility of language. 
 
 7. The character of the English 
 language. 
 
 A. The necessity of studvinff it 
 
LECTURE X. 
 
 STYLE— PERSPICUITY AND PRECISION. 
 
 Having finished the subject of language, style is the next 
 subject of consideration. 
 
 Style is the peculiar manner in which a man expresses his 
 conceptions by means of language. It is different from 
 mere language or words. The words which an author em- 
 ploys, may be proper and faultless ; and his style may, 
 nevertheless, have great faults : it may be dry, or stiff, or 
 feeble, or affected. Style has always some reference to an 
 author's manner of thinking. It is a picture of the ideas 
 which arise in his mind, and of the manner in which they 
 originate : hence, when we are examining an author's com- 
 position, it is, in many cases, extremely difficult, to separate 
 the style from the sentiment; and that they should be so 
 intimately connected, is not to be wondered at, since style is 
 nothing else than that sort of expression which our thoughts 
 most readily assume. 
 
 All the qualities of a good style, may be arranged under 
 two heads ; perspicuity and ornament. For all that can pos- 
 sibly be required of language is, to convey our ideas clearly 
 to the minds of others ; and, at the same time, in such a 
 dress, as by pleasing and interesting them, shall most 
 effectually strengthen the impression which we seek to 
 make. 
 
 Perspicuity, it will be readily admitted, is the fundamental 
 quality of style ; and is so essential in every kind of writing, 
 that for the want of it nothing can atone. Without it, the 
 richest ornaments of style only glimmer through the dark ; 
 and perplex, instead of pleasing the reader. If we are 
 obliged to follow a writer with much care, to pause, and to 
 
 Having finished the subject of language, what is the next subjeet of con- 
 sideration 1 What is style 1 How is it made to appear, that style is dif- 
 ferent from mere language or words 1 To what has style always some 
 reference ; of what is it a picture ; and hence what follows 1 Why is not 
 their intimate connection a matter of wonder 1 Under what two heads 
 may all the qualities of a good style be ranged ; and why 1 What is the 
 fundamental quality of style ; and what is observed of it 1 Without it, 
 what would be the effect of the richest ornaments 1 Under what circum- 
 stances will a writer fail to please us ; and what remarks follow 1 
 
Lect. 10.] PERSPICUITY. 79 
 
 read over his sentences a second time, in order to compre- 
 hend them fully, he will never please us long. Mankind 
 are too indolent to relish so much labor. Though they may 
 pretend to admire the author's depth, after they have dis- 
 covered his meaning, yet they will seldom be inclined to take 
 up his work a second time. 
 
 Perspicuity in writing, is not to be considered as merely 
 a sort of negative virtue, or freedom from defect. It has 
 higher merit ; it is a degree of positive beauty. We are 
 pleased with an author, and consider him as deserving 
 praise, who frees us from all fatigue of searching for his 
 meaning ; who carries us through his subject without any 
 embarrassment or confusion ; whose style flows always like 
 a limpid stream, where we see to the very bottom. 
 
 The study of perspicuity requires attention, first, to single 
 words and phrases, and then to the construction of sentences. 
 When considered with respect to words and phrases, it 
 requires these three requisites ; purity, propriety, and pre- 
 cision. 
 
 Purity and propriety of language, are often used indis- 
 criminately for each other ; and, indeed, they are very 
 nearly allied. A distinction, however, obtains between 
 them. Purity consists in the use of such words, and such 
 constructions, as belong to the idiom of the language which 
 we speak ; in opposition to words and phrases that are im- 
 ported from other languages, or that are obsolete, or new 
 coined, or used without proper authority. Propriety is the 
 selection of such words, as the best and most established 
 usage has appropriated to those ideas which we intend to 
 express by them. It implies the correct and happy applica- 
 tion of them, according to that usage, in opposition to vulgar 
 or low expressions ; and to words and phrases, which would 
 be less significant of the ideas that we mean to convey. 
 Style may be pure, that is, it may all be strictly English, 
 without Scoticisms or Gallicisms, or ungrammatical ex- 
 pressions of any kind, and may, nevertheless, be deficient in 
 propriety. The words may be ill chosen ; not adapted to 
 
 Merely as what, is perspicuity not to be considered ; and what higher 
 merit has it 1 With an author of what description are we pleased 7 In 
 what order does perspicuity require attention ; and when considered with 
 respect to words and phrases, what are its three requisites % Of purity 
 and propriety of language, what is remarked ; and how are they dis- 
 tinguished ] How may style be pure, and at the same time be deficient in 
 propriety ; but, at the same time, where they both meet, what is their effect 1 
 
80 PRECISION. [Lect. 10. 
 
 the subject, nor fully expressive of the author's meaning. 
 He has taken them, indeed, from the general mass of English 
 language ; but his choice has been made without happiness 
 or skill. Style, however, cannot be proper without being 
 also pure ; and where both purity and propriety meet, besides 
 making style perspicuous, they also render it graceful. 
 
 When obsolete, or new coined words, are mentioned, as 
 being incongruous with purity of style, it will be understood, 
 of course, that some exceptions are to be made. On certain 
 occasions, they may have grace. Poetry admits of greater 
 latitude than prose, with respect to coining, or, at least, new 
 compounding words ; yet, even here, this liberty should be 
 used with a sparing hand. In prose, such innovations are 
 more hazardous, and have a worse effect. They are apt to 
 give style an affected and conceited air ; and should never be 
 used, except by those whose established reputation gives 
 them some degree of dictatorial power over language. 
 
 We shall now consider the import of precision in lan- 
 guage, which, as it is the highest part of the quality denoted 
 by perspicuity, and, at the same time, the least understood, 
 merits a full discussion. 
 
 The exact import of precision, may be drawn from the 
 etymology of the word. It is derived from ' pr 'adder 'e,' to 
 cut off: it signifies retrenching all superfluities, and pruning 
 the expression, so as to exhibit neither more nor less than an 
 exact copy of his idea who uses it. It was observed before, 
 that it is often difficult to separate the qualities of style from 
 the qualities of thought ; and it is found so in this instance. 
 For, in order to write with precision, though this be properly 
 a quality of style, one must possess a very considerable 
 degree of distinctness and accuracy in his manner of 
 thinking. 
 
 The words which a man uses to express his ideas, may be 
 faulty in three respects ; they may either not express that 
 idea which the author intends, but some other which only 
 resembles, or is akin to it ; or, they may express that idea, 
 
 Of the use of obsolete, or new coined words, in poetry, what is observed ; 
 yet, even here, how should this liberty be used 1 In prose, why are such 
 innovations more hazardous ; and by whom only should they be used ? 
 The import of what shall we now consider ; and why does it merit a full 
 discussion 1 Whence may the exact import of precision be drawn ; and 
 what is it 7 What was before observed ; and why is it found to be so in 
 this instance 1 In what three respects may the words that a man uses ta 
 express his ideas, be faulty! 
 
Lect. 10.] PRECISION. SI 
 
 but not quite fully and completely ; or, they may express it, 
 together with something more than he intends. Precision 
 stands opposed to all these three faults ; but chiefly to the 
 last. In an author's writing with propriety, his being free 
 from the two former faults seems implied. The words 
 which he uses are proper; that is, they express that idea 
 which he intends, and they express it fully ; but to be pre- 
 cise signifies that they express that idea, and no more. This 
 requires a writer to have, himself, a very clear apprehension 
 of the object he means to present to us ; to have laid fast 
 hold of it in his mind, and never to waver in any one view 
 he takes of it — a perfection to which, indeed, few writers 
 attain. 
 
 The use of a superfluity of words, forms what is generally 
 called a loose style ; and is the proper opposite to precision. 
 Feeble writers employ a multitude of words to make them- 
 selves understood, as they thinks more distinctly ; and they 
 only confound the reader. They are sensible of not having 
 caught the precise expression, to convey what they would 
 signify; they do not, indeed, conceive their own meaning 
 very precisely themselves ; and, therefore, help it out, as 
 they can, by this and the other word, which may, as they 
 suppose, supply the defect, and bring you somewhat nearer 
 to their idea : they are always going about it, and about it, 
 but never just hit the thing. The image, as they set it be- 
 fore you, is always seen double; and no double image is 
 distinct. When an author tells us of his hero's courage in 
 the day of battle, the expression is precise, and we under- 
 stand it fully. But if, from a desire of multiplying words, 
 he will praise his courage and fortitude ; at the moment 
 he joins these two words together, our idea begins to waver. 
 He intends to express one quality more strongly; but he is, 
 in fact, expressing two. Courage resists danger ; fortitude 
 supports pain. The occasion of exerting each of these 
 qualities is different ; and being led to think of both of them 
 
 To which of these three faults, particularly, does precision stand opposed ; 
 and why 1 How is this illustrated? What does this require ; and of it what 
 is observed 1 What forms what is generally called a loose style ; and of 
 what is it the proper opposite 1 Why do feeble writers employ a multi- 
 tude of words ; and what is their effect? Of what are they sensible ; and 
 as they do not conceive their own meaning clearly, what consequence fol- 
 lows % Of the image, as they set it before us, what is remarked ? How is 
 this illustrated from the words courage and fortitude ? What is their 
 respective signification ; and what, remarks follow 1 
 
82 PRECISION. [Lect. 10. 
 
 together, when only one of them should engage our atten- 
 tion, our view is rendered unsteady, and our conception of 
 the object indistinct. 
 
 The great source of a loose style, in opposition to pre- 
 cision, is the injudicious use of those words termed synony- 
 mous. They are called synonymous, because they agree 
 in expressing one principal idea ; but, for the most part, if 
 not always, they express it with some diversity in the cir- 
 cumstances. They are varied by some accessary idea which 
 every word introduces, and which forms the distinction 
 between them. Scarcely in any language, are there two 
 words that convey precisely the same idea ; a person 
 thoroughly conversant in the propriety of language, will 
 always be able to observe something that distinguishes 
 them. As they are like different shades of the same color, 
 an accurate writer can employ them to great advantage, by 
 using them so as to heighten and to finish the picture which 
 he gives us. He supplies by one, what was wanting in the 
 other to the force, or to the lustre of the image which he 
 means to exhibit. 
 
 ^ In the English language, very many instances might be 
 given of a difference in meaning among words reputed 
 synonymous ; and as the subject is of importance, we shall 
 now point out some of these. The instances given, may, 
 themselves, be of use ; and they will serve to show the neces- 
 sity of attending, with care and strictness, to the exact import 
 of words, if we would ever write with accuracy and precision. 
 
 Austerity, severity, rigor. Austerity relates to the 
 manner of living ; severity, of thinking ; rigor, of punish- 
 ment. To austerity, is opposed effeminacy ; to severity, 
 relaxation ; to rigor, clemency. A hermit, is austere in his 
 life ; a casuist, severe in his application of religion or laAV ; 
 a judge, rigorous in his sentences. 
 
 Custom, habit. Custom respects the action ; habit, the 
 
 What is the great source of a loose style ; and why are they called 
 synonymous 1 But, for the most part, how do they express it ; and how 
 are they varied 1 What illustration follows 1 As they are like different 
 shades of the same color, how can an accurate writer employ them to 
 great advantfyre ; and in what manner ? In the English language of what 
 might many instances be given ; and why are some of these pointed out ? 
 Of the instances themselves, what is remarked ; and to show what will 
 they serve? What is the difference between austerity, severity, and 
 rigor ; and what illustration is given 1 How are custom and habit dis- 
 tinguished ; and, by them, what do we respectively mean 1 What illus- 
 tration follows ? 
 
Lect. 10.] PRECISION. 83 
 
 actor. By custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the 
 same act ; by habit, the effect which that repetition produces 
 on the mind or body. By the custom of walking often in the 
 streets, one acquires the habit of idleness. 
 
 Surprised, astonished, amazed, confounded. We are 
 surprised with what is new or unexpected ; we are astonished 
 at what is vast or great ; we are amazed at what is incom- 
 prehensible ; we are confounded by what is shocking or 
 terrible. 
 
 Pride, vanity. Pride makes us esteem ourselves ; 
 vanity, makes us desire the esteem of others. It is just, 
 therefore, to say, that a man may be too proud to be vain. 
 
 Haughtiness, disdain. Haughtiness is founded on the 
 high opinion we entertain of ourselves ; disdain, on the low 
 opinion we have of others. 
 
 To weary, to fatigue. The continuance of the same 
 thing wearies us ; labor fatigues us. We become weary 
 from standing ; fatigued, from walking. A suiter wearies 
 us by his perseverance ; fatigues us by his importunity. 
 
 To abhor, to detest. To abhor, imports, simply, strong 
 dislike ; to detest, imports, also, strong disapprobation. One 
 abhors being in debt ; he detests treachery. 
 
 To invent, to discover. We invent things that are new ; 
 we discover what was before hidden. Galileo invented the 
 telescope ; Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood. 
 
 Only, alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the 
 same kind ; alone, imports being accompanied by no other. 
 An only child is one that has neither brother nor sister ; a 
 child alone, is one that is left by itself. 
 
 Entire, complete. A thing is entire, that wants none of 
 its parts ; complete, that wants none of the appendages that 
 belong to it. A man may have an entire house to himself; 
 and yet not have one complete apartment. 
 
 Tranquillity, peace, calm. Tranquillity respects a situ- 
 ation free from trouble, considered in itself; peace, the 
 
 What is the difference between surprised, astonished, amazed, and con- 
 founded ? What is the relative effects of pride and vanity ; and what 
 remark is, therefore, just 1 On what are haughtiness and disdain, respect- 
 ively founded 1 How is the difference between to weary and to fatigue, 
 illustrated 1 What do to abhor and to detest, respectively denote ; and 
 what illustration follows 1 How is the distinction between to invent and 
 to discover, illustrated 1 What is the difference between only and alone ; 
 and what instance of illustration is given 7 How are entire and complete^ 
 distinguished ; and what example is given 1 Illustrate the difference be- 
 tween tranquillity, peace, and calm. 
 
84 PRECISION. [Lect. 10. 
 
 same situation, with respect to any causes that might inter- 
 rupt it ; calm, with regard to a disturbed situation going 
 before, or following it. A good man enjoys tranquillity in 
 himself ; peace with others ; and calm, after the storm. 
 
 Wisdom, prudence. Wisdom, leads us to speak and act 
 as is most proper ; prudence, prevents our speaking and act- 
 ing improperly. A wise man employs the most proper 
 means for success ; a prudent man, the safest means for not 
 being brought into danger. 
 
 Enough, sufficient. Enough relates to the quantity which 
 we wish to have of a thing ; sufficient, relates to the use 
 that is to be made of it. Hence, enough, generally imports 
 a greater quantity than sufficient does. The covetous man 
 never has enough : although he has what is sufficient for 
 nature. 
 
 With, by. Both these particles express the connection 
 between some instrument or means of effecting an end, and 
 the agent who employs it ; but with, expresses a more close 
 and immediate connection ; by, a more remote one. A man 
 killed with a sword, dies by violence. The criminal is 
 bound with ropes by the executioner.* 
 
 These are a few, among many instances of words, m our 
 language, which, by careless writers, are apt to be considered 
 as synonymous. Their significations approach, but are not 
 precisely the same. The more the distinction in the mean- 
 ing of such words is weighed, and attended to, the more 
 accurately and forcibly shall we speak and write. 
 
 It was observed before, that though all subjects of writing 
 or discourse demand perspicuity, yet all do not require it to 
 an equal degree. It is, indeed, in every sort of writing, a 
 great beauty to have, at least, some measure of precision, in 
 distinction from that loose profusion of words which imprints 
 
 * The author had it in contemplation, when he commenced this abridg- 
 ment, to extend these discriminations through the space of another lecture ; 
 but having concluded, soon to offer to the public a work on this subject, he 
 has abandoned his original design. 
 
 Of wisdom and prudence, what is remarked ; and how is this illus- 
 trated 1 What is the difference between enough and sufficient ; hence, 
 what follows ; and what illustration is given 1 With and by, both express 
 the connection between what ; but with what difference, and what illus- 
 t ations follow 1 On the instances of synonymous words, here given, what 
 is remarked ; and what will be the effect of weighing such distinctions 1 
 What was before observed ; and what is, in every sort of writing, a great 
 beauty ? 
 
Lect. 10.] 
 
 PRECISION. 
 
 no clear idea on the reader's mind. But we must, at the 
 same time, be on our guard, lest too great a study of pre- 
 cision, especially in subjects where it is not strictly requisite, 
 betray us into a dry and barren style ; lest, from a desire of 
 pruning too closely, we retrench all copiousness and orna- 
 ment. To write with copiousness and precision, to be flow- 
 ing and graceful, and, at the sarmV.ime, correct and exact in 
 the choice of every word, is, doubtless, one of the highest 
 and most difficult attainments in writing. Bftt we must 
 study never to sacrifice, totally, any one of these qualities 
 to the other ; and, by a proper management, both of them 
 may be made fully consistent, if our ideas be precise, and our 
 knowledge and stock of words be, at the same time, ex- 
 tensive. 
 
 But, about what must we, at the same time, be on our guard ; and why ? 
 What is, doubtless, one of the highest and most difficult attainments in 
 writing ; and what follows 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. The definition of style. 
 
 2. The qualities of a good style. 
 A. Perspicuity. 
 
 a. Purity. 
 
 b. Propriety. 
 
 c. Precision. 
 
 8 
 
 B. A loose style. 
 
 C. Synonymous words. 
 
 a. Examples of discrimina- 
 tions. 
 
 D. Concluding remarks. 
 
LECTURE XL 
 
 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 
 
 A sentence always implies some one complete proposition 
 or enunciation of thought. Aristotle defines it to be "a 
 form of speech which hath a beginning and an end within 
 itself, and is of such a length as to be easily comprehended 
 at once." This, however, admits of considerable latitude. 
 For a sentence, or period, consists, always, of component 
 parts, which are called its members; and as these members 
 may be either few or many, and may be connected in several 
 different ways, the same thought, or mental proposition, 
 may often be either brought into one sentence, or split into 
 two or three, without the material breach of any rule. 
 
 The first variety that occurs in the consideration of sen- 
 tences, is, the distinction of long and short ones. Sentences 
 immoderately long, and consisting of too many members, 
 always transgress some one or other of the rules which 
 shall be soon mentioned as necessary to be observed in every 
 good sentence. In discourses that are to be spoken, regard 
 must be had to the easiness of pronunciation, which is not 
 consistent with too long periods. In compositions where 
 pronunciation has no place, still, however, by using long 
 periods too frequently, an author overloads the reader's ear, 
 and fatigues his attention. At the same time, there may be 
 an excess in too many short sentences also ; by which the 
 sense is split and broken, the connection of thought weak- 
 ened, and the memory burdened by presenting to it a long 
 succession of minute objects. 
 
 With regard to the length mid construction of sentences, 
 the French critics very justly divide style into style period- 
 ique, and style coupe. The style periodique is where the 
 
 What does a sentence always imply 1 How does Aristotle define it 1 
 Of this definition what is remarked; and why 1 What is the first variety 
 that occurs in the consideration of sentences 7 Of sentences immoderately 
 long what is observed 1 In discourses that are to be spoken, to what must 
 regard be had ; and of compositions where pronunciation has no place, 
 what is remarked ] At the same time, in what may there be excess ; and 
 what is its effect 1 With regard to the length and construction of sen- 
 tences, how do the French critics divide style 1 What is the style period' 
 ique ; what is observed of it ; and where does it abound 1 
 
Xect. 11.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES, & 
 
 sentences are composed of several members linked together, 
 and hanging upon one another ; so that the sense of the 
 whole is not brought out till the close. This is the most 
 pompous, musical, and oratorical manner of composing ; and 
 abounds in the writings of Cicero, and Sir William Temple. 
 The style coupe is, where the sense is formed into short 
 independent propositions, each complete within itself; as in 
 the following of Mr. Pope : " I confess it was want of 
 consideration that made me an author. I writ, because it 
 amused me. I corrected, because it was as pleasant to me 
 to correct as to write. I published, because I was told, I 
 might please such as it was a credit to please." This is 
 very much the French manner of writing ; and always suits 
 gay and easy subjects. The style per iodique, gives an air of 
 gravity and dignity to composition : the style coupe is more 
 lively and striking. According to the nature of the com- 
 position, therefore, and the general character it ought to 
 bear, the one or the other may predominate. But in 
 almost every kind of composition, the great rule is to inter- 
 mix them. For the ear tires of either of them when too 
 long continued : whereas, by a proper mixture of long and 
 short periods, the ear is gratified, and a certain sprightliness 
 is joined with majesty in our style. 
 
 So much depends upon the proper construction of sen- 
 tences, that in every kind of composition, we cannot be too 
 strict in our attention to it. For, whatever the subject may 
 be, if the sentences are constructed in a clumsy, perplexed, 
 or feeble manner, it is impossible that a work, thus composed, 
 should be read with pleasure, or even with profit. But, by 
 giving attention to the rules which relate to this part of style, 
 we acquire the habit of expressing ourselves with perspicuity 
 and elegance ; and if a disorder chance to arise in any of 
 our sentences, we immediately see where it lies, and are 
 able to rectify it. 
 
 The properties most essential to a perfect sentence, seem 
 to be the four following: 1. Clearness and precision. 
 2. Unity. 3. Strength. 4. Harmony. 
 
 What is the style coupe ; and what example is given of it 1 Whose man- 
 ner of writing is this ; and what does it suit % What is farther observed of 
 these different styles ; and why should they, in most compositions, be inter- 
 mixed % As much depends upon the proper construction of sentences, 
 what follows ; and why 1 But, from attention to the rules which relate to 
 this part of style, what will result 1 What are the properties most essential 
 to a perfect sentence ? a* 
 
88 STRUCTURE OF [Lect. 11 
 
 The least failure in clearness and precision, the least de- 
 gree of ambiguity, which leaves the mind in any sort of sus- 
 pense as to the meaning, ought to be avoided with the great- 
 est care ; nor is it so easy a matter to keep clear of all this 
 as one might, at first, imagine. Ambiguity arises from two 
 causes : either from a wrong choice of words, or a wrong 
 collocation of them. Of the choice of words, as far as re- 
 gards perspicuity, we have already spoken. Of the collo- 
 cation of them we are now to treat. From the nature of 
 our language, a leading rule in the arrangement of our sen* 
 tences is, to place the words or members most nearly related, 
 as near to each other in the sentence as possible ; so as to 
 make their mutual relation evident. This rule is too often 
 neglected, even by good writers. A few instances will show, 
 both its importance and its application. 
 
 First, in the position of adverbs* which are used to qualify 
 the signification of something which either precedes or fol- 
 lows them, a good deal of nicety is to be observed. ' By 
 greatness,' says Mr. Addison, ' I do not only mean the 
 bulk of any single object, but the largeness of a whole 
 view.'* Here the place of the adverb only, renders it a 
 limitation of the following word, mean. ' I do not only 
 mean.' The question may then be asked, What does he 
 more than mean ? Had he placed it after bulk, still it would 
 have been wrong. ' I do not mean the bulk only of any 
 single object.' For he might then ask, What does he mean 
 more than the bulk ? Is it the color ? Or any other property? 
 Its proper place, undoubtedly, is, after the word object. 
 ' By greatness, I do not mean the bulk of any single object 
 only ;' for then, when we put the question, What more does 
 he mean than the bulk of a single object ? The answer 
 comes out exactly as the author intends, and gives it ; ' The 
 largeness of a whole view.' 'Theism,' says Lord Shaftes- 
 bury, 'can only be opposed to polytheism, or atheism.' It 
 
 * Spectator, No. 412. 
 
 What should be avoided with the greatest care; and why 1 From what 
 two causes does ambiguity arise 1 Of which have we already spoken ; 
 and of which are we now to treat 1 From the nature of our language, 
 what is a leading rule in the arrangement of our sentences ; and of this 
 rule what is remarked 1 In the first place, in the position of what adverbs, 
 is a good deal of nicety to be observed'? What example is given to illus- 
 trate this remark ; and what is observed of it 1 Where is its proper place ; 
 and why ? What instance is given from Lord Shaftesbury ; and what is 
 remarked of it 1 
 
Lect. 11.] SENTENCES. 89 
 
 may be asked, then, is theism capable of nothing else, but 
 being opposed to polytheism, or atheism 1 This is what the 
 words literally import, through the wrong collocation oi 
 only. He should have said, ' Theism can be opposed only 
 to polytheism or atheism.' In conversation, such inaccu- 
 racies may have no material inconvenience, because the tone 
 and emphasis used in pronouncing them, generally serve to 
 show their reference, and to make the meaning clear. But, 
 in writing, where a person speaks to the eye, and not to the 
 ear, he ought to be more accurate ; and so to connect 
 those adverbs with the words which they qualify, as to put 
 his meaning out of doubt, upon the first inspection. 
 
 Secondly, when a circumstance is interposed in the middle 
 of a sentence, it sometimes requires attention, to place it, so 
 as to divest it of all ambiguity. For instance, ' Are these 
 designs,' says Lord Bolingbroke, 'which any man, who is 
 born a Briton, in any circumstances, in any situation, ought 
 to be ashamed or afraid to avow ?'* Here we are left at a 
 loss, whether these words, ' in any circumstances, in any 
 situation,' are connected with ' a man born a Briton, in any 
 circumstances, or situation,' or with that man's 'avowing his 
 designs, in any circumstances, or situation, into which he 
 may be brought V If the latter, as seems most probable, 
 was intended to be the meaning, the arrangement should 
 have been thus : ' Are these designs, which any man who 
 is born a Briton, ought to be ashamed or afraid, in any cir- 
 cumstances, in any situation, to avow V 
 
 Thirdly, still more attention is required to the proper dis- 
 position of the relative pronouns, who, which, what, whose ; 
 and of all those particles which express the connection of the 
 parts of speech with one another. As all reasoning depends 
 upon this connection, we cannot be too accurate with regard 
 to it. A small error may obscure the meaning of the whole 
 sentence ; and even where the meaning is apparent, yet 
 
 * Dissert, on Parties, Dedicat. 
 
 Why may such inaccuracies have no material inconvenience in conver- 
 sation ; but of them in writing what is remarked ? In the second place, 
 what sometimes requires attention; and to illustrate this remark, what 
 example is given from Lord Bolingbroke 1 Here, about what are we left 
 at a loss ; and if the latter was intended to be the meaning, how should it 
 have been arranged 1 In the third place, to what is still more attention 
 required 1 As all reasoning depends upon this connection, what follows ; 
 and why 1 
 
90 STRUCTURE OF [Lect. 11. 
 
 where these relative particles are misplaced, we always 
 find something awkward and disjointed in the structure of 
 the sentence. The following- passage in one of Bishop 
 Sherlock's sermons,* will serve to exemplify these observa- 
 tions : ' It is folly to pretend to arm ourselves against the 
 accidents of life, by heaping up treasures, which nothing 
 can protect us against, but the good providence of our 
 Heavenly Father.' Which always refers grammatically 
 to the immediately preceding substantive, which is here 
 'treasure:' and this would make nonsense of the whole 
 period. The sentence should have been constructed thus : 
 
 * It is folly to pretend, by heaping up treasures, to arm our- 
 selves against the accidents of life, against which nothing 
 can protect us, but the good providence of our Heavenly 
 Father.' Of the same nature is the following inaccuracy 
 in the writings of Dean Swift. He is recommending to 
 young clerg3mien, to write their sermons fully and distinctly. 
 4 Many,' says he, ' act so directly contrary to this method, 
 that, from a habit of saving time and paper, which they 
 acquired at the university, they write in so diminutive a 
 manner, that they can hardly read what they have written.' 
 He certainly does not mean that they had acquired time and 
 paper at the university, but that they had acquired this habit 
 there ; and, therefore, his words ought to have run thus ; 
 1 From a habit, which they have acquired at the university, 
 of saving time and paper, they write in so diminutive a man- 
 ner, that they can hardly read what they have written.' 
 
 With regard to relatives, I must farther observe, that 
 obscurity often arises from the too frequent repetition of them, 
 particularly of the pronouns who, and they, and theirs, and 
 them, when we have occasion to refer to different persons ; 
 as in the following sentence of Archbishop Tillotson : 
 
 * Men look with an evil eye upon the good that is in others ; 
 and think that their reputation obscures them, and their 
 commendable qualities stand in their light ; and therefore 
 they do what they can to cast a cloud over them, that the 
 bright shining of their virtues may not obscure them.'f 
 
 * Vol. II. Serm. 15. t Vol. I. Serm. 42. 
 
 What passage will serve to exemplify this observation 1 On this sen- 
 tence what is remarked ; and how should it have been constructed 1 Of 
 the same nature is what inaccuracy from Dean Swift 1 In this passage 
 what does he not mean ; and. therefore, how should his words have been 
 arranged 1 With regard to relatives, what must be farther observed ; and 
 as an illustration of this remark, what sentence is given from Tillotson ? 
 
Lect. 11.] SENTENCES. 91 
 
 This is altogether careless writing-. It renders style often 
 obscure, always embarrassed and inelegant ; and to avoid it, 
 the sentence should be thrown into some other form. 
 
 We now proceed to the second quality of a well arranged 
 sentence, which we termed its unity. This is a capital pro- 
 perty. The very nature of a sentence implies one proposi- 
 tion to be expressed. It may. indeed, consist of parts; but 
 these parts must be so closely bound together, as to make the 
 impression upon the mind, of one object, not of many. 
 
 To preserve this unity, Ave must first observe, that during 
 the course of the sentence, the scene should be changed as 
 little as possible. There is, commonly, in every sentence, 
 some person or thing, which is the governing word. This 
 should be continued so, if possible, from the beginning to the 
 end of it. Should one express himself in this manner : 
 1 After we came to anchor, they put me on shore, where I 
 was welcomed by all my friends, who received me with the 
 greatest kindntss.' Here, though the objects are sufficiently 
 connected, yet by this manner of representing them, by 
 shifting them so often, both the place and the person, we, 
 and they, and 7, and who, they appear in such a disunited 
 view, that the sense of connection is nearly lost. The sen- 
 tence may be restored to its proper unity, by turning it after 
 the following manner : * Having come to an anchor, I was 
 put on shore, where I was welcomed by all my friends, and 
 received with the greatest kindness.' 
 
 Another rule is, never to crowd into one sentence, things 
 which have so little connection, that they could bear to be 
 divided into two or three sentences. The violation of this 
 rule never fails to hurt and displease the reader. Its effect, 
 indeed, is so bad, that of the two, it is the safer extreme, 
 to err rather by too many short sentences, than by one that 
 is overloaded and embarrassed. Examples of the trans- 
 gression of this rule are exceedingly numerous. ' Arch- 
 
 Of this what is remarked ; and to avoid it what must be done 1 What 
 is the second quality of a well arranged sentence ; and of this, what is 
 remarked 1 What does the very nature of a sentence imply ; of what 
 may it consist ; but of these what is observed 1 To preserve this unity, 
 what is first to be observed 7 What does every sentence, commonly, con- 
 tain ; and of this what is remarked 1 By what example is this remark 
 illustrated ; and what is observed of it ? How may this sentence be 
 restored to its proper unity 1 What is another rule for preserving the unity 
 of a sentence ; and what effect does the violation of it produce ] What 
 example, of this is given from Tillotson ; and what is observed of it ] 
 
92 STRUCTURE OF [Lect. 11. 
 
 bishop Tillotson,' says an author of the History of England, 
 ' died in this year. He was exceedingly beloved both by 
 king William and queen Mary, who nominated Dr. Tenni- 
 son, Bishop of Lincoln, to succeed him.' Who would 
 expect the latter part of this sentence to follow, in consequence 
 of the former? ' He was exceedingly beloved by both king 
 and queen,' is the proposition of the sentence ; we look for 
 some proof of this, or at least something related to it to fol- 
 low ; when we are on a sudden carried off to a new propo- 
 sition, i who nominated Dr. Tennison to succeed him,' 
 The following sentence, from a translation of Plutarch, is 
 still worse : ' Their march,' says the author, speaking of 
 the Greeks under Alexander, 'was through an uncultivated 
 country, whose savage inhabitants fared hardly, having no 
 other riches than a breed of lean sheep, whose flesh was 
 rank and unsavory, by reason of their continued feeding 
 upon sea fish.' Here the scene is changed again and 
 again. The march of the Greeks, the description of the 
 inhabitants through whose country they passed, the account 
 of their sheep, and the reason that they were ill tasted food, 
 form a jumble of objects, slightly related to each other, 
 which the reader cannot, without much difficulty, compre- 
 hend under one view. 
 
 A third rule for preserving the unity of sentences, is, to 
 keep clear of all parenthes-es in the middle of them. These 
 may, on some occasions, have a spirited appearance ; as 
 prompted by a certain vivacity of thought, which can glance 
 happily aside, as it is going along. But, for the most part, 
 their effect is extremely bad ; being a perplexed method of 
 disposing of some thought, which a writer wants art to 
 introduce into its proper place. Inaccuracies of this kind 
 occur so frequently among incorrect writers, that it is not 
 necessary to introduce any instances. 
 
 We shall add only one rule more for the unity of a sen- 
 tence, which is to bring it always to a full and perfect close. 
 Every thing that is one, should have a beginning, a middle, 
 and an end. It need hardly be observed, that an unfinished 
 
 What sentence follows from a translation of Plutarch ; and what is re- 
 marked of it 1 What is the third rule for preserving the unity of sen- 
 tences 1 Why may these, on some occasions, have a spirited appearance ; 
 but why is their effect, for the most part, extremely bad % Of the frequent 
 occurrence of inaccuracies of this kind, what is remarked 1 What 
 farther rule, only, is added for the unity of a sentence ; and why 1 What 
 need hardly be observed ; but what do we verv often meet w'tb 1 
 
Lect. II. SENTENCES 93 
 
 sentence is no sentence at all, according to any grammatical 
 rule. But we very often meet with sentences that are more 
 than finished. When we have arrived at what we expected to 
 be the conclusion, when we have come to the word on which 
 the mind is naturally led, by what went before, to rest ; unex- 
 pectedly some circumstance pops out, which ought to have 
 been omitted, or to have been disposed of elsewhere. Thus, 
 for ii .stance, in the following sentence, from Sir William 
 Temple, the adjection to the sentence is entirely foreign to it. 
 Speaking of Burnet's Theory of the Earth, and Fontenelle's 
 Plurality of Worlds : ' The first,' says he, ' could not end 
 his learned treatise without a panegyric of modern learning, 
 in comparison of the ancient ; and the other, falls so grossly 
 into the censure of the old poetry, and preference of the new, 
 that I could not read either of these strains without some 
 indignation ; which no quality among men is so apt to raise 
 in me as self-sufficiency.' The word ' indignation,' should 
 have concluded the sentence ; for what follows is altogether 
 new, and is added after the proper close. 
 
 How is this remark illustrated?- What instance is given from Sir 
 William Temple 1 What word should have concluded the sentence ; and 
 why 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 1. The definition of a sentence. | B. Unity. 
 
 2. Long and short sentences. 
 A. The distinction of French 
 
 critics. 
 
 3. Essential properties of a perfect 
 
 sentence. 
 A. Clearness and precision. 
 
 a. In the position of adverbs. 
 
 b. In the interposition of sen- 
 
 tences. 
 
 c. In the distribution of rela- 
 
 tives. 
 
 The scene not to be 
 changed. 
 
 Distinct subjects not to be 
 introduced in the same 
 sentence. 
 
 Parentheses in the middle 
 of sentences to be avoid- 
 ed. 
 
 Sentences to be brought te 
 a full and perfect close. 
 
LECTURE XII. 
 
 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 
 
 Having treated of perspicuity and unity, we proceed to 
 the third quality of a correct sentence, which is termed 
 strength. By this, is meant, such a disposition of the 
 several words and members, as shall bring out the sense to 
 the best advantage ; as shall render the impression, which 
 the period is designed to make, most full and complete ; and 
 give every word, and every member, its due weight and 
 force. To the production of this effect, perspicuity and 
 unity are, no doubt, absolutely necessary ; but still more is 
 requisite. For a sentence may be clear enough ; it may 
 also be sufficiently compact, or have the requisite unity ; and 
 yet, by some unfavorable circumstance in the structure, it 
 may fail in that strength or liveliness of impression, which 
 a more happy arrangement would have produced. 
 
 The first rule which we shall give for promoting the 
 strength of a sentence, is, to divest it of all redundant 
 words. These may, sometimes, be consistent with a con- 
 siderable degree both of clearness and unity ; but they are 
 always enfeebling. It is a general maxim, that, whatever 
 can be easily supplied in the mind, is better left out in the 
 expression. Thus : ' Content with deserving a triumph, he 
 refused the honor of it,' is better than to say, 'Being con- 
 tent with deserving a triumph, he refused the honor of it.' 
 It is certainly, therefore, one of the most useful exercises of 
 correction, upon reviewing what we have written or com- 
 posed, to contract that round-about method of expression, 
 and to lop off those useless excrescences, which are com- 
 monly found in a first draught. But we must be careful not 
 to run into the opposite extreme, of pruning so closely, as 
 
 What is the third quality of a correct sentence; and by tins what is 
 meant? To the production of this effect, why is something more than 
 perspicuity and unity requisite 1 What is the first rule given for the pro- 
 motion of the strength of a sentence ; and of these what is remarked 1 
 What is a general maxim ; and of it what illustration is given 1 What, 
 therefore, is one of the most useful exercises of correction 1 But about 
 what must we be careful ; and why % 
 
Lect. 12.J STRUCTURE, &c. 95 
 
 to give a hardness and dryness to the style. Some leaves 
 must be left to surround and shelter the fruit. 
 
 As sentences should be cleared x of redundant words, so 
 also, they should not contain redundant members. As every 
 word ought to present a new idea, so every member ought 
 to contain a new thought. Opposed to this, stands the fault 
 we sometimes meet with, of the last member of a period, 
 being no other than the echo of the former, or the repetition 
 of it in a different form. For example, speaking of beauty, 
 
 * The very first discovery of it,' says Mr. Addison, 
 
 * strikes the mind with inward joy, and spreads delight 
 through all the faculties.' And elsewhere, ' It is impossi- 
 ble for us to behold the divine works with coldness or 
 indifference, or to survey so many beauties, without a secret 
 satisfaction and complacency.'* In both these instances, 
 little or nothing is added by the second member of the sen- 
 tence to what was already expressed in the first ; and though 
 the free and flowing manner of such an author as Mr. Addi- 
 son, may palliate such negligences ; yet, in general, it holds, 
 that style, freed from this prolixity, appears both stronger 
 and more beautiful. 
 
 The second direction for promoting the strength of a sen- 
 tence, is, to attend particularly to the use of copulatives, 
 relatives, and all the particles employed for transition and 
 connection. These little words, but, and, which, whose, 
 where, &c. are frequently the most important words of any ; 
 they are the joints or hinges upon which all sentences turn, 
 and of course, much, both of their gracefulness and strength, 
 must depend upon such particles. Some observations on 
 this subject, which appear to be worthy of particular remem- 
 brance, shall here be noticed. 
 
 What is termed the splitting of particles, or separating a 
 preposition from the noun which it governs, is always to be 
 avoided. As if we should say, ' Though virtue borrows 
 no assistance from, yet it may often be accompanied by, the 
 
 * Spectator, Nos. 412 and 413. 
 
 As sentences should be cleared of redundant words, so, also, what should 
 they not contain ; and as every word ought to present a new idea, so, what 
 fodows? Opposed to this stands what fault; and as illustratives of this 
 remark what examples are given? Of both these instances, what is 
 observed; and what remark fellows'? What is the second direction for 
 promoting the strength of a sentence? Of these little words, but, and 
 -which,, &c., what is remarked 1 Of what is termed the splitting of particles! 
 what is observed j what example is given ; and what is its effect 1 
 
96 STRUCTURE OF [Lect. 12. 
 
 advantages of fortune.' In such instances, we feel a sort 
 of pain, from the revulsion, or violent separation of two 
 things, which, by their nature, should be closely united. 
 
 The simplicity of style is much injured by the unnecessary 
 multiplication of relative and demonstrative particles : thus, 
 if a writer should say, ' There is nothing which disgusts 
 me sooner than the empty pomp of language ;' he would 
 express himself less simply than if he had said, ' Nothing 
 disgusts me sooner than the empty pomp of language." 
 The former mode of expression, in the introduction of a 
 subject, or in laying down a proposition to which particular 
 attention is demanded, is exceedingly proper ; but, in the 
 ordinary current of discourse, the latter is to be preferred. 
 
 With regard to the omission or insertion of the relative, 
 we shall only observe, that in conversation and epistolary 
 writing, it may be often omitted with propriety ; but in com- 
 positions of a serious and dignified kind, it should constantly 
 be inserted. 
 
 With regard to the copulative particle, and, which occurs 
 so frequently in all kinds of composition, several obser- 
 vations are to be made. First, it is evident, that the unne- 
 cessary repetition of it enfeebles style. It has the same sort 
 of effect, as the frequent use of the vulgar phrase, and so, 
 when one is telling a story in common conversation. The 
 following sentence from Sir William Temple, will illustrate 
 this remark. He is speaking of the refinement of the 
 French language : ' The academy set up by Cardinal 
 Richelieu, to amuse the wits of that age and country, and 
 divert them from raking into his politics and ministry, 
 brought this into vogue ; and the French wits have, for this 
 last age, been wholly turned to the refinement of their style 
 and language; and, indeed, with such success, that it can 
 hardly be equalled, and runs equally through their verse and 
 their prose.' Here are no fewer than eight ands in one 
 sentence. This agreeable writer too often makes his sen- 
 tences drag in this manner by a careless multiplication of 
 copulatives. 
 
 By the unnecessary multiplication of what, is the simplicity of style, also, 
 much injured ; and what example is given ? Where is the former mode of 
 expression proper; and where not? With regard to the omission and 
 insertion of the relative, what, only, is observed 1 With regard to the 
 copulative and, what is the first observation made ; and as what, has it 
 the same effect 1 What sentence will illustrate this remark ; and of what 
 is he speaking 1 Here are how many ands ; and what remark follows % 
 
Lect. 12.] SENTENCES. 97 
 
 But in the next place, it is worthy of observation, that, by- 
 dropping the conjunction, we often mark a closer connection, 
 a quicker succession of objects, than when it is inserted 
 between them. ' Vent, vidi, vicij — * I came, I saw, I 
 conquered,' expresses with more spirit, the rapidity and 
 quick succession of conquest, than if connecting particles 
 had been used. When, however, we desire to prevent a 
 quick transition from one object to another, and when we 
 are enumerating objects which we wish to appear as distinct 
 from each other as possible, copulatives may be multiplied 
 with peculiar advantage. Thus Lord Bolingbroke says, 
 with elegance and propriety, ' Such a man might fall a vic- 
 tim to power ; but truth, and reason, and liberty, would fall 
 with him.' In the same manner Caesar describes an en- 
 gagement with the Nervii ; ' The enemy, having easily beat 
 off, and scattered this body of horse, ran down with incredi- 
 ble celerity to the river ; so that, almost at one moment of 
 time, they appeared to be in the woods, and in the river, and 
 in the midst of our troops.' 
 
 A third rule for promoting the strength of a sentence, is, 
 to dispose of the capital word or words, in that place of the 
 sentence, where they will make the fullest impression. That 
 such capital words there are in every sentence, on which the 
 meaning principally rests, every one must see ; and that 
 these words should possess a conspicuous and distinguished 
 place, is equally plain. Perspicuity, then, is the first thing 
 to be studied ; and the nature of our language allows no 
 great liberty in the choice of collocation. In general, the 
 important words are placed in the beginning of the sentence. 
 Thus Mr. Addison : ' The pleasures of the imagination, 
 taken in their full extent, are not so gross as those of sense, 
 nor so refined as those of the understanding.' This, indeed, 
 seems the plainest and most natural order, to place that in 
 the front which is the chief object of the proposition we are 
 laying down. Sometimes, however, when we purpose 
 
 But in the next place, of dropping the conjunction, what is observed ; and 
 by what example is this illustrated 1 When, however, may copulatives be 
 multiplied with peculiar advantage ; and what examples are given from 
 Lord Bolingbroke, and from Caesar 1 What is the third rule for pro- 
 moting the strength of a sentence ; and of such capital words, what is 
 observed 1 Here, what is the first thing to be studied ; and of our lan- 
 guage, in this respect, what is remarked 1 In general, where do we place 
 the most important words ; and what illustration follows 1 Though this 
 seems the most natural order, yet what is sometimes requisite ; and what 
 illustration is given 1 
 
98 STRUCTURE OF [Lect. 12. 
 
 giving weight to a sentence, it is proper to suspend the 
 meaning for a while, and then to bring it out full at the close : 
 * Thus,' says Mr. Pope, ' on whatever side we contemplate 
 Homer, what principally strikes us, is, his wonderful 
 invention.' 
 
 The Greek and Latin writers had a considerable advan- 
 tage over us in this part of style. By the great liberty of 
 inversion which their languages allowed, they could choose 
 the most advantageous situation for every word ; and had it 
 thereby in their power to give their sentences more force. 
 Milton, in his prose works, and some other of our old 
 English writers, endeavored to imitate them in this. But the 
 forced constructions which they employed, produced ob- 
 scurity ; and the genius of our language, as it is now 
 written and spoken, will not admit such liberties. Mr. Gor- 
 don, who followed this inverted style, in his translation of 
 Tacitus, has sometimes done such violence to the language, 
 as even to appear ridiculous ; as in this expression ; ' Into 
 this hole thrust themselves, three Roman senators.' How- 
 ever, within certain bounds, and to a limited degree, our 
 language does admit of inversions ; and they are practised 
 with success by the best writers. For example ; Mr. Pope, 
 speaking of Homer, says, « The praise of judgment Virgil 
 has justly contested with him, but his invention remains yet 
 unrivalled.' 
 
 A fourth rule for consti ucting sentences with proper 
 strength is, to make the members of them go on rising and 
 growing in their importance above one another. This sort 
 of arrangement is called a climax, and is always considered 
 as a beauty in composition. Why it pleases, is abundantly 
 evident. In all things, we naturally love to ascend to what 
 is more and more beautiful, rather than to follow the retro- 
 grade order. Having had once some considerable object 
 set before us, it is with pain we are pulled back to attend to 
 an inferior circumstance. ' Cavendum est,' says Q,uin- 
 tilian, 'ne decrescat oratio, et fortiori subjungatur aliquid 
 
 What advantage had the Greeks and Latins over us in this part 
 of style 1 Who have endeavored to imitate them in this ; how did 
 they "succeed ; and why % What illustration is given from Gordon's 
 translation of Tacitus 1 What remark follows ; and what example 
 is given from Mr. Pope 1 What is the fourth rule for constructing sen- 
 tences with proper strength 7 What is this sort of arrangement called ; 
 and what is observed of it 1 Why does it please ; and what saj-s 
 Quintilian on this subject 1 
 
Lect. 12.] SENTENCES. 99 
 
 infirmius.'* When a sentence consists of two members, the 
 longest should, in general, be the concluding one. Hence 
 the pronunciation is rendered more easy ; and the shortest 
 member of the period being placed first, we carry it more 
 readily in our memory as we proceed to the second, and see 
 the connection of the two more clearly. Thus, to say, 
 * When our passions have forsaken us, we flatter ourselves 
 with the belief that we have forsaken them,' is both more 
 graceful and more clear, than to begin with the longest part 
 of the proposition : * We flatter ourselves with the belief, 
 that we have forsaken our passions, when they have forsaken 
 us.' In general, it is always agreeable to find a sentence 
 rising upon us, and growing in its importance to the very 
 last word, when this construction can be managed without 
 affectation, or unseasonable pomp. * If we rise yet higher,' 
 says Mr. Addison, very beautifully, ' and consider the fixed 
 stars as so many oceans of flame, that are each of them 
 attended with a different set of planets ; and still discover 
 new firmaments and new lights, that are sunk farther into 
 those unfathomable depths of aether ; we are lost in such a 
 labyrinth of worlds, and confounded with the magnificence 
 and immensity of nature.'! 
 
 A fifth rule for the strength of sentences is, to avoid con 
 eluding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any incon- 
 siderable word. Such conclusions are always enfeebling 
 and degrading. There are sentences, however, where the 
 stress and significancy rest, chiefly, upon words of this kind. 
 In this case they are not to be considered as circumstances, 
 but as the capital figures ; and ought, in propriety, to have 
 the principal place allotted them. No fault, for instance, can 
 be 'found with this sentence of Bolingbroke : ' In their pros- 
 perity, my friends shall never hear of me ; in their adversity, 
 always ;' where never and always, being emphatical words, 
 
 * We must take care that our composition shall not fall off, and that a 
 weaker expression shall not follow one of greater strength, 
 t Spect. No. 420. 
 
 When a sentence consists of two members, which should be placed 
 first; and whyl What constructions illustrate this remark 1 In ge- 
 neral, what is always agreeable; and what example of it is given from 
 Mr. Addison 1 What is the fifth rule for the strength of sentences 1 
 There are sentences, however, of what sort; in this case how are they 
 to be considered ; and what follows ? What instance is given from 
 Bolingbroke ; and here of never and always, what is remarked'? 
 
100 STRUCTURE OF l Lect. 12 
 
 are so placed, as to make a strong impression. But when 
 those inferior parts of speech are introduced as circumstances, 
 or as qualifications of more important words, they should 
 invariably be disposed of in the least conspicuous parts of 
 the period ; and so classed with other words of greater 
 dignity, as to be kept in their proper secondary station. 
 
 Agreeably to this rule, we should always avoid concluding 
 with any of those particles, which mark the cases of nouns ; 
 as of, to, from, with, by. For instance, it is much better to 
 say, ' Avarice is a crime of which wise men are often guilty,' 
 than to say, ' Avarice is a crime which wise men are often 
 guilty of.' This kind of phraseology all correct writers 
 endeavor, with the greatest care, to avoid. 
 
 For the same reason, verbs which are used in a compound 
 sense, with some of these prepositions, aie likewise ungrace- 
 ful conclusions of a period; such as bring about, lay hold 
 of, come over to, clear up, and many others of the same 
 kind : instead of which, if we can employ a simple verb, it 
 always terminates the sentence with more strength. Even 
 the pronoun it, especially when joined with some of the pre- 
 positions, as, with it, in it, to it, cannot, without a violation 
 of grace, be the conclusion of a sentence. Any phrase 
 which expresses a circumstance only, always brings up the 
 rear of a sentence with a bad grace. Circumstances, are, 
 indeed, like unshapely stones in a building, which try the 
 skill of an artist, where to place them with the least offence. 
 We should carefully avoid crowding too many of them 
 together, but rather intersperse them in different parts of the 
 sentence, joined with the principal words on which they 
 depend. Thus, for instance, when Dean Swift says, 'What 
 I had the honor of mentioning to your Lordship, some time 
 ago, in conversation, was not a new thought.'* These two 
 circumstances, sometime ago, and in conversation, which 
 are here joined, would have been better separated thus . 
 
 * Letter to the Earl of Oxford. 
 
 But when should they be disposed of in the least conspicuous parts of the 
 period ; and should they be classed with other words 1 Agreeably to this 
 rule, with what should we always avoid concluding 1 Whatexample is giv- 
 en; and of this kind of phraseology , what is remarked % For the same reason 
 what verbs are ingraceful conclusions to a period ; and why 7 Of the pro- 
 noun it, as a concluding word, what is remarked ; and of any phrase which 
 expresses a circumstance only, what is observed 1 Circumstances are like 
 what ; and what is farther remarked of them '] To illustrate this remark, 
 what example is given from Dean Swift ; and how should the circum- 
 stances have been placed 1 
 
Lect. 12.] SENTENCES. 101 
 
 4 What I had the honor, some time ago, of mentioning to your 
 Lordship in conversation.' 
 
 The last rule which we shall mention relating to the 
 strength of a sentence is, that in the members of it, where 
 two things are compared or contrasted to each other ; where 
 either a resemblance or an opposition is designed to be ex- 
 pressed ; some resemblance in the language and construction 
 ought to be observed. The following passage from Pope's 
 preface to his Homer, beautifully exemplifies the rule we 
 are now giving. ' Homer was the greater genius ; Virgil, 
 the better artist ; in the one, we must admire the man ; in 
 the other, the work. Homer hurries us with a commanding 
 impetuosity ; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. 
 Homer scatters with a generous profusion ; Virgil bestows 
 with a careful magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, pours 
 out his riches with a sudden overflow ; Virgil, like a river 
 in its bank, with a constant stream. And when we look 
 upon their machines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter in 
 his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and 
 firing the heavens ; Virgil, like the same power, in his 
 benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying plans for 
 empires, and ordering his whole creation.' Periods of this 
 kind, when introduced with propriety, and not too frequently 
 repeated, have a sensible and attractive beauty : but if such 
 a construction be aimed at in all our sentences, it leads to a 
 disagreeable uniformity ; and produces a regular jingle in 
 the period, which tires the ear, and plainly discovers affec- 
 tation. 
 
 What is the last rule mentioned relating to the strength of a sentence? 
 Repeat the passage from Pope, which beautifully exemplifies this rule. 
 "When have periods of this kind a sensible beauty ; but if such a construc- 
 tion be aimed at in all our sentences, what will be its effect 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 Strength. 
 
 A. Redundant words. 
 
 a. Redundant members. 
 
 B. Attention to the situation of 
 
 copulatives, relatives, &c 
 
 a. The splitting of particles. 
 
 b. The multiplication and 
 
 omission of them. 
 
 c. The copulative and. 
 
 C. The disposition of the capital 
 
 words in sentences. 
 
 a. Advantages of the Greek 
 
 and Latin languages. 
 
 D. The proper succession of 
 
 sentences. 
 
 E. Sentences not to be con- 
 
 cluded with adverbs, &c. 
 
 F. Contrasted sentences. 
 
 9* 
 
LECTURE XIII. 
 
 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES— HARMONY. 
 
 Having hitherto treated of sentences, with respect to 
 their meaning", under the heads of perspicuity, unity, and 
 strength ; we shall now consider them, with respect to their 
 sound, their harmony, or agreeableness to the ear. 
 
 Sound is a quality much inferior to sense ; yet such as 
 must not be disregarded. For, as long as sounds are the 
 vehicle of conveyance for our ideas, there will be always a 
 very considerable connection between the idea which is con- 
 veyed, and the nature of the sound which conveys it. 
 Pleasing ideas can hardly be transmitted to the mind by 
 means of harsh and disagreeable sounds. The imagination 
 revolts as soon as it hears them uttered. ' Nihil,' says 
 Gluintilian, ' potest intrare in affectum, quod in auri, velut 
 quodam vestibulo, statim ofTendit.'* 
 
 In the harmony of periods, two things may be considered. 
 First, agreeable sounds, or modulation in general, with- 
 out any particular expression : Next, the sound so ordered 
 as to become expressive of the sense. The first is the more 
 common ; the second the higher beauty. 
 
 The beauty of musical construction will, evidently, de- 
 pend upon two things — the choice of words, and the arrange- 
 ment of them. On the choice of words there is not much 
 to be said, unless we were to enter into a tedious detail of 
 the powers of the several letters, or simple sounds, of which 
 speech is composed. Those words are, doubtless, most 
 pleasing to the ear, which are composed of smooth and 
 liquid sounds, where there is a proper intermixture of vow- 
 
 * Nothing can enter into the affections, which stumbles at the threshold 
 by offending the ear. 
 
 Under what three heads have we hitherto treated of sentences; and 
 with respect to what, are we now to consider them? Of sound what is 
 remarked ; and why must it not be disregarded 1 Through what can 
 pleasing ideas hardly be transmitted ; why ; and what says Quintilian 1 
 In the harmony of periods, what two things may be considered ; and what 
 is observed of them 1 Upon what two things will the beauty of musical 
 construction depend 1 On the choice of words, without what detail, is 
 there not much to be said % What words are most pleasing to the ear % 
 
Lect. 13.] HARMONY, &c. 103 
 
 els and consonants ; without too many harsh consonants 
 rubbing against each other ; or too many open vowels in 
 succession, to cause a hiatus, or disagreeable aperture of 
 the mouth. It may always be assumed as a principle, that 
 whatever sounds are difficult in pronunciation, are, in the 
 same proportion, harsh and painful to the ear. Long words 
 are commonly more agreeable than monosyllables. They 
 please the ear by the composition, or succession of sounds 
 which they present to it ; and accordingly the most musical 
 languages abound most in them. Of long words, those are 
 the most musical, which are not wholly composed, either of 
 long or short syllables, but of an intermixture of them ; such 
 as repent, produce, velocity, independent, impetuosity. 
 
 Though the words, however, which compose a sentence 
 be ever so well chosen, and harmonious, yet, if they be un- 
 skilfully arranged, its music is entirely lost. The following 
 sentence from Milton's Treatise on Education, is a remark- 
 able instance of musical construction. ' We shall conduct 
 you to a hill-side, laborious, indeed, at the first ascent ; but 
 else, so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects, and 
 melodious sounds, on every side, that the harp of Orpheus 
 was not more charming.' Every thing in this sentence 
 conspires to promote the harmony. The words are hap- 
 pily chosen ; full of liquid and soft sounds ; laborious, 
 smooth, green, goodly, melodious, charming : and these 
 so artfully arranged, that were we to alter the collocation of 
 any one of them, we should be immediately sensible of the 
 melody suffering. For, observe, how finely the members 
 of the period swell one above another. ' So smooth, so 
 green' — so full of goodly prospects and melodious sounds 
 on every side ;' — till the ear, prepared by this gradual rise, 
 is conducted to that full close on which it rests with plea- 
 sure ; — ' that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming.' 
 
 There are two things on which the music of a sentence 
 chiefly depends. These are, the proper disposition of the 
 several members of it ; and the close or cadence of the whole. 
 
 First, we observe, that the distribution of the several 
 
 What must always be assumed as a principle 1 Why do long words 
 please the ear more than monosyllables; and, accordingly, what follows? 
 Of long words which are most musical; and what examples are given"? 
 Possessing what properties, may the music of a sentence still be lost 1 Re- 
 peat the following sentence from Milton's Treatise on Education. Of this 
 sentence, what is remarked ; and how is this fully illustrated % On what 
 two things does the music of a sentence chiefly depend 1 
 
104 HARMONY, [Lect. 13, 
 
 members should be carefully attended to, Whatever is easy 
 and agreeable to the organs of speech, always sounds grate- 
 ful to the ear. While a period is going on, the termination 
 of each of its members forms a pause in the pronunciation ; 
 and these pauses should be so distributed as to make the 
 course of the breathing easy, and, at the same time, should 
 fall at such distances, as to bear a certain musical propor- 
 tion to each other. This will be best illustrated by exam- 
 ples. The following sentence is from Archbishop Tillotson : 
 1 This discourse, concerning the easiness of God's com- 
 mands, does, all along, suppose and acknowledge the 
 difficulties of the first entrance upon a religious course; 
 except only in those persons who have had the happiness to 
 be trained up to religion by the easy and insensible degrees 
 of a pious and virtuous education.' This sentence is far 
 from being harmonious ; owing chiefly to this — that there 
 is, properly, only one pause in it, falling between the two 
 members into which it is divided ; each of which is so 
 long as to require a considerable stretch of the breath in 
 pronouncing it. 
 
 Observe, now, on the other hand, the ease with which the 
 following sentence, from Sir William Temple glides along, 
 and the graceful intervals at which the pauses are placed. 
 He is speaking sarcastically of man : ' But, God be thanked, 
 his pride is greater than his ignorance, and what he wants 
 in knowledge, he supplies by sufficiency. When he has 
 looked about him, as far as he can, he concludes there is no 
 more to be seen ; when he is at the end of his line, he is at 
 the bottom of the ocean ; when he has shot his best, he is 
 sure none ever did, or ever can, shoot better, or beyond him. 
 His own reason he holds to be the certain measure of truth ; 
 and his own knowledge, of what is possible in nature.' 
 Here, every thing is, at once, easy to the breath, and grate- 
 ful to the ear ; and it is this sort of flowing measure which 
 renders Sir William Temple's style always agreeable. It 
 must, however, be observed, that if composition abounds 
 with sentences which have too many pauses, and these 
 
 How does it appear that the distribution of the several members should 
 be carefully attended to % To illustrate this remark, what sentence is 
 
 fiven from Tillotson ; what is observed of it, and why is it far from being 
 armonious 1 On the other hand, what is remarked of the following sen- 
 tence from Sir William Temple ; and of what is he speaking 1 Repeat 
 the passage. Here, every thing is of what character ; but what must, 
 however, be observed 1 
 
Lfccf. 13.} OF SENTENCES. 105 
 
 placed at intervals loo apparently measured and regular, it 
 is apt to savor of affectation. 
 
 The next thing to be attended to, is, the close or cadence 
 of the whole sentence. The only important rule that can 
 De given here, is, that when we aim at dignity or elevation, 
 the sound should be made to grow to the last ; the largest 
 members of the period, and the fullest and most sonorous 
 words, should be reserved to the conclusion. As an ex- 
 ample of this, the following sentence from Mr. Addison may 
 be given. * It fills the mind,' speaking of sight, * with the 
 largest variety of ideas ; converses with its objects at the 
 greatest distance ; and continues the longest in action, with- 
 out being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments.' 
 Every reader must be sensible of a beauty there, both in the 
 proper division of the members and pauses, and the manner 
 in which the sentence is rounded, and conducted to a full 
 and harmonious close. 
 
 The same thing holds in melody, that was observed to 
 take place with respect to signification — that a falling off at 
 the end of a sentence is very injurious. For this reason, 
 particles, pronouns, and all little words, are as ungracious to 
 the ear, at the conclusion, as they have already been shown 
 to be inconsistent with strength of expression. The sense 
 and sound have here a mutual influence on each other. That 
 which hurts the ear, mars the strength of the meaning also ; 
 and that which really degrades the sense, has also a bad 
 sound. An author, speaking of the Trinity, has the follow- 
 ing disagreeable sentence. < It is a mystery which we 
 firmly believe the truth of, and humbly adore the depth of.' 
 And how easily might it be mended by this transposition : 
 * It is a mystery, the truth of which we firmly believe, and 
 the depth of which we humbly adore.' A musical close in 
 our language seems, in general, to require, either the last 
 syllable, or the last but one, to be a long syllable. Words 
 that consist of short syllables only, as, contrary, particular. 
 
 On the close and cadence of the whole sentence, what is the only im- 
 portant rule that can be given 1 As an example of this, what sentence 
 from Mr. Addison is given ; and in it, of what must every reader be sen- 
 sible? What is equally true in melody, as in signification ; and for this 
 r-eason, what follows 1 How does it appear that the sense and sound have 
 here a mutual influence on each other % "What illustration is given from 
 an author who is speaking of the Trinity ; and how might it be corrected % 
 What does a musical close in our language seem to require 1 Under what 
 circumstances do words that consist of short syllables only, conclude a 
 sentence harmoniously % 
 
106 HARMONY, [Lect. 13, 
 
 retrospect^ seldom conclude a sentence harmoniously, un- 
 less a succession of long syllables, before, has rendered 
 them agreeable to the ear. 
 
 It is necessary, however, to observe, that sentences so 
 constructed as to make the sound always swell towards the 
 end, and to rest on a long, or a penult long syllable, give a 
 discourse the tone of declamation. If the melody be not 
 varied, the ear soon becomes familiar and is clogged with it. 
 To keep up the attention of the reader or hearer, and to pre- 
 serve vivacity and strength in our composition, we musty 
 therefore, be very attentive to vary our measure. As this 
 regards the distribution of the members, as well as the 
 cadence of the periods, sentences constructed in a similar 
 manner should never follow one another. Short sentences 
 should be blended with long and swelling ones, to render 
 discourse sprightly, as well as magnificent. Even discord r 
 abrupt sounds, and departure from regular cadence, if pro- 
 perly introduced, have, sometimes, a good effect. 
 
 Cicero is one of the most remarkable patterns of a har- 
 monious style, of either ancient or modern times. His love 
 of it, however, is too visible, and the pomp of his numbers 
 sometimes detracts from his strength. But we may observe, 
 in defence of this great orator, that there is a remarkable 
 union in his style, of harmony with ease, which is always a 
 great beauty ; and if his harmony be studied, that study 
 appears to have cost him little trouble. 
 
 Among our English classics, not many are distinguished 
 for musical arrangement. Milton, in some of his prose 
 works, has very finely turned periods ; but the writers of 
 his age indulged in a liberty of inversion, which would now 
 be reckoned contrary to purity of style; and though this 
 allowed their sentences to be more stately and sonorous, yet 
 it gave them too much of Latinised construction and order. 
 Of later writers, Shaftesbury, Addison, Sir William Temple, 
 and Bishop Atterbury, are the most remarkable for the- 
 music of their periods. 
 
 What, however, is it necessary to observe ; and why 1 To effect what,, 
 must we, consequently, he very attentive to our measure ; and what re- 
 mark follows 1 How should sentences be blended with each other; and 
 even what, sometimes, has a good effect 1 Of Cicero, in this respect, what 
 is remarked ; but in defence of this great orator, what may we observe ? 
 In musical arrangement, what is observed of Milton; but in what did the 
 writers of his age indulge ; and of this, what is remarked 1 Of late 
 writers, who are the mast remarkable for the m«sie of their periods 1 
 
Lect. 13.] OF SENTENCES. 107 
 
 Hitherto we have treated of agreeable sounds, or modu- 
 lation in general : we now proceed to a higher beauty of this 
 kind — the sound adapted to the sense. Of this we may 
 remark two degrees : First, the current of sound adapted 
 to the tenor of a discourse ; next, a particular resemblance 
 effected between some objects and the sounds that are em- 
 ployed in describing it. 
 
 First, the current of sound may be adapted to the tenor 
 of a discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a corres- 
 pondence with our ideas ; partly natural, and partly the 
 effect of artificial associations. Hence, any one modu- 
 lation of sound continued, stamps upon our style, a certain 
 character and expression. Sentences constructed with the 
 Ciceronian fullness and swell, produce the impression of 
 what is important, magnificent, and sedate : for this is the 
 natural tone which such a course of sentiments assumes. 
 But they suit no violent passion, no eager reasoning, no 
 familiar address : these require brisker, easier, and more 
 concise measures. To swell, and to let down the periods, 
 therefore, as the subject demands, is a very important rule 
 in oratory. It would be as ridiculous to write a familiar 
 epistle, and a funeral oration, in a style of the same cadence, 
 as to set the words of a tender love song to the air of a war- 
 like march. 
 
 But, in the next place, besides the general correspond- 
 ence of the current of sound with the current of thought, a 
 more particular expression may be attempted, of certain 
 objects, by means of resembling sounds. This can be, 
 sometimes, accomplished in prose compositions; but it is 
 chiefly to be looked for in poetry ; where attention to sound 
 is moi e demanded, and where the inversions and liberties of 
 poetic ai style give us a greater command of sound ; assisted, 
 too, by the versification, and that cantus ohscurior, to which 
 we are naturally led in reading poetry. 
 
 The sounds of words may be employed for representing, 
 
 Hitherto of what have we treated ; and to what do we now proceed % 
 Of this, what two degrees may we remark 1 With what have sounds, in 
 many respects, a correspondence ; and hence, what follows ! Of sentences 
 constructed with the Ciceronian fullness and swell, what is observed ; and 
 what is a very important rule in oratory How is this remark illustrated % 
 But in the next place, what is observed'? Where can this, sometimes, be 
 accomplished ; but where is it chiefly to be looked for ; and why 1 For 
 representing what three classes of objects, may the sounds of words be 
 employed 1 
 
108 HARMONY [Lect. 13. 
 
 chiefly, three classes of objects '. First, other sounds : 
 secondly, motions ; and, thirdly, the emotions and passions 
 of the mind. 
 
 First, by a proper choice of words, we may produce a 
 resemblance of other sounds which we mean to describe : 
 such as the noise of waters, the roaring of winds, or the 
 murmuring of streams. And it will be found, that in most 
 languages, the names of many particular sounds are so 
 formed, as to carry some affinity to the sound which they 
 signify : as, the whistling- of the wind, the buz and hum 
 of insects, the hiss of serpents, the crash of falling timber ; 
 and many other instances where the word has been plainly 
 framed upon the sound it represents. A remarkable ex- 
 ample of this beauty is found in Milton's Paradise Lost, 
 where, in the one passage, he describes the sound made by 
 the opening of the gates of hell ; and, in the other, that 
 made by the opening of the gates of heaven. The contrast 
 between the two, exhibits, to great advantage, the art of the 
 poet. The first is the opening of hell's gates : 
 
 -On a sudden, open fly 
 
 With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound, 
 Th' infernal doors ; and on their hinges grate 
 Harsh thunder. 
 
 Observe, now, the smoothness of the other : 
 
 Heaven opened wide 
 
 Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, 
 On golden hinges turning. 
 
 The second class of objects, which the sound of words is 
 often employed to imitate, is motion ; as it is swift or slow, 
 violent or gentle, easy, or accompanied with effort. Though 
 there is no natural affinity between sound and motion, yet, 
 in the imagination there is a striking one, as is evident from 
 the connection between music and dancing. The poet can, 
 consequently, give us a lively idea of the kind of motion 
 he would describe, by the help of sounds, which correspond, 
 in our imagination, with that motion. Long syllables 
 
 First, by a proper choice of words, what resemblance may we produce ; 
 and what examples are given 1 And in most languages what will be 
 found ; and what are instances 1 Where is a remarkable instance of this 
 beauty to be found ; and what is observed of it % Repeat the passages. 
 What is the second class of objects which the sound of words, is often em- 
 ployed to imitate ; and of this, what is observed ? How can the poet, con- 
 sequently, give us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would describe • 
 and what illustrations follow 1 
 
Lect. 13.] OE SENTENCES. 109 
 
 naturally give the impression of slow motion : as in the 
 following line of Virgil : 
 
 Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. 
 
 A succession of short syllables present t[t?ick motion to 
 the mind : as, 
 
 Q,uadrupedante putrem sonitu quatitungula campum. 
 
 The works of Homer and Virgil abound with beauties of 
 this kind ; but as they are so often quoted, and so well 
 known, it is unnecessary to produce them here. 
 
 The third set of objects, capable of being represented by 
 the sound of words, are the emotions and passions of the 
 mind. Between sense and sound there appears, at first view, 
 to be no natural resemblance ; but if the arrangement of 
 syllables, by the sound alone, calls forth one set of ideas 
 more readily than another, and disposes the mind to enter 
 into that affection which the poet intends to raise, such 
 arrangement may, with propriety, be said to resemble the 
 sense, or be similar and correspondent to it. Thus, when 
 pleasure, joy, and agreeable objects, are described by one 
 who sensibly feels his subject, the language naturally runs 
 into smooth, liquid, and flowing numbers; but brisk and 
 lively sensations require the numbers to be quicker and more 
 animated. 
 
 Melancholy and gloomy subjects, naturally express them- 
 selves in slow measures, and long words : as, 
 
 In those deep solitudes and awful cells, 
 Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells. 
 
 Abundant instances of this kind will be suggested by a 
 moderate acquaintance with the good poets, either ancient 
 or modern. 
 
 Whose works abound with beauties of this kind ; but why is it not 
 necessary to produce them here 1 What is the third set of objects capable 
 of being represented by the sounds of words ; and under this head, what 
 observations are made 1 Thus, from the descriptions of pleasure, joy, &c, 
 how is this illustrated 1 How do melancholy and gloomy subjects naturally 
 express themselves ; and what example is given 1 What remark follows 1 
 
 1. Sounds independent of the sense. 
 
 A. The choice of words. 
 
 B. The arrangement of words 
 
 and sentences. 
 
 a. The distribution of the 
 
 members of a sentence. 
 
 b. The close of a sentence. 
 
 2. Sounds adapted to the sense. 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 A. Adapted to the tenor of a 
 discourse. 
 
 B. Adapted to the objects 
 described. 
 
 a. Other sounds. 
 
 b. Motion. 
 
 c. Emotions and passions. 
 
 10 
 
LECTURE XIV. 
 
 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FIGURATIVE 
 LANGUAGE. 
 
 Having finished what related to the construction of sen- 
 tences, we proceed to other rules concerning style. Our 
 general division of the qualities of style, was into perspi- 
 cuity and ornament. Perspicuity, both in single words and 
 phrases, has been considered. Ornament, so far as it arises 
 from a graceful, strong and melodious construction of words, 
 has also been treated of. Another, and a great branch of 
 the ornament of style, is figurative language ; to the dis- 
 cussion of which we now proceed. 
 
 Figures, in general, always imply some departure from 
 simplicity of expression ; the idea which we intend to con- 
 vey, not only enunciated to others, but enunciated in a 
 particular manner, and with some circumstance added, which 
 is designed to render the impression stronger and more 
 vivid. When we say, for instance, * That a good man 
 enjoys comfort in the midst of adversity ;' we just express 
 our thought in the simplest manner possible. But when 
 we say, ' To the upright there arises light in darkness ;' 
 the same sentiment is expressed in a figurative style ; a new 
 circumstance is introduced ; light is put in the place of 
 comfort, and darkness, is used to suggest the idea of adver- 
 sity. But, though figures imply a deviation from what may 
 be considered the most simple form of speech, we are not 
 thence to conclude, that they imply any thing uncommon 
 or unnatural. This is so far from being the case, that, on 
 many occasions, they are both the most natural, and the 
 most common method of uttering our sentiments. It is im- 
 possible to compose any discourse without using them often ; 
 
 Having finished what related to the construction of sentences, to what 
 do we now proceed 1 What was our general division of the qualities of 
 style; and how far have they been, respectively, considered'? What is 
 another branch of the ornament of style ? What do figures, in general, 
 always imply 1 What instance of illustration is given ; and what is re- 
 marked of it 1 But, though figures imply a deviation from the most sim- 
 ple form of speech, what are we not thence to conclude ; and why 1 How 
 is this illustrated 1 
 
Lect. 14.] ORIGIN AND NATURE, &c. \\\ 
 
 indeed there are few sentences of any length, in which 
 some expression or other, that may he termed a figure* does 
 not occur. That which has drawn the attention of critics 
 and rhetoricians so much to these forms of speech, is, that 
 in them they remarked much of the beauty and the force of 
 language to consist ; and found them always to hear some 
 characters, or distinguishing marks, hy the help of which 
 they could reduce them under separate classes and heads. 
 To this circumstance, perhaps, they owe the name of 
 figures. 
 
 Figures may he defined to he that language which is 
 prompted either by the imagination, or hy the passions. 
 They are generally divided, by rhetoricians, into two great 
 classes — figures of words, and figures of thought. The 
 former are commonly called tropes, and consist in a word's 
 being employed to signify something that is different from 
 its original meaning ; so that, if the word be altered, the 
 figure is destroyed. Thus, in the instance before given; 
 ' Light ariseth to the upright in darkness.' Here the trope 
 consists in ' light and darkness,* not being taken literally, 
 but intended to express comfort and adversity j to which con- 
 ditions of life they are supposed to bear some analogy or 
 resemblance. The other class, called figures of thought, 
 supposes the words to be used literally, and the figure to 
 consist in the sentiment only ; as is the case in exclamations, 
 interrogations, apostrophes, and comparisons ; where, 
 though the words be varied, or translated from one language 
 into another, the same figure is, notwithstanding, still pre- 
 served. This distinction is, however, of small importance, 
 since practice cannot be assisted by it ; nor is it, in itself, 
 always very clear. 
 
 The first cause of the invention of tropes, was the barren- 
 ness of language. The operations of the mind, and of the 
 affections, in particular, are, in most languages, described 
 by words taken from sensible objects. The reason of this 
 
 What, then, has drawn the attention of critics and rhetoricians so much 
 to these forms of speech ; and to this circumstance what do they owe ? 
 How may figures be defined ; and how are they generally divided'? What 
 are the former commonly called ; and in what do they consist 1 What 
 illustration follows 1 What does the other class suppose ; as is the case in 
 what ; and of them, what is remarked 1 Why, however, is this distinction 
 of small importance 1 What was the first cause of the invention of 
 tropes 1 How are the operations of the mind, and affections, in most lan- 
 guages, described ; and what is the reason of this 1 
 
Ilf3 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [Lect. 14 
 
 is manifest : the names of sensible objects were, in all lan- 
 guages, the words earliest introduced ; and were, by degrees, 
 extended to those mental objects, of which men had more 
 obscure conceptions, and to which they found it more difficult 
 to assign distinct names. They borrowed, therefore, the 
 name of some sensible idea, where their imagination found 
 an affinity. Thus, we speak of a piercing- judgment, and 
 a clear head ; a soft or a hard heart ; a rough or a smooth 
 behavior. We speak, also, of being inflamed by anger, 
 warmed by love ; swelled with pride, melted into grief; and 
 these are almost the only significant words w r hieh we have 
 for such ideas. 
 
 But, though the barrenness of language be one cause of the 
 invention of tropes, yet it is not the only source of this form 
 of speech. Tropes have arisen more frequently from the 
 influence which imagination possesses over language. The 
 imagination never contemplates any one idea as single and 
 alone, but as accompanied by other ideas, which may be 
 considered as its accessaries. These accessaries often affect 
 the imagination more than the principal idea itself. They 
 are, perhaps, in their nature more agreeable, or more 
 familiar to our conceptions ; or remind us of a greater 
 variety of important circumstances. Hence the name of 
 the accessary or correspondent idea is employed, although 
 the principal has a proper and well known name of its own. 
 Thus, for example, when w r e design to intimate the period 
 at which a state enjoyed most reputation and glory, we 
 might easily employ the proper words for expressing this : 
 but as, in our imagination, this is readily connected with the 
 flourishing period of a plant or tree, we prefer this corres- 
 pondent idea, and say, ' The Roman Empire flourished 
 most under Augustus.' The leader of a faction is plain 
 language ; but because the head is the principal part of the 
 human body, and is supposed to direct all the animal 
 operations, w T e figuratively say, ' Catiline was the head of 
 the party.' The word voice, w r as originally invented to 
 signify the articulate sound, formed by the organs of the 
 mouth ; but, as by means of it, men signify their ideas and 
 
 What did they, therefore, borrow ; and what examples are given 1 Be- 
 sides from the barrenness of language, from what, also, have tropes arisen 1 
 How does the imagination always contemplate ideas; and how do these 
 accessaries often affect it 1 What is farther observed of them 1 Hence 
 what follows ; and what examples of illustration are given r i How is this 
 farther illustrated from the word voice ? 
 
Lect. 14.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 113 
 
 their intentions to each other, voice soon assumed many 
 other meanings, all derived from this primary effect. Thus 
 we speak of listening to the voice of conscience, the voice 
 of nature, and the voice of God. 
 
 From what has been said, the reason why all languages 
 are most figurative in their early state, is manifest. Language 
 is then most barren : the stock of proper names is small ; 
 and, at the same time, imagination exerts great influence 
 over the conceptions of men, and their method of uttering 
 them ; so that both from necessity and from choice, their 
 speech will, at that period, abound in tropes : for the savage 
 tribes of men are always much given to wonder and astonish- 
 ment. Every new object surprises, terrifies, and makes a 
 strong impression on their mind ; they are governed by 
 imagination and passion, more than by reason ; and, con- 
 sequently, their speech must be deeply tinctured by their 
 genius. But as language gradually advances towards 
 refinement, almost every object comes to have a proper name 
 given to it, and perspicuity and precision are more stu- 
 died. 
 
 We will now proceed to show, why tropes or figures con 
 tribute to the beauty and grace of style. 
 
 In the first place, they enrich language, and render it 
 more copious. Hence words and phrases are multiplied 
 for expressing all sorts of ideas ; for describing even the 
 most minute differences — the most delicate shades and colors 
 of thoughts ; which, by proper words alone, could not pos- 
 sibly be expressed. 
 
 Secondly, they bestow dignity upon style ; which, by the 
 familiarity of common expressions, is degraded. Figurative 
 language, when properly employed, has the same effect 
 upon an elevated subject, that rich and splendid apparel has 
 upon a person of rank and dignity : they adapt the language 
 to the tone of the subject. Assistance of this kind is often 
 requisite in prose compositions ; and in poetry, it is indis- 
 pensable. To say ' the sun rises,' is trite and common ; 
 
 From what has been said, what is manifest ; and why is this the case 1 
 As the savage tribes of men are always much given to wonder and as- 
 tonishment, what follows 1 But when are perspicuity and precision more 
 studied 1 To show what shall we now proceed 1 In the first place, what 
 is their effect ; and hence words and phrases are multiplied for what pur- 
 pose % In the second place, how do they improve style ; and how is this 
 illustrated 1 Where is assistance of this kind often requisite; and where, 
 indispensable 1 What illustration of this remark follows? 
 10* 
 
114 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [Lect. 14. 
 
 but, in the language of Thomson, it becomes a magnificent 
 image : 
 
 But yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
 Rejoicing in the east. 
 
 In the third place, figures giye us the pleasure of enjoy- 
 ing two objects presented together to our view, without con- 
 fusion — the principal idea, together with the accessary, 
 which gives it the figurative appearance. We see one thing 
 in another, as Aristotle expresses it, which is always agree- 
 able to the mind. When, for instance, in place of ' youth' 
 we say ' the morning of life,' the fancy is immediately 
 entertained with all the resembling circumstances which 
 these two objects bear to each other. At the same instant, 
 we behold a certain period of human life, and a certain 
 time of the day, so connected with each other, that the 
 imagination plays between them with pleasure, and contem- 
 plates two similar objects in one view, without confusion. 
 
 In the fourth place, figures afford a clearer and more 
 striking view of the principal object, than could be had of it 
 were it expressed in simple terms, and divested of its 
 accessary idea. They exhibit the object on which they are 
 employed, in a picturesque form ; they can render an 
 abstract conception, in some degree, an object of sense ; 
 they surround it with such circumstances, as enable the 
 mind to lay hold of it steadily, and to contemplate it fully. 
 * Those persons,' says Burke, ' who gain the hearts of 
 most people, who are chosen as the companions of their softer 
 hours, and their reliefs from anxiety and care, are seldom 
 persons of shining qualities, or strong virtues : it is rather 
 the soft green of the soul, on which we rest our eyes, that 
 are fatigued with more glaring objects.'* Here, by a happy 
 allusion to a color, the whole conception is conveyed clear 
 and strong to the mind in one word. By a well chosen 
 figure, conviction even, is assisted, and the impression of a 
 truth upon the mind made more lively and forcible than it 
 
 * Treatise on the Sublime and Beautiful. 
 
 In the third place, figures give us the pleasure of enjoying what ; and what 
 remark follows ] From the word youth, and the phrase, the morning of life, 
 how is this illustrated 1 In the fourth place, what is their effect ; and how is 
 this remark illustrated'? What beautiful example is given from Mr. 
 Burke ; and what is remarked of it? By a well chosen figure, what effect 
 is produced upon conviction; and what illustration is given from Pr. 
 
Lect. 14.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 115 
 
 would otherwise be. Thus, in the fallowing passage of Dr. 
 Young : ' When we dip too deep in pleasure, we always 
 stir a sediment that renders it impure and noxious.' An 
 image that presents so much resemblance between a moral 
 and a sensible idea, seems like an argument from analogy, 
 to enforce what the author asserts, and to produce conviction. 
 
 Whether we desire to raise sentiments of pleasure or 
 aversion, we can always heighten the emotion by the figures 
 which we introduce ; leading the imagination to a train, 
 either of agreeable or disagreeable, of exalting or debasing 
 ideas, correspondent to the impression which we seek to 
 make. When we wish to render an object beautiful, or 
 magnificent, we borrow images from all the most beautiful 
 or splendid scenes of nature ; we thereby naturally throw 
 a lustre over our object ; we enliven the reader's mind, and 
 dispose him to go along with us, in the gay and pleasing im- 
 pressions which we give him of the subject. 
 
 Having thus explained the origin, the nature, and the 
 effects of tropes, we shall next proceed to the several kinds 
 and divisions of them. All, however, that is proposed in 
 this lecture is to give, in a few words, a general view of the 
 several sources whence the tropical meaning of words is 
 derived : after which we shall, in subsequent lectures, de- 
 scend to a more particular consideration of some of the most 
 important of them, and such as are in most frequent use ; 
 in treating of which, we shall endeavor to give all the 
 instruction that may be necessary, concerning the proper 
 employment of figurative language, and point out the errors 
 and abuses which are apt to be committed in this part of 
 style. 
 
 All tropes being founded on the relation which one object 
 bears to another, the name of the one can be substituted for 
 that of the other ; and by this means, the vivacity of the idea 
 is generally intended to be increased. Of these relations, 
 the relation between a cause and its effect, is one of the first 
 
 What is the effect of such an image as is here presented 1 
 Whether we desire to raise sentiments of pleasure or aversion, how can 
 we always heighten the emotion by the figures which we introduce; 
 and how is this illustrated 1 Having thus explained the origin, the 
 nature, and the effect of tropes, to what shall we next proceed ] What, 
 only, however, is proposed in this lecture; after which, in subsequent 
 lectures what shall be donel As all tropes are founded on the relation 
 which one object bears to another, what follows ; and by this means what 
 is intended to be increased 1 Of these relations, which is one of the first 
 and most obvious ] 
 
116 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [Lect. 14. 
 
 and most obvious. Hence, in figurative language, the cause 
 is put for the effect. Thus, Mr. Addison, writing of Italy, 
 
 Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers, together rise, 
 And the whole year in gay confusion lies. 
 
 Here the ' whole year,' is plainly intended to signify the 
 effects or productions of all the seasons of the year. The 
 effect is also often put for the cause ; as ' gray hairs' for 
 4 old age,' which produces gray hairs ; and ' shade,' for 
 * trees,' which cause the shade. The relation which subsists 
 between the container and the thing contained, is, also, so 
 intimate and obvious, as naturally to give rise to tropes : 
 
 -Ille impiger hausit 
 
 Spumantem pateram, et pleno se proluit auro ; 
 
 Where every one sees that the cup and the gold are put for 
 the liquor that was contained in the golden cup. In the 
 same manner, the name of a country is often used to denote 
 the inhabitants of that country ; and to pray for the assist- 
 ance of Heaven, is the same as to pray for the assistance of 
 God, who is supposed to reside in heaven. The relation 
 between a sign and the thing signified, is another source of 
 tropes. Hence, 
 
 Cedant arma togs ; concedat laurea linguae. 
 
 The * toga' being the badge of the civil professions, and the 
 ' laurel' of military honors, the badge of each is put for the 
 civil and military characters themselves. To ' assume the 
 sceptre,' is a common phrase for entering on royal authority. 
 To tropes, founded on these several relations of cause and 
 effect, container and contained, sign and thing signified, is 
 given the name Metonymy. 
 
 When the trope is founded on the relation between an 
 antecedent and a consequent, it is called a Metalepsis ; as 
 when the Romans used to say, ' fuit,' or « vixit,' to signify 
 
 Hence what follows ; and what example is given 7 Here ' the whole year,' 
 is intended to signify what 1 What instances are mentioned in which the 
 effect is put for the cause 1 Of the relation between the container and 
 the thing contained, what is remarked ; what example is given, and what 
 is observed of it 1 What is another source of tropes ; what is the exam- 
 ple ; and what is remarked of it ] What other examples of tropes of the 
 same kind are mentioned ; and to all these what general name is given 1 
 When is a trope called a metalepsis; and what is the example'? 
 
Lect. 14] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 
 
 117 
 
 that one was dead. ' Fuit Ilium et ingens gloria Darda- 
 nidum,' signifies, that the glory of Troy is now no more. 
 
 When the whole is put for a part, or a part for the whole ; 
 a genus for a species, or a species for a genus ; the singular 
 number for the plural, or the plural for the singular ; in 
 general, when any thing more, or any thing less, is put for 
 the precise object meant, the figure is then called a Synec- 
 doche. It is very common, for instance, to say, * a fleet of 
 so many sail,' in the place of ' ships ;' or to use the ' head' 
 for the ' person,' the ' pole' for the ' earth,' the ' waves,' 
 for the ' sea.' In the same manner an attribute may be put 
 for a subject ; and ' youth and beauty,' for ■' the young and 
 beautiful ;' and sometimes, a subject for its attribute. But 
 it is unnecessary to insist longer on this enumeration. 
 Enough has been said to give an opening into that great 
 variety of relations between objects, by means of which, the 
 mind is assisted to pass easily from one to another ; and 
 understands, by the name of the one, the other to be meant. 
 But the relation of similitude and resemblance, which is far 
 the most fruitful in tropes, is yet to be mentioned. On this 
 is founded what is called the metaphor ; when, instead of 
 using the proper name of any object, we employ, in its place, 
 the name of some other, which is like it ; which is a sort of 
 picture of it, and which thereby awakens the conception of 
 it with more force or grace. This, therefore, shall be fully 
 considered in the next lecture. 
 
 When is the figure called a Synecdoche ; and what instances are men- 
 tioned 1 In the same manner what may be done ; but why is it unne- 
 cessary to insist longer on this enumeration ? But what relation is yet 
 to be mentioned ; on this is formed what figure ; and what is remarked 
 of it 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. General remarks. 
 
 2. Definitions of figures. 
 
 A. Figures of words. 
 
 B. Figures of thought. 
 
 3. Origin of figures. 
 
 A. The influence of the imagi- 
 nation over language. 
 
 4. Languages most figurative at 
 
 their origin. 
 
 5. The advantages of figures. 
 A. They enrich language. 
 
 B. They render it more dicmi- 
 
 fed. 
 
 C. They present the principal 
 
 object with its accessary. 
 
 D. They render our views more 
 
 distinct. 
 Different kinds of figures. 
 
 A. Metonymy. 
 
 B. Metalepsis. 
 
 C. Synecdoche. 
 
LECTURE XV. 
 
 METAPHOR. 
 
 From the preliminary observations made, concerning' 
 figurative language in general, we now proceed to treat 
 separately of such figures of speech, as occur most fre- 
 quently, and require particular attention. The first to be 
 discussed is the metaphor. This figure is founded entirely 
 on the resemblance which one object bears to another. Hence 
 it is closely allied to simile or comparison, and differs only 
 from it in being expressed in an abridged form. When we 
 say of a great minister, ' that he upholds the state, like a 
 pillar which supports the weight of a whole edifice,' we 
 evidently make a comparison ; but when we say of such a 
 minister, ' that he is the pillar of the state,' it becomes a 
 metaphor. The comparison betwixt the minister and a pil- 
 lar is made in the mind ; but is expressed without any of the 
 words that denote comparison. The comparison is only 
 insinuated, not expressed : the one object is supposed to be 
 so like the other, that without formally drawing the com- 
 parison, the name of the one may be put in the place of the 
 name of the other. ' The minister is the pillar of the state.' 
 This, therefore, is a more lively and animated manner of 
 expressing the resemblances which the imagination traces 
 among objects. 
 
 Of all the figures of speech, none approaches so near to 
 painting as the metaphor. Its peculiar effect is to give light 
 and strength to description ; to make intellectual ideas, in 
 some degree, visible to the eye, by giving them color, and 
 substance, and sensible qualities. To produce this effect, 
 however, a delicate hand is required ; for, by a very little 
 inaccuracy, we are in danger of introducing confusion, 
 instead of promoting perspicuity. Several rules, therefore, 
 
 From the preliminary observations made concerning figurative language 
 in general, of what do we now proceed to treat 1 Which is the first to be 
 discussed ; on what is it founded ; and hence what follows 1 How is this 
 illustrated 1 Of the comparison between the pillar and the minister, what 
 is farther observed 1 To what does this figure approach ; and what is its 
 peculiar effect 1 To produce this effect, however, what is requisite ; and 
 why 2 
 
Lect. 15.] METAPHOR. 119 
 
 are necessary for the proper management of metaphors. 
 But, before we enter upon these, it may be proper to give 
 one instance of a very beautiful metaphor, that the figure 
 may appear to full advantage. The instance is taken from 
 Lord Bolingbroke's remarks on the History of England. 
 Just at the conclusion of his work, speaking of the behavior 
 of Charles I. to his last parliament, he says, ' In a word, 
 about a month after their meeting, he dissolved them ; and, 
 as soon as he had dissolved them he repented ; but he re- 
 pented too late of his rashness. Well might he repent ; for 
 the vessel was now full, and this last drop made the waters 
 of bitterness to overflow.' ' Here,' he adds, ' we draw the 
 curtain, and put an end to our remarks.' Nothing could be 
 more happily thrown off. The metaphor is continued 
 through several expressions. The vessel is put for the 
 state, or temper of the nation, already full, that is, provoked 
 to the highest degree, by former oppressions and wrongs ; 
 this last drop stands for the provocation recently received 
 by the abrupt dissolution of the parliament ; and the over- 
 flowing of the waters of bitterness, forcibly expresses all 
 the effects of resentment, let loose by an exasperated people. 
 Proceeding, now, to the rules to be observed in the proper 
 management of metaphors, the first one to be mentioned is, 
 that they be suited to the nature of the subject of which we 
 treat ; neither too numerous, nor too gay, nor too elevated for 
 it ; that we neither attempt to force the subject, by means of 
 them, into a degree of elevation which is not congruous to 
 it ; nor, on the other hand, allow it to sink below its proper 
 dignity. Some metaphors are beautiful in poetry, which 
 would be absurd and unnatural in prose ; some may be 
 graceful in orations, which would be very improper in his- 
 torical or philosophical compositions. Figures, it must be 
 remembered, are the dress of our sentiments : and as there 
 is a natural congruity between dress, and the character, or 
 rank, of the person who wears it, a violation of which con- 
 gruity never fails to be unpleasing ; the same is true in the 
 
 Before we enter upon the rules for the management of this figure, what 
 is proposed to be done ; and why 1 Whence is the instance taken ; and 
 what is if? Of this metaphor what is remarked ; and how is this illus- 
 trated 1 In the proper management of the metaphor, what is the first 
 rule to he observed '? Of the proper appropriation of metaphors to different 
 kinds of composition, what is remarked 1 As figures are the dress of our 
 sentiments, what follows ; and to what must they, therefore, be carefully 
 " 1 
 
120 METAPHOR. [Lect. 15. 
 
 application of figures to sentiment. They should, therefore, 
 be carefully adapted to the character of the style which they 
 are intended to adorn. 
 
 The second rule given, respects the choice of objects 
 whence metaphors are to be drawn. The field of figurative 
 language is very wide. All nature opens its stores to us, 
 and allows us to gather, from all sensible objects, whatever 
 can illustrate intellectual or moral ideas. Not only the gay 
 and splendid objects of sense, but the grave, the terrifying, 
 and even the gloomy and dismal, may, on different occasions, 
 be introduced into figures with propriety. But care must 
 be taken not to use such allusions as raise in the mind dis- 
 agreeable, mean, or low ideas. Even when metaphors are 
 chosen in order to vilify and degrade an object, an author 
 should study never to be low or vulgar in his allusions. 
 Dean Swift's treatise on the Art of Sinking, contains a full 
 and humorous collection of instances of this kind, wherein 
 authors, instead of exalting, have contrived to degrade their 
 subjects by the figures they employed. Indeed, authors of 
 distinction sometimes fall into this error. Shakspeare, 
 whose imagination was more remarkable for its richness and 
 boldness, than for its delicacy, often fails here. The follow- 
 ing, for example, is a gross transgression. In his Henry V., 
 having mentioned a dunghill, he immediately raises a 
 metaphor from the steam of it; and on a subject too that 
 naturally led to much nobler ideas : 
 
 And those that leave their valiant bones in France, 
 Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, 
 They shall be fam'd ; for there the sun shall greet them, 
 And draw their honors reeking up to heaven. 
 
 In the third place, particular care should be taken that the 
 resemblance, which is the foundation of the metaphor, be 
 clear and perspicuous ; not far fetched, nor difficult to be 
 discovered. The transgression of this rule forms, what are 
 called harsh, or forced metaphors, which are always dis- 
 pleasing, because they puzzle the reader, and, instead of 
 
 What does the second rule given, respect 1 Of the extent of the field of 
 figurative language, what is remarked ; and what illustration of this re- 
 mark fellows'? But about what must care be taken 1 ? What work con- 
 tains a humorous collection of instances of this kind ; and what is remarked 
 of them 1 Authors of what character sometimes fall into this error ; and 
 what instance is given illustrative of this remark 1 In the third place, 
 about what should particular care be taken 1 What does the transgression 
 and why are they always displeasing 1 
 
Lect. 15.] METAPHOR. T21 
 
 illustrating the thought, render it perplexed and intricate. 
 With metaphors of this kind, Cowley, and some other wri- 
 ters of his age, abound. How forced and obscure, for in- 
 stance, are the following verses of the former, in which he is 
 speaking of his mistress : 
 
 Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mane come 
 
 Into the selfsame room, 
 'Twill tear and blow up all within, 
 Like a grenado, shot into a magazine. 
 Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts 
 Of both our broken hearts ; 
 
 Shall out of both one new one make ; 
 From her's th' alloy, from mine the metal take; 
 For of her heart, he from the flames will find 
 But little left behind ; 
 
 Mine only, will remain entire ; 
 No dross was there to perish in the fire. 
 
 Metaphors borrowed from any of the sciences, especially 
 such of them as belong to particular professions, are, by 
 their obscurity, always faulty. 
 
 In the fourth place, we must be careful never to jumble 
 metaphorical and plain language together ; never to con- 
 struct a period in such a manner, that part of it is to be 
 understood metaphorically, and part, literally* This always 
 produces a most disagreeable confusion. Instances of the 
 violation of this rule are frequent, even in good authors. 
 In Mr. Pope's translation of the Odyssey, Penelope, bewail- 
 ing the abrupt departure of her son Telemachus, is made to 
 speak thus : 
 
 Long to my joys my dearest lord is lost, 
 His country's buckler, and the Grecian boast, 
 Now from my fond embrace by tempests torn, 
 Our other column of the state is borne, 
 Nor took a kind adieu, nor sought consent. 
 
 Here, in one line, her son is figured as a column ; and in the 
 next, he returns to a person, to whom it belongs to take adieu, 
 and to ask consent. This is inconsistent. The poet should 
 either have kept himself to the idea of man in the literal 
 sense ; or, if he figured him by a column, he should have 
 
 Who abound with metaphors of this kind ; and from the former, what 
 example is given 1 What metaphors are, by their obscurity, always 
 faulty '? In the fourth place, about what must we be careful ; and what 
 does ihis always produce 1 Where are instances of the violation of this 
 rule frequent ; and what example is given from Mr. Pope's translation of 
 the Odyssey % Of this passage, what is remarked ; -and what should the 
 poet have done 1 
 
122 METAPHOR. [Lect. 15. 
 
 ascribed nothing to him but what belonged to it. He was 
 not at liberty to ascribe to that column the actions and pro- 
 perties of a man. Such unnatural mixtures render the 
 image indistinct ; leaving it to waver, in our conceptions, 
 between the figurative and the literal sense. 
 
 Though the works of Ossian abound with beautiful and 
 correct metaphors, yet they afford one instance of the fault 
 we are now censuring. ' Trothal went forth with the 
 stream of his people, but they met a rock ; for Fingal stood 
 unmoved : broken they rolled back from his side. Nor did 
 they roll in safety ; the spear of the king pursued their 
 flight.' The metaphor, at the beginning, is exceedingly 
 beautiful. The ' stream,' the ' unmoved rock,' the « waves 
 rolling back broken,' are expressions agreeable to the pro- 
 per and consistent language of figure ; but, in the conclusion, 
 when we are told, ' they did not roll in safety, because the 
 spear of the king pursued their flight,' the literal meaning 
 is injudiciously mixed with the metaphor ; they are, at the 
 same moment, represented as waves that roll, and as men 
 that may be pursued and wounded with a spear. 
 
 In the fifth place, we must be careful not to make two 
 different metaphors meet on the same object. This is what 
 is called mixed metaphor, and is one of the grossest abuses 
 of this figure. Shakspeare's expression, for example, ' to 
 take up arms against a sea of troubles,' makes a most un- 
 natural medley, and entirety confounds the imagination. 
 Quintilian has carefully guarded us against it. ' We must 
 be particularly attentive,' says he, 'to end with what we 
 have begun. Some, when they begin the figure with a 
 tempest, conclude it with a conflagration ; which forms a 
 shameful inconsistency.' Observe, for instance, what an 
 inconsistent group of objects is brought together by Shak- 
 speare,, in the following passage of the Tempest ; speaking 
 of persons recovering their judgment after the enchantment 
 which held them was dissolved : 
 
 The charm dissolves apace, 
 
 And as the morning- steals upon the night, 
 
 To do what, was he not at liberty ; and of such unnatural mixtures, 
 what is remarked 1 What is observed of the works of Ossian ; yet of 
 what do they afford one instance 1 What is it - r and what is remarked of 
 it 1 In the fifth place, about what must we be careful 1 What is this 
 called ; and what is said of it 1 What is remarked of Shakspeare's ex- 
 pression, ' To take up arms against a sea of trouble ;' and what says 
 Cluintilian on this subject 1 What passage is here introduced frora 
 Shakspeare's Tempest j and what is observed of it 1 
 
Lect. 15.] METAPHOR. 133 
 
 Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
 Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
 Their clearer reason. 
 
 So many ill sorted things are here joined, that the mind can 
 see nothing clearly — the morning stealing upon the dark- 
 ness, and at the same time, melting it — the senses of men 
 chasing fumes, ignorant fumes, and fumes that mantle. 
 More correct Avriters than Shakspeare, sometimes fall 
 into this error of mixing metaphors. It is surprising that 
 the following should have escaped Mr. Addison, in his letter 
 from Italy: 
 
 I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, 
 
 That longs to launch into a bolder strain. 
 
 The muse, figured as a horse, may he bridled ; but when 
 we speak of launching, we make it a ship ; and by no force 
 of imagination, can it be supposed both a horse and a ship 
 at the same time — bridled to hinder it from launching. 
 The same author, in one of his numbers in the Spectator, 
 says, ' There is not a single view of human nature, which 
 is not sufficient to extinguish the seeds of pride.' Nothing 
 could be more incoherent than the things here joined 
 together ; making ' a view extinguish, and extinguish seeds.' 
 
 It is a good rule for examining the propriety of metaphors, 
 when we doubt whether or not they are of the mixed kind, 
 to try to form a picture upon them, and consider how the 
 parts would agree, and what sort of figure the whole would 
 present, when delineated with a pencil. By this means, we 
 should become sensible, whether inconsistent circumstances 
 were mixed, and a monstrous image thereby produced ; or 
 whether the object was, all along, presented in one natural 
 and consistent point of view. 
 
 Metaphors, in the sixth place, should not be croAvded 
 together on the same object. Though each of the meta- 
 phors be preserved distinct, yet, if they be heaped on one 
 another, they produce confusion. The following lines from 
 Francis' translation of Horace, will exemplify this remark : 
 
 Of warm commotions, wrathful jars, 
 The growing seeds of civil wars ; 
 
 That more correct writers than Shakspeare, sometimes fall into this 
 error, what evidence is given ; and on this passage, what remarks are 
 made % "What says the same author in one of his numbers of the Specta- 
 tor ; and what is observed of it % What rule is given for examining the 
 propriety of metaphors ; and by this means, of what should we become 
 sensible % Of metaphors in the sixth place, what is remarked ; and why 
 should not this be done 1 What lines will exemplify this remark 1 
 
134 METAPHOR. [Lect. 15. 
 
 Of double fortune's cruel games, 
 
 The spacious means, the private aims, 
 And fatal friendships of the guilty great, 
 Alas ! how fatal to the Roman state ! 
 
 Of mighty legions late subdu'd, 
 
 And arms with Latian blood embru'd; 
 
 Fet unatoned, a labor vast I 
 
 Doubtful the die, and dire the cast ! 
 You treat adventurous, and incautious tread, 
 On fires with faithless embers overspread. 
 
 This passage, though highly poetical, is, still, harsh and 
 obscure ; owing to this cause only, that three distinct meta- 
 phors are crowded together to describe the difficulty of 
 Pollio's writing a history of the civil wars. The mind 
 finds it difficult to pass through so many different views, 
 given in quick succession, of the same object. 
 
 The seventh, and last rule, which we shall suggest con- 
 cerning metaphors, is, that they be not too far pursued. If 
 the resemblance on which the figure is founded, be long 
 dwelt upon, and carried into all its minute circumstances, 
 we produce an allegory instead of a metaphor ; we tire the 
 reader, who soon becomes weary of this play of fancy ; and 
 we render our discourse obscure. This is called straining 
 a metaphor. Cowley deals in this to excess ; and to this 
 error is owing, in a great measure, that intricacy and harsh- 
 ness, in his figurative language, which was before noticed 
 Dr. Young, also, often violates this rule. The merit, how- 
 ever, of this writer, in figurative language, is great, and 
 deserves to be remarked. No writer, ancient or modern, 
 had a stronger imagination than Dr. Young, or one more 
 fertile in figures of every kind. His metaphors are often 
 new, and often natural and beautiful. But his imagination 
 was strong and rich, rather than delicate and correct. 
 Hence, in the style of his Night Thoughts, much obscurity 
 and hardness are observed. Thus, speaking of old age, he 
 says, it should 
 
 Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore 
 Of that vast ocean, it must sail so soon ; 
 
 Though this passage is highly poetical, yet why is it still harsh and 
 obscure ; and what remark follows 1 What is the last rule suggested con- 
 cerning metaphors ; and if the resemblance be long dwelt upon, what 
 will be the consequence 1 What is this called ; and what results from the 
 frequent use of it, in Cowley's metaphors % What eminent poet often 
 violates this rule ; yet of his merit in figurative language, what is ob- 
 served 1 Of his imagination, what is remarked ; and hence, in the style 
 of his Night Thoughts, what is observed ? Thus, speaking of old age, 
 what does he say : and of this passage what is remarked ? 
 
Lect. 15.J ALLEGORY. 125 
 
 And put good works on board ; and wait the wind 
 That shortly blows us into worlds unknown. 
 
 The first two lines are extremely beautiful ; but when he 
 continues the metaphor, * to putting good works on board, 
 and waiting the wind,' it becomes strained, and sinks in 
 dignity. Of all the English authors, no one, perhaps, is so 
 happy in his metaphors as Mr. Addison. His imagination 
 was neither so rich nor so strong as Dr. Young's ; but it 
 was far more chaste and delicate. Perspicuity, natural 
 grace and ease, always distinguish his figures. They are 
 neither harsh nor strained : they never appear to have been 
 studied or sought after ; but seem to rise, of their own 
 accord, from the subject, and constantly embellish it. 
 
 Having treated thus fully of the metaphor, we shall con 
 elude this lecture with a few remarks concerning the 
 allegory. 
 
 An allegory may be regarded as a continued metaphor ; 
 as it is the representation of some one thing by another that 
 resembles it,and that is made to stand for it. As a fine 
 example of this figure, we may take the following pas- 
 sage from the 80th Psalm; where the people of Israel 
 are represented under the image of a vine, and the figure 
 is supported throughout with great correctness and 
 beauty. ' Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt, thou 
 hast cast out the heathen and planted it. Thou pre- 
 paredst room before it, and didst cause it to take deep root, 
 and it filled the land. The hills were covered with the 
 shadow of it ; and the boughs thereof were like the goodly 
 cedars. She sent out her boughs into the sea, and her 
 branches into the river. Why hast thou broken down her 
 hedges, so that all they which pass by the way do pluck her ! 
 The boar out of the wood doth waste it ; and the wild beast 
 of the field doth devour it. Return, we beseech thee, O 
 God of hosts, look down from neaven, and behold, and 
 visit this vine !' Here there is no circumstance, except, per- 
 haps, one phrase at the beginning, * thou hast cast out the 
 heathen,' that does not strictly agree to a vine, whilst, at 
 
 Of all the English authors, who was the most happy in his metaphors ; 
 and of his imagination, and his figures, what is farther observed'? 
 Having treated thus fully of the metaphor, with what is this lecture con- 
 cluded 1 How may an allegory be regarded ; and why 1 Where is a 
 fine example of this figure found ; and what is it 1 Here, of all the cir- 
 cumstances, what is remarked ; and what is the principal requisite in the 
 conduct of an allegory ] 
 
126 
 
 ALLEGORY. 
 
 [Lect. 15. 
 
 the same time, the whole graduates happily with the Jewish 
 state represented by this figure. This is the first and prin- 
 cipal requisite in the conduct of an allegory, that the figu- 
 rative and the literal meaning be not mixed inconsistently 
 together. 
 
 The same rules that were given for metaphors, may be 
 applied to allegories also, on account of the affinity that 
 subsists between them. The only material difference, 
 besides the one being short, and the other prolonged, is, 
 that a metaphor always explains itself by the words that are 
 connected with it, in their proper and natural signification : 
 As when we say, ' Achilles was a lion ;' ' an able minister 
 is the pillar of the state.' The lion and the pillar are here 
 sufficiently interpreted by the mention of Achilles and the 
 minister, which are joined to them ; but an allegory may be 
 allowed to stand less connected with the literal meaning ; 
 the interpretation not being so plainly pointed out, but left 
 to our own reflection. 
 
 Why may the same rules that were given for metaphors, he applied to 
 allegories 1 What is the only material difference between them 1 How 
 is this remark illustrated 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Metaphor. 
 
 A. The difference between it 
 
 and the comparison. 
 
 B. Its approximation to paint- 
 
 ing. 
 - C. Rules for conducting meta- 
 phors. 
 
 a. To be suited to the subject 
 
 b. To be drawn for suitable 
 
 objects. 
 C. The resemblance to be 
 clear and perspicuous. 
 
 d. Metaphorical and plain 
 
 language not to be jum- 
 bled together. 
 
 e. Two metaphors not to 
 
 meet on the same objects. 
 
 f. Different metaphors not to 
 
 be crowded together. 
 
 g. Metaphors not to be too 
 
 far pursued. 
 Allegory. 
 A. Its nature illustrated. 
 
LECTURE XVL 
 
 HYPERBOLE— PERSONIFICATION— APOS- 
 TROPHE. 
 
 The next figure of which we are to treat, is hyperbole, 
 or exaggeration. It consists in magnifying an object be- 
 
 Jrond its natural bounds. It occurs very frequently in all 
 anguages, and forms a part of common conversation: as 
 swift as the wind ; as white as snow ; and the like : and 
 our usual forms of compliment, are, in general, only ex- 
 travagant hyperboles. If any thing is remarkably good 
 or great in its kind, we are instantly ready to add to it some 
 exaggerating epithet ; and to make it the best we ever saw. 
 The imagination has always a tendency to gratify itself, by 
 magnifying its present object, and carrying it to excess. 
 This hyperbolical turn will prevail in language, irT propor- 
 tion to the liveliness of imagination of the people who speak 
 it. Hence, young persons always deal much in hyperboles. 
 Hence, too, the language of the orientals was far more 
 hyperbolical than that of the Europeans, who are of more 
 phlegmatic, or, perhaps, of more correct imaginations. 
 
 The exaggerated expressions to which our ears are accus- 
 tomed in conversation, scarcely strike us as hyperboles. 
 We immediately make the proper abatement, and under- 
 stand them according to their just value. But when there 
 is something striking or unusual in the form of a hyperboli- 
 cal expression, it then rises into a figure of speech which 
 draws our attention: and here it is necessary to observe, 
 that, unless the reader's imagination be in such a state as 
 disposes it to rise and swell along with the hyperbolical 
 expression, he is always offended by it. For a sort of dis- 
 agreeable force is put upon him ; he is required to strain 
 and exert his fancy, when he feels no inclination to make 
 
 Of what figure are we next to treat ; and in what does it consist 1 
 Where does it frequently occur ; what does it form, and what examples 
 are given 1 If any thing is remarkably good or great, to what are we 
 inclined ; and why % In proportion to what will this hyperbolical turn 
 prevail ; and hence what follows % What scarcely strike us as hyperboles ; 
 and why % But when does is rise into a figure of speech ; and "here what 
 is necessary to observe ; and why % 
 
128 HYPERBOLE. [Lect. 16. 
 
 any such effort. Hence the hyperbole is a figure of difficult 
 management ; and ought not to he frequently used, or 
 dwelt upon long. 
 
 Hyperboles are of two kinds ; either such as are employed 
 in description, or such as are suggested by the warmth of 
 passion. Those are by far the best, which are the effect of 
 passion : for if the imagination has a tendency to magnify 
 its objects beyond their natural proportion, passion possesses 
 this tendency in a vastly stronger degree ; and, therefore, 
 not only excuses the most daring figures, but very often 
 renders them natural and just. Hence, the following senti- 
 ments of Satan in Milton, as strongly as they are described, 
 contain nothing but what is natural and proper ; exhibiting 
 the picture of a mind agitated with rage and despair. 
 
 Me, miserable ! which way shall I fly 
 Infinite wrath, and infinite despair 1 
 Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell ; 
 And in the lowest depth, a lower deep 
 Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, 
 To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 
 
 In simple description, hyperboles must be used with 
 greater caution, and require more preparation in order to 
 make the mind relish them. When a poet is describing an 
 earthquake or a storm ; or when our imagination carries 
 us into the midst of a battle, we can bear strong hyperboles 
 without displeasure. But when only a woman in grief is 
 presented to our view, it is impossible not to be disgusted 
 with such wild exaggeration as the following, in one of our 
 dramatic poets : 
 
 I found her on the floor 
 
 In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful ; 
 
 Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, 
 
 That were the world on fire, they might have drowned 
 
 The wrath of Heaven, and quench'd the mighty ruin.- Lee. 
 
 This is mere bombast. The person herself who was 
 under the distracting agitations of grief, might be permitted 
 to hyperbolize strongly ; but the spectator describing her, 
 
 Hence, of the hyperbole, what is farther remarked 1 Hyperboles are 
 of what two kinds 1 Which are the best ; and why 1 Hence, of the fol- 
 lowing sentiments of Satan, what is observed'? Repeat the passage. 
 Where must hyperboles be used with greater caution ; and what do they 
 then require ? When can we bear strong hyperboles without displeasure ; 
 but when do we become disgusted 7 Repeat the example. Of this pas- 
 sage what is remarked 1 
 
Lect. 16.] PERSONIFICATION. 129 
 
 cannot be allowed an equal liberty ; for the one is supposed 
 to utter the language of passion, the other speaks the lan- 
 guage of description only — which is always according to 
 the dictates of nature, on a lower tone. The exact boundary 
 of this figure cannot be ascertained by any precise rule. 
 Good sense and accurate taste must determine the point, 
 beyond which, if we pass, we become extravagant. 
 
 Of figures, which lie altogether in the thought, where the 
 words are taken in their common and literal sense, the first 
 place is due to personification, or that figure by which we 
 attribute life and action to inanimate objects. 
 
 The use of this figure is very extensive, and its foundation 
 is laid deep in human nature. At first view, and when con- 
 sidered abstractly, it would appear to be a figure of the 
 utmost boldness, and to border on the extravagant and 
 ridiculous. For what can seem more remote from the tract 
 of reasonable thought, than to speak of stones and trees, and 
 fields and rivers, as if they were living creatures, and to 
 attribute to them thought and sensation, affections and 
 actions. In fact, however, the case is very different. All 
 poetry, even in its most gentle and humble forms, abounds 
 with at. From prose, and, indeed, even from common con- 
 versation, it is far from being excluded. When we say, the 
 ground thirsts for rain, or the earth smiles with plenty ; or 
 when we speak of ambition as restless, or a disease as 
 deceitful, such expressions show the facility with which the 
 mind accommodates the properties of living creatures to 
 things that are inanimate, or to abstract conceptions of our 
 own forming. 
 
 There is, indeed, a wonderful proneness in human nature 
 to animate all objects. Let a man by an unwary step sprain 
 his ancle, or hurt his foot upon a stone, and in the ruffled, 
 discomposed moment, he will sometimes feel disposed to 
 break the stone in pieces, and to utter passionate exclama- 
 tions against it, as if it had done him an injury. If one has 
 been long accustomed to a certain set of objects, which have 
 
 Of the exact boundary of this figure, what is observed ; and what must 
 determine the point 1 Of figures which lie altogether in the thought, to 
 what is the first place due 1 Of the use of this figure what is remarked ; 
 and where is its foundation laid % At first view how would it appear ; and 
 why 1 How does it appear that, in fact, the case is quite different 1 What 
 examples of illustration are given ; and what is remarked of them 1 How 
 does it appear that there is a wonderful proneness in human nature to 
 animate all objects 1 Prom a certain set of particular objects, how is this 
 remark farther illustrated ? 
 
130 PERSONIFICATION. [Lect. 16, 
 
 made a strong impression upon his imagination ; as a house 
 where he has passed many agreeable years ; or fields, and 
 trees, and mountains, among which he has often walked 
 with the greatest delight ; when he is obliged to part with 
 them, especially if he has no prospect of ever seeing them 
 again, he can scarcely avoid having somewhat of the same 
 feeling as when he is leaving old friends. They seem 
 endowed with life ; they become objects of his affections ; 
 and in the moment of parting, it scarcely seems absurd to 
 him, to give vent to his feelings in words, and to take a 
 formal adieu. 
 
 There are three different degrees of this figure j which 
 it is requisite to remark and distinguish, in order to de- 
 termine the propriety of its use. The first is, when some 
 of the properties or qualities of living creatures are ascribed 
 to inanimate objects ; the second, when those inanimate 
 objects are described as acting like such as have life ; and 
 the third, when they are represented either as speaking to 
 us, or as listening to what we say to them. 
 
 The first and lowest degree of this figure, which consists 
 in communicating to inanimate objects some of the qualities 
 of living creatures, raises the style so little, that the humblest 
 discourse will admit it without any force. Thus a ' raging 
 storm, a deceitful disease, a cruel disaster,' are familiar and 
 simple expressions. This, indeed, is so obscure a degree 
 of personification, that it might, perhaps, with propriety, be 
 classed with those plain metaphors that almost escape pur 
 observation. 
 
 The second degree of this figure is, when we introduce 
 inanimate objects acting like those that have life. Here we 
 rise a step higher, and the personification becomes sensible. 
 According to the nature of the action which we ascribe to 
 those inanimate objects, and the particularity with which we 
 describe it, is the strength of the figure. When pursued to 
 any length, it belongs to labored harangues ; when slightly 
 touched, it may be admitted into less elevated compositions. 
 Cicero, for instance, speaking of the cases where killing a 
 
 How many different degrees of this figure are there ; and why must 
 they be distinguished'? "What are they 1 Of the first and lowest" degree 
 of this figure, what is observed 1 What examples are given ; and what 
 remark follows 1 What is observed of the second degree of this figure ; 
 and according to what is the strength of it 1 When does it belong to 
 labored harangues ; and what is observed of it when slightly touched 1 What 
 illustration of this is given from Cicero ; and what is remarked of it 1 
 
Lect. 16.] PERSONIFICATION. 131 
 
 man is lawful in self-defence, uses the following words : 
 * Aliquando nobis gladius ad occidendum hominem ad ipsis 
 porrigitur legibus.'* Here the laws are beautifully per- 
 sonified, as stretching forth their hand to give us a sword 
 for putting a man to deaih._^_^ 
 
 In poetry, personifications of this kind are extremely fre- 
 quent, and are, indeed, the life and soul of it. In the 
 descriptions of a poet who has a lively fancy, every thing 
 becomes animated. Homer, the father of poetry, is re- 
 markable for the use of this figure. War, peace, darts, 
 rivers, every thing, in short, is alive in his writings. In 
 this particular, Milton and Shakspeare resemble him. No 
 personification, in any author, is more striking, or intro- 
 duced more appropriately, than the following of Milton, 
 upon Eve's eating the forbidden fruit : 
 
 So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour, 
 
 Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate ; 
 
 Earth felt the wound ; and nature from her seat 
 
 Sighing, through all her works, gave signs of wo 
 
 That all was lost. " B. ix. 1. 780. 
 
 All the circumstances and ages of men — poverty, riches, 
 youth, old age — all the dispositions and passions — melancho- 
 ly, love, grief, contentment, are capable of being personified 
 in poetry, with great propriety. Of this we meet with frequent 
 examples in Milton's Allegro and Penseroso, Parnell's 
 Hymn to Contentment, and Thomson's Seasons : nor, 
 indeed, is it easy, in poetic compositions, to set any bounds 
 to personifications of this kind. - — ~~ 
 
 The third and highest degree of this figure remains to be 
 mentioned — when inanimate objects are introduced, not only 
 as feeling and acting, but as speaking to us, or hearing and 
 attending when we address ourselves to them. This, though 
 on several occasions far from being unnatural, is, plainly, 
 the boldest of all rhetorical figures : it is the style of strong 
 passion only ; and, therefore, never to be attempted, un- 
 less when the mind is considerably heated and agitated. 
 
 * Orat. pro Milone. 
 
 Where are personifications of this kind extremely frequent ; and there 
 what is observed of them 1 Of Horner, Milton, and Shakspeare, what is 
 remarked ; and from Milton, what illustration is given 1 All of what are 
 capable of being personified in poetry with great propriety ; and of this, 
 where do we meet with frequent examples'? What is the third and 
 highest degree of this figure ; and what is observed of it 1 
 
132 PERSONIFICATION. [Lect. 10. 
 
 A slight personification of some inanimate thing, acting as 
 if it had life, can be relished by the mind, in the midst of 
 cool description, and when its ideas are going on in the 
 ordinary train. Bat it must be in a state of violent emotion, 
 and have departed considerably from its common track of 
 thought, before it can so far realize the personification of an 
 insensible object, as to conceive it listening to what we say, 
 or making any return to us. All strong passions, however, 
 have a tendency to use this figure; not only love, anger, 
 and indignation, but even those which are seemingly more 
 dispiriting, such as grief, remorse, and melancholy. Milton 
 affords us an extremely fine example, in that moving and 
 tender address which Eve makes to Paradise, just before she 
 is compelled to leave it. 
 
 Oh ! unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! 
 
 Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ! thus leave 
 
 Thee, native soil, these happy walks, and shades, 
 
 Pit haunt of gods ! where I had hope to spend 
 
 Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day, 
 
 Which must be mortal to us both. O flowers! 
 
 That never will in other climate grow, 
 
 My early visitation and my last 
 
 At even, which I bred up with tender hand, 
 
 From your first opening buds, and gave you names ! J 
 
 Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank 
 
 Your tribes, and water from th' ambrosial fount 1 B. xi. 1. 268. 
 
 This is altogether the language of nature, and of female 
 passion. As all plaintive passions are peculiarly prone to the 
 use of this figure, it should be remarked, that there are fre- 
 quent examples, not in poetry only, but in real life, of persons 
 when just about to suffer death, taking a passionate farewell 
 of the sun, moon, and stars, or other sensible objects around 
 them. 
 
 In the management of this sort of personification, two 
 rules are to be observed. First, never to attempt it unless 
 prompted by strong passion, and never to continue it when 
 the passion begins to flag. The second rule is, never to 
 
 When can a slight personification of some inanimate thing he relished ; 
 but to what state must the mind be brought, before it can realize the per- 
 sonification of an inanimate object, so as to listen and answer to what we 
 say 1 What passions have a tendency to use this figure ; and what ex- 
 amples are given ] In what does Milton afford us an extremely fine 
 example ; and what is it 1 Of this passage what is remarked 7 As all 
 plaintive passions are peculiarly prone to the use of this figure, what 
 should be remarked ? In the management of this sort of personification, 
 what two rules are to be observed 1 
 
Lect. 16.] APOSTROPHE. 133 
 
 personify any object which has not some dignity in itself, 
 and which is incapable of making a proper figure in the 
 elevation to which we raise it. To address the remains of 
 a deceased friend, is natural ; but to address the clothes 
 which he wore, introduces low and degrading ideas. So, 
 also, addressing the several parts of one's body as if they 
 were animated, is not congruous to the dignity of passion. 
 For this reason, the following passage in Mr. Pope's Eloisa 
 to Abelard, must be condemned : 
 
 Dear fatal name ! rest ever unrevealed, 
 Nor pass the c e lips in holy silence sealed. 
 Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise. 
 Where, mixed with God's, his loved idea lies; 
 Oh ! write it not, my hand ! — his name appears 
 Already written : — Blot it out, my tears. 
 
 Here the name of Abelard is first personified; which, as 
 the name of a person often stands for the person himself, 
 is exposed to no objection. Next, Eloisa personifies her 
 own heart ; and as the heart is a dignified part of the human 
 frame, and is often put for the mind or affections, this also 
 may pass without censure. But when she addresses her 
 hand, and tells it not to write his name, this is strained and 
 unnatural. Yet the figure becomes still worse, Avhen she 
 exhorts her tears to blot out what her hand had written. 
 There is, indeed, in the last two' lines, an air of epigram- 
 matic conceit, which native passion never suggests ; and 
 which is altogether unsuitable to the tenderness which 
 breathes through the rest of that inimitable poem. 
 
 Apostrophe is a figure so similar to personification, that it 
 will require but little discussion. It is an address to a real 
 person, but one who is either absent or dead, as if he were 
 present and listening to us. It is so nearly allied to an ad- 
 dress to inanimate objects personified, that both these figures 
 are sometimes called apostrophes. The proper apostrophe 
 is, however, in boldness, one degree lower than the address 
 to personified objects ; for it certainly requires a less effort 
 of imagination to suppose persons present who are dead or 
 absent, than to animate insensible beings, and direct our 
 
 To address what is natural ; but what introduces low and degrading 
 ideas 1 So also, what is not congruous with the dignity of passion ; and 
 for this reason, what passage must be condemned 1 On this passage, 
 what remarks follow 1 Of the last two lines, what is observed 1 Of apos- 
 trophe what is remarked ; and what is it 1 Why, however, is the proper 
 apostrophe, in boldness, one degree lower than the address to personified 
 objects ") 
 
 19 
 
134 APOSTROPHE. [Lect. 16 
 
 discourse to them. Both figures are subject to the same 
 rule of being- prompted by passion, in order to render them 
 natural ; for both are the language of passion or strong 
 emotion only. The poems of Ossian abound with the most 
 beautiful instances of this figure. ■ Weep on the rocks of 
 roaring winds, O maid of Inistore ! Bend thy fair head over 
 the waves, thou fairer than the ghost of the hills, when it 
 moves in a sunbeam at noon over the silence of Morven ! 
 He is fallen ! thy youth is lone ; pale beneath the sword of 
 Cuchullin.' 
 
 For such bold figures of discourse as strong personifica- 
 tions, addresses to personified objects, and apostrophes, the 
 glowing imagination of the ancient oriental nations was 
 particularly fitted. Hence, in the sacred scriptures, we 
 find some very remarkable instances : ' O thou sword of 
 the Lord ! how long will it be ere thou be quiet ? put thyself 
 up in thy scabbard ; rest, and be still ! How can it be quiet, 
 seeing the Lord hath given it a charge against Ashkelon, 
 and against the sea-shore ? there he hath appointed it.' 
 There is a passage in the fourteenth chapter of Isaiah, 
 where the prophet is describing the fall of the Assyrian 
 empire, which contains a greater assemblage of sublime 
 ideas, of bold and daring figures, than is, perhaps, any 
 where else to be met with. In it every object is animated ; 
 a variety of personages is introduced : we hear the Jews, 
 the fir-trees, and the cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts of de- 
 parted kings, the king of Babylon himself, and those who 
 look upon his body, all speaking in their order, and acting 
 their different parts without confusion. 
 
 To what are both figures subject ; and why 1 Whose poems abound 
 with the most beautiful instances of this figure ; and what example is 
 given 1 For these bold figures what was particularly fitted ; and hence 
 what follows 1 What instance is given ; and of the passage in the four- 
 teenth chapter of Isaiah, what is remarked 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Hyperbole. 
 
 A. The different kinds of hy- 
 perboles. 
 
 a. Those suggested by passion. 
 
 b. Those employed in de- 
 
 scription. 
 
 2. Personification. 
 
 A. The different degrees of this 
 figure. 
 
 a. The first degree. 
 
 b. The second degree. 
 
 c. The third degree. 
 
 B. Rules for the management of 
 
 personification. 
 Apostrophe. 
 A. Examples. 
 
LECTURE XVIL 
 
 COMPARISON, ANTITHESIS, INTERROGATION* 
 
 EXCLAMATION, AND OTHER FIGURES 
 
 OF SPEECH. 
 
 Comparison or simile, is a figure frequently employed, 
 both in poetry and prose. In a former lecture, the differ- 
 ence betwixt it and metaphor was fully explained. A 
 metaphor is a comparison implied, but not expressed as such ; 
 as when we say, ' Achilles is a lion,' meaning that he 
 resembles one in courage or strength. A comparison is 
 when the resemblance between two objects is expressed in 
 form, and generally pursued more fully than the nature of a 
 metaphor admits ; as when we say, ' The actions of princes 
 are like those great rivers, the course of which every one 
 beholds, but their springs have been seen by few.' This 
 short instance will show, that a happy comparison is a kind 
 of sparkling ornament, which adds lustre and beauty to 
 writing. 
 
 All comparisons may be comprehended under two heads — - 
 explaining and embellishing comparisons. For when a 
 writer likens the object of which he treats to any other 
 thing, it always is, or always should be with a view, either 
 to make us understand that object more distinctly, or to 
 render it more pleasing. All manner of subjects, even the 
 most abstract reasoning, admits of explaining comparisons. 
 For instance, the distinction between the powers of sense 
 and imagination in the human mind, are, in Mr. Harris's 
 Hermes, illustrated by a simile, in the following manner : 
 * As wax,' says he, ' would not be adequate to the purpose 
 of signature, if it had not the power to retain as well as to 
 receive the impression, the same holds of the soul, with 
 respect to sense and imagination. Sense is its receptive 
 power ; imagination its retentive. Had it sense without 
 
 Where is comparison or simile frequently employed 1 What is the dif- 
 ference between it and metaphor ; and what are illustrative examples of 
 each 1 What will this short instance show ? Under what two heads 
 may all comparisons be comprehended ; and why 1 How extensively 
 may comparisons be applied ; and what example of illustration is given 
 from Mr. Harris's Hermes 1 
 
136 COMPARISON. [Lect. IT. 
 
 imagination, it would not be as wax, but as water ; where, 
 though all impressions be instantly made, yet as soon as they 
 are made, they are instantly lost.' In comparisons of this 
 kind, the understanding is much more concerned than the 
 fancy ; and, therefore, the only rules to be observed with 
 respect to them, are, that they be clear and useful — that they 
 tend to render our conception of the principal object more 
 distinct — and that they do not lead our view aside, and be- 
 wilder it with any false light. 
 
 But embellishing comparisons, introduced not so much 
 with a view to inform and instruct, as to adorn the subject 
 of which we treat, are those with which we are chiefly con- 
 cerned at present ; and those, indeed, which most frequently 
 occur. Resemblance, as was before observed, is the foun- 
 dation of this figure. We must not, however* take resem- 
 blance in too strict a sense, for actual similitude or likeness 
 of appearance. Two objects may raise a train of similar 
 or concordant ideas in the mind, though they resemble each 
 other, strictly speaking, in nothing. For example, to 
 describe the nature of soft and melancholy music* Ossian 
 says, ' The music of Carryl was like the memory of joys 
 that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul.' This is 
 happy and delicate ; yet no kind of music bears any resem- 
 blance to a feeling of the mind, such as the memory of past 
 joys. Had it been compared to the voice of the nightingale, 
 or the murmur of the stream, as it would have been by an 
 ordinary poet, the likeness would have been more strict ; but, 
 by founding his simile upon the effect which Carryl's music 
 produced, the poet, while he conveys a very tender image, 
 gives us, at the same time, a much stronger impression of 
 the nature and strain of that music. 
 
 The rules to be given concerning comparisons, respect 
 chiefly two articles — the propriety of their introduction, and 
 the nature of the objects whence they are to be taken. In 
 the first place, from what has already been said, it is mani- 
 
 In comparisons of this kind, which is most concerned, the understand- 
 ing or the fancy ; and, therefore, what are the only rales to be observed 
 with respect to them 1 But with what comparisons are we now chiefly 
 concerned ; and what is observed of them 1 What is the foundation of 
 this figure ; yet why must it not be taken in too strict a sense for actual 
 similitude 1: How is this illustrated from Ossian ; and of this passage 
 what is observed 1 By what comparison would the likeness have been 
 more strict ; but what follows 1 What two articles do the rules given con- 
 cerning comparisons, respect 1 In the first place, from what has already 
 been said what is manifest ; and why 1 
 
Lect. 17.] COMPARISON. 13? 
 
 fest that they are not the language of strong passion ; but of 
 an imagination, sprightly, indeed, and warmed, though un- 
 disturbed by any violent or agitating emotion. Strong 
 passion is too severe to admit this play of fancy. It has no 
 time to seek for resembling objects ; it dwells upon that 
 object which has seized and taken possession of the soul. 
 An author, therefore, can scarcely commit a greater fault, 
 than in the midst of passion to introduce a simile. Our 
 writers of tragedies often err in this respect. Thus Mr. 
 Addison, in his Cato, makes Portius, just after Lucia had 
 bid him farewell for ever, and when he should naturally 
 have been represented in the most violent anguish, express 
 himself in a studied and affected comparison. 
 
 Thus o'er the dying lamp th' unsteady flame 
 Hangs quiv'ring on a point, leaps off by fits, 
 And falls again, as loth to quit its hold. 
 Thou must not go ; my soul still hovers o'er thee, 
 And can't get loose. 
 
 Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote from 
 the language of nature on such occasions. 
 
 Though comparison be not the language of strong pas- 
 sion, so neither, when designed as an embellishment, is it 
 the language of a mind totally unmoved. Being a figure 
 of dignity, it always requires some elevation in the subject 
 to make it proper. It supposes the imagination to be un- 
 commonly enlivened, though the heart be not agitated by 
 passion. The language of simile seems to lie between the 
 highly pathetic and the very humble style, at an equal dis- 
 tance from each. It is, however, a sparkling ornament ; 
 and must, consequently, dazzle and fatigue, if it recur too 
 often. Similes should, even in poetry, be employed with 
 moderation; but in prose, much more ; otherwise the style 
 will become disagreeably florid, and the ornament lose its 
 beauty and effect. 
 
 We shall next proceed to the rules that relate to objects 
 whence comparisons should be drawn ; supposing them 
 introduced in their proper place. 
 
 What, therefore, is one of the greatest faults an author can commit ; 
 who often err in this respect, and what illustration is given 1 In this pas- 
 sage, of what must every one be sensible % Though comparison be not 
 the style of strong passion, so what follows 1 Being a figure of dignity, 
 what does it always require ; and what does it suppose 1 Where does the 
 language of simile seem to lie ; but of it what remark follows t Of the 
 employment of similes in poetry, and in prose, what is remarked j and 
 why 1 To what do we next proceed 1 
 *12 
 
138 COMPARISON. [Lect. i?. 
 
 In the first place, they must not be drawn from things 
 which have too intimate and obvious a resemblance to the 
 object with which they are compared. The pleasure which 
 we receive from the act of comparing, arises from the dis- 
 covery of likenesses among things of different species, 
 where we should not, at first sight, expect a resemblance. 
 Thus, when Milton compares Satan's appearance after his 
 fall, to that of the sun suffering an eclipse, and frightening 
 the nations with portentous darkness, we are struck with 
 the happiness and the dignity of the similitude. But when 
 he compares Eve's bower in Paradise, to the arbor of Po- 
 mona, we receive little entertainment ; as every one sees that 
 one arbor must, of course, in several respects, resemble 
 another. 
 
 But in the second place, as comparisons ought not to be 
 founded on likenesses too obvious, much less ought they to 
 be founded on those which are too faint and distant. These, 
 instead of assisting, strain the fancy to comprehend them, 
 and throw no light upon the subject. It is also to be ob- 
 served, that a comparison, which, in the principal circum- 
 stances, carries a sufficiently near resemblance, may become 
 unnatural and obscure, if extended too far. Nothing is 
 more opposite to the design of this figure, than to seek after 
 a great number of coincidences in minute points, merely to 
 show how far the poet's wit can stretch the resemblance. 
 
 In the third place, the object from which a comparison is 
 drawn, should never be an unknown object, or one of which 
 few people can form clear ideas. Similes, therefore, founded 
 on philosophical discoveries, or on any thing with which, 
 persons of a particular trade only, or a particular profession, 
 are acquainted, produce not their proper effect. They 
 should be drawn from those illustrious and noted objects, 
 which the generality of readers have either seen, or can 
 strongly conceive. This leads us to observe that, though 
 lions, and wolves, and serpents, were fruitful, and very 
 proper sources of similes among the ancients, yet, in adopt - 
 
 What is the first rule given 1 Whence does the pleasure which we re- 
 ceive from the act of comparing arise; and from Milton, how is this 
 remark illustrated 1 In the second place, on what should not comparisons 
 be founded ; and why 1 What is also to be observed ; and what is 
 altogether opposed to the design of this figure ] In the third place, wha, 
 is observed of the object from which a comparison is to be drawn; and 
 what similes, therefore, produce not the proper effect 1 From what objects 
 should they be drawn ■ and what does this lead us to observe 1 
 
Lect. 17.] ANTITHESIS. 139 
 
 ing- them, the moderns are very injudicious ; as the pro- 
 priety of them is now, in a great measure, lost. With many 
 of them we are acquainted only at second hand, and by 
 description ; and to most readers of poetry, it were better to 
 describe lions or serpents, by similes taken from men, than 
 to describe men by lions. 
 
 In the fourth place, we must observe, that in compositions 
 of a grave or elevated kind, similes should never be taken 
 from low or mean objects. These have a tendency to de- 
 grade and vilify : whereas similes are generally intended to 
 dignify and embellish ; and, therefore, unless in burlesque 
 writings, or where an object is meant to be diminished, 
 mean ideas should never be submitted to our observation. 
 We must remember, however, that many similes, drawn 
 from the incidents of rural life, which appear low to us, had 
 abundance of dignity in the simpler ages of antiquity. 
 
 Having considered metaphor, hyperbole, personification, 
 apostrophe, and comparison, we now pass to antithesis. 
 
 Antithesis is founded on the contrast or opposition of two 
 objects. By contrast, objects opposed to each other always 
 appear in a stronger light. Beauty, for instance, never 
 appears so charming as when contrasted with ugliness and 
 deformity. Antithesis, therefore, may, on many occasions, 
 be employed advantageously, to strengthen the impression 
 which we propose that any object should make. Thus 
 Cicero, in his defence of Milo, representing the improba- 
 bility of Milo's attempting to take away the life of Clodius, 
 when every thing was unfavorable to such a design, after he 
 had omitted many opportunities of effecting such a purpose, 
 heightens our conviction of this improbability, by a judicious 
 use of this figure : ' Is it credible that, when he declined 
 putting Clodius to death with the consent of all, he would 
 choose to do it with the disapprobation of many 1 Can you 
 believe that the person whom he scrupled to slay, when he 
 might have done so with full justice, in a convenient place, 
 at a proper time, with secure impunity, he made no scruple 
 to murder against justice, in an unfavorable place, at an un- 
 
 In the fourth place, of similes in compositions of an elevated kind, what 
 is remarked 1 What tendency have these ; and, therefore, what follows 1 
 What must we, however, remember % From comparison, to what figure 
 do we pass ; and on what is it founded 1 By contrast what effect is pro- 
 duced : and what illustration follows 1 Antithesis, therefore, may be ad- 
 vantageously employed for what purpose : and how is this fully illustrated 
 from Uicero's defence of Milo 1 
 
140 INTERROGATION. [Lect. 17. 
 
 seasonable time, and at the risk of capital condemnation V 
 Here the antithesis is rendered complete, by the words and 
 members of the sentence, expressing the contrasted objects, 
 being similarly constructed, and made to correspond to each 
 other. 
 
 At the same time, it must be observed, that the frequent 
 use of antithesis, especially where the opposition in the 
 words is nice and quaint, is apt to render style unpleasing. 
 A maxim, or moral saying, very properly receives this 
 form ; both, because it is supposed to be the effect of medi- 
 tation, and is designed to be engraven on the memory, 
 which recals it more easily, by the aid of such contrasted 
 expressions. But where a number of such sentences suc- 
 ceed each other ; when this becomes an author's favorite and 
 prevailing mode of expression, his style is faulty and ex- 
 posed to censure. 
 
 Interrogations and exclamations, to which we now proceed, 
 are passionate figures. They are, indeed, on so many occa- 
 sions, the native language of passion, that their use is ex- 
 tremely frequent ; and in ordinary conversation, when we 
 are heated, they prevail as much as in the most sublime 
 oratory. The literal use of interrogation, is to ask a ques- 
 tion ; but when men are prompted by passion, whatever they 
 would affirm or deny with great earnestness, they naturally 
 put in the form of a question ; expressing thereby the firmest 
 confidence of the truth of their own opinion ; and appealing 
 to their hearers for the impossibility of the contrary. Thus, 
 in scripture : ' God is not a man, that he should lie ; neither 
 the son of man, that he should repent. Hath he said it, and 
 shall he not do it ? Hath he spoken it, and shall he not 
 make it good V 
 
 Interrogation may often be applied with propriety, when 
 the emotions are no higher than those which naturally arise 
 from close reasoning; but exclamations belong to stronger 
 emotions of the mind only — to surprise, anger, joy, grief, 
 and the like. These being natural signs of a moved and 
 
 Here, in what manner is the antithesis rendered complete 1 At the 
 same time, of the frequent use of this figure, what is remarked 1 Why does 
 a maxim, or moral saying, very properly receive this form ; but when does 
 an author's style become faulty 1 Of interrogations and exclamations 
 what is observed 1 What is the literal use of interrogation ; but when 
 prompted by passion how is it used ; and thereby doing what'? What ex- 
 ample of this is given from scripture ? When, also, may interrogations 
 often be applied with propriety ; but to what do exclamations belong 1 Of 
 these, in their proper application, what is observed; but what has a very 
 bad effect '? 
 
Lect. 17.] VISION. 141 
 
 agitated mind, always, when they are properly employed, 
 make us sympathize with those who use them, and enter 
 into their feelings. Nothing, however, has a worse effect 
 than the frequent and unseasonable use of exclamations. 
 Young, inexperienced writers suppose, that by pouring 
 them forth plenteously, they render their compositions 
 warm and animated. But quite the contrary is the case : 
 they render them frigid to excess. When an author is 
 always calling upon us to enter into transports which he has 
 said nothing to inspire, he excites our disgust and indig- 
 nation. He raises no sympathy ; for he gives us no passion 
 of his own, in which we can take part. 
 
 Another figure of speech, fit for animated compositions 
 only, is what some critical writers call vision ; when, instead 
 of relating something that is past, we use the present tense, 
 and describe it as if passing immediately before our eyes. 
 Thus Cicero, in his fourth oration against Cataline : ' I 
 seem to myself to behold this city, the ornament of the earth, 
 and the capital of all nations, suddenly involved in one con- 
 flagration. I see before me the slaughtered heaps of 
 citizens lying unburied in the midst of their ruined country. 
 The ferocious countenance of Cethegus rises to my view, 
 while with a savage joy he is triumphing in your miseries.' 
 This manner of description supposes a sort of enthusiasm 
 which carries the person who describes it, in some measure, 
 out of himself; and, when well executed, it has great 
 beauty. But to execute it with success requires an unu- 
 sually warm imagination, and so happy a selection of cir- 
 cumstances, as shall make us think we see, before our eyes, 
 the scene that is described. Otherwise it shares the same 
 fate with all feeble attempts towards passionate figures — that 
 of throwing ridicule upon the author, and leaving the reader 
 more cool and uninterested than he was before. 
 
 The last figure which we shall mention, and which is of 
 frequent use, especially at the bar, is called climax. It con- 
 sists in an artful exaggeration of all the circumstances of 
 some object or action which we wish to place in a strong 
 light. It operates by a gradual rise of one circumstance 
 
 What do young, inexperienced writers suppose ; but, on the contrary, 
 when does an author excite our disgust; and why does he raise no sym- 
 pathy 1 What is vision ; and what example of it is given from Cicero 1 
 What does this manner of description suppose ; but what does to ex- 
 ecute it with success, require 1 If this be not the case, what fate will it 
 share 1 In what does climax consist ; and how does it operate % 
 
142 CLIMAX. [Lect. 1?. 
 
 above another, till our idea be raised to the highest pitch. 
 A common example of this figure is that noted passage in 
 Cicero, which every school-boy knows : 'It is a crime to 
 put a Roman citizen in bonds ; it is the height of guilt to 
 scourge him ; little less than parricide to put him to death. 
 "What nam-e then shall I give to crucifying him V Another 
 famous instance is from a pleading of a celebrated Scotch 
 lawyer, Sir George M'Kenzie. It is in a charge to a jury, 
 in the case of a woman who was accused of murdering her 
 own child. ' Gentlemen, if one man had any how slain 
 another ; if an adversary had killed his opposer, or a woman 
 occasioned the death of her enemy ; even these criminals 
 would have been capitally punished by the Cornelian law : 
 but, if this guiltless infant, who could make no enemy, had 
 been murdered by its own nurse, w-hat punishments would 
 not then the mother have demanded ? With what cries and 
 exclamations would she have stunned your ears 1 What 
 shall we say then, when a woman, guilty of homicide, a 
 mother, of the murder of her innocent child, hath com- 
 prised all these misdeeds, in one single crime — a crime, in 
 its own nature, detestable ; in a woman, prodigious ; in a 
 mother, incredible ; and perpetrated against one whose age 
 called for compassion, whose near relation claimed affection, 
 and whose innocence deserved the highest favor V Such 
 regular climaxes, however, though they have great beauty, 
 at the same time have the appearance of art and study ; and 
 consequently, though they may be admitted into formal 
 harangues, yet, they are not the language of passion, 
 which seldom proceeds by such regular and measured steps. 
 
 What passage from Cicero affords a common example of this figure 1 
 What other famous instance is given ; and what is it 1 Of such regular 
 climaxes, however, what is remarked ; and what consequence follows 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Comparison. 
 
 
 c. Comparisons not to be 
 
 A. Explaining comparisons. 
 
 
 drawn from unknown 
 
 B. Embellishing comparisons 
 
 
 objects. 
 
 C. Rules concerning compari- 
 
 
 d. Not to be taken from low 
 
 sons. 
 
 
 or mean objects. 
 
 a. The resemblance not to be 
 
 2. 
 
 Antithesis. 
 
 obvious. 
 
 3. 
 
 Interrogation — exclamation. 
 
 b. The likeness not to be too 
 
 4. 
 
 Vision. 
 
 remote. 
 
 5. 
 
 Climax. 
 
LECTURE XVIIL 
 
 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE— GENERAL CHA- 
 RACTERS OF STYLE— DIFFUSE, CONCISE, 
 FEEBLE, NERVOUS, DRY, PLAIN, 
 NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY. 
 
 Having treated at considerable length of the figures of 
 speech, some general observations seem incumbent, concern 
 ing the appropriate use of them. 
 
 In the first place, not all the beauties, nor even the chief 
 beauties of composition, depend upon tropes and figures. 
 Some of the sublimest and most pathetic passages of the 
 most admired authors, both in prose and poetry, are expressed 
 in the simplest style, without the smallest use of figures ; 
 instances of which have already been given. On the other 
 hand, a composition may abound with these studied orna- 
 ments ; the language may be artful, splendid, and highly 
 figured, and yet the composition be frigid and unafTecting : 
 for, if the style be stiff and affected, if it be deficient in ease 
 and neatness, all the figures that can be employed will 
 never render it agreeable. 
 
 In the second place, figures, in order to be beautiful, must 
 rise naturally from the subject. As all of tbnm are the 
 language either of imagination, or of passion, they are beau- 
 tiful, only when they are prompted by one or the other of 
 these powers. They must flow from a mind warmed by the 
 object which it seeks to describe ; and the course of thought 
 should never be interrupted to seek for them. Many think 
 that the ornaments of style are detached from the subject, 
 and can be stuck to it like lace upon a coat. And it is this 
 false idea that has often brought attention to the beauties of 
 writing into disrepute ; whereas, the real and proper orna- 
 
 Having treated at considerable length of the figures of speech, what 
 seems incumbent 1 What is the first ; and what remark follows 1 On 
 the other hand, what may a composition possess, and still be unaifecting ; 
 and why 1 What is remarked in the second place ; and for what reasons 1 
 From a mind in what state must they flow ; and what follows 1 Of the 
 ornaments of style, many are of what opinion ; and what has been the 
 effect of this false idea 1 But of the real and proper ornaments of style, 
 what is remarked ; and of a writer of genius what is observed % 
 
144 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. [Lect. 18. 
 
 ments of style arise from sentiment. They flow in the same 
 stream with the current of thought. A writer of genius 
 conceives his subject strongly ; his imagination is filled and 
 impressed wUh it ; and pours itself forth in that figurative 
 language which imagination naturally speaks. He assumes 
 no emotion which his subject does not excite ; he speaks as 
 he feels ; but his style will be beautiful, because his feelings 
 are lively. 
 
 In the third place, even when imagination prompts them, 
 figures must not be employed too frequently. Nothing dero- 
 gates more from the weight and dignity of any composition, 
 than too great attention to ornament. When the ornaments 
 cost labor, that labor always appears ; though they should 
 cost us none, still the reader or hearer may be surfeited with 
 them ; and when they come too thick, they give the im- 
 pression of a light and frothy genius, that evaporates in 
 show, rather than brings forth what is solid. The direc- 
 tions of the ancient critics on this head, are full of good 
 sense, and deserve careful attention. Cicero says, ' In all 
 human things, disgust borders so closely on the most lively 
 pleasures, that we need not be surprised to find this hold in 
 eloquence. From reading either poets or orators we may 
 easily satisfy ourselves, that neither a poem nor an oration, 
 which, without intermission, is showy and sparkling, can 
 please us long. Wherefore, though we may wish for the 
 frequent praise of having expressed ourselves well and pro- 
 perly, we should not covet frequent applause, for being 
 bright and splendid.' 
 
 In the fourth place, without a genius for figurative lan- 
 guage, none should attempt it. Imagination is a power not 
 to be acquired ; it must be derived from nature. Its redun- 
 dancies we may prune, its deviations we may correct, its 
 sphere we may enlarge ; but the faculty itself we cannot 
 create. All efforts towards an ornamental style, if we have 
 not the proper genius for it, will prove awkward and dis- 
 gusting. But without this talent, or with a very small 
 measure of it, we may both write and speak to advantage. 
 
 In the third place, even when imagination prompts them, why should 
 not figures be emploj^ed too frequently 1 What is remarked of the di- 
 rections of the ancient critics on this head ; and what says Cicero on this 
 subject 1 What is the fourth direction for the use of figures ; and of 
 imagination what is remarked 1 Without what will all efforts towards an 
 ornamental style, prove disgusting: but what remark follows? 
 
Lect. IS.] CHARACTERS OF STYLE. 145 
 
 Good sense, clear ideas, perspicuity of language, and proper 
 arrangement, will always command attention ; and are, 
 indeed, the foundations of all solid merit, both in speaking 
 and writing. 
 
 That different subjects require different sorts of style, is 
 manifest. Every one knows that treatises of philosophy 
 should not be composed in the same style with orations. It 
 is equally apparent, that different parts of the same compo- 
 sition require a variation in the style and manner. Yet 
 amidst this variety we still expect to find, in the composition 
 of any one man, some degree of uniformity or consistency 
 with himself in manner ; we expect to find some prevailing 
 character of style impressed on all his writings, which 
 shall be suited to, and shall mark his particular genius and 
 turn of mind. The orations of Livy differ considerably in 
 style, as they should do, from the rest of his history. The 
 same observation may be applied to those of Tacitus. Yet 
 in the orations of both these elegant historians, the dis- 
 tinguishing manner of each may be clearly traced — the 
 magnificent fullness of the one, and the sententious concise- 
 ness of the other. Wherever there is real and native genius, 
 it prompts to one kind of style rather than to another. 
 Where this is wanting — where there is no marked nor 
 peculiar character in the compositions of an author, we are 
 apt to infer, and not without reason, that he is a vulgar and 
 trivial author, who writes from imitation, and not from the 
 impulse of original genius. 
 
 One of the first and most obvious distinctions of the dif- 
 ferent kinds of style, arises from an author's spreading out 
 his thoughts more or less. This distinction forms what is 
 called the diffuse and the concise styles. A concise writer 
 compresses his thoughts in the fewest possible words ; he 
 employs none but such as are most expressive ; he lops off 
 all those which are not a material addition to the sense. 
 Whatever ornament he admits is adopted for the sake of 
 force, rather than of grace. The same thought is never 
 
 What will always command attention ; and of what are they the founda- 
 tion 1 How does it appear that different subjects require different sorts of 
 style ; and what is equally apparent 1 Yet amidst this variety, what do we 
 expect to find 1 How is this remark illustrated from the writings of Livy 
 and of Tacitus 1 Whenever there is real genius, to what does it prompt ; 
 and where there is no peculiar character in the writings of an author, what 
 are we apt to infer 1 From what does one of the first and most obvious 
 distinctions of the different kinds of style arise ; and what docs this 
 form ? 
 
 13 
 
146 CONCISE AND [Lect. 18. 
 
 repeated. The utmost precision is studied in his sentences ; 
 and they are generally designed to suggest more to the 
 reader's imagination than they immediately express. 
 
 A diffuse writer unfolds his thought fully. He places 
 it in a variety of lights, and gives the reader every possible 
 assistance for understanding it completely. He is not very 
 anxious to express it at first in its full strength, because he 
 intends to repeat the impression ; and what he wants in 
 strength, he endeavors to supply by copiousness. His pe- 
 riods naturally flow into some length ; and having room for 
 ornament of every kind, he admits it freely. 
 
 Each of these manners has its peculiar advantages ; and 
 each becomes faulty when carried to the extreme. The 
 extreme of conciseness becomes abrupt and obscure; it is 
 apt, also, to lead into a style too pointed, and bordering on 
 the epigrammatic. The extreme of diffuseness becomes 
 weak and languid, and tires the reader. Of conciseness 
 carried as far as propriety will allow, perhaps in some cases 
 farther, Tacitus the historian, and Montesquieu, in ' L'Esprit 
 de Loix,' are remarkable examples. Aristotle, too, holds 
 an eminent rank among didactic writers, for brevity. Of a 
 beautiful and magnificent diffuseness, Cicero is, beyond 
 doubt, the most illustrious instance that can be given. Ad- 
 dison, also, and Sir William Temple, come, in some degree, 
 under this class. 
 
 To determine when to adopt the concise, and when the 
 diffuse manner, we must be guided by the nature of the com- 
 position. Discourses that are to be spoken, require a more 
 copious style than books that are to be read. In written 
 compositions, a proper degree of conciseness has great ad- 
 vantages. It is more lively ; keeps up attention ; makes a 
 stronger impression on the mind ; and gratifies the reader 
 by supplying more exercise to his conception. Description, 
 when we wish to have it vivid and animated, should be 
 in a concise strain. Any redundant words or circumstances 
 encumber the fancy, and render the object we present to it 
 
 Of a concise writer what is remarked 1 What is observed of a diffuse 
 writer'? What is farther observed of each of these methods 1 What is 
 remarked of the extreme of conciseness and also of the extreme of diffuse- 
 ness 1 Who are the best examples that can be mentioned of conciseness ; 
 and who, also, of diffuseness 1 How shall we determine when to adopt the 
 concise, and when the diffuse manner ; and of discourses that are to be spoken 
 what is remarked % What are the advantages of conciseness in written 
 compositions 1 When should description be in a concise strain ; and why 1 
 
Lect. 18.] DIFFUSE STYLE. 14? 
 
 confused and indistinct. The strength and vivacity of 
 description, whether in prose or poetry, depend much more 
 upon the happy choice of one or two important circum- 
 stances, than upon the multiplication of them. When we 
 desire to strike the fancy, or to move the heart, we should 
 be concise ; when to inform the understanding, which is 
 more deliberate in its motions, and wants the assistance of 
 a guide, it is better to be full. Historical narration may be 
 beautiful, either in a concise or diffuse manner, according 
 to the author's genius. Livy and Harodotus are diffuse ; 
 Thucydides and Sallust are concise ; yet they are all agree- 
 able. 
 
 The nervous and the feeble, are generally considered as 
 characters of style, of the same import with the concise 
 and the diffuse, They do, indeed, very frequently coincide. 
 Diffuse writers have, for the most part, some degree of fee- 
 bleness ; and nervous writers will generally be inclined to 
 a concise expression. This, however, does not always 
 hold ; since there are instances of writers who, in the midst 
 of a full and ample style, have maintained a considerable 
 degree of strength. Livy is an example of the truth of this 
 remark. The foundation, indeed, of a nervous or a weak 
 style, is laid in an author's manner of thinking. If he con- 
 ceives an object strongly, he will express it with energy ; 
 but if he has only an indistinct view of his subject — if his 
 ideas be loose and wavering, this will clearly appear in his 
 style. Unmeaning words and loose epithets will escape 
 him : his expressions will be vague and general ; his 
 arrangement indistinct and weak ; and our conception of 
 his meaning will be faint and confused. But a nervous 
 writer, be his style concise or extended, gives us always a 
 strong idea of his meaning : his mind being full of his sub- 
 ject, his words are, consequently, all expressive ; every 
 phrase and every figure which he uses, renders the picture 
 which he would set before us, more striking and complete. 
 
 It must, however, be observed, that too great a study of 
 
 On what does the strength and vivacity of description depend 1 When 
 should we be concise, and when full 1 Of historical composition what is 
 observed ; and who are mentioned as examples % How are the nervous 
 and feeble generally considered ; and in what do they frequently coincide 1 
 There are, however, instances of writers of what description ; and who is 
 an example of the truth of this remark 1 Where is the foundation of a 
 nervous or a weak style laid ; and how is this remark fully illustrated 1 
 What must, however, be observed ; and from what does harshness pro- 
 ceed 1 
 
148 DRY STYLE. [Lect. 18. 
 
 strength, to tne neglect of the other qualities of style, is apt 
 to betray writers into a harsh manner. Harshness proceeds 
 from uncommon words, from forced inversions in the con- 
 structions of a sentence, and too great a neglect of smooth- 
 ness and ease. This is imputed as a fault to some of our 
 earliest classics in the English language ; such as Sir Wal- 
 ter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, Hooker, Harrington, Cud- 
 worth, Milton in his prose works, and some other writers 
 of considerable reputation in the days of Queen Elizabeth, 
 James I., and Charles I. These writers had nerves and 
 strength in a high degree ; and are, to this day, distinguished 
 for that kind of style. But the language, in their hands, 
 was very different from what it is at present, and was, indeed, 
 entirely formed upon the idiom and construction of the 
 Latin, in the arrangement of sentences. The present form 
 which the language has assumed, has, in some degree, 
 sacrificed the study of strength to that of ease and perspi- 
 cuity. Our arrangement has become less forcible, perhaps, 
 but more plain and natural : and this is now understood to 
 be the genius of our language ; the a?ra of the formation of 
 which, seems to be the restoration of King Charles II. 
 
 Hitherto we have considered style under those characters 
 that respect its expressiveness of an author's meaning. We 
 shall now consider it in another view — with respect to the 
 degree of ornament employed to embellish it. Here, the 
 style of different authors seem to rise in the following grada- 
 tion : a dry, a plain, a neat, an elegant, and a flowery man- 
 ner. Of each of these we shall treat briefly, in the order 
 in which they stand. 
 
 A dry manner excludes all ornament of every kind. 
 Content with being understood, it aims not to please, in the 
 least degree, either the fancy or the ear. This is tolerable 
 in pure didactic writing only ; and even there, to make us 
 bear it, great solidity of matter is necessary, and entire 
 perspicuity of language. Aristotle is a perfect example of 
 
 To whom is this imputed as a fault ; but of these writers what is far- 
 ther remarked % What was the language in their hands ; and of the form 
 which it has at present assumed, what is remarked 1 What is now un- 
 derstood to be the genius of our language : and what was the sera of its 
 formation 1 Hitherto how have we considered style ; and how shall we 
 now consider it 1 Here, in what gradation does the style of different 
 authors seem to rise ? What is remarked of a dry manner ; and where, 
 only, is this tolerable 1 Who is a perfect example of a dry style ; arid 
 what is observed of him 1 
 
Lect. 18. PLAIN STYLE. 149 
 
 a dry style. Never, perhaps, was there any author who 
 adhered so rigidly to the strictness of a didactic manner, 
 throughout all his writings, and conveyed so much instruc- 
 tion without the least approach to ornament. But this is 
 not a manner to be imitated ; as it fatigues attention, and 
 conveys our sentiments to others with disadvantage. 
 
 A plain style rises one degree above a dry one. A writer 
 of this character employs very little ornament of any kind, 
 and rests almost entirely upon his sense. But, though he 
 does not engage us by the arts of composition, he avoids dis- 
 gusting us like a dry and a harsh writer. Besides perspi- 
 cuity, he observes propriety, purity, and precision, in his 
 language ; which form no inconsiderable degree of beauty. 
 Liveliness and force are, also, consistent with a plain style ; 
 and, therefore, such an author, if his sentiments be good, 
 may be sufficiently agreeable. The difference between a 
 dry and a plain writer, is, that the former is incapable of 
 ornament, and seems not to know what it is ; the latter does 
 not seek after it. He gives us his meaning in language 
 distinct and pure ; but about any farther ornament, he gives 
 himself no trouble ; either, because he thinks it unnecessary, 
 or because his genius does not lead him to delight in it. Of 
 writers that have employed the plain style, Dean Swift and 
 Mr. Locke, are, perhaps, the most eminent examples. 
 
 What is called a neat style comes next in order : and here 
 we are advanced into the region of ornament ; but that orna- 
 ment is not of the most sparkling kind. A writer of this 
 character, shows that he does not despise the beauty of lan- 
 guage, by his attention to the choice of his words, and to 
 their graceful collocation. His sentences are always free 
 from the incumbrance of superfluous words ; are of a 
 moderate length ; rather inclining to brevity than to a swell- 
 ing structure ; and closing with propriety. His cadence is 
 varied ; but not of the studied musical kind. His figures, 
 if he uses any, are short and correct, rather than bold and 
 glowing. Such a style may, by industry and attention, be 
 
 Why is not this manner to be imitated 1 Of a writer in plain style, 
 what is remarked % Besides perspicuity, what does he observe ; and what 
 do they form 1 What are also consistent with a plain style ; and, therefore, 
 what follows 1 What is the difference between a dry and a plain writer ; 
 and of the latter kind, who are the most eminent examples 1 Of a neat 
 style what is remarked ; and what is observed of a writer of this character 1 
 What is said of his sentences, his cadence, and his figures 1 By whom 
 may such a style be attained : and to what is it applicable 1 
 
 13* 
 
150 
 
 FLORID STYLE. 
 
 [Lect. 18. 
 
 attained by a writer whose powers of fancy and genius are 
 not extensive ; and it is not unsuitable to any subject whatever. 
 
 An elegant style admits a higher degree of ornament than 
 a neat one ; and possesses all the virtues of ornament, with- 
 out any of its excesses or defects. Complete elegance im- 
 plies great perspicuity and propriety ; purity in the choice 
 of words, and care and dexterity in their harmonious and 
 happy arrangement. It implies farther, the grace and 
 beauty of imagination spread over style, as far as the subject 
 admits it ; and all the illustrations which figurative language 
 affords, when properly employed. An elegant writer, in 
 short, is one who pleases the fancy and the ear, while he 
 informs the understanding ; and who clothes his ideas with 
 all the beauty of expression, but does not overload them 
 with any of its misplaced finery. In this class, therefore, 
 but few writers in our language are placed ; such as Addi- 
 son, Dryden, and Pope ; and a few others of the same order. 
 
 A florid style is one in which ornament abounds to excess. 
 This, in a young composer, is not only pardonable, but 
 often indicates a bold and inventive genius. But, although 
 it may be allowed to youth, in their first attempts, it must not 
 receive the same indulgence from writers of more experience. 
 In them judgment should chasten imagination, and reject 
 every ornament which is unsuitable or redundant. This 
 tinsel splendor of language, which some writers perpetually 
 affect, is truly contemptible. With these, it is a luxuriancy 
 of words, not of fancy. They forget that unless it be 
 founded on solid thought, the most florid style is but a child- 
 ish imposition upon ignorant and unthinking readers. 
 
 What does an elegant style admit ; and what does it possess 1 What 
 does complete elegance imply ; and what, does it still farther imply 1 What, 
 in short, is an elegant writer ; and in this class who are placed ? What is 
 a florid style ; and what is observed of it in youth 7 But in whom must it 
 not receive the same indulgence ; and why 1 Of this tinsel splendor of 
 language, and of the writers who use it, what is farther remarked ^ 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 The appropriate use of figures. 
 
 A. The first direction. 
 
 B. The second direction. 
 
 C. The third direction. 
 
 D. The fourth direction. 
 Style, with respect to its ex- 
 pression. 
 
 A. The diffuse and the concise 
 style. 
 
 B. The nervous and the feeble 
 
 style. 
 Style, with respect to ornament. 
 
 A. A dry style. 
 
 B. A plain style. 
 
 C. A neat style. 
 
 D. An elegant style. 
 
 E. A florid style. 
 
LECTURE XIX. 
 
 GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE— SIMPLE, 
 
 AFFECTED, VEHEMENT— DIRECTIONS 
 
 FOR FORMING A PROPER STYLE. 
 
 We next proceed to treat of style under another charac- 
 ter ; which is one of great importance in writing, and which 
 requires to be accurately examined — that of simplicity as 
 distinguished from affectation. Simplicity, applied to writing, 
 is a term very commonly used ; but, like many other criti- 
 cal terms, often used vaguely and without precision. The 
 different meanings given to the word simplicity, has been 
 the chief cause of this inaccuracy. It will not, therefore, 
 be improper to make a distinction between them, and show 
 in what sense simplicity is a proper attribute of style. There 
 are four different acceptations in which this term is taken. 
 
 The first is simplicity of composition, as opposed to too 
 great a variety of parts. Horace's precept refers to this : 
 
 Denique sit quod vis simplex duntaxat et unum. 
 
 Then learn the wandering humor to control, 
 
 And keep one equal tenor through the whole. Francis. 
 
 This is the simplicity of plan in a tragedy, as distinguished 
 from double plots, and crowded incidents — the simplicity of 
 the Iliad or the iEneid, in opposition to the digressions of 
 Lucan ; the simplicity of Grecian architecture, in opposition 
 to the irregular variety of the Gothic. Simplicity, in this 
 sense, is the same as unity. 
 
 The second sense is simplicity of thought, in opposition 
 to refinement. Simple thoughts are those which flow 
 naturally — which are easily suggested by the subject or 
 occasion ; and which, when once suggested, are universally 
 
 Under what character do we next proceed to treat of style ; and what is 
 said of it 1 Of simplicity, when applied to writing, what is remarked ; 
 and what has been the chief cause of this inaccuracy 1 What, therefore, 
 will not be improper ; and in how many different acceptations is the term 
 taken 1 What is the first ; and in reference to this what is the precept of 
 Horace 7 What examples of simplicity of this kind are mentioned ; and 
 in this sense simplicity is the same as what ? What is the second sense j 
 and what are simple thoughts ? 
 
152 SIMPLICITY AND [Lect. 19, 
 
 understood. Refinement in writing-, expresses a less ob- 
 vious and natural train of thought, and which it required a 
 peculiar turn of genius to pursue — within certain bounds 
 very beautiful ; but when carried too far, approaching to 
 intricacy, and is unpleasing, from the appearance of being 
 far sought. Thus, we should naturally say, that Mr. Par- 
 nell is a poet of far greater simplicity, in his turn of thought, 
 than Mr. Cowley ; Cicero's thoughts on moral subjects are 
 natural ; Seneca's too refined and labored. In these two 
 senses of simplicity, it has no relation to style. 
 
 A third sense of simplicity, is that in which it regards 
 style ; and is opposed to too much ornament or pomp of 
 language. Thus we say, Mr. Locke is a simple, and Mr. 
 Hervey a florid writer. The simplest style, in this sense, 
 coincides with the plain or neat style, and, therefore, requires 
 no farther illustration. 
 
 There is a fourth sense of simplicity, which also respects 
 style ; but it regards not so much the degree of ornament 
 employed, as the easy and natural manner in which our 
 language expresses our thoughts. In this sense simplicity 
 is compatible with the highest ornament. Homer, for ex- 
 ample, possesses this simplicity in the greatest perfection ; 
 and yet no writer has more ornament and beauty. This 
 simplicity, which is what we are now to consider, stands 
 opposed, not to ornament, but to affectation of ornament, or 
 appearance of labor about our style ; and is a distinguished 
 excellency in writing. 
 
 A writer of simplicity expresses himself in such a man- 
 ner, that every one thinks he could have written in the same 
 way ; Horace describes it, 
 
 ut sibi quivis 
 
 Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret 
 
 Ausus idem. 
 
 From well-known tales such fictions would I raise, 
 
 As all might hope to imitate with ease ; 
 
 Yet while they strive the same success to gain, 
 
 Should find their labors and their hopes in vain. Francis. 
 
 What does refinement in writing express ; and what is observed of it 1 
 To illustrate this remark, what examples are given ? What is the third 
 sense of simplicity ; and how is this illustrated'? With what does the 
 simple style in this sense correspond ; and. therefore, what follows 1 
 What is the fourth sense of simplicity ; and in this sense with what is it 
 compatible 1 Who is an example of this simplicity : and what is observed 
 of him 1 To what does this simplicity stand opposed ; and how is it re- 
 
 farded 1 How does a writer of simplicity express himself; and how docs 
 lorace describe it 1 
 
Lect. 19.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 153 
 
 There are no marks of art in his expression : it seems the 
 very language of nature ; we see not the style, not the 
 writer and his labor, but the man. in his own natural cha- 
 racter. He may be rich in his expression ; he may be full of 
 figures and of fancy ; but these flow from him without 
 effort ; and he appears to write in this manner, not because 
 he has studied it, but because it is the manner of expression 
 most natural to him. With this character of style, a cer- 
 tain, degree of negligence is not inconsistent ; it is even not 
 ungraceful ; for too accurate an attention to words is foreign 
 to it. The great advantage of simplicity of style is, that 
 like simplicity of manners, it shows us a man's sentiments 
 and turn of mind, laid open without disguise. More studied 
 and artificial manners of writing, however beautiful, have 
 always this disadvantage — that they exhibit an author in 
 form, like a man at court, where the splendor of dress, 
 and the ceremonial of behavior, conceal those peculiarities 
 which distinguish one man from another. But reading an 
 •author of simplicity, is like conversing with a person of rank 
 at home, and with ease, where we see his natural manners, 
 -and his real character. 
 
 With respect to simplicity in general, we may remark, 
 that the ancient original writers are always the most eminent 
 for it. This proceeds from a very obvious cause — that they 
 wrote from the dictates of natural genius, and were not 
 formed upon the labors and writings of others, which will 
 always, without great care, produce affectation. Hence, 
 among the Greek writers, we have more models of a beautiful 
 simplicity than among the Romans. Homer, Hesiod, 
 Anacreon, Theocritus, Herodotus, and Xenophon, are all 
 distinguished for it. Among the Romans also, we have 
 some writers of this character ; particularly Terence, Lu- 
 cretius, and Julius Caesar. 
 
 Of the highest degree of simplicity in style, Mr. Addison 
 is, beyond doubt, the most perfect example in the English 
 language. In perspicuity and purity, he stands unequalled .; 
 
 Of a writer of this description what is farther observed 1 With this 
 raanner of writing what is not inconsistent ; and why % What is the 
 great advantage of simplicity of style ; and what disadvantage have more 
 studied and artificial manners of writing 1 But reading an author of sim- 
 plicity is like what % With respect to simplicity in general, what may we 
 remark ; and from what does this proceed 1 Hence, among the Greek 
 and Roman writers, what follows 1 As it respects the highest degree of 
 simplicity in style, what is observed of Mr. Addison 1 
 
154 SIMPLICITY AND [Lifer. 19, 
 
 and his precision, though not great, is as great as his sub- 
 jects generally require. The construction of his sentences 
 is easy, agreeable, and commonly very musical. In figu- 
 rative language he is rich ; particularly in metaphors ; 
 which are so employed as to render his style splendid, with- 
 out being gaudy. There is not the least affectation in his 
 manner : we see no mark of labor ; nothing forced or con- 
 strained ; but great elegance joined with great ease and sim- 
 plicity. He is particularly distinguished by a character of 
 modesty and politeness, which appears in all his writings. 
 No writer has a more popular and insinuating manner ; and 
 the great regard which he every where shows for virtue and 
 religion, recommends him highly. If he fails in any thing, 
 it is, that he wants strength ; which renders his manner, 
 though perfectly suited to the essays in the Spectator, not 
 altogether a proper model for -any of the higher kinds of 
 composition. 
 
 Of affectation in style, which is opposed to simplicity, we 
 have a remarkable instance in our language. Lord Shaftes- 
 bury, though an author of considerable merit, can express 
 nothing with simplicity. He seems to have considered it 
 vulgar, and beneath the dignity of a man of fashion, to 
 speak like other men. Hence, he is perpetually in buskins ; 
 replete with circumlocutions and artificial elegance. In 
 every sentence the marks of labor are visible ; no appear- 
 ance of that ease which expresses a sentiment coming natural 
 and warm from the heart. He abounds with figures and 
 ornaments of every kind ; is sometimes happy in them ; but 
 his fondness for them is too conspicuous ; and having once 
 seized some metaphor or allusion that pleased him, he 
 knows not how to part with it. He possessed delicacy and 
 refinement of taste, to a degree that may be called excessive 
 and sickly ; but he had little warmth of passion ; and the 
 coldness of his character suggested that artificial and stately 
 manner which appears in his writings. No author is more 
 dangerous to the tribe of imitators than Shaftesbury, who, 
 
 Of the construction of his sentences, and of his metaphors, particularly, 
 what is remarked ? What remarks follow 1 For what is he particularly 
 distinguished ; and what recommend him highly % If he fails in any 
 thing, in what is it ; and what is its effect 1 Of affectation in style, who 
 is the most remarkable instance in our language ; and what is remarked 
 of him 1 In every sentence what are visible ; and without any appear- 
 ance of what 1 With what does he abound ; and what is observed of 
 them % What did he possess ; and to what degree % Why is he danger- 
 ous to the tribe of imitators 1 
 
Lect. 19.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 155 
 
 amidst very considerable blemishes, has, at the same time, 
 many dazzling and imposing beauties. 
 
 It is very possible, however, for an author to write with 
 simplicity, and yet to be destitute of beauty. He may be 
 free from affectation, and not have merit. The beautiful 
 simplicity supposes an author to possess real genius ; and 
 capable of writing with solidity, purity, and liveliness of 
 imagination. In this case the simplicity or unaffectedness 
 of his manner is the crowning ornament : it heightens every 
 other beauty ; it is the dress of nature, without which all 
 beauties are imperfect. But if the mere absence of affecta- 
 tion were sufficient to constitute the beauty of style, weak 
 and dull writers might often have pretensions to it. And 
 accordingly we frequently meet with pretended critics, who 
 extol the dullest writers on account of what they call the 
 * chaste simplicity of their manner ;' which, in fact, is nothing 
 but the absence of all ornament, through the mere want of 
 genius and imagination. A distinction, therefore, must be 
 made between the simplicity which accompanies twie genius, 
 and which is perfectly compatible with every proper orna- 
 ment of style, and that which is no other than a careless 
 and slovenly manner. 
 
 Another character of style, different from those which 
 have already been mentioned, is the vehement. This always 
 implies strength; and is not, in any respect, inconsistent 
 with simplicity. It is distinguished by a peculiar ardor; it 
 is the language of a man whose imagination and passions 
 are heated, and strongly affected by what he writes ; who 
 is, therefore, negligent of lesser graces, but pours himself 
 forth with the rapidity and fullness of a torrent. It belongs 
 to the higher kinds of oratory ; and, indeed, is rather ex- 
 pected from a man who is speaking, than from one who is 
 writing in his closet. The orations of Demosthenes furnish 
 the fullest and most perfect example of this species of style. 
 
 Having ascertained and explained the different characters 
 
 How does it appear that an author may write with simplicity, and yet be 
 destitute of beauty ; and what does the beautiful simplicity suppose 1 In 
 this case what is the crowning ornament; and why! But if the mere 
 absence of affectation were sufficient to constitute the beauty of style, what 
 would follow ] Accordingly, with what do we frequently meet ; and 
 what is observed of it 1 Between what, therefore, must a distinction be 
 made 1 Of the vehement style what is remarked ; and with what is it not 
 inconsistent \ What is farther observed of it ; and to what does it belong 1 
 Whose orations furnish an example of this species of style 1 Having ex- 
 plained the different characters of stvle. with what shall we conclude'} 
 
156 DIRECTIONS FOR [Lect. 10", 
 
 of style, we shall conclude our observations with a few 
 directions for the attainment of excellence in writing. 
 
 The first direction proper to be observed, is, to study 
 clear ideas on the subject concerning which we are to write 
 or to speak. This direction may appear, at first, to have 
 little relation to style; but its relation to it is extremely 
 close. The style and thoughts of a writer are so intimately 
 connected, that, as has already been frequently hinted, it is 
 often difficult to distinguish them. Wherever the impression 
 of things upon our minds are faint and indistinct, or per- 
 plexed and confused, our style, in treating of such things, 
 will infallibly be so too. But, what we conceive clearly 
 and feel strongly, we shall naturally express with clearness 
 and with strength. We should, therefore, think closely on 
 the subject, till we shall have attained a full and distinct view 
 of the matter which we are to clothe in words — till we be- 
 come warm and interested in it ; then, and not till then, shall 
 we find expression begin to flow. 
 
 In the ^econd place, to the acquisition of a good style, 
 frequency of composing is indispensably necessary. Many 
 rules respecting style have been delivered, but no rules will 
 answer the end without exercise and habit. At the same 
 time, it is not every sort of composing that will improve 
 style. This is so far from being the case, that by frequent, 
 careless, and hasty composition, we shall acquire a very bad 
 style ; and shall have more trouble afterwards in unlearning 
 faults, and correcting negligences, than if we had not been 
 accustomed to compose at all. In the beginning, therefore, 
 we ought to write with great deliberation and care. Facility 
 and rapidity are the fruit of practice and experience. We 
 must be cautious, however, not to retard the course of 
 thought, nor cool the ardor of imagination, by pausing too 
 long on every word we employ. There is, on certain 
 occasions, a glow of composition which should be kept up, 
 if we hope to express ourselves happily, though at the ex- 
 pense of some inaccuracies. A more severe examination 
 must be the work of correction. What we have written 
 should be laid aside for some time, till the ardor of compo- 
 
 What is the first; and what is remarked of if? How is this remark 
 illustrated ] What should we, therefore, do ; and why '1 In the second 
 place, to the acquisition of a good style, what is requisite ; but at the same 
 time, why will not every kind of composition improve it 1 In the begin- 
 ning, therefore, how should we write ; but of what must we be cautious ; 
 and why 1 How should we correct what we mav have written 1 
 
Lect. 19.] FORMING STYLE. 157 
 
 sition be past ; till the partiality for our expressions be 
 weakened, and the expressions themselves be forgotten ; and 
 then, examining our work with a cool and critical eye, as if 
 it were the performance of another, we shall discover many 
 imperfections, which at first escaped our notice. 
 
 In the third place, an acquaintance with the style of the 
 best authors is peculiarly requisite. Hence a just taste will 
 be formed, and a copious fund of words be supplied, on every 
 subject. No exercise, perhaps, will be found more useful 
 for acquiring a proper style, than to translate some passage 
 from an elegant author, into our own words. Thus to take, 
 for instance, a page of one of Mr. Addison's papers in the 
 Spectator, and read it carefully two or three times over, till 
 we are in full possession of the thoughts it contains ; . then 
 to lay aside the book ; to attempt to write out the passage 
 from memory, as well as we can; and having done so, open 
 the book, and compare what we have written with the style 
 of the author. Such an exercise will, by comparison, show 
 us where our defects lie ; will teach us how to correct them } 
 and, from the variety of expression which it will exhibit, 
 will conduct us to that which is most beautiful and perfect. 
 
 In the fourth place, a caution must be given against a 
 servile imitation of any one author whatever. Imitation 
 hampers genius, and generally produces stiffness of ex- 
 pression. They who follow an author minutely, commonly 
 copy his faults as well as his beauties. No one will ever 
 be an accomplished writer or speaker, who has not some 
 confidence in his own genius. We ought carefully to avoid 
 using any author's particular phrases, or transcribing pas- 
 sages from him : such a habit will prove fatal to all genuine 
 composition. It is much better to possess something of our 
 own, though of inferior beauty, than to endeavor to shine in 
 borrowed ornaments, which will, at last, betray the utter 
 barrenness of our genius. 
 
 In the fifth place, it is an obvious, but material rule, with 
 respect to style, that we always study to adapt it to the sub- 
 ject, and also to the capacity of our hearers, if we are to 
 
 What is the third direction ? What exercise is recommended ; and 
 what illustration is given 1 What will be the effect of such an exercise % 
 What is the fourth direction ; and why is it given 1 Without what will 
 no one ever be an accomplished writer or speaker ; what ought we, there- 
 fore, carefully to avoid ; and why ? What remark follows 1 In the fifth 
 place, what is an obvious rule with respect to style ; and what is awkward 
 and absurd ? 
 
 14 
 
158 
 
 DIRECTIONS, &c. 
 
 [Lect. 19. 
 
 speak in public. To attempt a poetical style, when it should 
 be our business to argue and reason only, is, in the highest 
 degree, awkward and absurd. To speak with elaborate 
 pomp of words, before those who cannot comprehend them, 
 is equally ridiculous and useless. When we begin to write 
 or speak, we should previously impress on our minds a 
 complete idea of the end to be aimed at ; keep this steadily 
 in view, and adapt our style to it. 
 
 We must, in the last place, remember, that attention to 
 style must not engross us so much, as to prevent a higher 
 degree of attention to the thoughts. This rule is the more 
 necessary, since the present taste of the age seems to be 
 directed more to style than to thought. It is much more 
 easy to dress up trifling and common thoughts with some 
 ornament of expression, than to afford a fund of vigorous, 
 ingenious, and useful sentiments. The latter requires 
 genius ; the former may be attained by industry, with the 
 aid of very superficial parts. Hence the crowd of writers 
 who are rich in words, but poor in sentiments. The public ear 
 is now so much accustomed to a correct and ornamented 
 style, that no writer can, with safety, neglect the study of 
 it. But he is a contemptible one, who looks not beyond the 
 dress of language ; who lays not the chief stress upon his 
 matter ; and who does not regard ornament as a secondary 
 and inferior recommendation. 
 
 What is equally ridiculous and useless ; and what remark follows 1 
 What must we, in the last place, remember ; and why is this rule the more 
 necessary 1 AVhat remark follows ; and why is this the case 1 What is 
 the present state of the public ear ; and who, consequently, is a con- 
 temptible writer 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Simplicity of style. 
 
 I) 
 
 Simplicity of composition. 
 Simplicity in opposition to 
 
 refinement. 
 Simplicity in opposition to 
 
 ornament. 
 Simplicity of expression. 
 a. Illustrated. 
 E. Affectation in style. 
 The vehement style. 
 Directions for attaining a good 
 style, 
 
 A. Clear ideas to be studied. 
 
 B. Frequency of composition. 
 
 C. Familiarity with the best 
 
 authors. 
 
 D. Servile imitation to be avoid- 
 
 ed. 
 
 E. Style to be adapted to the 
 
 sub i'ect. 
 
 F. Thoughts to bo attended to 
 
 rather than style. 
 
LECTURE XX. 
 
 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF MR. ADDISON'S 
 STYLE, IN No. 411 OF THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Having, from its importance, insisted fully on the subject 
 of language and style in general, we shall now enter upon a 
 critical analysis of the style of some good author. This 
 will suggest observations that we have not hitherto had 
 occasion to make, and will show, in a proper light, some of 
 those which have been made. 
 
 Mr. Addison is the author chosen for this purpose. The 
 Spectator, of which his papers are the chief ornament, is in 
 the hands of every one, and cannot be praised too highly. 
 The good sense and good writing, the useful morality, and 
 the admirable vein of humor which abound in it, render it 
 one of those standard books which have done the greatest 
 honor to the English nation. The general character of Mr. 
 Addison's style, as formerly given, is natural and unaffected, 
 easy and polite ; and full of those graces which a 
 flowery imagination diffuses over writing. At the same 
 time, though one of the most beautiful writers in the lan- 
 guage, he is not the most correct — a circumstance which 
 renders his composition the more proper to be the subject of 
 our present criticism. The free and flowing manner of this 
 amiable author, sometimes led him into inaccuracies, which 
 the more studied circumspection and care of far inferior 
 writers, have taught them to avoid. Remarking his beau- 
 ties, therefore, which we shall have frequent occasion to do, 
 as we proceed, we must also point out his negligences and 
 defects. The paper with which we commence, is No. 411, 
 the first of his celebrated Essays on the Pleasures of the 
 Imagination. It begins thus : 
 
 1 Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all 
 our senses.' 
 
 This is an excellent introductory sentence. It is clear, 
 precise, and simple. The author lays down, in a few plain 
 words, the proposition which he is going to illustrate. In 
 this manner we should always commence. A first sentence 
 should seldom be long, and never intricate. 
 
 He might have saijjjMp^p%r sight is the most perfect and 
 
160 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 20, 
 
 the most delightful^ But in omitting to repeat the article 
 the, he has been more judicious ; since, between perfect and 
 delightful, in the present case, there being no contrast, such 
 a repetition was unnecessary. He proceeds : 
 
 i It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, coil* 
 verses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues 
 the longest in action, without being tired or satiated with its 
 proper enjoyments.' 
 
 This sentence is remarkably harmonious, and well con- 
 structed. It possesses, indeed, most of the properties of a 
 perfect sentence. It is entirely perspicuous. It is loaded 
 with no unnecessary words. That quality of a good sen* 
 tence, which we termed its unity, is here perfectly pre- 
 served. The members of it also grow and rise above each 
 other in sound, till it is conducted to one of the most har- 
 monious closes that our language admits. It has also 
 another beauty — it is figurative, without being too much so 
 for the subject. There is no fault in it whatever, except that 
 a severe critic, might, perhaps, object that the epithet large, 
 which he applies to variety, is more commonly applied to 
 extent than to number. It is evident, however, that he em- 
 ployed it to avoid the repetition of the word great, which 
 occurs immediately afterwards. 
 
 ' The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of 
 extension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, 
 except colors ; but, at the same time, it is very much 
 straightened and confined in its operations, to the number, 
 bulk, and distance of its particular objects.' 
 
 This sentence is not so happy as the preceding. It is, 
 indeed, neither clear nor elegant. Extension and shape can, 
 with no propriety, be called ideas ; since they are proper- 
 ties of matter. Neither can we properly speak of any 
 sense giving us a notion of ideas ; because our senses give 
 us the ideas themselves. The latter part of the sentence is 
 still more confused. The sense of feeling, we are told, is 
 confined in its operations, to the number, bulk, and distance 
 of its particular objects. But is not every sense confined, 
 as much as the sense of feeling, to the number, bulk, and 
 distance of its own objects ? The turn of expression is 
 also here very inaccurate ; and it requires the two words, 
 with regard, to be inserted after the w r ord operations, to make 
 the sense clear and intelligible. The epithet particular, 
 seems to be used instead of peculiar; but these words, 
 though often confounded, are of very different import, Par- 
 
Lect.20.] OF MR. ADDISON'S STYLE. 161 
 
 ticular is opposed to general ; peculiar is opposed to what is 
 possessed in common with others. 
 
 ' Our sight seems designed to supply all these defects, 
 and may be considered as a more delicate and diffusive kind 
 of touch, that spreads itself over an infinite number of bodies, 
 comprehends the largest figures, and brings into our reach 
 some of the most remote parts of the universe.' 
 
 Here again the author's style returns upon us in all its 
 beauty. This sentence is distinct, graceful, well arranged, 
 and musical. Its construction is so similar to that of the 
 second sentence, that, had it immediately followed it, we 
 should have been sensible of a faulty monotony. The 
 interposition of another sentence, however, prevents this un- 
 pleasing effect. 
 
 ' It is this sense which furnishes the imagination with its 
 ideas ; so that by the pleasures of the imagination or fancy, 
 (which I shall use promiscuously,) I here mean such as 
 arise from visible objects, either when we have them actually 
 in our view ; or when we call up their ideas into our minds, 
 by paintings, statues, descriptions, or any the like occasion.' 
 
 In place of, It is this sense tohich furnishes, the author might 
 have more briefly said, This sense furnishes. But the mode 
 of expression which he has used, is here more proper. This 
 sort of full and ample assertion, it is this which, is fit to be 
 used when a proposition of importance is laid down, to 
 which we seek to call the reader's attention. It is like 
 pointing to the object of which we speak. The parenthesis 
 in the middle of the sentence is not clear. He should have 
 said, terms which I shall use 'promiscuously ; as the verb use 
 relates not to the pleasures of the imagination, but to the 
 terms fancy and imagination, which he was to employ as 
 synonymous. To call a painting or a statue an occasion, is 
 not an accurate expression ; nor is it very proper to speak 
 of calling up ideas by occasions. The common phrase, any 
 such means, would have been more natural and appropriate. 
 
 ' We cannot, indeed, have a single image in the fancy, 
 that did not make its first entrance through the sight ; but 
 we have the power of retaining, altering, and compounding 
 those images which we have once received, into all the 
 varieties of picture and vision that are most agreeable to 
 the imagination ; for, by this faculty, a man in a dungeon 
 is capable of entertaining himself with scenes and landscapes 
 more beautiful than any that can be found in the whole corn* 
 pass of. nature.' 
 
162 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 20. 
 
 In one member of this sentence there is an inaccuracy in 
 syntax. It is very proper to say, altering and compounding 
 those images which we have once received, into all the vari- 
 eties of picture and vision: but we can with no propriety 
 say, retaining them into all the varieties ; and yet, the 
 arrangement requires this construction. This error might 
 have been avoided by arranging the passage in the following 
 manner : ' We have the power of retaining, altering, and 
 compounding those images which we have once received ; 
 and of forming them into all the varieties of picture and 
 vision.' The latter part of the sentence is perspicuous and 
 elegant. 
 
 ' There are few words in the English language which 
 are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense, 
 than those of the fancy and the imagination.' 
 
 Except when some assertion of consequence is advanced, 
 these little words, it is, and there are, ought to be avoided as 
 redundant and enfeebling. The first two words of this sen- 
 tence, therefore, would have been much better omitted. 
 The article prefixed to fancy and imagination, should also 
 have been left out, since he does not mean the powers of the 
 fancy and the imagination, but the words only. The sen- 
 tence should have run thus : ' Few words in the English 
 language are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed 
 sense, than fancy and imagination.' 
 
 ' I therefore thought it necessary to fix and determine the 
 notion of these two words, as I intend to make use of them 
 in the thread of my following speculations, that the reader 
 may conceive rightly what is the subject which I proceed 
 upon.' 
 
 Though the words fix and determine, may, at first sight, 
 appear synonymous, yet they are not so. We fix what is 
 loose ; that is, we confine the word to its proper place, that 
 it may not fluctuate in our imagination, and pass from one 
 idea to another ; and we determine what is uncircumscribed ; 
 that is, we ascertain its limits, we draw the circle round it, 
 that we may see its boundaries. These two words, there- 
 fore, are applied here with peculiar grace and delicacy. 
 
 The notion of these words, is rather a harsh phrase ; at 
 least, it is not so commonly used as the meaning of these 
 words. As I intend to make use of them in the thread of my 
 speculations, is, also, evidently faulty. A sort of metaphor 
 is improperly mixed with words in their literal sense. He 
 should have simply said, as I intend to make use of them in 
 
Lect. 20.] OF MR. ADDISON'S STYLE. 163 
 
 my following speculations. The subject which I proceed 
 upon, is an ungraceful close of a sentence; it should have 
 been, the subject upon which I proceed. 
 
 i I must therefore desire him to remember, that by the 
 pleasures of the imagination, I mean only such pleasures 
 as arise originally from sight and that I divide these plea- 
 sures into two kinds.' 
 
 As the last sentence began with, / therefore thought it 
 necessary to fix, it is careless to begin this sentence in a 
 manner so very similar — / must therefore desire him to re- 
 member ; especially as the small variation of using, on this 
 account, or, for this reason, in place of therefore, w T ould have 
 amended the style. In the phrase, I mean only such plea- 
 sures, the word only is not in its proper place. It is not 
 intended here to qualify the verb mean, but such pleasures ; 
 and ought, therefore, to be placed immediately after the 
 latter. 
 
 ' My design being, first of all, to discourse of those pri- 
 mary pleasures of the imagination, which entirely proceed 
 from such objects as are before our eyes ; and, in the next 
 place, to speak of those secondary pleasures of the imagina- 
 tion, which flow from the ideas of visible objects, when the 
 objects are not actually before the eye, but are called up 
 into our memories, or formed into agreeable visions of 
 things, that are either absent or fictitious.' 
 
 In laying down the division of a subject, it is of im- 
 portance to study neatness and brevity as much as possible. 
 This sentence is not happy in this respect. It is somewhat 
 clogged by a tedious phraseology. My design being first 
 of all, to discourse- — in the next place to speak of such objects 
 as are before our eyes— things that are either absent or 
 fictitious. Several words might have been omitted here, 
 and the style rendered more neat and compact. 
 
 4 The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full 
 extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as 
 those of the understanding.' 
 
 This sentence is clear and elegant. 
 
 ' The last are indeed more preferable, because they are 
 founded on some new knowledge or improvement in the 
 mind of man : yet it must be confessed, that those of the 
 imagination are as great and as transporting as the other.' 
 
 The phrase more preferable, in the beginning of this sen- 
 tence, is so palpable an inaccuracy, that Ave are surprised 
 how it could have escaped the observation of Mr. Addison, 
 
164 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 20. 
 
 It must be farther observed, that the proposition contained in 
 the last member of this sentence, is neither clear nor neatly 
 expressed — it must be confessed, that those of the imagina- 
 tion are as great, and as transporting as the other. In the 
 beginning of this sentence, he had called the pleasures of 
 the understanding the last ; and he concludes with observing, 
 that those of the imagination are as great and transporting 
 as the other. Now, besides that the other makes not a proper 
 contrast with the last, it is left doubtful, whether by the other, 
 are not meant the pleasures of the understanding, or the 
 pleasures of sense, for it may refer to either by the construc- 
 tion ; though, no doubt, it was intended to refer to the 
 pleasures of the understanding only. 
 
 ' A beautiful prospect delights the soul as much as a de- 
 monstration ; and a description in Homer has charmed more 
 readers than a chapter in Aristotle.' 
 
 This is a good illustration of what had been asserted, and 
 is expressed with that elegance for which Mr. Addison is so 
 remarkable. 
 
 ' Besides, the pleasures of the imagination have this 
 advantage above those of the understanding, that they are 
 more obvious, and more easy to be acquired.' 
 
 This is also an unexceptionable sentence. 
 
 1 It is but opening the eye, and the scene enters.' 
 
 This sentence is lively and picturesque. By the gayety 
 and briskness which it gives the style, it shows the great 
 advantage of intermixing long and short sentences. We 
 must remark, however, a small inaccuracy — a scene cannot 
 be said to enter : an actor enters ; but a scene appears, or 
 presents itself. 
 
 ' The colors paint themselves on the fancy, with very little 
 attention to thought or application of mind in the beholder.' 
 
 This is another beautiful illustration ; and carried on with 
 that agreeable floweriness of fancy and style, which is so 
 well suited to those pleasures of the imagination, of which 
 the author is treating. 
 
 ' We are struck, we know not how, with the symmetry of 
 any thing we see, and immediately assent to the beauty of an 
 object, without inquiring into the particular causes and 
 occasions of it. 5 
 
 We assent to the truth of a proposition ; but cannot, without 
 impropriety, be said to assent to the beauty of an object. 
 Acknowledge vrould have expressed the sense with more 
 propriety. In the conclusion, too, both particular and occa 
 
Lect. 20.] OF MR. ADDISON'S STYLE. 165 
 
 sions are superfluous words ; and the pronoun it, is, in some 
 measure, ambiguous, its reference not being clear. 
 
 ' A man of a polite imagination is let into a great many 
 pleasures, that the vul-gar are not capable of receiving.' 
 
 Polite, is perhaps, applied with more propriety to manners, 
 than to the mind or imagination. There is nothing farther 
 to be observed on this sentence, unless it be, the use of that 
 for a relative pronoun, instead of which — a usage which is 
 too frequent with Mr. Addison. Which is esteemed prefer- 
 able to that, in all cases, except where it is necessary to avoid 
 an ungraceful repetition. 1 
 
 ' He can converse with a picture, and find an agreeable 
 companion in a statue. He meets with a secret refreshment 
 in a description ; and often feels a greater satisfaction in the 
 prospects of fields and meadows, than another does in the 
 possession. It gives him, indeed, a kind of property in 
 every thing he sees ; and makes the most rude uncultivated 
 parts of nature administer to his pleasure : so that he looks 
 upon the world, as it were in another light, and discovers in 
 it a multitude of charms that conceal themselves from the 
 generality of mankind.' 
 
 This sentence is easy, flowing, and harmonious. We 
 must, however, observe a slight inaccuracy. It gives him 
 a kind of property — to this it, there is no antecedent in the 
 whole paragraph. To discover its connection, we must 
 look back to the third sentence preceding, which begins 
 with, a man of polite imagination. This phrase, polite 
 imagination, is the only antecedent to which it can refer ; 
 and even this is not a proper antecedent, since it stands in 
 the genitive case, as the qualification only of a man. 
 
 ' There are, indeed, but very few, who know how to be 
 idle and innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are 
 not criminal ; every diversion they take, is at the expense of 
 some one virtue or another, and their very first step out of 
 business is into vice or folly.' 
 
 This sentence is truly elegant, musical, and correct. 
 
 ' A man should endeavor, therefore, to make the sphere of 
 his innocent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may re- 
 tire into them with safety, and find in them, such a satis- 
 faction as a wise man would not blush to take.' 
 
 This also is a good sentence, and gives occasion to no 
 material remark. 
 
 ' Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do 
 not require such a bent of thought as is necessary to our 
 
166 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 20. 
 
 more serious employments, nor, at the same time, suffer the 
 mind to sink into that indolence and remissness, which are 
 apt to accompany our more sensual delights ; but like a gen- 
 tle exercise to the faculties, awaken them from sloth and 
 idleness, without putting them upon any labor or difficulty.' 
 
 The beginning of this sentence is not correct, being too 
 loosely connected with the preceding one. Of this nature, 
 says he, are those of the imagination. It might be asked, 
 of what nature ? For the preceding sentence had not 
 described the nature of any class of pleasures. He had said 
 that it was every man's duty to make the sphere of his in- 
 nocent pleasures as extensive as possible, in order that, 
 within that sphere, he might find a safe retreat and a lauda- 
 ble satisfaction. The transition, therefore, is made loosely. 
 It would have been better had he said, ' This advantage we 
 gain,' or, ' This satisfaction we enjoy.' by means of the 
 pleasures of the imagination. The rest of the sentence is 
 unexceptionable. 
 
 ; We might here add, that the pleasures of the fancy are 
 more conducive to health than those of the understanding, 
 which are worked out by dint of thinking, and attended 
 with too violent a labor of the brain.' 
 
 On this sentence, nothing occurs deserving of remark, 
 except that, worked out by dint of thinking, which borders 
 too much on vulgar and colloquial language, to be proper 
 for being employed in a polished composition. 
 
 ' Delightful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or 
 poetry, have a kindly influence on the body, as well as the 
 mind, and not only serve to clear and brighten the imagi- 
 nation, but are able to disperse grief and melancholy, and to 
 set the animal spirits in pleasing and agreeable motions. 
 For this reason, Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon 
 Health, has not thought it improper to prescribe to his reader 
 a poem, or a prospect, where he particularly dissuades him 
 from knotty and subtle disquisitions, and advises him to 
 pursue studies that fill the mind with splendid and illustrious 
 objects, as histories, fables, and contemplations of nature.' 
 
 In the latter of these two sentences, a member of the pe- 
 riod is improperly placed — where he particularly dissuades 
 him from knotty and subtle disquisitions : these words 
 should, doubtless, have been placed in the following man- 
 ner : Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, where 
 he particularly dissuades the reader from knotty and subtle 
 speculations, has not thought it improper, &c. 
 
Lect. 20.] OF MR. ADDISON'S STYLE. 16? 
 
 ' I have,, in this paper, by way of introduction, settled the 
 notion of those pleasures of the imagination, which are the 
 subject of my present undertaking ; and endeavored, by 
 several considerations, to recommend to my readers the pur- 
 suit of those pleasures ; I shall, in my next paper, examine 
 the several sources from whence these pleasures are 
 derived.' 
 
 These two concluding sentences afford examples of the 
 proper collocation of circumstances in a period. We have 
 formerly showed, that a judicious collocation of them is a 
 matter of difficulty. Had the following incidental circum- 
 stances — by way of introduction — by several considera- 
 tions — in this paper — in the next paper — been placed in any 
 other situation, the sentence would neither have been so 
 neat nor so clear as it is by the present construction. 
 
LECTURE XXI. 
 
 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN 
 No. 412 OF THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 The observations which have occurred in reviewing that 
 paper of Mr. Addison, which was the subject of the last lec- 
 ture, sufficiently show, that in the writings of an author of 
 the most happy genius, and distinguished talents, inaccu- 
 racies may sometimes be found. Though such inaccuracies 
 may be overbalanced by so many beauties as render style 
 highly pleasing and agreeable upon the whole, yet it must 
 be desirable to every writer to avoid, as far as possible, 
 inaccuracy of any kind. As the subject, therefore, is of 
 importance, it may be useful to carry on this criticism 
 throughout one or two subsequent papers of the Spectator. 
 We proceed to the examination of paper No. 412. 
 
 1 I shall first consider those pleasures of the imagination, 
 which arise from the actual view and survey of outward 
 objects ; and these, I think, all proceed from the sight of 
 what is great, uncommon, or beautiful.' 
 
 This sentence is simple and distinct. The words view 
 and survey, as here used, are not altogether synonymous ; 
 as the former may be supposed to import mere inspection, 
 and the latter, more deliberate examination ; yet, in the pre- 
 sent case, either of them, perhaps, would have been suf- 
 ficient. 
 
 ' There may, indeed, be something so terrible or offensive, 
 that the horror, or loathsomeness of an object, may overbear the 
 pleasure which results from its novelty, greatness, or beauty ; 
 but still there will be such a mixture of delight in the very 
 disgust it gives us, as any of these three qualifications are 
 most conspicuous and prevailing.' 
 
 This must be acknowledged to be an unfortunate sentence. 
 The sense is obscure and embarrassed, and the expression 
 loose and irregular. In the beginning, something and object 
 are wrongly placed. The natural arrangement would have 
 been, there may, indeed, be something in an object so terrible 
 or offensive, that the horror or loathsomeness of it may over- 
 bear. These two epithets, horror or loathsomeness^ are 
 awkwardly joined together. Loathsome?iess may be applied 
 
Lect.21.3 CRITICAL EXAMINATION. 169 
 
 to objects, but horror cannot ; it is a feeling excited in the 
 mind. The language would have been much more correct, 
 had our author said, there may, indeed, be something in an 
 object so terrible or offensive, that the horror or disgust which 
 it excites may overbear. Terrible or offensive, would then 
 have expressed the qualities of an object ; horror or disgust, 
 the corresponding sentiments which these qualities produce 
 in the mind. 
 
 In the latter part of the sentence also, there are several 
 inaccuracies. When he says, there will be such a mixture 
 of delight in the very disgust it gives us, as any of these three 
 qualifications are most conspicuous, the construction seems 
 hardly grammatical. He certainly meant to say, such a 
 ■mixture of delight as is proportioned to the degree in which 
 any of these three qualifications are conspicuous. The plu- 
 ral verb are, is improperly joined to any of these three quali- 
 fications ; for as any is here used distributively, and means 
 OAiy one of these three qualifications, the corresponding verb 
 ought to have been singular. 
 
 ' By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single 
 object, but the largeness of a whole view, considered as one 
 entire piece.' 
 
 A part of this sentence, it will be recollected, was criti- 
 cised in a former lecture, and corrected in the following 
 manner : By greatness, I do not mean the bulk of any single 
 object only, bat the largeness of a whole view. As the closing 
 phrase, considered as one entire piece, is deficient, both in 
 dignity and propriety, it might better have been altogether 
 omitted. 
 
 * Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, a 
 vast uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high 
 rocks and precipices, or a wide expanse of waters, where 
 we are not struck with the novelty, or beauty of the sight, 
 but with that rude kind of magnificence which appears in 
 many of these stupendous works of nature,' 
 
 This sentence is, in the main, beautiful. The objects 
 presented are all of them noble, selected with judgment, 
 arranged with propriety, and accompanied with proper 
 epithets. The sentence, however, it must be observed, is 
 too loosely, and not very grammatically connected with the 
 preceding one. He says, such are the prospects ; such, sig- 
 nifies of that nature or quality ; which necessarily presup- 
 poses some adjective, or word descriptive of quality, going 
 before, to which it refers. But in the foregoing sentence 
 
 15 
 
170 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 21. 
 
 there is no 35j~h adjective. He had spoken of greatness in 
 the abstract only ; and therefore such has no distinct ante- 
 cedent to which we can refer it. The sentence would have 
 been introduced with more grammatical propriety, by saying, 
 to this class belong, or under this head are ranged the pros- 
 pects, &dc. The of which is prefixed to huge heaps of moun- 
 tains, is superfluous, and has, perhaps, been an error in the 
 printing. The word many, also, preceding of these stupen- 
 dous works of nature, might better have been omitted, as 
 it seems to ex^pt some of them. 
 
 4 Our imagination loves to be fliled with an object, or to 
 grasp at any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are 
 flung into a pleasing astonishment at such unbounded views ; 
 and feel a delightful stillness and amazement in the soul, at 
 the apprehension of them.' 
 
 The language here is elegant, and several of the expres- 
 sions remarkably happy. There is nothing which requires 
 any animadversion except the close, at the apprehension of 
 them. This is not only languid and enfeebling, but the 
 apprehension of views, is a phrase destitute of all propriety, 
 and, indeed, scarcely intelligible. Had this adjection been 
 entirely omitted, it would have been a great improvement. 
 
 ' The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks 
 like a restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itself under a 
 sort of confinement, when the sight is pent up in a narrow 
 compass, and shortened on every side by the neighborhood 
 of walls and mountains. On the contrary, a spacious hori- 
 zon is an image of liberty, where the eye has room to range 
 abroad, to expatiate at large on the immensity of its views, 
 and to lose itself amidst the variety of objects, that offer 
 themselves to its observation. Such wide and undetermined 
 prospects are pleasing to the fancy, as the speculations of 
 eternity, or infinitude, are to the understanding.' 
 
 Our author's style appears here in all that native beauty 
 which cannot be too much praised. The numbers flow 
 smoothly, and with a graceful harmony. The words carry 
 a certain amplitude and fullness, well suited to the nature of 
 the subject ; and the members of the periods rise in a grada- 
 tion accommodated to the rise of the thought. 
 
 ' But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with 
 this grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with 
 stars and meteors, or the spacious landscape cut out into 
 rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows, the pleasure still grows 
 upon us as it arises from more than a single principle.' 
 
Lect. 21.] OF MR. ADDISON'S STYLE. 171 
 
 Had the article prefixed to beauty, in the beginning of this 
 sentence, been omitted, the style would have been improved. 
 And instead of a landscape cut into rivers, &x., diversified 
 by rivers, &c, would have been better. - 
 
 ' Every thing that is new or uncommon, raises a pleasure 
 in the imagination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable 
 surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which 
 it was not before possessed. We are, indeed, so often con- 
 versant with one set of objects, and tired out with so many 
 repeated shows of the same things, that whatever is new or 
 uncommon contributes a little to vary human life, and to 
 divert ou r minds, for a while, with the strangeness, of its 
 appearance. It serves us for a kind of refreshment, and 
 takes off from the satiety we are apt to complain of in our 
 usual and ordinary entertainments.' 
 
 Though the style in these sentences flows in an easy and 
 agreeable manner, yet it is necessary to observe, that there 
 are two phrases which may be altered to advantage. The 
 first is the following — raises a pleasure in the imagination, 
 which is certainly flat and feeble, and might easily be 
 amended by saying, affords pleasure to the imaginatiort ; 
 and the second is towards the end, where two of's grate 
 harshly on the ear — takes off from that satiety we are apt to 
 complain of. Here the correction is as easily made as in the 
 other case, by substituting, diminishes that satiety of which 
 ice are apt to complain. 
 
 ' It is this which bestows charms on a monster, and makes 
 even the imperfections of nature please us. It is this that 
 recommends variety, where the mind is every instant called 
 off to something new, and the attention not suffered to dwell 
 too long, and waste itself on any particular object. It is this, 
 likewise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and 
 makes it afford the mind a double entertainment.' 
 
 Still the style proceeds with perspicuity, grace, and har- 
 mony. The full and ample assertion with which each of 
 these sentences is introduced, frequent on many occasions 
 with our author, is here proper and seasonable ; as it was 
 his intention to magnify, as much as possible, the effect of 
 novelty and variety, and to draw our attention to them. His 
 frequent use of that instead of which, is another peculiarity 
 of his style ; but, on this occasion in particular, cannot be 
 commended ; as, it is this tohich, seems, in every view, to be 
 better than, it is this that, three times repeated. 
 
 1 Groves, fields, and meadows, are, at any season of the 
 
172 CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect. 21. 
 
 year, pleasant to look upon ; but never so much as in the 
 opening of the spring, when they are all new and fresh, 
 with their first gloss upon them, and not yet too much accus- 
 tomed and familiar to the eye.' 
 
 In the expression, never so much as in the opening of 
 spring, there appears to be a small error in grammar ; for 
 when the construction is filled up, it must be read, never so 
 much pleasant. Had he, to avoid this, said never so much so, 
 the grammatical error would have been prevented, but the 
 language would still have been awkward. Better to have 
 said, but never so agreeable as in the opening of the spring. 
 
 ' For this reason, there* is nothing that more enlivens a 
 prospect than rivers, jetdeaus, or falls of water, where the 
 scene is perpetually shifting and entertaining the sight, every 
 moment, with something that is new. We are quickly tired 
 with looking at hills and vallies, where every thing con- 
 tinues fixed and settled, in the same place and posture ; but 
 find our thoughts a little agitated and relieved at the sight 
 of such objects as are ever in motion, and sliding away from 
 beneath the eye of the beholder.' 
 
 The first of these sentences is connected in too loose a 
 manner with that which immediately preceded it. When 
 he says, for this reason there is nothing which more enlivens, 
 &c, we are entitled to look for the reason in what he had 
 just before said. But there we find no reason for what he is 
 now going to assert, except that groves and meadows are 
 most pleasant in the spring. It is, indeed, one of the defects 
 of this amiable writer, that his sentences are often too negli- 
 gently connected with one another ; and though his meaning 
 maybe gathered from the tenor of his discourse, yet his 
 negligence prevents his sense from striking us with that 
 force and evidence, which a more accurate juncture of parts 
 would have produced. The close, however, is uncommonly 
 fine, and carries as much expressive harmony as the lan- 
 guage can admit. It seems to paint what he is describing, 
 at once to the eye and the ear. Such objects as are ever in 
 motion and sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder. 
 
 ' But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to 
 the soul than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret 
 satisfaction and complacency through the imagination, and 
 gives a finishing to any thing that is great or uncommon. 
 The very first discovery of it strikes the mind with an 
 inwardjoy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through 
 all the faculties.' 
 
Lect. 21.] OF MR. ADDISON'S STYLE. 173 
 
 Some degree of verbosity may be here "discovered, as 
 phrases are repeated which are little more than the echo 
 of one another ; but, at the same time, it must be admitted, 
 that this full and flowing style, even though it be somewhat 
 redundant, is not unsuitable to the gayety of the subject on 
 which the author is entering, and is more allowable here 
 than it would have been on some other occasions. 
 
 ' There is not, perhaps, any real beauty or deformity more 
 in one piece of matter than another; because we might 
 have been so made, that whatever now appears loathsome to 
 as, might have shown itself agreeable ; but we find by expe- 
 rience, that there are several modifications of matter, which 
 the mind, without any previous consideration, pronounces at 
 first sight beautiful or deformed.' 
 
 In this sentence there is nothing to be noticed, except that 
 the word more, towards the beginning, is not in its proper 
 place, and that the preposition in, is wanting before another. 
 The phrase ought to have stood thus : Beauty or deformity 
 in one piece of matter, more than in another. 
 
 ' Thus we see, that every different species of sensible 
 creatures, has its different notions of beauty, and that each 
 of them is most affected with the beauties of its own kind. 
 This is no where more remarkable, than in birds of the same 
 shape and proportion, where we often see the male deter- 
 mined in his courtship by the single grain of tincture of a 
 feather, and never discovering any charms but in the color 
 of its species.' 
 
 Neither is there here any particular elegance of language. 
 Different sense of beauty, in the beginning, would have been 
 better than differ e?it notions of beauty ; and at the close, the 
 author should not have used the neuter gender in the phrase, 
 color of its species, particularly as he had said in the same 
 sentence, that the male was determined in his courtship. 
 
 ' There is a second kind of beauty, that we find in the 
 several products of art and nature, which does not work in 
 the imagination with that warmth and violence, as the beauty 
 that appears in our proper species, but is apt, however, to 
 raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of fondness for the 
 places or objects in which we discover it.' 
 
 Still we find little to praise. This second kind of beauty, 
 he says, we find in the several products of art and nature. 
 He doubtless means, not in all, but in several of the products 
 of art and nature, and ought so to have expressed himself; 
 and in the place of products, to have used also the more pro- 
 
 15* 
 
in CRITICAL EXAMINATION [Lect.21. 
 
 per word productions. When he adds, that this kind of 
 beauty does not work in the imagination with that warmth 
 and violence as the beauty that appears in our proper spe- 
 cies ; the language would certainly have been more pure 
 and elegant, had he said, that it does not work upon the 
 imagination with such warmth and violence, as the beauty 
 that appears in our own species. 
 
 1 This consists either in the gayety or variety of colors, in 
 the symmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement 
 and disposition of bodies, or in a just mixture and concur- 
 rence of all together. Among these several kinds of beauty, 
 the eye takes most delight in colors.' 
 
 To the language here, no objection can be made. 
 
 * We no where meet with a more glorious or pleasing 
 show in nature, than what appears in the heavens at the 
 rising and setting of the sun, which is wholly made up of 
 those different stains of light, that show themselves in 
 clouds of a different situation.' 
 
 The chief ground of criticism on this sentence, is the dis- 
 jointed situation of the relative which. Grammatically it 
 refers to the rising and setting sun; but the author meant 
 that it should refer to the show which appears in the heavens 
 at that time. It is too common among authors, when they 
 are writing without much care, to make such particles as 
 this and which, refer not to any particular antecedent word, 
 but to the tenor of some phrase, or, perhaps, the scope of 
 some whole sentence, which has gone before. This prac- 
 tice saves them trouble in arranging their words and periods ; 
 but though it may leave their meaning intelligible, yet it 
 renders it much less perspicuous, determined, and precise, 
 than it might otherwise have been. 
 
 ' For this reason we find the poets, who are always ad- 
 dressing themselves to the imagination, borrowing more of 
 their epithets from colors than from any other topic' 
 
 On this sentence nothing occurs to be remarked, except 
 that it is too loosely connected with the one that immediately 
 precedes it. 
 
 * As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, 
 or beautiful, and is still more pleased, the more it finds of 
 these perfections, in the same object, so it is capable of 
 receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of another 
 sense.' 
 
 Another sense, here means, grammatically, another sense 
 than fancy ; for there is nothing else in the period to which 
 
Lect. 21.] OF MR. ADDISON'S STYLE. 175 
 
 it can at all be opposed. He had not, for some time, made 
 mention of any sense whatever. He forgot to add, what was 
 unquestionably in his thoughts, another sense than that of 
 sight. 
 
 ' Thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or a 
 fall of water, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, 
 and makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the 
 place which lie before him. Thus, if there arises a fre- 
 quency of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasures 
 of the imagination, and make even the colors and verdure of 
 the landscape appear more agreeable ; for the ideas of both 
 senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together 
 than when they enter the mind separately ; as the different 
 colors of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one 
 another, and receive an additional beauty from the advan- 
 tage of their situation.' 
 
 With regard to the style here, nothing appears exception- 
 able. The flow, both of language and of ideas, is very 
 agreeable. The author continues, to the end, the same 
 pleasing train of thought, which had run through the rest 
 of the paper ; and leaves us agreeably employed in com- 
 paring together different degrees of beauty. 
 
LECTURE XXII. 
 
 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN 
 NO. 413 OF THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ' Though in yesterday's paper we considered how every 
 thing- that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the 
 imagination with pleasure, we must own, that it is impossi- 
 ble for us to assign the necessary cause of this pleasure, 
 because we know neither the nature of an idea, nor the sub- 
 stance of a human soul, which might help us to discover the 
 conformity or disagreeableness of the one to the other ; and 
 therefore, for want of such a light, all that we can do in 
 speculations of this kind, is, to reflect on those operations of 
 the soul that are most agreeable, and to range, under their 
 proper heads, what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind, 
 without being able to trace out the several necessary and 
 efficient causes from whence the pleasure or displeasure 
 arises.' 
 
 This sentence, considered as an introductory one, must 
 be acknowledged to be very faulty. An introductory sen- 
 tence should never contain any thing that may fatigue or 
 puzzle the reader. When an author is entering on a new 
 branch of his subject, informing us of what he has done, 
 and what he proposes farther to do, we naturally expect that 
 he should express himself in the simplest manner possible. 
 But the sentence now before us is crowded and indistinct ; 
 containing three separate propositions, which, as shall after- 
 wards be shown, required separate sentences to unfold them. 
 Mr. Addison's chief excellence lay in describing and paint- 
 ing. There he is great; but in methodising, he is not so 
 eminent. 
 
 Though in yesterday's paper we considered. The import 
 of though is notwithstanding that. When it appears in the 
 beginning of a sentence, its relative, generally, is yet ; and 
 it is employed to warn us, after we have been informed of 
 some truth, that we are not to infer from it some other thing 
 which we might, perhaps, have expected to follow. But it is 
 evident, that there was no such opposition between the sub- 
 ject of yesterday's paper, and what the author is now going 
 to say, as to render the use of this adversative particle, 
 
Lect. 23.] PUBLIC SPEAKING. 185 
 
 ably to it, by engaging our affections in its favor. Con- 
 viction is, however, one avenue to the heart ; and it is that 
 which an orator must first attempt to gain ; for no persuasion 
 can be stable, which is not founded on conviction. But the 
 orator must not be satisfied with convincing only : he must 
 address himself to the passions ; he must paint to the fancy, 
 and touch the heart; and hence, besides solid argument and 
 clear method, all the captivating and interesting arts, both 
 of composition and pronunciation, enter into the idea of 
 eloquence. 
 
 Eloquence may be considered as consisting of three kinds, 
 or degrees. The first, and lowest, is that which aims only 
 to please the hearers. Such, generally, is the eloquence of 
 panegyrics, inaugural orations, addresses to great men, and 
 other harangues of this kind. This ornamental sort of com- 
 position is not altogether to be rejec* ed. It may innocently 
 amuse and entertain the mind ; and may be connected, at 
 the same time, with very useful sentiments. But it must be 
 acknowledged, that where the speaker has no farther aim 
 than merely to shine and to please, there is great danger of 
 art being strained into ostentation, and of the composition 
 becoming tiresome and insipid. 
 
 A second and a higher degree of eloquence is, when the 
 speaker aims not merely to please, but likewise to inform, to 
 instruct, and to convince : when his art is exerted in re- 
 moving prejudices against himself and his cause \. in choos- 
 ing the most proper arguments, stating them with the greatest 
 force, arranging them in the best order, expressing and 
 delivering them with propriety and beauty ; and thereby 
 preparing us to pass that judgment, or embrace that side of 
 the cause, to which he desires to bring us. Within this 
 compass, chiefly, is employed the eloquence of the bar. 
 
 But there is a third, and still higher degree of eloquence, 
 in which a greater power is exerted over the human mind, 
 and by which we are not only convinced, but are interested, 
 
 Of conviction, what is farther observed ; and why must not the orator 
 be satisfied with it alone % Besides solid argument, therefore, what must 
 enter into the idea of eloquence ? Of how many degrees does eloquence 
 consist ; and what is the first 1 Of this, what are examples 1 Why is 
 not this kind of composition to be rejected ; but of it, what must be 
 acknowledged 1 What is the second degree of eloquence ? Here, for 
 what purpose is his art exerted ; and within this compass what is employed 1 
 Of the third degree of eloquence, what is observed ; and what is its effect 
 upon us? 
 
 16* 
 
186 ELOQUENCE OR [Lect. 23. 
 
 agitated, and carried along with the speaker : our passions 
 rise with, his ; we enter into all his emotions ; we love, we 
 hate, we resent, according as he inspires us ; and are 
 prompted to resolve, or to act, with vigor and warmth. De- 
 bate, in popular assemblies, opens the most extensive field 
 for the exercise of this species of eloquence ; and the pulpit 
 also admits it. 
 
 It is necessary here to remark, that this high species of 
 eloquence is always the offspring of passion. By passion 
 we mean that state of the mind in which it is agitated and 
 fired by some object it has in view. A man may convince, and 
 even persuade others to act, by mere reason and argument ; 
 but that degree of eloquence which gains the admiration of 
 mankind, and properly distinguishes one as an orator, is 
 never formed without warmth or passion. Passion, when 
 in such a degree as to rouse and kindle the mind, without 
 throwing it out of the possession of itself, is universally found 
 to exalt all the human powers. It renders the mind infi- 
 nitely more enlightened, more penetrating, more vigorous 
 and masterly, than it is in its calm moments. A man, 
 actuated by a strong passion, becomes much greater than he 
 is at other times. He is conscious of more strength and 
 force; he utters greater sentiments, conceives higher designs, 
 and executes them with a boldness and felicity, of which, 
 on other occasions, he could not think himself capable. 
 
 The principle, then, being admitted, that all high elo- 
 quence flows from passion, several consequences follow, the 
 mention of which will serve to confirm the principle itself. 
 For, hence, the universally acknowledged effect of enthu- 
 siasm in public speaking, for affecting their audience. 
 Hence all studied declamation, and labored ornaments of 
 style, which show the mind to be cool and unmoved, are so 
 incompatible with persuasive eloquence. Hence, indeed, 
 every kind of affectation in gesture and pronunciation, de- 
 tracts, so much, from the merits of a speaker ; and hence, 
 the necessity of being, and being believed to be, disinterested 
 and in earnest, in order to persuade. 
 
 These are some of the ideas which have occurred concern- 
 
 Where may it be employed 1 Of this high species of eloquence, what is 
 it necessary here to remark ; and by it what do we mean 1 What may a 
 man do by mere argument; but what remark follows'? When does pas- 
 sion exalt all the human powers ; and what is its effect upon the mind 1 
 What is observed of a man actuated by a strong passion 1 As all high 
 eloquence flows from passion, what consequences follow? 
 
Lect. 23.] PUBLIC SPEAKING. 187 
 
 ing eloquence in general ; and with which we have thought 
 proper to begin, as the foundation of much of what is after- 
 wards to be suggested. From what has already been said, 
 it is evident that eloquence is a high talent, and of great im- 
 portance in society ; and that it requires both natural genius, 
 and much improvement from art. Viewed as the art of 
 persuasion, it requires, in its lowest state, soundness of un- 
 derstanding, and considerable acquaintance with human 
 nature ; and, in its higher degrees, it requires, moreover, 
 strong sensibility of mind, a lively imagination, joined with 
 correctness of judgment, and an extensive command of the 
 power of language ; to which must also be added, the graces 
 of pronunciation and delivery. We shall now proceed to 
 consider in what state eloquence has subsisted in different 
 ages and nations. 
 
 In tracing the origin of eloquence, it is not necessary to 
 go far back into the early ages of the world, or to search for 
 it among the monuments of Eastern or Egyptian antiquity. 
 In those ages, it is true, there was a certain kind of eloquence ; 
 but it was more nearly allied to poetry than to what we pro- 
 perly call oratory. Whilst the intercourse among men was 
 unfrequent, and force and strength were the principal means 
 employed in deciding controversies, the arts of oratory and 
 persuasion, of reasoning and debate, could be little known. 
 The first empires that arose, the Assyrian and Egyptian, 
 were of the despotic kind. A single person, or at most, a 
 few, held the reins of government. The multitude w^ere 
 accustomed to a blind obedience ; they Avere driven, not 
 persuaded ; and, consequently, none of those refinements of 
 society, which make public speaking an object of importance, 
 were as yet introduced. 
 
 It is not till the rise of the Grecian republics, that we 
 perceive any remarkable appearance of eloquence as the art 
 of persuasion ; and these opened to it such a field as it never 
 had before, and, perhaps, has never again, since that time, 
 experienced. Greece was divided into a number of little 
 
 From what has already been said of eloquence, what is remarked ; and 
 viewed as the art of persuasion, what does it require 1 What shall we 
 now proceed to consider 1 In tracing the origin of eloquence, what need 
 we not do ; and of the eloquence of those ages, what is remarked 1 When 
 could the arts of persuasion and reasoning be little known ; and of the first 
 empires that arose what is observed 1 How is this illustrated 1 When 
 does eloquence first appear as the art of persuasion ; and to what extent 
 did it there exist? How was Greece divided ; how were these at first 
 governed ; and what follows 1 
 
189 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [Lect. 23. 
 
 states. These were governed, at first, by kings, ivho were 
 called tyrants, on whose expulsion from all these states, 
 there sprung up a great number of democratical govern- 
 ments, founded nearly upon the same plan, animated by the 
 same high spirit of freedom, mutually jealous, and rivals of 
 each other. 
 
 Of these Grecian republics, the most noted, by far, for 
 eloquence, and, indeed, for arts of every kind, was Athens. 
 The Athenians were an ingenious, quick, sprightly, people ; 
 practiced in business, and sharpened by frequent and sudden 
 revolutions, which happened in their government. And, 
 although they had a senate of five hundred, yet, in the 
 general convention of the citizens was placed the last resort ; 
 and affairs were conducted there, entirely by reasoning, 
 speaking, and a skillful application to the passions and inter- 
 ests of a popular assembly. There, laws were made, peace 
 and war decreed, and there the magistrates were chosen : 
 for the highest honors of the state were alike open to all ; 
 nor was the meanest tradesman excluded from a seat in their 
 supreme courts. In such a state, eloquence, it is obvious, 
 would be much studied, as the surest means of rising to 
 influence and power. It was not, however, that which was 
 brilliant and showy merely ; but that which was found upon 
 trial, to be most effectual for convincing, interesting, and 
 persuading the hearers. For there, public speaking was 
 not a mere competition for empty applause, but a serious 
 contention for the public leading, which was the great object 
 both of the men of ambition, and the men of virtue. 
 
 Pisistratus, who subverted the government of Solon, was 
 the first who distinguished himself among the Athenians by 
 application to the arts of speech. By his ability in these 
 arts, he raised himself to the sovereign power ; which, how- 
 ever, when he had attained it, he exercised with moderation. 
 Of the orators who flourished between his time and the 
 Pdloponnesian war, nothing is said in history. Pericles, 
 v 10 died about the beginning of that war, was properly the 
 fust who carried eloquence to a great height — to such a 
 
 Of these Grecian republics, which was the most noted ; and of the 
 Athenians, what is remarked 1 Of their senate, and of the convention of 
 the citizens, what is observed 1 Why would eloquence, in such a state be 
 much studied ; of what kind was it, and why 1 Who was the first that 
 distinguished himself by application to the arts of speech ; and by his 
 abilities in these arts what did he effect 1 Of his immediate successors 
 what is observed 1 
 
Lect. 23.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 189 
 
 height, indeed, that it does not appear he was ever after- 
 wards surpassed. Besides being a distinguished orator, he 
 was a statesman and a general; expert in business, and of 
 consummate address. Thirty-nine years he governed 
 Athens with absolute sway ; and historians ascribe his in- 
 fluence, not more to his political talents than to his elo- 
 quence, which was of that forcible and vehement kind, that 
 bore every thing before it, and triumphed over the passions 
 and affections of the people. 
 
 The power of eloquence having, after the days of Peri- 
 cles, become an object of greater consequence than ever, this 
 gave birth to a set of men till then unknown, called rheto- 
 ricians, and sometimes sophists, who arose in multitudes 
 during the Peloponnesian war. These sophists joined to 
 their art of rhetoric a subtle logic, and were generally a 
 sort of metaphysical skeptics. They did not content them- 
 selves with delivering general instructions concerning 
 eloquence to their pupils, and endeavoring to form their 
 taste ; but they professed the art of giving them receipts for 
 making all sorts of orations ; and of teaching them how to 
 speak for, and against, every cause whatever. To them 
 the great Socrates opposed himself. By a profound, but 
 simple reasoning, he exploded their sophistry ; and en- 
 deavored to recall men's attention from that abuse of rea- 
 soning and discourse which began to be in vogue, to natural 
 language, and sound and useful thought. 
 
 In the same age, though somewhat later than the philo- 
 sopher above mentioned, flourished Isocrates, whose writings 
 are still extant. He was a professed rhetorician ; and by 
 teaching eloquence, he acquired both a great fortune, and 
 higher fame than any of his rivals. His orations are full of 
 morality and good sentiments ; they are flowing and smooth, 
 but too destitute of vigor. He never engaged in public 
 affairs, nor pleaded causes ; and, consequently, his orations 
 are calculated only for the closet. 
 
 We now pass to the great Demosthenes, in whom eloquence 
 shone forth with the highest and most unrivaled splendor. 
 
 What is said of Pericles ; and how long did he govern Athens 1 Of 
 what kind was his eloquence 1 The power of eloquence having become 
 an object of greater consequence than ever, this gave birth to what set of 
 men 1 Of these sophists, what is farther remarked 1 Who opposed them ; 
 and what did he endeavor to do 1 In the same age, who flourished ; and 
 what is remarked of him 1 To whom do we now pass ; and what is said 
 of his eloquence ? 
 
190 GRECIAN ELOaUENCE. [Lect. 23. 
 
 Not formed by nature, either to please or to persuade, he 
 struggled with, and surmounted the most formidable im- 
 pediments. He shut himself up in a cave, that he might 
 study with less distraction. He declaimed by the sea-shore, 
 that he might be used to the voice of a tumultuous assembly; 
 and with pebbles in his mouth, that he might correct a de- 
 fect in his speech. He practiced at home with a naked 
 sword hanging over his shoulder, that he might check an 
 ungraceful motion to which he was subject. Hence, the 
 example of this great man affords the highest encourage- 
 ment to every student of eloquence, since it shows how far 
 art and application could avail, for acquiring an excellence 
 which nature appeared willing to have denied. 
 
 Despising the affected and florid manner which the 
 rhetoricians of that age followed, Demosthenes returned to 
 the forcible and manly eloquence of Pericles ; and strength 
 and vehemence form the principal characteristics of his 
 style. Never had an orator a finer field than Demosthenes 
 in his Olynthiacs and Phillippics, which are his capital 
 orations ; and doubtless, to the greatness of the subject, and 
 that integrity and public spirit which breathe in them, they 
 owe a large portion of their merit. The subject is, to rouse 
 the indignation of his countrymen against Philip of Macedon, 
 the public enemy of the liberties of Greece ; and to guard 
 them against the treacherous measures, by which that crafty 
 tyrant endeavored to lull them, into a neglect of their danger. 
 To attain this end, we see him use every means to animate 
 a people, distinguished by justice, humanity, and valor ; but 
 in many instances become corrupt and degenerate. He 
 boldly accuses them of venality, indolence, and indifference 
 to the public good ; while, at the same time, he reminds 
 them of their former glory, and of their present resources. 
 His contemporary orators, who were bribed by Philip, and 
 who persuaded the people to peace, he openly reproaches as 
 traitors to their country. He not only prompts to vigorous 
 measures, but teaches how they are to be carried into ex- 
 
 Not being formed by nature for an orator, what were his efforts that he 
 might become one 1 Hence, of his example what is remarked ; and why 1 
 What art- the characteristics of his style 1 What is said of the field that 
 presented itself to Demosthenes ; and to this, what is to be attributed ] 
 What is the subject ; and to attain this end. what course does he pur- 
 sue 1 What is said of his contemporary orators ; and how does he treat 
 them 1 ? Besides prompting to vigorous measures, what does he do 1 
 
Lect. 23.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 
 
 191 
 
 edition. His orations are strongly animated, and full of 
 the impetuosity and ardor of public spirit. His composition 
 is not distinguished by ornament and splendor. It is an 
 energy of thought peculiarly his own, which forms his 
 character, and raises him above his species. He seems not 
 to attend to words, but to things. We forget the orator, and 
 think of the subject. He has no parade and ostentation ; no 
 studied introductions ; but is like a man full of his subject, 
 who, after preparing his audience by a sentence or two, for 
 the reception of plain truths, enters directly on business. 
 
 The style of Demosthenes is strong and concise ; though 
 sometimes, it must be confessed, harsh and abrupt. His 
 words are highly expressive, and his arrangement firm and 
 manly. Negligent of lesser graces, he seems to have aimed 
 at that sublime which lies in sentiment. His action and 
 pronunciation are said to have been uncommonly vehement 
 and ardent ; which, from the manner of his writings, we 
 should readily believe. His character appears to have been 
 of the austere, rather than of the gentle kind. He is always 
 grave, serious, passionate ; never degrading himself, nor 
 attempting any thing like pleasantry. If his admirable 
 eloquence be in any respect faulty, it is, that he sometimes 
 borders on the hard and dry. He may be thought to want 
 smoothness and grace ; which is attributed to his imitating, 
 too closely, the manner of Thucydides, who was his great 
 model for style, and whose history he is said to have 
 transcribed eight times with his own hand. But these de- 
 fects are more than atoned for, by that masterly force of mas- 
 culine eloquence, which, as it overpowered all who heard it, 
 cannot, in the present day, be read without emotion. 
 
 Of his orations, what is remarked 1 What is said of his composition ; 
 and what is farther remarked of him 1 Of the style of Demosthenes, and of 
 his words, what is observed 1 What is remarked of his action, and of his 
 general character 1 If there be any objection to his admirable eloquence, 
 what is it; and to what may it be attributed'? But by what are these 
 defects more than atoned for'? 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 Eloquence. 
 
 3. 
 
 The character of eloquence. 
 
 1. The definition of eloquence. 
 
 4. 
 
 Its origin. 
 
 A. Conviction and persuasion. 
 
 
 A. Athens. 
 
 2. The degrees of eloquence. 
 
 
 a. Pisistratus. 
 
 A. To please only. 
 
 
 b. Pericles. 
 
 B. To please and to instruct. 
 
 
 c. The sophists. 
 
 C. To interest and to agitate. 
 
 
 d. Isocrates. 
 
 a. The offspring of passion. 
 
 
 e. Demosthenes — his style 
 
LECTURE XXIV. 
 
 ROMAN ELOQUENCE— CICERO— MODERN 
 ELOQUENCE. 
 
 Having treated of the rise of eloquence, and of its state 
 among the Greeks, we now proceed to consider its progress 
 among the Romans, where we shall find one model, at least, 
 in its most splendid and illustrious form. The Romans were 
 long a martial nation, and unskilled in arts of every kind. 
 Arts were not known among them till after the conquest of 
 Greece ; and the Romans always acknowledged the Gre- 
 cians as their masters in every point of learning. 
 
 Grecia capta ferum victorum cepit et artes 
 
 Intulit agresti Latio. Horace. 
 
 When conquer'd Greece brought in her captive arts, 
 
 She triumph'd o'er her savage conquerors' hearts ; 
 
 Taught our rough verse its numbers to refine, 
 
 And our rude style with elegance to shine. Francis. 
 
 As the Romans derived their eloquence, poetry, and learn- 
 ing from the Greeks, so they must be confessed to have been 
 far inferior to them in genius for all these accomplishments. 
 They had neither their vivacity nor sensibility ; their pas- 
 sions were not so easily moved, nor their conceptions so 
 lively ; in comparison with them, they were a phlegmatic 
 people. Their language resembled their character : it was 
 regular, firm, and stately ; but wanted that expressive sim- 
 plicity, that flexibility to suit every different species of com- 
 position, for which the Greek tongue is peculiarly distin- 
 guished. And hence, by comparison, we shall always find, 
 that in the Greek productions there is more native genius ; 
 in the Roman, more regularity and art. 
 
 As the Roman government, during the republic, was of 
 
 Having treated of eloquence among the Greeks, among whom do we 
 now proceed to consider its progress ; and what shall we there find % Of 
 the Romans, and of the arts among them, what is remarked 1 What 
 illustration of this remark is given from Horace % As the Romans derived 
 their eloquence and poetry from the Greeks, so, of them, what must be 
 confessed ; and how is this illustrated % How did their language compare 
 with that of the Greeks ; and hence, by comparison, what shall we always 
 find 1 As the Roman government, during the republic, was of the popu- 
 lar kind, what followed ; but of what kind was it ? 
 
Lect. 24.] CICERO. 193 
 
 the popular kind, public speaking, no doubt, early became 
 the means of acquiring power, honor, and distinction. But 
 in the rude, unpolished times of the state, their speaking 
 could hardly deserve the name of eloquence. It was not 
 till a short time preceding the age of Cicero, that the Ro- 
 man orators rose into any reputation. Crassus and Anto- 
 nius seem to have been the most eminent ; but as none of 
 their productions are extant, nor any of Hortensius's, who 
 was Cicero's rival at the bar, it is not necessary to transcribe 
 what Cicero has said of them, and of the character of their 
 eloquence. 
 
 The object most worthy of our attention is Cicero himself, 
 whose name alone suggests every thing that is splendid in 
 oratory. With his life and character, in other respects, we 
 are not at present concerned. We shall view him only as 
 an eloquent speaker, and endeavor to point out both his vir- 
 tues and his defects. His virtues are, beyond doubt, super- 
 latively great. In all his orations, his art is conspicuous. 
 He begins, generally, with a regular exordium, and with 
 much address prepossesses the hearers, and studies to gain 
 their affections. His method is clear, and his arguments 
 are arranged with great propriety. In greater clearness or 
 method, he has the advantage over Demosthenes. Every 
 thing appears in its proper place ; ho never attempts to move 
 till he has endeavored to convince : and in moving, particu- 
 larly the softer passions, he is highly successful. No man 
 ever knew the force of words better than Cicero. He rolls 
 them along with the greatest beauty and magnificence ; and 
 in the structure of his sentences, is eminently curious and 
 exact. He is always full and flowing ; never abrupt. He 
 amplifies every thing ; yet, though his manner is generally 
 diffuse, it is often happily varied, and accommodated to the 
 subject. When a great public object roused his mind, and 
 demanded indignation and force, he departs, considerably, 
 from that loose and declamatory manner, to which, at other 
 
 When did the Roman orators first rise into reputation 1 Who were the 
 most eminent ; hurt why is it not necessary to transcribe what Cicero has said 
 of them 1 Who is the object most worthy our attention ; and what does 
 his name alone suggest 1 In what character only, shall we here view him ; 
 and what shall we endeavor to do 1 How does it appear that his virtues 
 are very great ; and in what respect has he the advantage over Demos- 
 thenes 1 How is this remark illustrated \ Gf his knowledge of the force 
 of words, and of his manner in general, what is farther remarked 1 When 
 does he depart from his usual manner ; and in what orations is this the 
 case * 
 
 17 
 
194 COMPARISON OF [Lect. 24, 
 
 times, he is inclined, and becomes exceedingly cogent and 
 vehement. This is the case in his orations against Anthony 
 and in those against Verres and Catiline. 
 
 This great orator, however, is not without his defects. 
 In most of his orations there is too much art ; it is even 
 carried to a degree of ostentation. He seems often desirous 
 of commanding admiration, rather than of producing convic- 
 tion. Hence, on some occasions, he is showy rather than 
 solid ; and diffuse, where he ought to have been urgent. 
 His sentences are always round and sonorous ; tbey cannot 
 be accused of monotony, for they possess variety of cadence ; 
 but from too great a fondness for magnificence, he is, on 
 some occasions, deficient in strength. Though the services 
 which he had rendered to his country were very great, yet 
 he is too much his own panegyrist. Ancient manners, which 
 imposed fewer restraints on the side of decorum, may, in 
 some degree, excuse, but cannot entirely justify his vanity. 
 
 Whether Demosthenes or Cicero be the most perfeci 
 orator, is a question on which much has been said by criti 
 cal writers. The different manner of these two princes of 
 eloquence, and the distinguishing characters of each, are so 
 strongly marked in their writings, that the comparison is, In 
 many respects, obvious and easy. The character of Demos- 
 thenes is vigor and austerity «, that of Cicero is gentleness 
 and insinuation. In the one you find more manliness ; in 
 the other, more ornament. The one is more harsh, but 
 more spirited and cogent ; the other more agreeable, but 
 withal looser and weaker. 
 
 In comparing these two great orators, Fenelon, the cele- 
 brated Archbishop of Cambray, and author of Telemachus, 
 seems to have stated their relative merits with great justice 
 and perspicuity. His judgment is given in his Reflections 
 on Rhetoric and Poetry. The following is a translation ot 
 the passage : ' I do not hesitate to declare,' says he, 'thut 
 I think Demosthenes superior to Cicero. I am persuaded 
 no one can admire Cicero more than I do. He adorns what- 
 
 What, however, are this great orator's defects ; and hence, what fol- 
 lows 1 What is remarked of his sentences ; and of the services which he 
 rendered to his country, what is observed 1 What may, in some degree, 
 excuse his vanity 1 On what question has much been said by critical 
 writers ; and why is the comparison, in many respects, easy 1 What is 
 the comparison between them 1 What is remarked of Fenelon's com- 
 parison of them % Where is his judgment given ; and what is the trans* 
 xatjon of the passage 1 
 
Lect.24.] CICERO AND DEMOSTHENES. 196 
 
 ever he attempts. He does honor to language. He dis- 
 poses of words in a manner peculiar to himself. His style 
 has great variety of character. Whenever he pleases, he 
 is even concise and vehement ; for instance, against Cati- 
 line, against Verres, against Anthony. But ornament is too 
 visible in his writings. His art is wonderful, but it is per- 
 ceived. When the orator is providing for the safety of the 
 Republic, he forgets not himself, nor permits others to forget 
 him. Demosthenes seems to escape from himself, and to 
 see nothing but his country. He seeks not elegance of ex- 
 pression ; unsought for, he possesses it. He is superior to 
 admiration. He makes use of language as a modest man 
 does of dress, only to cover him. He thunders, he lightens. 
 He is a torrent Avhich carries every thing before it. We 
 cannot criticise, because we are not ourselves. His subject 
 enchains our attention, and makes us forget his language. 
 We lose him from our sight: Philip alone occupies our 
 minds. I am delighted with both these orators ; but I con- 
 fess that I am less affected by the infinite art and magnificent 
 eloquence of Cicero, than by the rapid simplicity of Demos- 
 thenes.' 
 
 The reign of eloquence, among the Romans, was very 
 short. After the age of Cicero, it expired ; and we have no 
 reason to wonder that this was the case. For not only was 
 liberty entirely extinguished, but arbitrary power was felt 
 in its heaviest and most oppressive weight ; Providence 
 having, in his wrath, delivered over the Roman empire to 
 a succession of the most execrable tyrants that ever disgraced 
 and scourged the human race. Under their government it 
 was naturally to be expected that taste would be corrupted, 
 and genius discouraged. Some of the ornamental arts, less 
 intimately connected with liberty, continued, for a while, to 
 prevail ; but for that masculine eloquence, which had exer- 
 cised itself in the senate, and in the public affairs, there was 
 no longer any place. Luxury, effeminacy, and flattery, 
 overwhelmed all. And the forum, where so many great 
 affairs had been transacted, was now become a desert. 
 
 In the decline of the Roman empire, the introduction of 
 
 Of the reign of eloquence among the Romans, what is remarked; and 
 why have we no reason to wonder that this was the easel Under their 
 government, what was naturally to be expected 1 Of some of the arts 
 what is remarked ; but for what was there no longer any place 1 What 
 overwhelmed all ; and what was the forum now become 1 What, in the 
 decline of the Roman empire, introduced a new species of eloquence ; but 
 of them what is remarked 1 
 
196 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [Lect. 24. 
 
 Christianity gave rise to a new species of eloquence, in the 
 apologies, sermons, and pastoral writings of the Fathers of 
 the church. But none of them afford very just models of 
 eloquence. Their language, as soon as we descend to the 
 third or fourth century, becomes harsh ; and they are, in 
 general, infected with the taste of that age — a love of swoln 
 and strained thoughts, and of the play of words. Among 
 the Greek Fathers, the most distinguished, by far, for his 
 oratorical merit, is St. Chrysostom. His language is pure ; 
 his style highly figured. He is copious, smooth, and 
 sometimes highly pathetic. But he retains, at the same 
 time, much of that character which has been always attri- 
 buted to the Asiatic eloquence — diffuse and redundant to a 
 great degree, and often overwrought and tumid. 
 
 As nothing occurs that deserves attention in the middle 
 ages, we pass now to the state of eloquence in modern times. 
 Here it must be acknowledged, that in no European nation, 
 has public speaking been considered so great an object, or 
 been cultivated with so much care, as in Greece or Rome. 
 Its reputation has never been so high ; its effects have never 
 been so considerable; nor has that high and sublime kind 
 of it, which prevailed in those ancient states, been so much 
 as aimed at ; notwithstanding, too, that a new profession has 
 been established, which gives peculiar advantages to oratory, 
 and affords it the noblest field — we mean the church. The 
 genius of the world seems, in this respect, to have undergone 
 some alteration. The two countries where we might expect 
 to find most of the spirit of eloquence are, France and Great 
 Britain : France, on account of the distinguished turn of 
 the nation towards all the liberal arts, and of the encourage- 
 ment which, for more than a century past, these arts have 
 received from the public : Great Britain, on account of its 
 free government, and the liberal spirit and genius of its 
 people. Yet in neither of these countries has the talent of 
 public speaking risen near to the degree of its ancient splen- 
 dor ; while in other productions of genius, both in prose and 
 in poetry, they have contended for the prize with Greece and 
 
 What is observed of their language ; and with what are they, in general, 
 infected 1 Among the Greek fathers, who is the most distinguished ; and 
 what is remarked of him 1 What is observed of the eloquence of the mid- 
 dle ages, and of that of modern times 1 In what two countries might we 
 expect to find most of the spirit of eloquence ; and why 1 How do these 
 countries compare with Greece and Rome in eloquence ; and, also, in other 
 productions of genius 1 
 
Lect. 24.] MODERN ELOaUENCE. 197 
 
 Rome ; nay, in some compositions, they may be thought to 
 have surpassed them. 
 
 It seems particularly surprising, that Great Britain should 
 not have made a more conspicuous figure in eloquence than 
 it has hitherto attained ; when we consider the enlightened, 
 and, at the same time, the free and bold genius of the coun- 
 try, which seems not a little to favor oratory ; and when we 
 consider that, of all the polite nations of Europe, it alone 
 possesses a popular government, or admits into the legis- 
 lature, such numerous assemblies as can be supposed to lie 
 under the dominion of eloquence. Notwithstanding this 
 advantage, it must be confessed, that in most parts of 
 eloquence, we are undoubtedly inferior, not only to the 
 Greeks and Romans by many degrees, but also, in some 
 respects, to the French. We have philosophers, eminent 
 and conspicuous, perhaps, beyond any nation, in every 
 branch of science. We have both taste and erudition, in a 
 high degree. We have historians, we have poets of the 
 greatest name ; but of orators, or public speakers, we have 
 little to boast ; and no monuments of their genius are to be 
 found.* 
 
 The characteristical difference between the state of elo- 
 quence in France and Great Britain is, that the French have 
 adopted higher ideas both of pleasing and persuading by 
 means of oratory, than we have ; though, sometimes, in the 
 execution, they fail. In Great Britain, we have taken up 
 eloquence on a lower key ; but in our execution, as was 
 naturally to be expected, have been more correct. In France, 
 the style of their orators is ornamented with bolder figures ; 
 and their discourse carried on with more amplification, 
 warmth, and elevation. The composition is often very 
 beautiful ; but sometimes, also, too diffuse, and deficient in 
 that strength and cogency which gives to eloquence all its 
 power. 
 
 * Perhaps, Burke, Sheridan, Fox, and Pitt, form exceptions to this 
 remark. 
 
 Why does it seem surprising that Great Britain has not made a more 
 conspicuous figure in eloquence, than it hitherto has % Notwithstanding 
 this advantage, what must be confessed 1 What do we possess ; but of our 
 orators what is remarked'? Who form exceptions to this last remark 1 
 What is the characteristical difference between the state of eloquence in 
 France and in Great Britain % What is remarked of the state of their 
 orations in France ; and, also, of their composition % 
 
 17* 
 
198 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [Lect. 24, 
 
 Several reasons may be given, why modern eloquence has 
 been so confined and humble in its efforts. In the first 
 place, it seems, that this change must, in part, be ascribed 
 to accuiate turn of thinking, which has been so much 
 studied in modern times. Our public speakers are obliged 
 to be more reserved than the ancients, in their endeavors to 
 elevate the imagination and warm the passions ; and, by 
 the influence of prevailing taste, their own genius is, per- 
 haps, in too great a degree, rendered chaste and delicate. 
 It is probable, also, that we ascribe to our correctness and 
 good sense, what is chiefly owing to the phlegm and natural 
 coldness of our dispositions. For the vivacity and sensi- 
 bility of the Greeks and Romans, more particularly of the 
 former, seem to have been much superior to ours, and to 
 have communicated to them a higher relish for all the beau- 
 ties of oratory. 
 
 Besides these national considerations, we must, in the 
 next place, attend to peculiar circumstances in the three 
 great scenes of public speaking, which have proved disad- 
 vantageous to the growth of eloquence among us. Though 
 the parliament of Great Britain be the noblest field that 
 Europe, at the present day, affords to a public speaker, yet 
 eloquence has never been so powerful an instrument there, 
 as it was in the popular assemblies of Greece and Rome. 
 Under some former reigns, the iron hand of arbitrary power 
 checked its efforts; and in later times, ministerial influence 
 has generally rendered it of small importance. The power 
 of speaking, though always considerable, yet has been often 
 found too feeble to counterbalance either of these ; and, of 
 course, has not been studied with so much zeal and fervor, 
 as where its effect on business was irresistible and certain. 
 
 At the bar, our disadvantage, in comparison with the an- 
 cients, is great. Among them, the judges were commonly 
 numerous ; the laws were few and simple ; the decision of 
 causes was left, in a great measure, to equity, and a sense of 
 mankind. Hence the field for judicial eloquence was large 
 
 What is the first reason given, why modern eloquence has been so con- 
 fined and humble in its efforts ; and how is this illustrated 1 What is 
 also probable ; and why 1 Besides these national considerations, to what 
 must we, in the next place, attend ; and of the parliament of Great Britain, 
 what is observed 1 What, under some former reigns, checked its effurts ; 
 and in later times, what has rendered it of small importance % Of the 
 power of speaking what is remarked ; and, of course, what has followed ] 
 What are our disadvantages at the bar ; and hence what followed 1 
 
Lect. 24. 
 
 MODERN ELOaUENCE. 
 
 199 
 
 and ample. But at present, the system of law is become, 
 much more complicated. The knowledge of it is rendered 
 so laborious an attainment, as to constitute the business of a 
 man's life. The art of speaking is but a secondary ac- 
 complishment, to which he can afford to devote much 
 less of his time and labor. The bounds of eloquence, be- 
 sides, are now much circumscribed at the bar ; and, except 
 in a few cases, reduced to arguing, from strict law, statute, 
 or precedent, by which means knowledge, much more than 
 oratory, is become the principal requisite. 
 
 With regard to the pulpit, it has certainly been a great 
 disadvantage, that the practice of reading sermons, instead 
 of repeating them from memory, has, with us, so generally 
 prevailed. This may, indeed, have introduced accuracy; 
 but it has done great prejudice to eloquence ; for a discourse 
 read, is far inferior to an oration spoken. It leads to a dif- 
 ferent sort of composition, as well as of delivery ; and can 
 never have an equal effect upon an audience. Another cir- 
 cumstance, too, has been unfortunate. The sectaries and 
 fanatics, before the Restoration, adopted a warm, zealous, 
 and popular manner of preaching ; and their adherents 
 afterwards continued to distinguish themselves by a similar 
 ardor. A hatred of these sects, drove the established 
 church into the opposite extreme, of a studied coolness of 
 expression. Hence, from the art of persuasion, which 
 preaching ought always to be, it has passed, with us, into 
 mere reasoning and instruction. 
 
 What is the case at present ; and how is the art of speaking regarded 1 
 What farther remarks follow 1 With regard to the pulpit, what has been 
 the effect of the practice of reading sermons 1 What other circumstance, 
 too, has been unfortunate ; and hence what followed 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Roman eloquence. 
 
 A. Its origin. 
 
 B. Cicero. 
 
 a. His excellences. 
 
 b. His defects. 
 
 c. Compared with Demos- 
 
 thenes. 
 
 C. Eloquence among the Ro- 
 
 mans of short continu- 
 
 D. Eloquence of the church. 
 2. Modern eloquence. 
 
 A. Of France. 
 
 B. Of Great Britain. 
 
 C. Why modern eloquence is 
 
 limited. 
 
 a. The bar. 
 
 b. The pulpit. 
 
LECTURE XXV. 
 
 DIFFERENT KINDS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING- 
 ELOQUENCE OF POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 
 
 After the preliminary views which have been given of 
 the nature of eloquence in general,, and of the state in which 
 it has subsisted in different ages and countries, we are now 
 to enter on the different kinds of public speaking, the dis- 
 tinguishing characters of each, and the rules that relate to 
 them. The ancients divided all orations into three kinds ; 
 the demonstrative, the deliberative, and the judicial. The 
 scope of the demonstrative was to praise or to blame ; that 
 of the deliberative, to advise or to dissuade ; that of the ju- 
 dicial, to accuse or to defend. The principal subjects of 
 demonstrative eloquence, were panegyrics, invectives, gratu- 
 latory and funeral orations. The deliberative was employed 
 in matters of public concern, agitated in the senate, or before 
 the assemblies of the people. The judicial is the same as 
 the eloquence of the bar, employed in addressing judges? 
 who have power to absolve or to condemn. Though this 
 division is judicious, and has been followed by some of the 
 moderns, yet, it will suit our purpose better, to follow that 
 division which the train of modern speaking naturally points 
 out to us, taken from the three great scenes of eloquence, 
 popular assemblies, the bar, and the pulpit ; each of which 
 has a distinct character. 
 
 To all the three, pulpit,, bar, and popular assemblies, be- 
 long, in common, the rules concerning the conduct of a 
 discourse in all its parts. Of these rules we shall afterwards 
 treat at large. But before we proceed to them, it seems 
 necessary to show what is peculiar to each of these three 
 kinds of oratory, in their spirit, character, or manner. For 
 
 After these preliminary views, upon what are we to enter 1 Into what 
 three kinds did the ancients divide all orations ; and what was the scope 
 of each 1 On what subjects were they respectively employed 1 Of this 
 division, what is remarked ; but what will suit our purpose better 1 To 
 the pulpit, bar, and popular assemblies, what, equally, belong : and what is 
 observed of them 1 But before we proceed to them, what seems necessary ; 
 and why 1 
 
Lect.25.] PUBLIC SPEAKING. 201 
 
 every species of public speaking has a manner or character 
 peculiarly suited to itself ; of which it is highly material to 
 nave a just idea, in order to direct the application of general 
 rules. 
 
 Without inquiring which of these three kinds of public 
 speaking before mentioned, has the preference, in point of 
 rank, we shall begin with the eloquence of popular assem- 
 blies; as it tends to throw most light upon the rest. The 
 most august theatre for this kind of eloquence, to be found in 
 any nation of Europe, is, beyond doubt, the parliament of 
 Great Britain. In meetings, too, of less dignity, it may dis- 
 play itself. Wherever there is a popular court, or wherever 
 any number of men are assembled for debate or consultation, 
 there, this species of eloquence may be applied. Its object 
 is, or ought always to be, persuasion. There must be some 
 end proposed — some point, most commonly of public utility 
 or good, in favor of which we seek to determine our hearers. 
 Now, in all attempts to persuade men, we must proc-eed upon 
 the principle, that it is necessary to convince their under- 
 standing. Nothing can be more erroneous than to imagine, 
 that because speeches to popular assemblies admit more of a 
 declamatory style than some other discourses, they, therefore, 
 stand less in need of being supported by sound reasoning. 
 When modelled upon this false idea, they may have the 
 show, but can never produce the effect of real eloquence. 
 Even the show of eloquence which they make, will please 
 only the trifling and superficial ; for with all tolerable judges, 
 mere declamation soon becomes insipid. 
 
 It must ever be remembered, that the foundation of all 
 that can be called eloquence, is good sense, and solid 
 thought. As popular as the orations of Demosthenes were, 
 spoken to all the citizens of Athens, every one who reads 
 them must be sensible how fraught they are with argument ; 
 and how important it appeared to him to convince the under- 
 standing, in order to persuade, or to work on the principles 
 of action. Hence their influence in his own time; and 
 
 With which shall we begin ; and why 1 At present, where is the most 
 august theatre for this kind of eloquence" to be found ; and where else may 
 it display itself? How is this last remark illustrated 1 What is its object ; 
 and what remarks follow 1 What is an erroneous idea ; and when mo- 
 delled upon this, what is observed of them 1 Whom only will the show 
 of eloquence which they make please ; and why 1 What is the foundation 
 of all that can be called eloquence; and from Demosthenes, how is this 
 illustrated ? 
 
202 ELOQUENCE OF [Lect. 25. 
 
 hence their fame in ours. Let it be the first study, therefore, 
 of him who means to address a popular assembly, to be pre- 
 viously master of the business on which he means to speak ; 
 to be well provided with matter and argument ; and to rest 
 upon these the chief stress. This will always give to his 
 discourse an air of manliness and strength, which is a power- 
 ful instrument of persuasion. Ornament, if there be a 
 genius for it, will follow of course ; and, at any rate, it de- 
 mands only their secondary study. ' To yonr expression 
 be attentive ; but about your matter be solicitous,' is an 
 advice of Q,uintilian, which cannot be too often recollected 
 by all who study oratory. 
 
 In the next place, in order to be persuasive speakers in a 
 popular assembly, it is a capital rule, that we, ourselves, be 
 persuaded of what we recommend to others. Never, when 
 it can be avoided, should we espouse any side of the argu- 
 ment, but what we believe to be the just one. Seldom or 
 never will a man be eloquent, but when he is in earnest, 
 and uttering his own sentiments. As was before observed, 
 all high eloquence must be the offspring of passion, or warm 
 emotion. This makes every man persuasive, and gives a 
 force to his genius, which it cannot otherwise possess. 
 
 Young people, with a view of training themselves to the 
 art of speaking, imagine it useful to adopt that side of the 
 question under debate, which, to themselves, appears the 
 weakest, and to try what figure they can make of it. But 
 this is by no means the most improving education for public 
 speaking ; as it tends to form them to a habit of flimsy and 
 trivial discourse. Such a liberty they should at no time 
 allow themselves, unless in meetings where no real business 
 is carried on, but where declamation or improvement in 
 speaking, is the sole aim. Nor even in such meetings is it 
 to be recommended as the most useful exercise. They will 
 improve themselves to more advantage, and acquit them- 
 selves with more honor, by choosing, always, that side of 
 
 What, therefore, should be the first study of him who wishes to address 
 a popular assembly ; and what will this give to his discourse % Of orna- 
 ment what is remarked ; what says Gtuintilian ; and what is observed of it ] 
 In the next place, to be persuasive speakers in a popular assembly, what is 
 a capital rule 1 What should we never do ; and why % What was be- 
 fore observed ; and what is remarked of it % What do young people 
 imagine to be useful ; of this what is observed ; and why 1 When, only, 
 should they allow themselves such a liberty ; and even in such meetings 
 what will be a more useful exercise 1 
 
Lect. 25.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 203 
 
 the debate, to which, in their own judgment, they are most 
 inclined, and supporting it by what seems to themselves 
 most solid and persuasive. They will acquire the habit of 
 reasoning closely, and expressing themselves with warmth 
 and force, much more when they are adhering to their own 
 sentiments, than when they are speaking in opposition to 
 them. 
 
 Debate in popular assemblies, seldom allows the speaker 
 that previous preparation, which the pulpit always, and the 
 bar sometimes, admits. The argument must be suited to 
 the course which the debate takes ; and as no man can ex- 
 actly foresee this, one who trusts to a set speech, previously 
 composed, will, on many occasions, be thrown out of the 
 ground which he had taken, or find it preoccupied by others. 
 There is, indeed, a general prejudice against all kinds of set 
 speeches, in public meetings. At the opening of a debate, 
 they may, perhaps, sometimes be introduced with propriety ; 
 but as the debate advances, they become improper : they 
 want the appearance of being suggested by the business 
 about which the speakers are engaged. Study and osten- 
 tation are apt to be too conspicuous ; and, consequently, 
 though admired as elegant, they are seldom so persuasive 
 as more free and unconstrained discourses. 
 
 This, however, by no means prohibits a premeditation of 
 what we are to say ; but the premeditation which is of most 
 advantage, is of the subject or argument in general, rather 
 than of elegant composition in any particular branch of it. 
 With regard to the matter, we cannot be too accurate in our 
 preparation ; but with regard to words and expression, it is 
 very possible to be so assiduous, as to render our speech 
 stiff and precise. Till speakers acquire that firmness, that 
 presence of mind, and that command of expression, in a pub- 
 lic meeting, which nothing but habit and practice can bestow, 
 it may be proper for them to commit to memory the whole 
 of what they are to say ; but after some performances of this 
 
 Why is this the case 1 What does debate in popular assemblies seldom 
 allow the speaker ; and why '? Against what is there a general prejudice % 
 When may they be introduced with propriety ; when do they become im- 
 proper; and why'? What are apt to be too conspicuous ; and what con- 
 sequence follows '? What, however, does not this prohibit ; but what 
 premeditation is of most advantage % With regard to the matter and to 
 the words, what remarks follow 1 Till when should speakers commit the 
 whole of what they are to say ; but after some performances of this kind 
 shall have given them boldness, what will they find the better method 1 
 
204 ELOaUENCE OF [Lect. 25. 
 
 kind shall have given them boldness, they will find it the 
 better method not to confine themselves so strictly, but only 
 to set down some short notes of the topics, or principal 
 thoughts upon which they are to insist, leaving the words to 
 be suggested by the warmth of discourse. Such short notes 
 of the substance of the discourse, will be found of consider 
 able service, to those, especially, who are beginning to speak 
 in public. They will accustom them to a degree of accuracy, 
 which if they speak frequently, they are in danger of soon 
 losing. They will even accustom them to a distinct arrange- 
 ment, without which eloquence, however great, cannot pro- 
 duce entire conviction. 
 
 This leads us next to observe, that in all kinds of public 
 speaking, no discourse of any length, should be without 
 method — that is, every thing should be found in its proper 
 place. Every one who speaks, will find it of the greatest 
 advantage to have previously arranged his thoughts, and 
 classed under proper heads, in his own mind, what he is to 
 deliver. This will assist his memory, and carry him 
 through his discourse without that confusion to which one 
 is every moment subject, who has fixed no distinct plan of 
 what he is to say. And with respect to the hearers, order 
 in discourse is absolutely necessary for making any proper 
 impression. It adds both force and light to what is said. 
 It enables them to accompany the speaker easily and readily, 
 as he goes along, and makes them feel the full effect of every 
 argument which he employs. 
 
 We shall now consider the style and expression suited to 
 the eloquence of popular assemblies ; and that these give 
 scope to the most animated manner of public speaking, there 
 can be no doubt. The very aspect of a large assembly, en- 
 gaged in some debate of importance, and attentive to the 
 discourse of one man, is sufficient to inspire that man with 
 such elevation and warmth, as not only give rise to strong 
 impressions, but gives them propriety also. Passion is 
 easily excited in a great assembly, where the movements 
 are communicated by mutual sympathy between the orator 
 
 Of what service will such short notes be 1 "What does this lead us next 
 to observe? What will every one who speaks find of great advantage; 
 and why ] What advantages do the hearers derive from order in discourse 1 
 What shall we now consider ; and of what can there be no doubt 1 What 
 is the effect of the aspect of a large assembly, engaged in some debate of 
 importance ; and why 1 
 
Lect. 25.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 205 
 
 and the audience. That ardor of speech, that vehemence 
 and glow of sentiment, which proceed from a mind animated 
 and inspired by some great and public object, constitute the 
 peculiar character of popular eloquence, in its highest de- 
 gree of perfection. We must remember, however, that the 
 liberty of indulging in a strong and passionate manner, in 
 this kind of oratory, must be kept within certain limits ; and 
 these we shall point out, in order to guard against mistakes 
 on this subject. 
 
 In the first place, the warmth which we express, must be 
 suited to the occasion and the subject ; for nothing, can be 
 more preposterous, than an attempt to introduce great vehe- 
 mence into a subject, which is either of slight importance, or 
 which, by its nature, requires to be treated of calmly. A 
 temperate tone of speech, is that for which there is most 
 frequent occasion ; and he who is always passionate and 
 vehement, will be considered as a blusterer, and meet with 
 little regard. 
 
 In the second place, we must be careful never to counter- 
 feit warmth without feeling it. This always betrays persons 
 into an unnatural manner, which exposes them to ridicule ; 
 for, as has been often suggested, to support the appearance, 
 without the real feeling of passion, is one of the most diffi- 
 cult things in nature. The great rule here, as, indeed, in 
 every other case, is, never to attempt a strain of eloquence 
 which is not seconded by our own genius. A speaker may 
 acquire both reputation and influence, by a calm, argumen- 
 tative manner ; but to reach the pathetic and the sublime of 
 oratory, requires those strong sensibilities of mind, and that 
 high power of expression, which are the lot of a very small 
 portion of mankind. 
 
 In the third place, even when the subject justifies the 
 vehement manner, and when genius prompts it — when 
 warmth is felt, not feigned ; we must, however, be cautious, 
 lest impetuosity carry us beyond the bounds of prudence 
 and propriety. If the speaker lose the command of himself, 
 
 What constitute the peculiar character of popular eloquence, in its 
 highest perfection; but what must we, at the same time, remember'? In 
 the first place, to what must the warmth be suited ; and why 1 For what 
 tone of speech is there most frequent occasion ; and what follows 1 In the 
 second place, about what must we be careful ; and why 1 Here, what is 
 the great rule % What may a speaker, by a calm, argumentative manner, 
 acquire ; but to reach the pathetic and the sublime of oratory, what is re- 
 juisite 1 In the third place, of what must we be cautious ; and why ? 
 
 18 ' 
 
308 ELOQUENCE OF [Lect. 25. 
 
 be will soon cease to influence his hearers. He should be- 
 gin with moderation, and endeavor to warm his audience 
 gradually and equally with himself; for if their passions be 
 not in unison with his, the discord will soon be disagreeable 
 and offensive. Respect for his hearers should always lay a 
 decent restraint upon his warmth, and prevent it from car- 
 rying him beyond proper limits. When this is the case — 
 when a speaker is so far master of himself as to preserve 
 close attention to argument, and even to some degree of 
 accurate expression, this self-command, this effort of reason, 
 in the midst of passion, contributes, in the highest degree, 
 both to please and to persuade. It is indeed, the highest 
 attainment of eloquence ; uniting the strength of reason with 
 the vehemence of passion ; affording all the advantages of 
 passion for the purpose of persuasion, without the confusion 
 and disorder which are its usual attendants. 
 
 In the fourth place, in the highest and most animated 
 strain of popular speaking, we must always preserve a due 
 regard to what the public ear will bear. Without an atten- 
 tion to this, an injudicious imitation of ancient orators might 
 betray a speaker into a boldness of manner, with which the 
 coolness of modern taste would be dissatisfied and displeased. 
 This may, perhaps, as was before observed, be a disad- 
 vantage to modern eloquence. It is no reason why we 
 should be too severe in checking the impulse of genius, and 
 continuing always creeping on the ground ; but it is a reason, 
 however, why we should avoid carrying the tone of decla- 
 mation to a height that would now be considered extravagant. 
 
 In the fifth place, in all kinds of public speaking, but 
 especially in popular assemblies, we must particularly 
 attend to all the decorums of time, place, and character. No 
 ardor of eloquence can atone for these. That vehemence 
 which is becoming in a person of character and authority, 
 may be unsuitable to the modesty expected from a young 
 speaker. That sportive and witty manner which may suit 
 one subject and one assembly, is altogether out of place in a 
 
 In what manner should he begin ; how should he proceed ; and why 1 
 What effect should respect for his hearers always produce ; and of this, 
 what remarks follow 1 In the fourth place, what must we always preserve ; 
 and what will be the consequence of neglecting this 1 To what may this 
 be a disadvantage ; for what is it no reason ; but for what is it a reason 1 
 In the fifth place, to what must we attend : and how is this fully illus- 
 trated'? 
 
Lect 25.J POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 
 
 20? 
 
 grave cause, and a solemn meeting. No one should ever 
 rise to speak in public, without forming to himself a just and 
 strict idea of what suits his own age and character ; what is 
 suitable to the subject, the hearers, the place, and the occa- 
 sion. On this idea he should adjust the whole train and 
 manner of his elocution. 
 
 With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness 
 suited to popular eloquence, it is not easy to determine with 
 precision. A diffuse manner is generally considered as 
 the most proper. It seems, however, that there is danger 
 of erring in this respect ; and that by too diffuse a style, 
 public speakers often lose more in point of strength, than 
 they gain by the fullness of their illustration. Excessive 
 conciseness, indeed, must be cautiously avoided. We must 
 explain and inculcate ; but confine ourselves within certain 
 limits. We should never forget, that however much we 
 may be delighted with hearing ourselves speak, every au- 
 dience is apt to tire; and the moment they grow weary, our 
 eloquence becomes useless. A loose and verbose manner 
 never fails to create disgust ; and, on most occasions, it is 
 better to run the risk of saying too little than too much. It 
 is better to place our thought in one strong point of view, 
 and rest it there, than by presenting it in every light, and 
 pouring forth a profusion of words upon it, exhaust the 
 attention of our hearers, and leave them languid and fatigued. 
 
 What should every one do before he rises to speak in public ; and what 
 remark follows 1 With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness 
 suited to popular eloquence, what is remarked ; and which is generally pre- 
 ferred 1 What is the effect of too diffuse a style ; and what is remarked of 
 excessive conciseness 7 What should we never forget 1 What is said of 
 a loose and verbose manner ; and what remarks follow 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 Different kinds of public speaking. 
 1. Eloquence of popular assem- 
 blies. 
 
 A. The foundation of all elo- 
 
 quence. 
 
 a. The first requisite for popu- 
 
 lar speaking. 
 
 b. The second requisite. 
 
 c. The practice of young 
 
 speakers. 
 
 B. Debate in popular assemblies. 
 a. The necessity of premedi- 
 tation, 
 
 b. Method always to be ob- 
 served. 
 C. The style of popular elo- 
 quence. 
 
 a. The warmth suited to the 
 
 subject. 
 
 b. Never to be counterfeited. 
 
 c. Not to be carried too far. 
 
 d. The public ear to be re- 
 
 garded. 
 
 e. Decorums to be observed. 
 
 f. Conciseness and diffuseness 
 
 considered. 
 
LECTURE XXVI. 
 
 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 
 
 The next great scene of public speaking- to which we 
 proceed is the eloquence of the bar ; and as much of what 
 was said in the last lecture is applicable here, also, our ob- 
 servations upon this subject will be the less extensive. All, 
 however, that has been said, must not be applied to it; and 
 it is necessary, therefore, that the distinction should be 
 clearly perceived. 
 
 In the first place, the ends of speaking- at the bar, and in 
 popular assemblies, are commonly different. In popular 
 assemblies, the great object is persuasion : the orator aims 
 at determining the hearers to some choice or conduct, as 
 good, fit, or useful. For accomplishing this end, he neces- 
 sarily applies himself to every principle of action in our 
 nature — to the passions and to the heart, as well as to the 
 understanding. But at the bar, conviction is the great ob- 
 ject. There, it is not the speaker's business to persuade 
 the judges to what is good or useful, but to show them what 
 is just and true ; and consequently, it is chiefly, or solely, 
 to the understanding that his eloquence is addressed. 
 
 In the next place, speakers at the bar address themselves 
 to one, or to a few judges, who are, generally, persons of 
 age, gravity, and dignity of character. There, they have 
 not those advantages which a mixed and numerous assembly 
 affords for employing all the arts of speech, even supposing 
 their subject to admit them. Passion does not rise so easily ; 
 the speaker is heard more coolly ; he is watched with more 
 severity ; and would expose himself to ridicule, by attempt- 
 ing that high vehement tone, which is only proper in speak- 
 ing to a multitude. 
 
 In the last place, the nature and management of the sub- 
 
 What is the next great scene of public speaking ; and why will our 
 observations on it not be extensive 1 As all, however, that has been said 
 must not be applied to it, what follows 1 What is the first distinction ; 
 and how is it fully illustrated 1 What is the second distinction 1 There, 
 what advantages do they not possess ; and why 1 What is the last dis- 
 tinction mentioned ; and in popular assemblies, what advantages has the 
 speaker 1 
 
Lect. 26.] ELOaUENCE OF THE BAR. 209 
 
 jects which belong to the bar, require a very different species 
 of oratory from that of popular assemblies. In the latter, 
 the speaker has a much wider range. He is seldom con- 
 fined to any precise rule ; he can fetch his topics from a 
 great variety of quarters, and employ every illustration 
 which his fancy or imagination suggests. But at the bar, 
 the field of speaking is limited to precise law and statute. 
 Imagination is not allowed to take its scope. The advocate 
 sees before him the line, the square, and the compass. These, 
 it is his principal business to be continually applying to the 
 subjects under debate. 
 
 For these reasons, it is evident, that the eloquence of the 
 bar is of a much more limited, more sober and chastened 
 kind, than that of popular assemblies ; and for similar rea- 
 sons, we must beware of considering even the judicial 
 orations of Cicero, or Demosthenes, as exact models of the 
 manner of speaking which is adapted to the present state of 
 the bar. It is particularly necessary to remind young law- 
 yers of this ; because, though these were pleadings spoken 
 in civil or criminal causes, yet, the nature of the bar, 
 anciently, both in Greece and Rome, allowed a much nearer 
 approach to popular eloquence than it now does. 
 
 This is to be ascribed principally to two causes : first, 
 because in the ancient judicial orations, strict law was much 
 less an object of attention than it is with us. In the days 
 of Demosthenes and Cicero, the municipal statutes were few, 
 simple, and general ; and the decision of causes was left, in 
 a great measure, to the equity and common sense of the 
 judges. Eloquence, much more than jurisprudence, was 
 the study of those who were to plead causes. Cicero in- 
 forms us, that three months study was sufficient to make 
 any man a complete civilian ; nay, it was even thought that 
 one might be a good pleader at the bar, without any previous 
 application. Among the Romans there was a set of men 
 called Pragmatici, whose office it was to supply the orator 
 with all the law knowledge his case required, and which he 
 put into that popular form, and ornamented with those colors 
 
 But at the bar, as the field of speaking is limited to precise law and 
 statute, what follows 1 For these reasons, what is evident ; and for simi- 
 lar reasons, of what must we beware 1 Why is it particularly necessary 
 to remind young lawyers of this 1 What is the first cause to which this 
 is to be ascribed ; and how is this illustrated 1 What does Cicero inform 
 us ; and what was even thought to be true 1 Among the Romans, what 
 set of men was there ; and what was their office ] 
 
 18* 
 
210 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [Lect. 26. 
 
 of eloquence, which were most fitted for influencing the 
 judges before whom he spoke. 
 
 We may next observe, that the civil and criminal judges, 
 both in Greece and Rome, were commonly much more nu- 
 merous than they are with us, and formed a sort of popular 
 assembly. The celebrated tribunal of the Areopagus, at 
 Athens, consisted of fifty judges at the least. Some make it 
 consist of a great number more. When Socrates was con- 
 demned, by what court it is uncertain, we are informed that 
 no fewer than two hundred and eighty voted against him. 
 In Rome, the Judices Selecti, as they were called, were 
 always numerous, and had the office and power of both 
 judge and jury. In the famous cause of Milo, Cicero spoke 
 to fifty-one Judices Selecti, and thus had the advantage of 
 addressing his whole pleading, not to one, or to a few learned 
 judges of the point of law, as is the case at present, but to an 
 assembly of Roman citizens. Hence all those arts of popu- 
 lar eloquence which he employed with so much success. 
 Hence tears and commiseration are so often made use of as 
 the means of gaining a cause. Hence, too, certain practices, 
 which would be reckoned theatrical by us, were common at 
 the Roman bar ; such as introducing not only the accused 
 person, dressed in deep mourning, but presenting to the 
 judges his family, and his young children, endeavoring to 
 move them by their cries and tears. 
 
 Thus we see, that on account of the wide difference between 
 the ancient and modern state of the bar, and also, the differ- 
 ence in the turn of ancient and modern eloquence, too strict 
 an imitation of Cicero's manner of pleading, would now be 
 extremely injudicious. To great advantage, however, he 
 may still be studied by every speaker at the bar. In the 
 address with which he opens his subject, and the insinuation 
 he employs for gaining the favor of the judges — in the dis- 
 tinct arrangements of his facts — in the gracefulness of his 
 narration — in the conduct and exposition of his arguments, 
 he may, and he ought to be imitated. 
 
 Before we enter upon more particular directions concern- 
 
 What may we next observe ; and what illustrations of this remark fol- 
 low 1 In the famous cause of Milo, to how many judges did Cicero speak ; 
 what advantage did he thus possess ; and hence what follows 1 Hence, 
 too, what practices were common ; and what examples are given 1 Thus 
 what do we see ; and why 1 Why, however, may he still be studied, by 
 every speaker at the bar, to great advantage % Before we enter upon more 
 particular directions concerning the eloquence of the bar. what must wf 
 observe ; and why 1 
 
Lect. 26.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 211 
 
 mg the eloquence of the bar, we must observe, that the foun- 
 dation of a lawyer's reputation and success, must always be 
 laid in a profound knowledge of his profession. Whatever 
 his abilities as a speaker may be, if his knowledge of the law 
 be considered superficial, few will choose to commit their 
 cause to him. Besides previous study, and a proper stock 
 of knowledge attained, another thing inseparable from the 
 success of every pleader is, a diligent and painful attention 
 to every cause with which he is entrusted, so as to be 
 thoroughly master of all the facts and circumstances relating 
 to it. On this, the ancient rhetoricians insist with great 
 earnestness, and justly represent it as a necessary basis to a]] 
 the eloquence that can be exerted in pleading. Cicero tells 
 us that he was in the habit of conversing fully with every 
 client that came to consult him — that he was careful that nc 
 one should hear their conversation, in order that his clieni 
 might explain himself more freely — that he was accustomec 
 to start every objection, and to plead the cause of the adverse 
 party with him, that he might come at the whole truth, anc 
 be fully prepared on every point of the business ; and that, 
 after the client had retired, he used to balance all the facts 
 with himself, under three different characters — his own, thai 
 of the judge, and that of the advocate on the opposite side 
 Quintilian, amongst many other excellent rules on the same 
 subject, observes that, ' to listen to something which is super 
 fluous can do no hurt ; whereas to be ignorant of something 
 that is material, may be highly prejudicial. The advocatt 
 will frequently discover the weak side of a cause, and learn 
 at the same time, what is the proper defence, from circum- 
 stances which, to the party himself, appeared to be of little 
 or no moment.' 
 
 Supposing an advocate to be thus prepared, with all the 
 knowledge which the study of the law in general, and of the 
 cause which he is to plead in particular, can furnish him, it 
 must next be observed, that eloquence in pleading is of the 
 highest moment for giving support to a cause. It would be 
 altogether wrong to infer, that because the ancient popular 
 
 Besides previous study, what else is requisite for success ; and for what 
 reason 1 In what estimation did the ancient rhetoricians hold this ; and 
 how did they represent it 1 On this subject what does Cicero tell us was 
 the course he was accustomed to pursue ; and with what view 1 What 
 does Cluintilian, amongst many other excellent rules, observe 1 Supposing 
 an advocate to be thus prepared with all requisite knowledge, what must 
 next be observed 1 What inference would be a wrong on<^ 1 
 
2J2 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [Lect. 26. 
 
 and vehement manner is now, in a great measure, super- 
 seded, there is, therefore, no room for eloquence at the bar, 
 and that the study of it has become superfluous. There is, 
 perhaps, no scene of public speaking where eloquence is 
 more necessary. On other occasions, the subject on which 
 men speak in public is frequently sufficient, by itself, to 
 interest the hearers ; but the dryness and subtlety of the sub- 
 jects generally agitated at the bar, require more than any 
 other, a certain kind of eloquence, in order to command 
 attention ; in order to give proper weight to the arguments 
 that are employed, and to prevent any thing which the 
 pleader advances from passing unregarded. The effect of 
 good speaking is always very great. There is as much dif- 
 ference in the impression made upon the hearers, by a cold, 
 dry, and confused speaker, and that made by one who pleads 
 the same cause with elegance, ardor, and strength, as there 
 is between our conception of an object, when it is presented 
 to us in the glimmering of twilight, and when viewed in the 
 wide effulgence of a summer's noon. 
 
 It is no small encouragement to eloquence at the bar, that 
 of all the liberal professions, none gives fairer play to genius 
 and abilities than that of the advocate. He is less exposed 
 than some others to suffer by the arts of rivalry, by popular 
 prejudices, or secret intrigues. He is sure of coming for- 
 ward according to his merits ; for he stands forth every day 
 to view ; he boldly enters the list with his competitors ; 
 every appearance which he makes, is an appeal to the pub- 
 lic, whose decision seldom fails to be just, because it is 
 impartial. Interest and friends may, at the beginning, give 
 a young pleader peculiar advantages, but they can do no 
 more than open the field to him. A reputation resting on 
 these assistances will soon fall. Spectators remark, judges 
 decide, parties watch ; and to him will the multitude of 
 clients never fail to resort, who gives the most approved 
 specimens of his knowledge, eloquence, and industry. 
 
 In the species of eloquence peculiar to the bar, purity and 
 neatness of expression are chiefly to be studied — a style per- 
 
 Why is eloquence here particularly necessary ? What illustration of 
 the effect of good speaking follows 1 What is no small encouragement to 
 eloquence at the bar ; and why 1 Why is he sure of coming forward 
 according to his merit 1 What may interest and Iriends, at the beginning 
 do; and why will a reputation resting on these soon lall? In the species 
 of eloquence peculiar to the bar, what are chiefly to be studied ; and what 
 is it? 
 
Lect. 26.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 213 
 
 spicuous and proper, not needlessly overcharged with the 
 pedantry of law terms, nor affectedly avoiding these, when 
 they are suitable and requisite. Verbosity is a fault c/ 
 which men of this profession are frequently accused ; am 
 into which the habit of speaking and writing so hastily, 
 and with so little preparation as they are often obliged to do, 
 almost unavoidably betrays them. It cannot, therefore, be 
 too earnestly recommended to those who are beginning to 
 practice at the bar, that they should early endeavor to guard 
 against this whilst they have full leisure for preparation. 
 Let them form themselves to the habit of a strong and correct 
 style, which expresses the same thing much better, in a few 
 words, than is done by the accumulation of intricate and 
 endless periods. If this habit be once acquired, it will be- 
 come natural to them afterwards, when compelled by a mul- 
 tiplicity of business to compose with more precipitation. 
 Whereas, if a loose and negligent style has been suffered to 
 become familiar, they will not be able, even upon occasions 
 when they wish to make an unusual effort, to express them- 
 selves with force and elegance. 
 
 Distinctness, in speaking at the bar, is peculiarly neces- 
 sary. This should be shown chiefly in two things ; first, 
 in stating the question — in showing what is the point in de- 
 bate — what Ave admit — what we deny ; and where the line 
 of division begins between us and the adverse party. Next, 
 it should be shown in the order and arrangement of all the 
 parts of the pleading. A clear method is of the highest 
 consequence in every species of oration ; but in those intri- 
 cacies that belong to the bar, it becomes infinitely essen 
 tial. Too much pains, therefore, cannot be taken, in 
 previously studying the plan and method. If there be 
 indistinctness and disorder there, we can have no success in 
 convincing ; and, consequently, we leave the whole cause in 
 darkness. 
 
 With respect to the narration of facts, it should always be 
 
 With what fault are men of this profession often charged ; and how are 
 they often betrayed into if? What is, therefore, earnestly recommended ; 
 and to what should they form themselves 1 If this habit be once acquired, 
 what will follow ; but if a negligent style has been suffered to become 
 familiar, what will be the consequence % In speaking at the bar, what is 
 peculiarly necessary; and how should it be shown % Where should it 
 next be shown ; and whv is it peculiarly necessary here % Why cannot, 
 therefore, too much pah* be taken in previously studying the' plan and 
 method 1 With resppct to the narration of facts, what is remarked ; and 
 why? 
 
214 ELOaUENCE OF THE BAR. [Lect. 26. 
 
 as concise as the nature of them will admit. It is always 
 necessary that they should be remembered ; and, conse- 
 quently, tediousness in relating them, and an unnecessary 
 minuteness, clogs and overloads the memory. Whereas, if 
 a pleader omit all superfluous circumstances in his recital, 
 he adds strength to the material facts ; he gives a cleaier 
 view of what he relates, and makes the impression of it 
 more lasting. In argumentation, however, a more diffuse 
 manner seems requisite at the bar, than on some other occa- 
 sions. For, in popular assemblies, where the subject of 
 debate is commonly plain and obvious, arguments gain 
 strength by their conciseness. But the intricacy of law 
 points frequently requires the arguments to be expanded, 
 and expressed in different lights, in order to be completely 
 apprehended. 
 
 Candor in stating the arguments of his adversary, cannot 
 be too much recommended to every pleader. Should he 
 disguise them, or place them in a false light, the artifice 
 will be soon discovered ; and the judge and the hearers will 
 conclude, that he either wants discernment to perceive, or 
 fairness to admit, his opponent's reasoning. But if he slate 
 with accuracy and candor, the arguments used against him, 
 before he endeavors to confute them, a strong prepossession 
 will prevail in his favor. He will appear to have entire 
 confidence in his own cause, since he does not attempt to 
 support it by artifice or concealment. The judge will, con- 
 sequently, be inclined to receive much more readily, the 
 impressions made upon him by a speaker who appears, at 
 the same time, both candid and intelligent. 
 
 Wit may sometimes be serviceable at the bar, particularly 
 in a lively reply, by which ridicule may be thrown on what 
 an adversary has advanced. But a young pleader should 
 be cautious how he admits too freely the indulgence of this 
 dazzling talent. His office is not to excite laughter, but to 
 produce conviction ; nor, perhaps, did ever any one rise to 
 eminence in his profession, by being a witty lawyer. 
 
 Since an advocate personates his client, he must plead 
 
 Whereas, what is the effect of omitting all superfluous circumstances in 
 the recital 1 In what, however, does a more diffuse manner seem requisite ; 
 and why 1 Why should candor, in stating the arguments of an adversary, 
 be particularly observed by every pleader ; and what effect will it produce 1 
 Of wit at the bar, what is remarked; but about what should a young 
 pleader be cautious ; and why 1 Why must an advocate plead his cause 
 with warmth : but about what must he be cautious ; and for what reason 1 
 
Lect. 26.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 215 
 
 his cause with a proper degree of warmth. He must be 
 cautious, however, not to sacrifice his earnestness and sen- 
 sibility, by an equal degree of ardor on every subject. There 
 is a dignity of character which it is highly important for 
 every one of this profession to support. An opinion of pro- 
 bity and honor in the pleader, is his most powerful instrument 
 of persuasion. He should always, therefore, decline em- 
 barking in causes which are odious and manifestly unjust ; 
 and, when he supports a doubtful cause, he should lay the 
 chief stress upon the arguments which appear to his judg- 
 ment the most forcible ; reserving his zeal and indignation 
 for cases where injustice and iniquity are notorious. 
 
 What is a pleader's most powerful instrument of persuasion; what 
 should he, therefore, always decline ; and when he supports a doubtful 
 cause, what course should he pursue % 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Eloquence of the bar. 
 
 A. Diners from popular elo- 
 
 quence. 
 
 a. The first difference. 
 
 b. The second. 
 
 c. The third. 
 
 B. Ancient orations not models 
 
 for modern pleaders. 
 
 C. Requisites for a * lawyer's 
 
 success. 
 a. A profound knowledge of 
 his profi 
 
 b. Eloquence in pleading. 
 D. Directions for speaking at 
 the bar. 
 
 a. Be calm and temperate. 
 
 b. Avoid verbosity. 
 
 c. Be clear and distinct. 
 
 d. Be concise in narration. 
 
 e. Be candid in stating an 
 
 opponent's arguments. 
 
 f. Be warm and earnest 
 
LECTURE XXVIL 
 
 ELOaUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 
 
 Having already treated of the eloquence of popular as- 
 semblies, and of the eloquence of the bar, we shall next con- 
 sider the strain and spirit of that eloquence which is suited 
 to the pulpit. 
 
 This field of public speaking- has evidently several advan- 
 tages peculiar to itself. The dignity and importance of its 
 subjects must be allowed to be superior to any other. They 
 are such as ought to interest every one, and can be brought 
 home to every man's heart ; and such as admit, at the same 
 time, both the highest embellishment in description, and the 
 greatest warmth and vehemence of expression. In treating 
 his subject, the preacher has also peculiar advantages. He 
 speaks not to one or a few judges, but to a large assembly. 
 He is secure from all interruption. He chooses his subject 
 at leisure ; and has all the assistance that the most accurate 
 premeditation can give him. 
 
 But, together with these advantages, there are also pecu- 
 liar difficulties that attend the eloquence of the pulpit. The 
 preacher, it is true, has no contention with an adversary ; 
 but debate awakens genius, and excites attention. The pul- 
 pit orator is, perhaps, in too quiet possession of his field. 
 His subjects, though noble and important, are trite and com- 
 mon. They have, for ages, employed so many speakers, 
 and so many pens ; the public ear is so much accustomed to 
 them, that it requires more than an ordinary power of genius 
 to fix attention. Nothing is more difficult than to bestow on 
 what is common, the grace of novelty. No sort of compo- 
 sition whatever, is such a trial of skill, as where the merit 
 of it lies wholly in the execution ; not in giving any infor- 
 mation that is new, not in convincing men of what they did 
 not believe ; but in dressing truths which they knew, and of 
 
 The eloquence suited to what, shall we now consider 1 What peculiar 
 advantages has this field of public speaking 1 In treating his subject, 
 also, what advantages has the preacher 1 But together with these advan- 
 tages, what difficulties attend the eloquence of the pulpit 1 What is a 
 very difficult task ; and what sort of composition is the greatest trial of 
 Skill? 
 
Lect. 27.] ELOQUENCE, &c 217 
 
 which they were before convinced, in such colors as may 
 most forcibly effect their imagination and heart. It must 
 be remembered, too, that the subject of the preacher gene- 
 rally confines him to abstract qualities, to virtues and vices ; 
 whereas that of other popular speakers leads them to treat 
 of persons ; which is a subject generally more interesting to 
 the hearers, and which occupies more powerfully the ima- 
 gination. It is the business of the preacher to make you 
 detest the crime only ; the pleader makes you detest the 
 criminal. He describes a living person ; and with more 
 facility rouses your indignation. Hence it comes to pass, 
 that though we have a great number of moderately good 
 preachers, we have very few that are singularly eminent. 
 We are still far from perfection in the art of preaching ; and 
 perhaps there are few things in which it is more difficult to 
 excel. The object, however, is noble, and worthy, upon 
 many accounts, of being pursued with attention, ardor, and 
 perseverance. 
 
 It may, perhaps, occur to some, that preaching is no pro- 
 per subject of eloquence. This, it may be said, belongs 
 only to human studies and inventions ; but the truths of 
 religion will prove the more successful, in proportion to the 
 greater simplicity, and the less mixture of art with which 
 they are set forth. This objection would have weight, if 
 eloquence were an ostentatious and deceitful art — the study 
 of words and of plausibility, only calculated to please the 
 ear. But this is, by no means, the true idea of eloquence. 
 True eloquence is the art of placing truth in the most ad- 
 vantageous light for conviction and persuasion. This is 
 what every good man who preaches the gospel not only 
 may, but ought to have at heart ; for it is most intimately 
 connected with the success of his ministry. 
 
 An essential requisite for excelling in preaching, is a fixed 
 and habitual view of its end and object. This, undoubtedly, 
 is to persuade men to become good. Every sermon should, 
 consequently, be a persuasive oration. It is not to discuss 
 
 What, also, must be remembered 1 What is, respectively, the business 
 of the preacher, and of the pleader ; what does the latter describe ; and 
 hence what comes to pass % What remarks follow % What may, perhaps, 
 occur to some ; and of this what may be said 1 Under what circumstances 
 would this objection have weight 7 But what is true eloquence ; and why 
 should every preacher have this at heart 1 What is an essential requisite 
 for excelling in preaching ; and what is this 1 What, consequently, should 
 ©very sermon be ; and how is this illustrated 1 
 * 19 
 
218 ELOQUENCE OF [Lect. %1, 
 
 some abstruse point, that the preacher ascends the pulpit : 
 it is not to illustrate some metaphysical truth, or to inform 
 his hearers of something which they never heard before , 
 but it is to make them better ; it is to give them, at the same 
 time, clear views and persuasive impressions of religious 
 truth. That abstract and philosophical manner of preach- 
 ing, therefore, however much it may sometimes have been 
 admired, is formed upon a very faulty idea, and deviates, 
 essentially, from the just plan of pulpit eloquence. 
 
 If the idea thus given of a sermon, be correct, it naturally 
 follows that the preacher himself, in order to be successful, 
 must be a good man. It is not sufficient that he specu- 
 latively believe the truth and importance of those principles 
 which he inculcates upon others ; but he must have also a 
 lively and serious feeling of them. This will always give 
 an earnestness and strength, a fervor of piety to his exhor- 
 tations, superior, in its effects, to all the arts of studied 
 eloquence ; and indeed, without it, the mere declaimer will 
 seldom be concealed. A spirit of true piety is the most 
 effectual guard against those errors which preachers are apt 
 to commit. It makes their discourses solid, cogent, and use 
 ful ; and prevents those frivolous and ostentatious harangues, 
 which have no other aim than merely to make a parade of 
 speech, or to amuse an audience. 
 
 The principal characteristics of the eloquence suited to the 
 pulpit, as distinguished from other kinds of public speak- 
 ing, appear to be, gravity and warmth. The serious nature 
 of the subjects belonging to the pulpit, requires gravity ; 
 their importance to mankind, requires warmth. It is, how- 
 ever, far from being either easy or common to unite these 
 characters of eloquence. The grave, when it predominates, 
 becomes a dull, uniform solemnity. The warm, when it 
 wants gravity, borders on the theatrical and light. The 
 union of the two must be studied by all preachers, as of the 
 utmost consequence, both in the composition of their dis- 
 
 Of an abstract and philosophical manner of preaching, therefore, what 
 is remarked *? If the idea thus given of a sermon, be correct, what natu- 
 rally follows? What is not sufficient ; what must he have; and of this, 
 what will always be the effect 1 What is the most effectual guard against 
 those errors which preachers are apt to commit ; and why 1 What are the 
 principal characteristics of the eloquence suited to the pulpit ; and why "? 
 Why is it not easy to unite those characters of eloquence 1 In what must 
 the union of the two be studied as of the utmost consequence ; and when 
 united; what do they form 1 
 
Lect. 2?.] THE PULPIT. 219 
 
 courses, and in their manner of delivery. When united, 
 they form that character of preaching which the French call 
 ontlionr-—lh.a.t affecting, penetrating, and interesting manner, 
 flowing from a strong sense in the preacher, of the import- 
 ance of those truths which he delivers, and an earnest de- 
 sire that they may make full impression on the hearts of 
 his hearers. 
 
 We now proceed to those rules and observations which 
 respect a sermon as a particular species of composition. 
 
 The first which we shall mention is, to attend to its unity. 
 By this we mean, that there should he some one main point 
 to which the whole tenor of the sermon shall refer. It must 
 not be a pile of different subjects heaped upon each other, 
 but one subject must predominate through the whole. This 
 unity, however, does not require that there should be no 
 divisions or separate heads in the discourse, or that one 
 single thought only should be exhibited in different lights. 
 It is not confined by such narrow limits ; it admits of some 
 variety ; it requires that union and connection be so far pre 
 served only, as to make the whole concur in some one im 
 pression on the mind. Thus, for instance, a preacher may 
 employ several different arguments to enforce the love of 
 God ; he may also enquire into the causes of the decay of 
 this virtue ; still one great object is presented to the mind : 
 but if, because his text says, ' He that loveth God, must love 
 his brother also,' he should therefore mingle, in the same 
 discourse, arguments for the love of God, and for the love of 
 our neighbor, he would greatly offend against unity, and 
 leave a very confused impression on the minds of his hearers. 
 
 In the second place, sermons are always the more striking, 
 and generally the more useful, in proportion as the subject 
 of them is precise and particular. This follows, in a great 
 measure, from what has just been illustrated. Though a 
 general subject is capable of being conducted with a con- 
 siderable degree of unity, yet that unity can never be so 
 complete as in a particular one. General subjects, indeed, 
 such as the excellency of the pleasures of religion, are often 
 
 To what do we now proceed ; and what is the first 1 By this what do 
 we mean ; but what does not this require 1 How far, only, does it require 
 that union be preserved ; and how is this remark illustrated 1 But by 
 what course would he greatly offend against unity ; and what would be its 
 effect 1 In the second place, what sermons are the most useful 1 From 
 what does this follow ; and why 1 By whom are general subjects often 
 chosen ; why ; and what is observed of them 1 
 
220 ELOQUENCE OF [Lkct. 27. 
 
 chosen by young preachers as the most showy, and the 
 easiest to be handled ; and, doubtless, general views of re- 
 ligion are not to be neglected, as, on several occasions, they 
 have great propriety. But these subjects are not the most 
 favorable for producing the high effects of preaching. Atten- 
 tion is much more readily commanded, by taking some par- 
 ticular view of a great subject, and directing to that point the 
 whole force of argument and eloquence. To recommend 
 some one virtue, or to inveigh against a particular vice, 
 affords a subject not deficient in unity or precision ; but if 
 that virtue or vice be considered as assuming a particular 
 aspect, as it appears in certain characters, or affects certain 
 situations in life, the subject becomes still more interesting. 
 The execution is, certainly more difficult, but the merit and 
 the effect are higher. 
 
 In the third place, a preacher should be cautious not to 
 exhaust his subject ; for nothing is more opposite to per- 
 suasion than an unnecessary fulness. He should select the 
 most useful, striking, and persuasive topics, which the text 
 suggests, and rest the discourse upon these. There are 
 always some things which he may suppose to be known, 
 and others which he need only slightly touch. If he seeks 
 to omit nothing which is suggested by his subject, he will 
 unavoidably encumber it, and weaken its force. 
 
 In the fourth place, the preacher should study, above all 
 things, to render his instructions interesting to his hearers. 
 This is the great trial of true genius for the eloquence of the 
 pulpit ; for nothing is so fatal to success in preaching, as a 
 dry manner. The great secret lies in preaching in such a 
 manner as to bring home all that is spoken to the hearts of 
 those who hear, so as to make every man think that the 
 preacher is addressing him in particular. He should, con- 
 sequently, avoid all intricate reasonings ; avoid expressing 
 himself in general speculative propositions ; or laying down 
 practical truths in an abstract, metaphysical manner. As 
 
 But why are not these subjects the most favorable for producing the high 
 effects of preaching 1 What affords a subject not deficient in unity ; but 
 when does the subject become still more interesting 1 What remark fol- 
 lows 1 In the third place, of what should a preacher be cautious ; and why ? 
 What course should he pursue ; why ; and what remarks follow 1 In the 
 fourth place, what above all things should the preacher study ; and of this, 
 what is remarked % In what lies the great secret ; and what should he, 
 consequently, avoid % How ought a discourse, as far as possible, be carried 
 on ; and not in what strain 1 
 
 
Lect. 27.] THE PULPIT. 221 
 
 much as possible, a discourse ought to be carried on in a 
 strain of direct address to the audience ; not in the strain of 
 one writing an essay, but of one speaking to a multitude, 
 and studying to connect what is called application, or what 
 has an immediate reference to practice, with the doctrinal 
 and didactic parts of the sermon. 
 
 It is a great advantage to keep always in view, the differ- 
 ent ages, characters, and conditions of men, and to accom- 
 modate directions and exhortations to each of these different 
 classes. Whenever you bring forth what a man feels to 
 touch his own character, or to suit his own circumstances, 
 you are sure of his attention. No study, therefore, is more 
 necessary for a preacher, than the study of human life, and 
 of the human heart. To be able to unfold the heart, and to 
 discover a man to himself, in a light in which he never saw 
 his own character before, produces a wonderful effect. As 
 long as a preacher hovers in a cloud of general observations, 
 and descends not to trace the particular lines and features of 
 manners, the audience are apt to think themselves uncon- 
 cerned in the description. It is the striking accuracy of the 
 moral characters that gives the chief power and effect to 
 a preacher's discourse. Hence, examples founded on histo- 
 rical facts, and drawn from real life, of which kind the 
 scriptures afford many, always, when they are well chosen, 
 command high attention. Those sermons, therefore, though 
 the most difficult in composition, are not only the most beau- 
 tiful, but also the most useful, which are founded on the 
 illustration of some character, or remarkable piece of history, 
 in the sacred writings ; by the pursuit of which, we may 
 trace, and lay open, some of the most secret windings of 
 the human heart. Other topics of preaching have become 
 trite and common ; but this is an extensive field, has 
 hitherto been little explored, and possesses all the advan- 
 tages of being curious, new, and in the highest degree 
 useful. Bishop Butler's sermon on the Character of Ba- 
 laam, is a good example of this kind of preaching. 
 
 In the fifth and last place, the model of preaching should 
 
 What is always of great advantage ; and why'? What study is, there- 
 fore, of great importance to the preacher ; and what produces a wonderful 
 effect 1 When are an audience apt to think themselves unconcerned in a 
 description 1 What is it that gives the chief power and effect to a preach- 
 er's discourse ; and hence what command high attention 'I What sermons, 
 therefore, are both the most useful and the most beautiful ; and why * 
 What sermon is a good example of this kind of preaching'] What is, in 
 the fifth and last place, remarked ; and of these, what is observed 1 
 
 19* 
 
222 ELOQUENCE OF [Lect. 27. 
 
 never be taken from any particular fashion that may chance 
 to prevail. These are torrents which swell to-day, and will 
 have spent themselves by to-morrow. Sometimes poetical 
 preaching is fashionable, and sometimes philosophical : at 
 one time it must be all pathetic ; at another all argumen- 
 tative, according as some celebrated preacher has set the 
 example. Each of these modes, in the extreme, is very 
 faulty; and he who conforms himself to any one of them, 
 will both confine his genius, and corrupt it. It is the uni- 
 versal taste of mankind which is subject to no such changing 
 modes, that alone is entitled to any authority ; and this will 
 never give its sanction to any strain of preaching, but what 
 is founded on human nature, connected with usefulness, 
 adapted to the proper idea of a sermon, as a serious, per- 
 suasive oration, delivered to a multitude, in order to make 
 them better men. Truth and good sense are firm, and w T ill 
 establish themselves ; mode and humor are feeble and fluc- 
 tuating. No example, however admired, should be impli- 
 citly followed. From various examples, the preacher may 
 collect materials for improvement; but the servility of 
 imitation will extinguish his genius, or expose its poverty to 
 his hearers. 
 
 The style which the pulpit requires must be very per- 
 spicuous. As discourses spoken there, are calculated for 
 the instruction of all sorts of hearers, plainness and sim- 
 plicity should reign in them. All unusual words should be 
 avoided ; especially all words that are merely poetical, or 
 merely philosophical. Young preachers are apt to be 
 caught with the glare of these ; and in young composers the 
 error may be excusable : but they may be assured that it is 
 an error, and proceeds from their not having yet acquired a 
 correct taste. The language of sacred scripture, properly 
 employed, is a great ornament to sermons. It may be 
 introduced, either in the way of quotation, or allusion. 
 Direct quotations, brought from scripture, in order to sup- 
 port what the preacher inculcates, both give authority to his 
 
 What illustrations follow ; and what is said of each of these modes 1 
 What is subject to no such changing modes ; and what is remarked of it ] 
 What is respectively observed of truth and good sense, and of mode and 
 humor ; and what remarks follow 1 In the style of sermons, why should 
 plainness and simplicity reign ; and what should be avoided 1 Of young 
 preachers in this respect, what is remarked ; but of what may they be 
 assured % What is a great ornament to sermons ; and how may it be 
 introduced ? How is this illustrated? 
 
L£ct, 2?.] 
 
 THE PULPIT. 
 
 223 
 
 doctrine, and render his discourse more solemn and im- 
 pressive. Allusions to remarkable passages, or expressions 
 of scripture, when introduced with propriety, have generally 
 a pleasing effect. They afford the preacher a fund of meta- 
 phorical expression which no other composition enjoys, and 
 by means of which he can vary and enliven his style. 
 
 Whether it be most proper to write sermons fully, and 
 commit them accurately to memory, or to study only the 
 matter and thoughts, and trust the expression to the delivery, 
 perhaps no general rule can be given. Preachers, in the 
 choice of either of these methods, must follow their different 
 genius. The expressions which come warm and glowing 
 from the heart, during the fervor of pronunciation, will 
 often have a superior grace and energy to those which are 
 studied in the retirement of the closet. But then this fluency 
 and power of expression, cannot, at all times, be depended 
 upon ; it is, therefore, proper to begin, at least, the practice 
 of preaching, with writing as accurately as possible. This 
 is, at the commencement, absolutely necessary, in order to 
 acquire the power and habit of both speaking and thinking 
 correctly upon religious subjects. After habits of correct- 
 ness shall have been thoroughly formed, the preacher may 
 venture to relax, in a degree, his attention to this subject. 
 
 About what can ho general rule be given ; and what must preachers, in 
 the choice of either method, follow % What advantage attends studying 
 the matter and thoughts only 1 But &s the fluency cannot, at all times, be 
 depended upon, how is it proper to begin ; and why 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 Pulpit eloquence. 
 
 1. Its advantages. 
 
 2. The difficulties that attend it. 
 A. An objection to it considered, 
 
 3. An habitual view of its object 
 
 essential. 
 
 4. The character of the preacher. 
 
 5. The characteristics of pulpit 
 
 eloquence. 
 
 6. Directions for composing ser- 
 
 mons. 
 
 A. Unity to be attended to. 
 
 B. The subject to be particular. 
 
 C. Not to be exhausted. 
 
 D. The instructions to be inter- 
 
 esting. 
 a. Knowledge of human na- 
 ture. 
 
 E. No particular model to Iks 
 
 followed. 
 
 7. The style. 
 
 8. Reading sermons considered 
 
LECTURE XXVIII. 
 
 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS 
 PARTS— INTRODUCTION— DIVISION- 
 NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 
 
 Having already considered what is- peculiar to the three 
 great fields of public speaking — popular assemblies, the bar 7 
 and the pulpit, we shall now treat of what is common to 
 them all ; and explain the conduct of a discourse, or oration, 
 in general. 
 
 The parts that compose a regular formal oration are the 
 following six : first, the exordium or introduction ; secondly, 
 the state, and the division of the subject ;. thirdly, narration 
 ©r explication ; fourthly, the reasoning or arguments ; fifthly, 
 the pathetic part ; and lastly, the conclusion. It is not 
 necessary that each of these should enter into every public 
 discourse, or that they should be introduced in the order 
 here mentioned. There is no reason for being so formal on 
 every occasion ; nay, it would often be a fault,, and would 
 render a discourse pedantic and stiff. There are many ex- 
 cellent discourses in which some of these parts are altogether 
 omitted. But as they are the natural and constituent parts 
 of a regular oration, and as, in every discourse, some of 
 them must occur, it is agreeable to our present purpose, to 
 examine each of them distinctly. 
 
 We begin, of course, with the introduction. This is 
 evidently common to all the three kinds of public speaking. 
 It is not a rhetorical figure, but is founded upon nature, and 
 suggested by common sense. When one is going to counsel 
 another — when he takes it upon himself to instruct, or to 
 reprove, prudence will generally direct him not to do it 
 abruptly, but to use some preparation — to begin with some- 
 thing that may incline the person to whom he addresses 
 himself, to judge favorably of what he is about to say, and 
 
 Having considered what is peculiar to the eloquence of popular assem- 
 blies, of the bar, and of the pulpit, of what shall we now treat ] What 
 six parts compose a regular formal oration 1 Of these what is remarked j 
 and why % But why should each of them be examined distinctly 1 With 
 which do we begin ; and of this, what is observed 1 How is this illus- 
 trated 1 
 
Lect. 28.] INTRODUCTION. 225 
 
 may dispose them to such a train of thought as will forward 
 and assist the purpose which he has in view. Accordingly, 
 the design of the introduction is, in the first place, to con- 
 ciliate the good will of the hearers ; secondly, to excite their 
 attention ; and in the third place, to render them open to 
 persuasion. 
 
 Some one of these ends should be proposed by every intro- 
 duction; unless the speaker is previously secure of the good 
 will, the attention, and the docility of his audience. In that 
 case, a formal introduction may, without any impropriety, be 
 omitted. Respect for his hearers, will then require a short 
 exordium only, to prepare them for the other parts of his 
 discourse. 
 
 Having made these general remarks on the nature and 
 object of an introduction, we proceed to give some rules for 
 the proper composition of it. These are the more neces- 
 sary, as this is a part of the discourse which requires great 
 care. It is always of importance to begin well ; to make a 
 favorable impression at first setting out ; when the minds of 
 the hearers, as yet vacant and free, are most disposed to 
 receive any impression easily. We must add, also, that a 
 good introduction is often found to be extremely difficult. 
 Few parts of a discourse give more trouble to the composer, 
 or require more delicacy in the execution. 
 
 The first rule is, that the introduction should be easy and 
 natural. It should always be suggested by the subject. The 
 writer should not plan it, till after he has meditated, in his 
 own mind, the substance of his discourse. By taking a con- 
 trary course, and composing in the first place an introduction, 
 the writer will often find, that he is either led to lay hold of 
 some commonplace topic, or that, instead of the introduction 
 being accommodated to the discourse, he is under the ne- 
 cessity of accommodating the whole discourse to the intro- 
 duction which he had previously written. 
 
 In the second place, in an introduction, correctness of 
 
 Accordingly, what is the design of the introduction ? Without what, 
 should some one of these ends be proposed by every introduction 1 In that 
 case, what may be omitted ; what will respect for "his hearers require ; and 
 why 1 Having made these general remarks, to give what do we proceed ; 
 and why are these the more necessary % What is always of importance 5 
 and what must we also add 1 What remark follows 1 What i? the first 
 rule ; and by what should it always be suggested 1 Till when should the 
 writer not plan it ; and what is the effect of a contrary course 1 In the 
 second place, what should be carefully studied ; and why is this particularly 
 requisite'? 
 
226 INTRODUCTION. [Lect. 28. 
 
 expression should be carefully studied. This is particularly- 
 requisite on account of the situation of the hearers. At the 
 beginning they are more disposed to criticise than at any 
 other period; they are then unoccupied with the subject or 
 the arguments ; their attention is wholly directed to the 
 speaker's style and manner. Care, therefore, is requisite, 
 to prepossess them in his favor ; though too much art must 
 be cautiously avoided, as it will then be more easily detected, 
 and will derogate from that persuasion which the other parts 
 of the discourse are intended to produce. 
 
 In the third place, modesty is also an indispensable charac- 
 teristic of every judicious introduction. If the speaker begins 
 with an air of arrogance and ostentation, the self-love and 
 pride of his hearers will be presently awakened, and will 
 follow him, with a very suspicious eye, through the rest of 
 his discourse. His modesty should appear, not only in his 
 expressions, but in his whole manner — in his looks, in his 
 gestures, and in the tones of his voice. Every audience is 
 flattered by those marks of respect and awe which are paid 
 them by the person who addresses them. The modesty of 
 an introduction, however, should betray nothing mean or 
 abject. It is always of great advantage to an orator, that, 
 together with modesty and deference to his hearers, he show 
 a certain sense of dignity, arising from a persuasion of tho 
 justice or importance of the subject on which he is to speak. 
 
 In the fourth place, except in particular cases, the orator 
 should not put forth all his strength at the beginning ; but 
 should rise and grow upon his hearers as his discourse ad- 
 vances. The introduction is seldom the place for vehemence 
 and passion. The audience must be gradually prepared, 
 before the speaker can venture on strong and impassioned 
 sentiments. Yet when the subject is of such a nature, that 
 the very mention of it naturally awakens some passionate 
 emotion; or when the unexpected presence of some person 
 or object in a popular assembly, inflames the speaker; either 
 of these will justify an abrupt and vehement exordium. 
 
 What is their situation at the beginning ; and why is care their requi- 
 site! What must, at the same time, be cautiously avoided; and whyl 
 What, in the third place, is indispensable ; and why is it the case ? In 
 what should his modesty appear ; and by what is every audience nattered 1 
 What, however, should not the modesty of an introduction betray ; and 
 what is always of great advantage to an orator 1 What is, in the fourth 
 place, remarked ; and why 1 The audience must be gradually prepared 
 before the speaker can enter upon what; yet what will justify an abrupt 
 and vehement exordium ? 
 
Lect. 28.] INTRODUCTION. 227 
 
 Thus, the appearance of Catiline in the Roman senate, ren- 
 ders the violent opening of Cicero's first oration against him, 
 very natural and proper. ' Quousque tandem, Catilina, 
 abutere patientia nostra V And Bishop Atterbury, in 
 preaching from this text, ' Blessed is he whosoever shall not 
 be offended in me,' ventures on this bold exordium : ' And 
 can any man then be offended in thee, blessed Jesus V 
 Which address to our Savior he continues for some time, 
 till he enters on the division of his subject. But these 
 introductions should be attempted by very few, as they pro- 
 mise so much vehemence and ardor through the rest of the 
 discourse, that it is extremely difficult to satisfy the expecta- 
 tion of the hearers. 
 
 In the fifth place, the introduction should not anticipate 
 any material part of the subject. When the topics or argu- 
 ments, which are afterwards to be enlarged upon, are 
 hinted at, and, in part, exhibited in the introduction, they 
 lose, upon their second appearance, the grace of novelty. 
 The impression intended to be made by any principal idea, 
 is always made with the greatest advantage, when it is made 
 entire, and in its proper place. 
 
 In the last place, the introduction ought to be proportioned, 
 both in length and in kind, to the discourse that is to follow : 
 in length, as nothing can be more absurd than, to erect a very 
 great portico before a small building; and in kind, as it is no 
 less absurd to overcharge, with superb ornaments, the portico 
 of a plain dwelling-house, or to make the entrance to a 
 monument as gay as that to an arbor. Common sense di- 
 rects that every part of a discourse should be suited to the 
 strain and spirit of the whole. 
 
 After the introduction, what generally comes next in 
 order, is the proposition or annunciation of the subject ; con- 
 cerning which we shall only observe, that it should be as 
 clear and distinct as possible, and expressed without affecta- 
 tion, in the most concise and simple manner. To this 
 generally succeeds the division of the discourse ; on which 
 
 "What examples of illustration follow ; and what is remarked of them 1 
 But why should these introductions be attempted by very few 1 What, in 
 the fifth place, is remarked ; and why 1 When is the impression intended 
 to be made by any principal idea, always made with the greatest advan- 
 tage % In the last place, to what should the introduction be proportioned ; 
 and for what reason 1 What does common sense direct 1 What generally 
 comes next to the introduction; and concerning it, what only is observed 1 
 To this what generally succeeds ; but of it, what is not to be understood 1 
 
228 DIVISION. [Lect. 28. 
 
 it is necessary to make some remarks. It is not to be uifder- 
 stood that in every discourse, a formal division or distribution 
 of its parts is required. There are many occasions of pub- 
 lic speaking when this is neither requisite nor would be 
 proper ; when the discourse, perhaps, is to be short, or only 
 one point is to be treated of; or when the speaker does not 
 choose to warn his hearers of the method he is to follow, or 
 of the conclusion to which he seeks to bring them. Order 
 of one kind or other, is, indeed, essential to every good dis- 
 course — that is, every thing should be so arranged, as that 
 what goes before may give light and force to what follows. 
 But this may be accomplished by means of a concerted me- 
 thod. What we call division is, when the method is pro- 
 pounded in form to the hearers ; and in the management of 
 it, the following rules should be carefully observed. 
 
 First, the several parts into which the subject is divided 
 should be really distinct from each other — that is, that no 
 one include another. It were a very absurd division, for 
 instance, if a speaker should attempt to treat, first, of the 
 advantages of virtue, and next, of those of justice or tem- 
 perance ; because, the first head evidently comprehends the 
 second, as a genus does the species. Such a method of pro- 
 ceeding will, therefore, involve the subject in indistinctness 
 and disorder. 
 
 Secondly, we must be careful always to folio w the order 
 of nature ; beginning with the most simple points, such as 
 are most easily understood, and necessary to be first dis- 
 cussed ; and proceeding thence to those which are built upon 
 the former, and which suppose them to be known. The 
 subject, in fact, must be divided into those parts into which 
 it is most easily and naturally resolved. 
 
 Thirdly, the members of a division ought to exhaust the 
 subject, otherwise the division is incomplete ; the subject 
 exhibited by pieces and corners only, without any plan being 
 offered by which the w r hole may be displayed. 
 
 On what occasions, is this neither requisite nor proper 1 "What is, in- 
 deed, essential to every good discourse ; and what is meant by it 1 But 
 how may this be accomplished ; and what remark follows % In the man- 
 agement of this, what is the first rule to be observed 1 What would be 
 a very absurd division ; and why % What will be the effect of such a 
 method of proceeding 1 In the second place, what order must we follow ; 
 and how is this illustrated 1 The subject must, in fact, be divided into 
 what parts 1 In the third place, why should the members of the division 
 exhaust the subject % 
 
Lect. 28.] NARRATION. 229 
 
 Fourthly, the terms in which our partitions are expressed, 
 should be as concise as possible. A division will always ap- 
 pear to the most advantage, when the several heads are ex- 
 pressed in the clearest, most forcible, and at the same time, the 
 fewest words pcssible. This never fails to make an agree- 
 able impression on the hearers ; and contributes, also, to 
 make the divisions more easily remembered. 
 
 Fifthly, an unnecessary multiplication of heads should be 
 cautiously avoided. To divide a subject into a great many 
 minute parts, by endless divisions and subdivisions, has 
 always a bad effect in speaking. In a logical treatise this 
 may not be improper ; but it renders an oration hard and 
 dry, and unnecessarily fatigues the memory. A sermon may 
 admit from three to five or six heads, including subdi- 
 visions ; seldom are more allowable. 
 
 The next constituent part of a discourse, which we men- 
 tioned, was narration or explication. These two are joined 
 together, both because they fall nearly under the same rules, 
 and because they generally answer the same purpose ; 
 serving to illustrate the cause, or the subject of which the 
 orator treats, before he proceeds to argue either on the one 
 side or the other ; or to make any attempt for interesting the 
 passions of the hearers. 
 
 In pleadings at the bar, narration is often a very impor- 
 tant part of the discourse, and requires to be particularly 
 attended to. Besides its being in any case, no easy matter 
 to relate with grace and propriety ; there is in narration at 
 the bar, a peculiar difficulty. The pleader must say nothing 
 but what is true ; and, at the same time, he must avoid say- 
 ing any thing that will injure his cause. The facts which 
 he relates, are to be the ground-work of all his future 
 reasoning. To recount them so as to keep strictly within 
 the bounds of truth, and yet to present them under the colors 
 most favorable to his cause, demands no small exertion of 
 skill and dexterity. 
 
 What is, in the fourth place, observed ; and when will a division always 
 appear to the most advantage 1 Of this, what is remarked ? In the fifth 
 place, what should be avoided ; and what has always a bad effect in speak- 
 ing 1 Where may this not be improper ; but what is its effect on oration % 
 Of how many divisions may a sermon admit % What is the next con- 
 stituent part of a discourse; and why are these two joined together 1 
 Why does narration, in pleadings at the bar, require to be particularly 
 attended to ; and what are the pleader's difficulties 1 What demands no 
 small exertion of skill and dexterity 1 
 20 
 
230 EXPLICATION. [Lect. 28. 
 
 To be clear and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, 
 are the qualities which writers chiefly consider as essential 
 to narration. Distinctness is requisite to the whole of the 
 discourse, but belongs especially to narration, which ought 
 to throw a light on all that follows. At the bar, a fact, or a 
 single circumstance left in obscurity, or misunderstood by 
 the judge, may destroy the effect of all the argument and 
 reasoning which the pleader employs. If his narration 
 be improbable, it will be disregarded ; if it is tedious and 
 diffuse, it will fatigue, and be forgotten. To render varia- 
 tion distinct, a particular attention is requisite in ascertaining, 
 clearly, the names, the dates, the places, and every other 
 important circumstance of the facts recounted. In order to 
 be probable in narration, it is necessary to exhibit the cha- 
 racters of those persons of whom we speak, and to show 
 that their actions proceed from such motives as are natural, 
 and likely to gain belief. To be as concise as the subject 
 will admit, all superfluous circumstances must be rejected, 
 by which the narration will be rendered both more forcible 
 and more clear. 
 
 In sermons, where there is seldom any occasion for nar- 
 ration, explication of the subject to be discoursed on occupies 
 the place of narration at the bar, and is to be conducted in a 
 similar manner. It must be concise, clear, and distinct ; in 
 a style correct and elegant, rather than abounding with orna- 
 ment. To explain the doctrine of the text with propriety ; 
 to give a full and clear account of the nature of that virtue 
 or duty which forms the subject of the discourse, is properly 
 the didactic part of preaching ; on the right execution of 
 which much depends for what comes afterwards in the way 
 of persuasion. In order to succeed, the preacher must 
 meditate profoundly on the subject, so as to place it in a clear 
 and striking point of view. He must consider what light it 
 may derive from other passages of scripture ; observe whe- 
 ther it be a subject nearly allied to some other from which 
 it ought to be distinguished; whether it can be advan- 
 tageously illustrated by comparing, or opposing it to some 
 
 What do writers think essential to narration ; and what remark follows 1 
 How is this illustrated 1 To render narration distinct, to what is particu- 
 lar attention requisite] In order to be probable in narration, what is 
 necessary ; and what remark follows 1 In sermons what occupies the 
 place of narration ; and what properties must it possess % What is pro- 
 perly the didactic part of preaching ; and what is said of it ? In order to 
 succeed, what must the preacher do ; and what remark follows ? 
 
Lect. 28.] 
 
 EXPLICATION. 
 
 231 
 
 other thing; by searching into causes, or tracing effects; 
 by pointing out examples, or appealing to the hearts of the 
 hearers ; that thus, a determined, precise, and circumstan- 
 tial view, may be afforded of the doctrine inculcated. By 
 such distinct and apt illustrations of the known truths of re- 
 ligion, a preacher may both display great merit as a com- 
 poser, and, what is infinitely more valuable, render his 
 discourses weighty, instructive, and beneficial. 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 The component parts of a dis- 
 course. 
 
 A. The introduction. 
 
 a. To be easy and natural. 
 
 b. To be correct in the ex- 
 
 pression. 
 
 c. To be modest. 
 
 d. To be calmly conducted. 
 
 e. Not to anticipate the sub- 
 
 ject. 
 
 B. The enunciation. 
 
 C. The division. 
 
 a. The parts to be distinct. 
 
 b. The order of nature to be 
 
 followed. 
 
 c. The members to exhaust 
 
 the style. 
 
 d. The division to be expressed 
 
 with precision. 
 
 e. The heads not to be unne- 
 
 cessarily multiplied. 
 
 D. Narration or explication. 
 
LECTURE XXIX. 
 
 THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART OF A DIS- 
 COURSE—THE PATHETIC PART— 
 THE PERORATION. 
 
 Since the great end for which men speak on any serious 
 occasion, is to convince their hearers that something is either 
 true, or right, or good; and consequently to influence their 
 practice ; reason and argument must constitute the founda- 
 tion of all manly and persuasive eloquence. 
 
 With respect to arguments, three things are requisite: 
 first, the invention of them ; secondly, their proper dispo- 
 sition and arrangement ; and thirdly, the expressing of them 
 in such a style and manner, as to give them their full force. 
 
 The first of these, invention, is, doubtless, the most material, 
 and the groundwork of the rest. But with respect to this, 
 art can afford but small assistance. It can aid a speaker, 
 however, in arranging and expressing those arguments 
 which his knowledge of the subject has discovered. The 
 ancient rhetoricians attempted to go much farther than this. 
 They formed rhetoric into a more complete system ; and 
 professed not only to assist public speakers in setting off 
 their arguments to most advantage, but to supply the defect 
 of their invention, and to teach them where to find arguments 
 on e^ery subject and cause. Hence their doctrine of topics, 
 or ' Loci Communes' and i Sedes argumentorum,' which 
 makes so great a figure in the writings of Aristotle, Cicero, 
 and Quintilian. These topics, or loci, were no other than 
 general ideas applicable to a great many different subjects, 
 which the orator was directed to consult, in order to find out 
 materials for his speech. As in demonstrative orations, for 
 instance, the heads from which any one could be decried or 
 praised ; his birth, his country, his education, his kindred, 
 the qualities of his body, the qualities of his mind, the for- 
 
 Why must reason and argument constitute the foundation of all elo- 
 quence] With respect to arguments, what three things are requisite 1 
 Of the first of these, what is remarked ; and what only can art here do 7 
 On this subject, what did the ancient rhetoricians do ; and hence what 
 doctrines 1 What were these topics ; and of this remark, what illustration 
 follows ? 
 
Lect. 29.] ARGUMENTATIVE PART. 233 
 
 tune he enjoyed, the station he had filled, &c. ; and in 
 deliberative orations, the topics that might be used in recom- 
 mending any public measure, or dissuading from it ; such as 
 honesty, justice, facility, profit, pleasure, glory, assistance 
 from friends, mortification to enemies, and the like. But 
 such discourse can be no other than trivial. What is truly 
 solid and persuasive, must be drawn from a thorough know- 
 ledge of the subject, and profound meditation on it. They 
 who would direct students of oratory to any other sources of 
 argumentation, only delude them; and by attempting to 
 render rhetoric too perfect an art, they render it, in fact, a 
 trifling and childish study. 
 
 We proceed, now, to point out the assistance that can be 
 given, not with respect to the invention, but with respect to 
 the disposition and conduct of arguments. 
 
 Two different methods may be used by orators, in the con- 
 duct of their reasoning ; the terms for which are, the 
 analytic, and the synthetic method. The analytic is, when 
 the orator conceals his intention concerning the point he is 
 to prove, till he has gradually brought his hearers to the 
 designed conclusion. As, for instance, when one intended 
 to prove the being of a God, sets out with observing that 
 every thing which he sees in the world has had a beginning ; 
 that whatever has had a beginning, must have a prior cause; 
 that in human productions, art shown in the effect, necessa- 
 rily infers design in the cause : and proceeds leading you on 
 from one cause to another, till you arrive at one supreme 
 first cause, from whom is derived all the order and design 
 visible in his works. This is much the same as the Socratic 
 method, by which that philosopher silenced the sophists of 
 his age. It is a very artful method of reasoning ; may be 
 carried on with much beauty, and is proper to be used when 
 the hearers are strongly prejudiced against any truth, and 
 must be led to conviction, by imperceptible steps. 
 
 But there are few subjects that will admit of this method, 
 and not many occasions on which it is proper to employ it. 
 
 Of such discourse what is remarked ; and from whence must what is 
 truly solid be drawn 1 Of those who direct students of oratory to any 
 other sources of argumentation, what is observed 1 To what do we now 
 proceed 1 What two methods may be used by orators in the conduct of 
 their reasonings 1 Of the analytic, what is remarked ; and what instance 
 of illustration is given 1 This is much the same as what method; and 
 what is said of it 1 But as there are few subjects that will admit of this 
 method, what mode of reasoning is more generally used : and what is it l 
 20* 
 
£34 ARGUMENTATIVE PART [Lect. 29. 
 
 The mode of reasoning more generally used, and best suited 
 to the train of popular speaking, is what is called the syn 
 thetic ; when the point to be proved is fairly laid down, 
 and one argument upon another is made to bear upon it, till 
 the hearers are fully convinced. But whatever course may 
 be pursued, it is evident that much will depend on the right 
 arrangement of the arguments used ; so that they shall not 
 jostle and embarrass one another, but give mutual aid ; and 
 bear with the fairest and fullest direction on the point in 
 view. Concerning this, the following rules may be taken : 
 
 In the first place, avoid blending arguments together, that 
 are of a separate nature. All arguments whatever, are in- 
 tended to prove one or the other of these three things — that 
 something is true ; that it is morally right or fit ; or that it 
 is profitable and good. Truth, duty, and interest, are the 
 three great subjects of discussion among mankind. But the 
 arguments employed upon either of them, must be generi- 
 cally distinct, and he who blends them all under one topic, 
 which he calls his argument, as in sermons, especially, is 
 too often done, will render his reasoning indistinct and negli- 
 gent. 
 
 In the second place, with regard to the different degrees 
 of strength in argument, the general rule is to advance in 
 the way of climax, from the weakest to the most forcible. 
 This method is to be recommended when the speaker is con- 
 vinced that his course is clear, and easy to be proved. But 
 this rule must not be always followed. If he be appre- 
 hensive of his cause, and has but one material argument on 
 which to lay the stress, putting less confidence in the rest, in 
 this case it is often proper to place his most forcible argu- 
 ment in the front ; to prejudice his hearers as early as 
 possible in his favor, and dispose them to pay attention to 
 the weaker reasoning which he may afterwards introduce. 
 When, amidst a variety of arguments, there are one or two 
 more feeble than the rest, though proper to be used, Cicero 
 
 But whatever course may be pursued, on what will much depend ; and 
 why 1 Concerning this, what is the first rule given 1 To prove what are 
 all arguments whatever, intended ; and what are the three great subjects 
 of discussion among mankind 1 But as the arguments employed upon 
 either of them must be generically distinct, what follows 1 In the second 
 place, with regard to the different degrees of strength in argument, what is 
 the general rule 1 When is this method recommended ; but under what 
 circumstances must it not be followed 1 When, amidst a variety of argu- 
 ments, there are one or two more feeble than the rest, what course does 
 Cicero advise 1 
 
Lect. 29.] OF A DISCOURSE. 235 
 
 advises that they be placed in the middle, as a situation less 
 conspicuous than either the beginning or the end of the train 
 of reasoning. 
 
 In the third place, when our arguments are strong and 
 satisfactory, the more they are distinguished, and treated 
 separately from each other, the better. Each can then bear 
 to be introduced alone, placed in its full light, amplified, and 
 contemplated. But when they are of a doubtful or presump- 
 tive kind, it is safer to crowd them together, to form them 
 into a phalanx, that though individually weak, they may 
 mutually support each other. 
 
 In the fourth place, arguments should never be extended 
 too far, or multiplied too much. This serves rather to render 
 a cause suspicious, than to increase its strength. A need- 
 less multiplicity of arguments, both burthen the memory, 
 and detract from the weight of that conviction which a few 
 well chosen arguments might produce. To expound them, 
 also, beyond the bounds of reasonable illustration, is always 
 enfeebling. It takes off from that 'vis et acumen,' which 
 should be the distinguishing character of the argumentative 
 part of a discourse. When a speaker endeavors to expose 
 a favorite argument in every possible point of view, it 
 generally happens that, fatigued with the effort, he loses the 
 spirit with which he set out, and ends with feebleness what 
 he began with force. 
 
 Having attended, thus far, to the proper arrangement of 
 arguments, we proceed to another essential part of a dis- 
 course — the pathetic ; in which, if any where, eloquence 
 reigns, and exerts its power. On this head we shall offer 
 the following directions, which appear worthy of being 
 remembered. 
 
 The first is, to consider carefully, whether the subject admit 
 the pathetic, and render it proper ; and if it does, what part of 
 the discourse is most fit for attempting it. To determine these 
 points, good sense is the only criterion ; for it is evident that 
 there are many subjects that admit not the pathetic at all, and 
 
 In the third place, what is remarked; and why'? But when they are 
 of a doubtful kind, what course is the safer ; and why 1 What, in the 
 fourth place, is observed of arguments ; what is its effect ; and why ? 
 What is, also, always enfeebling ; and from what does it take off? What 
 illustrative remark follows] Having attended, thus far, to the proper 
 arrangement of arguments, to what do we next proceed'? On this head, 
 what is the first direction offered 1 To determine these points, what is 
 the only criterion : and why 1 
 
238 THE PATHETIC PART [Lect. 29. 
 
 that even in those that are susceptible of it, an attempt to ex- 
 cite the passions in the wrong place, may expose the orator to 
 ridicule. It may in general be observed, that if we expect 
 any emotion which we raise to have a lasting effect, we 
 must secure in our favor the understanding and judgment. 
 The hearers must be satisfied, that there are sufficient 
 grounds for their engaging in the cause with zeal and ardor. 
 They must be able to justify to themselves the passion which 
 they feel ; and remain satisfied that they are not carried 
 away by mere delusion. Unless their minds be brought 
 into this state, although they may have been heated by the 
 orator's discourse, yet, as soon as he ceases to speak, they 
 will resume their ordinary tone of thought ; and the emotion 
 which he has raised will die entirely away. Hence most 
 writers assign the pathetic to the conclusion, as its natural 
 place, this being the impression that one would choose to 
 make last, leaving the minds of the hearers warmed with 
 the subject, after argument and reasoning had produced 
 their full effect. 
 
 In the second place, never set apart a head of a discourse 
 in form, for raising any passion ; never give warning that 
 you are about to be pathetic, and call upon your hearers, as 
 is sometimes done, to follow you in the attempt. Every pre- 
 vious preparation of this kind chills their sensibility. There 
 is also a material difference between showing those to whom 
 you speak, that they ought to be moved, and actually ex- 
 citing their passions. To every emotion or passion, nature 
 has adapted certain corresponding objects ; and without 
 setting these before the mind, it is impossible for an orator to 
 excite that emotion. We are warmed with gratitude, we 
 are touched with compassion, not when a speaker shows us 
 that these are noble dispositions, and that it is our duty to 
 feel them, or when he exclaims against us for our indiffer- 
 ence and coldness. He is, all this time, addressing our rea- 
 son and conscience only. He must point to us the kindness 
 and tenderness of our friends ; he must exhibit the distress suf- 
 fered by the person for whom he would interest us ; then, and 
 
 What may, in general, be observed ; and of the hearers what is re- 
 marked ? Unless their minds be brought into this state, what will follow 1 
 Hence what course do most writers pursue ; and for what reason 1 In the 
 second place, what must never be done ; and why % Between what is 
 there a material difference ; and how is this illustrated 1 When are we 
 warmed with gratitude, and touched with compassion 'J 
 
Lect.29.] OF A DISCOURSE. 237 
 
 not till then, our hearts begin to be touched, our gratitude or 
 our compassion begins to flow. The foundation, therefore, 
 of all successful execution in pathetic oratory is, to paint the 
 object of that passion which we wish to raise, in the most 
 natural and striking manner ; to describe it with such cir- 
 cumstances as are likely to awaken it in the minds of others. 
 Every passion is most strongly excited by sensation ; as 
 anger, by the feeling of an injury, or the presence of the 
 injurer. Next to the influence of sense, is that of memory ; 
 and next to memory is the influence of imagination. Of 
 this power, therefore, the orator must avail himself, so as to 
 strike the imagination of the hearers with circumstances 
 which, in lustre and steadiness, resemble those of sensation 
 and resemblance. In order to accomplish this, the only 
 effectual method is to be moved ourselves. There are a 
 thousand interesting circumstances suggested by real pas- 
 sion, which no art can imitate, and no refinement supply. 
 The passions are obviously contagious. The internal 
 emotion of the speaker adds a pathos to his words, his looks, 
 his gestures, and his whole manner, which exerts a power 
 almost irresistible over those who hear him. 
 
 in the third place, to succeed in the pathetic, it is neces- 
 sary to attend to the proper language of the passions. This, 
 if we consult nature, we shall ever find is unaffected and 
 simple. It may be animated with bold and strong figures, 
 but it will have no ornament or finery. There is a material 
 difference between painting to the imagination and to the 
 heart. The one may be done with deliberation and cool- 
 ness ; the other must always be rapid and ardent. In the 
 former, art and labor may be suffered to appear ; in the 
 latter, no proper effect can be produced, unless it seem to be 
 the work of nature only. Hence all digressions should be 
 avoided, which may interrupt or turn aside the swell of 
 passion. Hence comparisons are always dangerous, and 
 commonly quite improper in the midst of the pathetic. It 
 
 What, therefore, is the foundation of all successful execution in pathetic 
 oratory 1 How is every passion most easily excited ; and how is this 
 illustrated 1 What influences succeed the influence of sense, in order ; 
 and of this power, therefore, why must the orator avail himself] To 
 accomplish this, what is the only effectual method ; and how is this re- 
 mark illustrated 1 What, in the third place, is necessary to succeed in 
 the pathetic ; and what shall we ever find this to be 1 With what may it 
 be animated ; but what will it not have ] Between what is there a mate- 
 rial difference ; and how is this illustrated ? Hence, what should be 
 avoided : what is also to be observed; and what remark follows 1 
 
238 
 
 THE PERORATION. 
 
 [Lect. 29. 
 
 is also to be observed, that emotions which are violent can- 
 not be lasting-. The pathetic, therefore, should not be pro- 
 longed and extended too much. A due regard should 
 always be preserved to what the audience will bear; for he 
 that attempts to carry them farther in passion, than they will 
 follow him, annihilates his purpose — by endeavoring" to 
 warm them in the extreme, he takes the surest method of 
 freezing- them completely. 
 
 Concerning the peroration or conclusion of a discourse, a 
 few words will be sufficient. Sometimes the whole pathetic 
 part comes in most properly at the conclusion. Sometimes, 
 when the discourse has been altogether argumentative, it is 
 proper to conclude with summing up the arguments, placing 
 them in one point of view, and leaving the impression of 
 them full and strong on the minds of the hearers. For the 
 principal rule of a conclusion, and that which nature ob- 
 viously suggests, is, to place that last, on which we choose 1 
 that the strength of our cause should rest. 
 
 In every kind of public speaking, it is important to hit the 
 precise time of concluding, so as to bring the discourse just 
 to a point, neither ending abruptly and unexpectedly, nor 
 disappointing the expectation of the hearers, when they 
 look for the discourse to be finished. The close should 
 always be effected with dignity and spirit, that the minds of 
 the hearers may be left warm, and that they may depart with 
 a favorable impression of the subject and of the speaker. 
 
 To what should a due regard always be preserved ; and why ? Con- 
 cerning the conclusion of a discourse, what is observed 1 Under different 
 circumstances, what different courses are proper % What is the principal 
 rule of a conclusion 1 In every kind of public speaking, what is im- 
 portant 7 How should the close always be effected ;. and why 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. The arguments of a discourse. 
 
 A. The invention of arguments. 
 
 B. The analytic and synthetic 
 
 methods. 
 
 2. The proper disposition of argu- 
 
 ments. 
 
 A. Not to be blended together. 
 
 B. The order of climax to be 
 
 observed. 
 
 C. Strong arguments to be treat- 
 
 ed distinctly. 
 
 D. Not to be extended too far. 
 
 3. The pathetic part of a discourse. 
 
 A. Discretion to be observed. 
 
 B. The hearers not to be warned 
 
 to prepare for it. 
 a. The speaker to be, himself, 
 affected. 
 
 C. The language of passion to 
 
 be observed. 
 
 4. The conclusion. 
 
LECTURE XXX. 
 
 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 
 
 The great objects to which every public speaker should 
 direct his attention, in forming his delivery, are, first to 
 speak so as to be fully understood by all who hear him ; and 
 next, to express himself with such grace and energy, as to 
 please and to move his audience. 
 
 In order to be fully and easily understood, the four chief 
 requisites are, a due degree of loudness of voice, distinct- 
 ness, slowness, and propriety of pronunciation. 
 
 The first attention of every public speaker, doubtless, must 
 be, to enable those to whom he speaks, to hear him. He 
 must endeavor to fill with his voice, the space occupied by 
 the assembly. Though this power of voice is, in a great 
 measure, a natural talent, it may receive considerable 
 assistance from art. Much depends on the proper pitch and 
 management of the voice. This may be distinguished by 
 three gradations — the high, the middle, and the low. The 
 high is used in calling aloud to some one at a distance ; the 
 low approaches to a whisper : the middle is that which is 
 employed in common conversation, and which should ge- 
 nerally be used in public speaking ; for it is erroneous to 
 suppose, that the highest pitch of the voice is requisite to be 
 well heard by a great assembly. This is confounding two 
 things materially different — loudness, or strength of sound, 
 with the key or note on which we speak. The voice may 
 be rendered louder without altering the key ; and the speaker 
 will always be able to give most body, most persevering 
 force of sound, to that pitch of voice to which, in conver- 
 sation, he is accustomed. Whereas, if he begin on the 
 highest pitch of his voice, he will fatigue himself, and speak 
 with pain ; and whenever a man speaks with pain to him- 
 
 To what should every public speaker direct his attention in forming his 
 delivery 1 To be fully and easily understood, what are the four chief re- 
 quisites'? What must be he first attention of every public speaker; and 
 what remarks follow 1 On what does much depend ; how may this be 
 distinguished ; and of them, respectively, what is remarked 1 What is 
 this confounding ; and as the voice may be rendered louder without altering 
 the key, what follows 1 Whereas, if he begin on the highest pitch, what 
 will follow : and of the voice, therefore, what is farther observed 1 
 
240 PRONUNCIATION, [Lect. 30 
 
 self, he is always heard with pain by his audience. To the 
 voice, therefore, may be given full strength and swell of 
 sound ; but it should always be pitched on the ordinary 
 speaking key ; a greater quantity of voice should never be 
 uttered than can be afforded without pain, and without any 
 extraordinary effort. To be well heard, it is useful for a 
 speaker to fix his eye on some of the most distant persons in 
 the assembl)?", and to consider himself as speaking to them. 
 We naturally and mechanically express our words with such 
 a degree of strength, as to be heard by one to whom we 
 address ourselves, provided he be situated within the reach 
 of our voice. This will be the case in public speaking, as 
 well as in common conversation. But it must be remem- 
 bered, that speaking too loud is peculiarly offensive. The 
 ear is wounded when the voice comes upon it in rumbling 
 indistinct masses ; besides, it appears as if assent were de- 
 manded by mere vehemence and force of sound. 
 
 In the. next place, to being well heard and clearly under- 
 stood, distinctness of articulation is more conducive, per- 
 haps, than mere loudness of sound. The quantity of sound 
 requisite to fill even a large space, is less than is generally 
 supposed ; and with distinct articulation, a man of a Aveak 
 voice will make it extend farther than the strongest voice can 
 reach without it. This, therefore, demands peculiar atten- 
 tion. The speaker must give every sound which he utters 
 its due proportion, and make every syllable, and every 
 letter, be heard distinctly. To succeed in this, a rapidity of 
 pronunciation must be avoided. A lifeless, drawling me- 
 thod, is, however, by no means to be adopted. To pronounce 
 with a proper degree of slowness, and with full and clear 
 articulation, cannot be too industriously studied, or too ear- 
 nestly recommended. Such a pronunciation gives weight 
 and dignity to language. It assists the voice, by the pauses 
 and rests which it permits it more easily to make; and 
 enables the speaker to swell all the sounds, both with more 
 energy and more music. He may, by this means, preserve 
 a due command over himself, and avoid that flutter of spirits 
 
 To be well heard, what is useful ; and why ? But what must be re- 
 membered ; and why is this the case 1 In the next place, what is observed ; 
 and what remark follows'? As this demands peculiar attention, what 
 must the speaker do ; and on this subject, what is farther remarked 1 What 
 cannot be too earnestly studied ; and why 1 By this means, what may he 
 do? 
 
Lect.30.] OR DELIVERY. 241 
 
 produced by a rapid and hurried manner, which is destruc- 
 tive of all finished oratory. 
 
 In the third place, a public speaker must study propriety 
 of pronunciation ; or the giving to every word which he 
 utters, that sound which the most polite usage of the lan- 
 guage appropriates to it, in opposition to a broad or vulgar 
 pronunciation. On this subject, however, written instructions 
 will avail nothing. But there is one observation which it 
 may be useful to make : in our language, every word of 
 more syllables than one, has one accented syllable. The 
 genius of the language requires the voice to mark that syl- 
 lable by a stronger percussion, and to pass more slightly 
 over the rest. The same accent should be given to every 
 word in public speaking as in common discourse. In this 
 respect many persons are apt to err. When they speak in 
 public, and with solemnity, they pronounce differently from 
 what they do at other times. They dwell upon syllables, 
 and protract them ; they multiply accents on the same word, 
 from a false idea, that it adds gravity and strength to their 
 discourse, and increases the pomp of public declamation. 
 But this is one of the greatest faults that can be committed in 
 pronunciation ; it constitutes what is called a theatrical or 
 mouthing manner, and gives an artificial, affected air to 
 speech, which detracts, in a great degree, from its agree- 
 ableness, and its impression. 
 
 We shall now mention those higher parts of delivery, by 
 studying which, a speaker endeavors, not merely to render 
 himself intelligible, but to give grace and force to what he 
 utters. These may be comprehended under four heads ; 
 emphases, pauses, tones, and gestures. 
 
 By emphasis is meant, a fuller and stronger sound of 
 voice, by which we distinguish the accented syllable of some 
 word on which we intend to lay a particular stress, and to 
 show how it affects the rest of the sentence. To acquire the 
 proper management of the emphasis, the principal, and 
 indeed, the only rule which can be given is, that the speaker 
 study to acquire a just conception of the force and spirit of 
 
 In the third place, what must a public speaker study ? Though, on this 
 subject, written instructions will be unavailing, yet what observation may 
 be useful 1 In this respect, how do many persons err ; but of this fault, 
 what is remarked 1 What shall we now mention ; and what is the effect 
 of studying them 1 By emphasis what is meant ; and to acquire the pro- 
 per management of it, what is the onlv rule that can be given 1 
 
 21 
 
342 PRONUNCIATION, [Lect. 30, 
 
 those sentiments which he intends to deliver. In all pre- 
 pared discourses, it would be extremely useful, if they were 
 read over or repeated in private, with a view of searching 
 for the proper emphasis, before they were pronounced in pub- 
 lic; marking, at the same time, the emphatical words in 
 every sentence, or at least in the most important parts of 
 the discourse, and fixing them well in the memory. A cau- 
 tion, however, must, at the same time, be given against mul- 
 tiplying the emphatical words too much. They only become 
 striking when used with a prudent reserve. If they recur 
 too frequently — if a speaker endeavors to render every thing 
 that he says of high importance, by a multitude of strong 
 emphases — they will soon fail to excite the attention of his 
 hearers. 
 
 Next to emphases, the pauses in speaking demand atten 
 tion. They are of two kinds : first, emphatical pauses ; 
 and secondly, such as mark the distinctions of sense. An 
 emphatical pause is made, after something has been said of 
 peculiar moment, and on which we wish to fix the hearers 
 attention. Sometimes a matter of importance is preceded by 
 a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same effect 
 as strong emphases, and are subject to the same rules ; par- 
 ticularly to the caution just now given, of not repeating 
 them too frequently. For since they excite particular at- 
 tention, and consequently raise expectation, if this be not 
 fully observed, they will occasion disappointment and dis- 
 gust. 
 
 But the most common, and the principal use of pauses, is 
 to mark the divisions of the sense, and, at the same time, to 
 permit the speaker to draw his breath ; and the just and 
 graceful management of such pauses, is one of the most 
 delicate and difficult articles in delivery. A proper com- 
 mand of the breath is peculiarly requisite to be acquired. 
 To obtain this, every speaker should be very careful to pro- 
 vide a full supply of breath for what he is to utter. It is a 
 
 In all prepared discourses, what would be a very useful practice ; but 
 what caution must, at the same time, be given 1 When only do they be- 
 come striking ; and if they recur too frequently, what will be their effect 1 
 What next demand attention ; and of what two kinds are they 1 When 
 is an emphatical pause made ; what effect have such pauses ; and what 
 follows 1 But what is the most common and principal use of pauses ; and 
 of the graceful management of them, what is remarked? What is here 
 requisite ; and to obtain this, what is necessary 1 To suppose what is a 
 great mistake ; and when may it easily be gathered 1 
 
Lect. 30.] OR DELIVERY. 243 
 
 great mistake to suppose, that the breath must be drawn only 
 at the end of a period, when the voice is about to fall. It 
 may easily be gathered at the intervals of a sentence, where 
 the voice suffers only a momentary suspension ; and hence 
 a sufficient supply may be obtained for carrying on the 
 largest period, without improper interruptions. 
 
 Pauses in public discourse, must be founded upon the 
 manner in which we express ourselves in common, sensible 
 conversation, and not upon the stiff artificial manner which 
 we acquire from perusing books, according to the common 
 punctuation Sometimes it is only a slight and simple sus- 
 pension of the voice which is proper ; sometimes a degree 
 of cadence is requisite ; and sometimes that peculiar tone 
 and cadence, which marks the conclusion of the sentence. 
 In all these cases, a speaker is to regulate himself by attend- 
 ing to the manner in which nature teaches him to speak, 
 when engaged in real and earnest discourse with others. 
 
 In reading or reciting verses, there is a difficulty in 
 making the pauses with propriety. There are two kinds of 
 pauses that belong to the music of verse ; one at the 
 end of the line, and the other in the middle of it. Rhyme 
 always renders the former sensible, and compels an ob- 
 servance of it in the pronunciation. In blank verse it is less 
 perceivable ; and when there is no suspension in the sense, 
 it has been doubted whether in reading it with propriety, 
 any regard should be paid to the close of a line. On the 
 stage, indeed, where the appearance of speaking in verse 
 should be avoided, the close of such lines as make no pause 
 in the sense, should not be rendered perceptible to the ear. 
 On other occasions, it were better, for the sake of melody, to 
 read blank verse in such a manner as to make each line 
 sensibly distinct. In attempting this, however, every appear- 
 ance of singsong and tone must be cautiously avoided. The 
 close of the line where there is no pause in the meaning, 
 should be marked by such a slight suspension of sound 
 only, as may distinguish the passage from one line to 
 another, without injuring the sense. 
 
 Upon what manner must pauses in public discourses be formed ; and 
 how is this illustrated ? In all these cases, how is the speaker to regulate 
 himself 1 In reading poetry, what two pauses are to be observed ; and of 
 rhyme and blank verse, what is relatively remarked ] On the stage what 
 course should be pursued ; but on other occasions, how should blank verse 
 be read 1 In attempting this, what must be avoided ; and what remark 
 follows 1 
 
244 PRONUNCIATION, [Lect. 30. 
 
 The pause in the middle of the line falls after the 4th, 
 5th, 6th, or 7th, syllables, and no other. When it happens 
 that this pause coincides with the slightest division in the 
 sense, the line can be read with ease ; as in the first two 
 verses of Pope's Messiah : 
 
 Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song; 
 To heavenly themes, sublimer strains belong. 
 
 But if it happen that words, which have such an intimate 
 connection as not to admit of even a momentary separation, 
 be divided from each other by this pause in the middle of the 
 verse, we then perceive a conflict between the sense and the 
 sound, which renders it difficult to read such lines with 
 grace and harmony. In such cases, it is always better to 
 sacrifice sound to sense. Thus, for instance, in the follow- 
 ing line of Milton : 
 
 • What in me is dark 
 
 Illume ; what is low, raise and support. 
 
 The sense evidently dictates the pause after ' illume,' 
 which ought to be observed ; though if the melody only 
 were to be regarded, ' illume' should be connected with 
 what follows, and no pause be made till after the 4th or 6th 
 syllable. 
 
 We proceed next to treat of tones in pronunciation, which 
 are different both from emphases and pauses; consisting in the 
 modulation of the voice, the notes or variations of sound 
 which are employed in public speaking. The most material 
 instruction which can be given on this subject is, to form the 
 tones of public speaking upon the tones of sensible and an- 
 imated conversation. Every one who is engaged in speak- 
 ing on a subject which interests him really, has an eloquent 
 or persuasive tone and manner. But when a speaker de- 
 parts from his natural tone of expression, he is sure to render 
 his discourse frigid and unpersuasive. Nothing is more 
 absurd than to suppose, that as soon as a speaker ascends 
 the pulpit, or rises in a public assembly, he is immediately 
 
 The pause in the middle of the line falls after what syllables ; when 
 can the line be read with ease ; and what instance is given 1 But when do 
 we perceive a conflict between the sense and the sound ; then, what course 
 should we pursue ; and what illustration follows % What is remarked of 
 this passage 1 To what do we next proceed ; and of what do they con- 
 sist "? What is the most material instruction that can be given on this 
 subject ; and what remark follows 1 When a speaker departs from his 
 natural tone of expression, what will be the consequence ; and what is very 
 absurd 1 Of this what is observed ; and what remarks follow 7 
 
Lect. 30.J OR DELIVERY. 246 
 
 to lay aside the voice with which he expresses himself in 
 private, and to assume a new, studied tone, and a cadence 
 altogether different from his natural manner. This has 
 vitiated all delivery, and has given rise to cant and tedious 
 monotony. Let every public speaker guard against this 
 error. Whether he speak in private, or in a great assem- 
 bly, let him not forget that he still speaks. Let him take 
 nature for his guide, and she will teach him to express his 
 sentiments and feelings in such a manner, as to make the 
 most forcible and pleasing impression upon the minds of his 
 hearers. 
 
 It now remains for us to treat of gesture, or what is called 
 action, in public discourse. The best rule is, to recommend 
 attention to the looks and gestures, in which earnestness, 
 indignation, compassion, or any other emotion, discovers 
 itself to most advantage in the common intercourse of men ; 
 and let these be the model for imitation. A public speaker 
 must, however, adopt that manner which is most natural to 
 himself. His motions and gestures ought all to exhibit that 
 kind of expression which nature has dictated to him ; and 
 unless this be the case, no study can prevent their appearing 
 stiff and ungraceful. But though nature be the basis on 
 which every grace in gesture and action must be founded, 
 yet the ornamental improvements which art can supply must 
 not be neglected. The study of action consists chiefly in 
 guarding against awkward and disagreeable emotions, and 
 in learning to perform such as are natural to the speaker, in 
 the most graceful manner. Numerous are the rules which 
 writers have laid down for the attainment of a proper ges- 
 ticulation. But it is to be feared, that written instructions on 
 this subject can be of little service. To become useful, 
 they must be well exemplified. A few of the simplest pre- 
 cepts, however, may be attended to with advantage. Thus, 
 every speaker should study to preserve as much dignity as 
 possible in the whole attitude of his body. He should 
 generally prefer an erect posture ; his position should be 
 firm, so as to have the fullest and freest command of all his 
 
 Of what does it now remain for us to treat ; and here what is the best 
 rule 1 What manner, however, must a public speaker adopt ; and of his 
 gesture, what is observed 1 But though nature be the basis, yet what must 
 not be neglected ; and in what does the study of action consist 1 Of rules, 
 what remarks follow 1 Of the simple precepts to be attended to, what 
 ones are mentioned 1 Of the countenance, what is remarked ; and also of 
 ihe eves? 
 
 21* 
 
246 PRONUNCIATION. [Lect. 30. 
 
 motions ; if any inclination be used, it should be forward 
 towards the hearers, which is a natural expression of 
 earnestness. The countenance should correspond with the 
 nature of the discourse ; and when no particular emotion is 
 expressed, a serious and manly look is always to be preferred. 
 The eyes should never be fixed entirely on any one object, 
 but move easily round the audience. In the motions made 
 with the hands, consists the principal part of gesture in 
 speaking. It is natural that the right hand be more fre- 
 quently employed than the left. Warm emotions require 
 the exercise of them both together. But whether a speaker 
 gesticulates with one or both hands, all his motions should 
 be easy and unrestrained. Perpendicular movements in a 
 straight line up and down, which Shakspeare calls ' Sawing 
 the air with the hand,' are to be particularly avoided. 
 Oblique motions are the most pleasing and graceful. For 
 sudden, and rapid motions are seldom good. Earnestness 
 can be fully expressed without their assistance. 
 
 We cannot conclude our observations on this subject, 
 without earnestly admonishing every speaker to guard 
 against all affectation, which is the destruction of good de- 
 livery. Let his manner, whatever it may be, be his own. 
 Whatever is native, though attended by several defects, is 
 likely to please ; because it shows us the man ; and because 
 it has the appearance of proceeding from the heart. To 
 attain a delivery extremely correct and graceful, is what few 
 can expect ; as so many natural talents must concur in its 
 formation. But to acquire a forcible and persuasive man- 
 ner, is within the power of the generality of mankind. 
 They must only unlearn false and corrupt habits ; they 
 must follow nature; and they will speak in public as they 
 do in private, when they speak in earnest, and from the 
 heart. 
 
 What is observed of the motion of the hands 1 Of perpendicular mo- 
 tions, what is remarked ; and what follows 1 Against what is every speaker 
 admonished to guard 1 What should his manner be ; and why ? What 
 can few expect ; and why 1 But what is within the cower of all ; and to 
 attain it what must they do? 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 Delivery. 
 
 1. Audibleness of voice. 
 
 2. Distinctness of articulation. 
 
 3. Propriety of pronunciation. 
 
 4. Requisites for speaking. 
 A. Emphasis, 
 
 B. Pauses. 
 
 a. Emphatical pause. 
 
 b. Casual pause. 
 
 C. Tones. 
 
 D. Gestures. 
 
 a. Affectation to be avoided 
 
LECTURE XXXI. 
 
 MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 
 
 Having treated fully of the different kinds of public 
 speaking, of the composition, and of the delivery of a dis- 
 course ; before we finish this subject, it may be useful to 
 suggest some things concerning the proper means of im- 
 provement in the art of public speaking, and the most ne- 
 cessary studies for that purpose. 
 
 To be an eloquent speaker, in the proper sense of the 
 word, is far from being either a common or an easy attain- 
 ment. To compose a florid harangue on some popular 
 topic, and to deliver it so as to amuse an audience, it is true, 
 is not a very difficult task. But though some praise be due 
 to this, yet the idea which we have given of eloquence is 
 much higher. It is a great exertion of the human powers. 
 It is the art of being persuasive and commanding — the art, 
 not of pleasing the fancy merely, but of speaking both to the 
 understanding and to the heart — of interesting the hearers 
 in such a degree, as to seize and carry them along with us ; 
 and to leave them with a deep and strong impression of what 
 we have said. Many talents, both natural and acquired, 
 must concur for carrying this to perfection. A strong, lively, 
 and warm imagination — quick sensibility of heart, joined 
 with solid judgment, good sense, and presence of mind ; all 
 improved by long attention to style and composition ; and 
 supported also by the exterior, yet important qualifications 
 of a graceful manner, a good presence, and a full and 
 tuneable voice. There is little reason to wonder, therefore, 
 that an accomplished orator is so rarely to be found. But 
 we should not, however, despair ; as between mediocrity and 
 perfection, there is a very wide interval. There are many 
 intermediate spaces, which may be filled up with honor ; 
 
 Having treated fully of the different kinds of public speaking, to sug- 
 gest some things towards what may be useful 1 To be an eloquent speaker, 
 m the propei 1 sense of the word, is far from being what ; and what remark 
 follows 1 But though some praise be due to this, yet what is the idea we 
 have given of eloquence 'I For carrying this to perfection, what talents 
 must combine 1 About what, therefore, is there little reason to wonder ; 
 but why should wc not despair 1 
 
MS MEANS OF IMPROVING [Lect. 31. 
 
 and the more rare and difficult that complete perfection is, 
 the greater is the honor of approaching to it, though we do 
 not fully attain it. 
 
 After these preliminary observations, we proceed to treat 
 of the means to be used for improving in eloquence. To 
 those who are anxious to excel in this subject, we must ob- 
 serve, in the first place, that nothing is more necessary than 
 to cultivate habits of the several virtues, and to refine and 
 improve all their moral feelings. A true orator must pos- 
 sess generous sentiments, and a mind turned towards the 
 admiration of all those great and high objects, which man- 
 kind are, by nature, prone to venerate. Connected with the 
 manly virtues, he should have a strong and tender sensibility 
 to all the injuries, distresses, and sorrows, of his fellow- 
 creatures ; a heart that can easily relent ; that can enter into 
 the circumstances of others, and can make their case his own. 
 
 Next to moral qualifications, what, in the second place, is 
 most necessary to an orator, is a fund of knowledge. There is 
 no art by which eloquence can be taught, in any sphere, without 
 a sufficient acquaintance with what belongs to that sphere. 
 Attention to the ornaments of style, can only assist the orator 
 in setting off to advantage the stock of materials which he pos- 
 sesses ; but the materials themselves must be derived from 
 other sources than from rhetoric. The pleader must make 
 himself completely acquainted with the law ; he must possess 
 all that learning and experience which can be useful in his 
 profession, for supporting a cause, or convincing a judge. 
 The preacher must apply himself close]y to the study of 
 divinity, of practical religion, of morals, and of human 
 nature ; that he may be rich in all the subjects both of in- 
 struction and of persuasion. He who wishes to excel as a 
 member of the supreme council of the nation, or of any 
 public assembly, should be minutely acquainted with the 
 business which belongs to such assembly, and should attend 
 with accuracy to all the facts which may be the subject of 
 question or deliberation. 
 
 Besides the knowledge that is more particularly connected 
 
 After these preliminary observations, of what do we proceed to treat 5 
 and what is the first given 1 What must a true orator possess ; and con- 
 nected to the manly virtues, what should he have ] What, in the second 
 place, is necessary ; and why 1 How is this remark illustrated from the 
 case of the pleader, the preacher, or any other public speaker 1 Besides 
 particular knowledge, with what should a public speaker make himself 
 acquainted 1 
 
Lect. 31.] IN ELOaUENCE. 
 
 with his profession, a public speaker should make himself 
 acquainted with the general circle of polite literature. Poetry- 
 he will find useful for the embellishment of style, for afford- 
 ing- lively images, -or pleasing illusions. History may be 
 still more advantageous ; since the knowledge of facts, of 
 eminent characters, and of the course of human affairs, must 
 find place on many occasions. A deficiency of knowledge, 
 even in subjects not immediately connected with his pro- 
 fession, will expose a public speaker to many disadvantages, 
 and give his rivals, who are better qualified, a decided supe- 
 riority. 
 
 In the third place, to every one who wishes to excel in 
 public speaking, a habit of application and industry cannot 
 be too much recommended. This is inseparably connected 
 with the attainment of every species of excellence. No one 
 can ever become a distinguished pleader, or preacher, or 
 speaker in any assembly, without previous labor and appli 
 cation. Industry, indeed, is not only necessary to every 
 valuable acquisition, but it is designed by Providence as the 
 seasoning of every pleasure, without which life would become 
 flat and insipid. No enemy is so destructive both to honor- 
 able attainments, and to the real and animated enjoyment of 
 life, as that relaxed state of mind which proceeds from indo- 
 lence and dissipation. He who is destined to excel in any 
 art, will be distinguished by an enthusiasm for that art ; 
 which firing his mind with the object in view, will dispose 
 him to endure every necessary degree of industry and per- 
 severance. This was the characteristic of the great men of 
 antiquity; and it must distinguish the moderns who would 
 imitate their bright examples. By those who are studying 
 oratory, this honorable enthusiasm should be cultivated with 
 the most lively attention. If it be wanting to youth, manhood 
 will flag exceedingly. 
 
 In the fourth place, attention to the best models will con- 
 tribute greatly towards improvement in the arts of speaking 
 ©r writing. Every one, indeed, should endeavor to have 
 
 For what will he find poetry useful ; and why may history be still more 
 advantageous ; and what remark follows 1 In the third place, a habit of 
 what is recommended ; and of this what is remarlted 1 Of industry, what 
 is farther observed ; and what remark follows % By what will he who is 
 destined to excel in any art, be distinguished ; and what will be its effect 1 
 Of whom was this the characteristic ; whom must it distinguish ; and what 
 remarks follow 1 To what, in the fourth place, must attention be given 1 
 What should every one endeavor -to have ; and why 1 
 
250 MEANS OF IMPROVING [Lect. 31* 
 
 something that is his own, that is peculiar to himself, and 
 that distinguishes his composition and style. Genius is 
 certainly depressed, and its poverty betrayed, by a slavish 
 imitation. But yet, there is no genius so original, but may 
 receive improvement from proper examples, in style, compo- 
 sition, and delivery. They always afford some new ideas, 
 and contribute to enlarge and correct our own. They 
 accelerate the current of thought, and excite the ardor of 
 emulation. 
 
 In imitating the style of any favorite author, a material 
 distinction should be observed between written and spoken 
 language. These are, in reality, two different modes of 
 communicating ideas. In books, we expect correctness, 
 precision, ail redundancies pruned, all repetitions avoided, 
 and language completely polished. Speaking allows a 
 more easy copious style, and less confined by rule ; repeti- 
 tions may often be requisite, parenthesis may sometimes be 
 ornamental ; the same thought must often be exhibited in 
 different points of view ; since the hearers can catch it only 
 from the mouth of the speaker, and have not the opportunity, 
 as in reading, of turning back again, and of contemplating 
 what they do not entirely comprehend. Hence the style of 
 some good authors would seem stiff, affected, and even ob- 
 scure, if transferred into a popular oration. How unnatural, 
 for instance, would Lord Shaftesbury's sentences sound in 
 the mouth of a public speaker. Some kinds of public dis- 
 course, indeed, such as that of the pulpit, where a more 
 accurate preparation and a more studied style are allowable, 
 would admit such a manner better than others, which are 
 expected to approach nearer to extemporaneous speaking, 
 But yet there is, generally, so great a difference between? 
 speaking, and a composition intended only to be read, as 
 should caution us against a close and improper imitation. 
 
 The manner of writing of some authors, approaches 
 nearer to the style of speaking than others; and they can, 
 therefore, be imitated with more propriety. In our own 
 
 Yet from what may any genius, however original, receive improvement; 
 and what is their effect 7 In imitating the style of any favorite author, 
 between what should a distinction be observed ; and how is this distinction 
 fully illustrated'? Hence, of the style of some good authors, what is ob- 
 served ; and what instance is mentioned 1 In what kinds of public dis- 
 course is such a manner admissible ; and why ? Yet why should we avoid 
 a close and improper imitation ? Of the manner of writing of some authors,, 
 what is remarked -. and who are of this description- 3 
 
Lect.31.] IN ELOaUENCE. 251 
 
 language, Swift and Bolingbroke are of .this description. 
 The former, though correct, preserves the easy and natural 
 manner of an unaffected speaker ; and this is an excellence by 
 which he is peculiarly distinguished. The style of the lat- 
 ter is more splendid ; but still it is the style of speaking, or 
 rather of declamation. Bolingbroke, indeed, may be studied 
 with singular advantage, by those who are desirous of 
 attaining the natural elegance and the graces of composition. 
 In the fifth place, besides attention to the best models, fre- 
 quent exercise both in composing and speaking must be 
 recommended as a necessary means of improvement. That 
 kind of composition is, undoubtedly, most useful, which is 
 connected with the profession, or sort of public speaking, to 
 which persons devote themselves. This they should ever 
 keep in view, and be gradually habituating themselves to it. 
 At the same time, they should be cautious not to allow them- 
 selves to compose negligently on any occasion. He w T ho 
 wishes to write, or to speak correctly, should, in the most 
 trifling kind of composition — in writing a letter, or even in 
 common conversation, endeavor to express himself with 
 propriety. By this we do not mean that he is never to write, or 
 to speak, but in studied and artificial language. This would 
 introduce a stiffness and affectation, infinitely worse than 
 the greatest negligence. But we must observe, that there 
 is in every thing a proper and becoming manner ; and, on 
 the contrary, there is also an awkward performance of the 
 same thing. That manner which is becoming, is often the 
 most light, and apparently the most careless ; but taste and 
 attention are requisite to possess the just idea of it. That 
 idea, when once acquired, should be kept constantly in 
 view, and upon it should be formed whatever we write or 
 
 Exercises of speaking have always been recommended to 
 students in elocution ; and, when under proper regulation, 
 must, undoubtedly, be of the greatest use. Those public 
 
 Of them, respectively, what is farther observed ; and by whom may 
 Bolingbroke be studied with singular advantage 1 In the fifth place, what 
 must be recommended ; and what kind of composition is most useful 1 Of 
 this what is remarked ; and at the same time, about what should they be 
 cautious 1 What should he who wishes to write or to speak correctly do ; 
 by this, what is not meant ; and why 1 But what must we observe ; and 
 of that manner which is becoming, what is remarked 1 What have always 
 been recommended to students of elocution ; and what is said of them 1 
 What institutions are not only of a useless, but of an injurious nature : 
 and what are they calculated to become 1 
 
252 MEANS OP IMPROVING [Lect. St. 
 
 and pernicious societies, in which numbers are brought 
 together, who are frequently of low stations and occupations, 
 who are connected by no common bond of union, except a 
 ridiculous rage for public speaking, and have no other object 
 in view, than to exhibit their supposed talents, are institutions 
 not only of a useless, but of an injurious nature. They are 
 calculated to become seminaries of licentiousness, petulance, 
 and faction. Even the allowable meetings, into which stu- 
 dents of oratory may form themselves, must be under proper 
 direction, in order to be rendered useful. If the subjects of 
 debate be improperly chosen ; if they support extravagant 
 and indecent topics ; if they indulge themselves in loose and 
 flimsy declamation ; or accustom themselves, without pre 
 paration, to speak pertly on all subjects, they will unavoid 
 ably acquire a very faulty and vicious taste in speaking. It 
 should, therefore, be recommended to all those who are 
 members of such societies, to attend to the choice of their 
 subjects ; to be careful that these be useful and manly, 
 either connected with the course of their studies, or related 
 to morals and taste, to action and life. They should be 
 temperate in the practice of speaking ; not to speak too fre- 
 quently, nor on subjects of which they are ignorant ; but 
 only when they have laid up proper materials for a discourse, 
 and have previously considered and digested the subject. In 
 speaking, they should be cautious always to keep good sense 
 and persuasion in view, rather than a show of eloquence. 
 By these means, they will adopt the best method of forming 
 themselves gradually to a manly, correct, and persuasive 
 elocution. 
 
 It may now be asked, of what use the study of critical and 
 rhetorical writers will be, for the improvement of those who 
 wish to excel in eloquence. They ought certainly not to be 
 neglected ; and yet, perhaps, very much cannot be expected 
 from them. It is, however, from the original ancient writers 
 that the greatest advantage can be derived ; and every one, 
 whose profession calls him to speak in public, should be 
 
 Under what circumstances will students of oratory, even in allowable 
 meetings, acquire a vicious taste in speaking 1 What should, therefore, 
 be recommended to all the members of such societies 7 Of their speaking 
 what is remarked ; and by this what is meant 1 In speaking what should 
 they do ; and why 1 What question may now be asked ; and what re- 
 mark follows 1 Whence can the greatest advantage be derived ; and who 
 should be acquainted with them ? 
 
L£ct. 31.] IN ELOQUENCE. 253 
 
 acquainted with them. In all the rhetorical writers among 
 the ancients, there is, indeed, one defect ; they are too sys- 
 tematical, they endeavor to perform too much ; they aim at 
 reducing rhetoric to a perfect art, which may supply in- 
 vention with materials on every subject ; so that one would 
 suppose they expected to make an orator by rule, in the 
 same manner as a mechanic would learn his business. But, 
 in reality, all that can be done, is to assist and enlighten 
 taste, and to point out to genius, the path in which it ought 
 to tread. 
 
 Aristotle seems to have been the first who took rhetoric 
 out of the hands of the sophists, and founded it on reason 
 and solid sense. Some of the profoundest things that have 
 been written on the passions and manners of men, are to be 
 found in his Treatise on Rhetoric ; though in this, as in all 
 his writings, his great conciseness often renders him Gbscure. 
 The Greek rhetoricians who succeeded him, most of whose 
 writings are now lost, improved on the foundation which he 
 had laid. The writings of two of them still remain — De- 
 metrius Phalereus, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus , both 
 of whom have written on the construction of sentences, and 
 deserve to be perused ; especially Dionysius, who is a very 
 accurate and judicious critic. 
 
 To recommend the rhetorical writings of Cicero, would 
 be superfluous. Whatever, on the subject of eloquence, 
 comes from so great an orator, must be worthy of attention. 
 His most considerable work on this subject is that of De 
 Oratore, in three books. None of his writings are more 
 highly finished than this treatise. The dialogue is politely 
 conducted, the characters are well supported, and the 
 management of the whole is beautiful and pleasing. It is, 
 it is true, full of digressions, and his rules and observations 
 maybe thought, sometimes, too vague and general. Useful 
 things, however, may be learned from it ; and it is no small 
 advantage to be made acquainted with Cicero's own idea of 
 eloquence. The Orator ad M. Brutum, is also a valuable 
 treatise ; and, indeed, throughout all Cicero's rhetorical 
 
 In all of them, what defect is there ; from which one would suppose 
 that they expected what 1 But what, in reality, is all that can be done] 
 Aristotle is the first that did what ; and of his Treatise on Rhetoric, what 
 is remarked 1 Of the Greek rhetoricians who succeeded him, what is ob- 
 served ; the writings of what two still remain ; and what is observed of 
 them 1 What is said of the rhetorical writings of Cicero ; and of his most 
 considerable work on this subject, what is remarked] 
 
 29 
 
254 MEANS, &c. [Lect. 31. 
 
 works, there are seen those elevated and sublime ideas of 
 eloquence, which are well calculated to form a just taste, 
 and to inspire that enthusiasm for the art, which is highly 
 conducive to the attainment of excellence. 
 
 But of all the ancient writers on the subject of oratory, the 
 most instructive and most useful is Quintilian. Few books 
 abound more with good sense, and discover a greater degree 
 of just and accurate taste, than his Institutions. Almost all 
 the principles of good criticism are to be found in them. He 
 has digested into excellent order all the ancient ideas con- 
 cerning rhetoric ; and is, at the same time, himself an 
 eloquent writer. Though some parts of his work contain 
 too much of the technical and artificial system then in vogue, 
 yet seldom has any person, of more sound and distinct judg- 
 ment than Gluintilian, applied himself to the study of the art 
 of oratory. 
 
 But of all the ancient writers on oratory, who is the most instructive 7 
 What is observed of his Institutions ? What objection may be offered to 
 some parts of his work ; yet of him, what remark follows ? 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Preliminary observations. 
 
 2. Requisites for being eloquent. 
 
 A. Virtuous habits. 
 
 B. A fund of knowledge. 
 
 a. Familiarity with general 
 literature requisite. 
 
 C. Industry and application. 
 
 D. Attention to the best models. 
 
 a. Written and spoken lan- 
 guage distinguished. 
 
 E. Frequent exercise in compo- 
 
 sition. 
 a. Exercises of speaking. 
 
 F. The study of critical writers 
 
 requisite. 
 
 a. Aristotle — Cicero. 
 
 b. Gtuintilian. 
 
LECTURE XXXII. 
 
 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE ANCIENTS 
 AND THE MODERNS. 
 
 As we have now finished that part of these lectures which 
 respected oratory, or public speaking, it remains that we en- 
 ter on the consideration of the most distinguished kinds of 
 composition, both in prose and verse, and point out the prin- 
 ciples of criticism relating to them. In this we shall study- 
 to avoid unnecessary prolixity ; though, at the same time, 
 we shall hope to omit nothing that is very material under 
 the several heads. 
 
 Before we proceed farther, however, it may be proper to 
 make some observations on the comparative merit of the 
 ancients and the moderns ; in order that we may be able to 
 ascertain, rationally, upon what foundation that deference 
 rests, which has so generally been paid to the ancients. 
 These observations are the more necessary, as this subject 
 has given rise to no small controversy in the republic of let- 
 ters ; and they may, with propriety, be introduced now, as 
 they will serve to throw light on some things, afterwards to 
 be said, concerning different kinds of composition. 
 
 It is a remarkable phenomenon, that writers and artists, 
 most distinguished for their parts and genius, have generally 
 appeared in considerable numbers at a time. Some ages 
 have been remarkably barren in them ; while, at other pe- 
 riods, nature seems to have exerted herself with a more than 
 ordinary effort, and to have poured them forth with a pro- 
 fuse fertility. Various reasons have been assigned for this. 
 Some of the moral causes lie obvious ; such as favorable cir- 
 cumstances of government and manners; encouragement 
 from great men ; and emulation excited among the men of 
 genius. But as these have been thought inadequate to the 
 whole effect, physical causes have been also assigned ; such 
 
 Having finished that part of these lectures which respected oratory, 
 what remains to be done ; and of this what remark follows 1 Before we 
 proceed farther, however, what may be proper ; and why 1 Why are these 
 observations the more necessary ; and why may they be introduced now 1 
 What is a remarkable phenomenon ; and what remark follows 1 What 
 moral, and what physical causes, have been assigned for this ? 
 
£58 THE ANCIENTS AND [Lect. 32. 
 
 as the influence of the air, the climate, and other natural 
 causes. But whatever the cause may be, the fact is certain, 
 that particular periods or ages of the world, have been much 
 more distinguished than others, for the extraordinary pro 
 ductions of genius. 
 
 Learned men have distinguished four of these happy ages. 
 The first is the Grecian age, which commenced near the 
 time of the Peloponnesian war, and extended till the time of 
 Alexander the Great ; within which period we have, as the 
 most distinguished, Herodotus,* ThucyclideSj Xenophon, 
 Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, iEschines, Iso- 
 crates, Homer,* Hesiod,* Pindar, iEschylus, Euripides, 
 Sophocles, Aristophanes, Menander, Theocritus, Lysippus, 
 and Phidias. The second, is the Roman age, included 
 nearly within the clays of Julius Ccesar and Augustus ; afford- 
 ing us Catullus, Lucretius, Terence, Virgil, Horace, Ti- 
 bullus, Ovid, Lucan, Hortentius, Caesar, Cicero, Livy, 
 Saliust, Tacitus, and Varro. The third age, is that of the 
 restoration of learning, under the Popes Julius II. and Leo 
 X. ; when flourished Dante,* Petrarch,* Ariosto, Tasso, 
 Sannazarius, Vida, Machiavel, Guicciardini, Davila, Eras- 
 mus, Paul Jovius, Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Titian. 
 The fourth commenced with the age of Louis XIV. and 
 Queen Anne, and continues to the present time. In it have 
 flourished, in France, Corneille, Racine, De Retz, Moliere, 
 Boiieau, Fontaine, Baptiste, Rousseau, Bossuet, Fenelon, 
 Bourdaloue, Pascall, Malebranche, Massillon, Bayle, and 
 Fontenelle ; in England, Shakspeare, Spenser, Dry den, 
 Pope, Addison, Prior, Swift, Parnell, Arbuthnot, Congreve, 
 Otway, Young, Howe, Atterbury, Shaftesbury, Boling- 
 broke, Tillotson, Temple, Boyle, Locke, Newton, Clark ; 
 together with Johnson, Burke, and all their brilliant cotem- 
 poraries, and successors, down to the present day. 
 
 When we speak comparatively of the ancients and the 
 moderns, we generally mean by the ancients, such as lived 
 
 * These writers flourished rather before the period with which their 
 names are connected. 
 
 But whatever the cause may be, what fact is certain 1 How many of 
 these happy ages have been distinguished ; of the first what is remarked ; 
 and in it who flourished 1 What is the second; within whose days is it 
 included ; and who does it afford % Under whom was the third age ; and 
 in it who flourished 1 When did the fourth commence ; of it what is ob- 
 served ; and in it who flourished 1 When we speak comparatively of the 
 ancients and the moderns, by them, respectively, what do we mean 1 
 
Lect. 32.] THE MODERNS COMPARED. 257 
 
 in the first two of these periods ; and by the moderns, those 
 who flourished in the two last. Any comparison between 
 these two classes of writers, must necessarily be vague and 
 loose, as they comprehend so many, and such different kinds 
 and degrees of genius. The comparison, however, is 
 generally made to turn upon two or three of the most dis- 
 tinguished in each class. In France, this dispute was car- 
 ried on with much warmth, between Boileau and Madame 
 Dacier for the ancients, and Perrault and La Motte for the 
 moderns. Even at this time, men of letters are divided on 
 the subject ; and it is somewhat difficult to discern, upon 
 what grounds the controversy is to be determined. 
 
 Should any one, at this day, attempt to decry the ancient 
 classics, or pretend to have discovered that Homer and 
 Virgil are inferior poets, and that Demosthenes and Cicero 
 are not great orators, we unhesitatingly tell him that he is 
 too late in his discovery. Their reputation is established 
 upon a foundation too solid to be now shaken by any argu- 
 ment whatever ; for it is established upon the universal 
 taste of mankind, proved and tried throughout the succession 
 of so many ages. At the same time, it is obvious that im- 
 perfections may be traced in their writings ; for no human 
 work is perfect. But to attempt to discredit their works in 
 general, or to prove that the reputation which they have 
 gained is, on the whole, unjust, can only belong to peevish- 
 ness or prejudice. The approbation of the public, for so 
 many centuries, establishes a verdict in their favor, from 
 which there is no appeal. 
 
 In matters of mere reasoning, the world may be long in 
 an error ; and may be convinced of the error by stronger 
 reasonings when produced. Positions that depend upon 
 science, upon knowledge, and matters of fact, may be over- 
 turned according as science and knowledge are enlarged, 
 and new matters of fact are brought to light. For this rea- 
 son, a system of philosophy receives no sufficient sanction 
 
 Of any comparison between these two classes of writers, what is re- 
 marked ; and why 1 On whom has the comparison been generally made 
 to turn ; by whom has the dispute been carried on ; and what remark fol- 
 lows 1 When may we unhesitatingly tell that he has come too late with 
 his discovery; and of their reputation what is remarked'? At the same 
 time, what is obvious ; but what can only belong to peevishness and preju- 
 dice ; and what remark follows'? Of matters of mere reasoning, what is 
 observed : and how is this illustrated J 
 
 22* 
 
258 THE ANCIENTS AND [Lect. 32. 
 
 for its antiquity or long standing. But in objects of taste 
 there is no such fallibility ; as they depend not on knowledge 
 and science, but upon sentiment and feeling. It is in vain 
 to think of undeceiving mankind, with respect to errors com- 
 mitted here, as in philosophy ; for the universal feeling of 
 mankind is the natural feeling, and, therefore, must be right. 
 Homer and Virgil, consequently, must continue to occupy 
 the same ground that they have occupied so long. 
 
 It is in vain also to alledge, that the reputation of the ancient 
 poets, and orators, is owing to authority, to pedantry, and 
 to the prejudices of education, transmitted from age to age. 
 These, it is true, are the authors put into our hands at 
 schools and colleges, and by that means a strong preposses- 
 sion is formed in their favor ; but then it must be recollected, 
 that it was through the high fame which they had acquired 
 among their cotemporaries, that they gained the possession 
 of colleges and schools. The Greek and Latin were not 
 always dead languages. There was a time when Homer, 
 and Virgil, and Horace, were viewed in the same light as 
 we now view Dryden, and Pope, and Addison. It is not to 
 commentators and universities that the classics are indebted 
 for their fame. They became classics and school-books, in 
 consequence of the high admiration which was paid them 
 by the best judges in their own country and nation. Accord- 
 ingly we find, that as early as the days of Juvenal, Virgil 
 and Horace had become standard books in the education of 
 youth. 
 
 We must guard, however, against a blind and implicit 
 veneration for the ancients in every thing. The general 
 principle thus opened, must go far in instituting a fair com- 
 parison between them and the moderns. Whatever supe- 
 riority the ancients may have had in point of genius, yet in 
 all arts, where the natural progress of knowledge has had 
 room to produce any considerable effects, the moderns can- 
 not but have some advantage. Hence, in natural philosophy, 
 astronomy, chemistry, and other sciences that depend on an 
 
 But why, in objects of taste, is there no such fallibility : and of Homer 
 and Virgil what is, consequently, remarked 1 What is it in vain also to 
 alledge ; of these what is observed ; and how did they gain possession of 
 colleges and schools 1 As the Greek and Latin were not always dead lan- 
 guages, what follows 1 How did they become classics and school books ; 
 and, accordingly, what do we find 1 Against what must we, however, 
 guard ; and what remark follows % Though the ancients were superior in 
 point of genius, yet, in what have the moderns the advantage ; and as 
 instances, -what sciences are mentioned 1 
 
Lect. 32.] THE MODERNS COMPARED. 259 
 
 extensive knowledge and observation of facts, modern phi- 
 losophers have an unquestionable superiority over the 
 ancients. Perhaps, too, in precise reasoning, the philoso- 
 phers of the modern ages have the advantage over those of 
 ancient times ; as a more extensive literary intercourse, has 
 contributed to sharpen the faculties of men. Perhaps, also, the 
 moderns have the superiority in history; as political know- 
 ledge is certainly more perfect now, than it was in the days 
 of Greece and Rome — arising from the extension of com- 
 merce, the discovery of different countries, the superior 
 facility of intercourse, and the multiplicity of events and 
 revolutions which have taken place in the world. In the 
 more complex kinds of poetry, likewise, some advantages 
 have been gained, in point of regularity and accuracy. In 
 dramatic performances, having the advantage of the ancient 
 models, we have made very considerable improvements. 
 The variety of the characters is greater ; more skill has 
 been displayed in the conduct of the plot ; and a happier 
 attention given to probability and decorum. Among the 
 ancients we find higher conceptions, greater simplicity, and 
 more original fancy. Among the moderns, sometimes, 
 more art and correctness, but genius less forcible and striking. 
 But, though this be, in general, a mark of distinction between 
 the ancients and the moderns, yet, it must be understood 
 ivith some exceptions ; for in point of poetical fire and 
 original genius, Milton and Shakspeare are inferior to no 
 poets in any age. 
 
 It is proper to observe, that among the ancients there Avere 
 some circumstances that were very favorable to the exertions 
 of genius. Learning was a much more rare and singular 
 attainment in the early ages than it is at present. It was 
 not to schools and universities that the persons applied, who 
 sought to distinguish themselves. They had not this easy 
 recourse. They travelled for their improvement into distant 
 countries, to Egypt, and to the East. They inquired after 
 all the monuments of learning there. They conversed with 
 
 In precise reasoning, and in history, why have the moderns a superiority 
 over the ancients 1 In what kinds of poetry have the moderns gained some 
 advantages ; and how is this remark illustrated from dramatic performances 1 
 Among the ancients and the moderns, respectively, what do we find 1 But 
 though this he a general mark of distinction, yet, what exceptions are men- 
 tioned % Among the ancients, what circumstances are mentioned as having 
 been favorable to the exertions of genius 1 How did they obtain their 
 learning j and of their return to their own country, what is remarked 1 
 
260 THE ANCIENTS AND [Lect. 32. 
 
 priests, philosophers, poets, and all who had acquired any- 
 distinguished fame. They returned to their own country 
 full of the discoveries which they had made, and fired by 
 the new and uncommon objects which they had seen. Their 
 knowledge and improvements cost them more labor, raised 
 in them more enthusiasm, and were attended with higher 
 rewards and honors, than in modern days. Fewer had the 
 means and opportunities of distinguishing themselves ; but 
 such as did distinguish themselves, were sure of acquiring 
 that fame, and even veneration, which is, of all rewards, the 
 greatest incentive to genius. Herodotus read his history to 
 all Greece, assembled at the Olympic games, and was pub- 
 licly crowned. In the Peloponnesian war, when the Athenian 
 army was defeated in Sicily, and the prisoners were ordered 
 to be put to death, such of them as could repeat any verses 
 of Euripides were saved, from honor to that poet, who was 
 a citizen of Athens. These were testimonies of public 
 regard, far beyond what any modern nation confers upon 
 genius. 
 
 In modern times, good writing is considered as an attain- 
 ment neither so difficult, nor so high and meritorious. 
 
 Scribimus indocti, doctique, Poemata passim. 
 
 Now every desp'rate blockhead dares to write ; 
 
 Verse is the trade of ev'ry living wight. Francis. 
 
 We write much more supinely, and at our ease, than the 
 ancients did. To excel has become a much less considerable 
 object. Less effort, less exertion, is required, because our 
 assistances are much more numerous than theirs were. 
 Printing has rendered all books common, and easy to be 
 had. Education for any of the learned professions, can be 
 carried on without much trouble. Hence a mediocrity of 
 genius prevails. To rise beyond this, and to surpass the 
 crowd, is the happy pre-eminence of but a few. The numer- 
 ous assistances which we enjoy for all kinds of composition, 
 
 Of their knowledge and improvements, what is xarther observed ; and 
 though fewer had the means of distinguishing themselves, yet what is said 
 of those that did '? In the case of Herodotus, how is this remark illus- 
 trated ; what other instance of illustration is given ; and what remark fol- 
 lows ] What is remarked of good writing in modern times ; and what 
 illustration follows 1 What is farther remarked of the manner in which we 
 write, in comparison with the ancients ; and what reasons are assigned for 
 this 1 Hence what prevails ; and what follows % What is the effect of 
 the numerous assistances which we enjoy in all kinds of composition; and 
 on this subject, what passage is given from Sir William Temple 1 
 
Lect. 32.] THE MODERNS COMPARED. 261 
 
 in the opinion of Sir William Temple, rather depresses than 
 favors the exertions of native genius. ' It is very possible,' 
 says that ingenious author, 'that men may lose rather than 
 gain by these ; may lessen the force of their own genius, by 
 forming it upon that of others; may have less knowledge of 
 their own, for contenting themselves with that of those be- 
 fore them. So a man that only translates, shall never be a 
 poet : so people that trust to others charity, rather than 
 their own industry, will be always poor. Who can tell,' 
 he adds, ' whether learning may not even weaken invention, 
 in a man that has great advantages from nature ! Whether 
 the weight and number of so many other men's thoughts 
 and notions may not suppress his own ; as heaping on wood 
 sometimes suppresses a little spark, that would otherwise 
 have grown into a flame ? The strength of mind, as well 
 as of body, grows more from the warmth of exercise than of 
 clothes ; nay, too much of this foreign heat, rather makes 
 men faint, and their constitutions weaker than they would be 
 without them.' 
 
 From whatever cause it arises, it is evident that among 
 some of the ancient writers, we must look for the highest 
 models in most kinds of elegant composition. For accurate 
 thinking and enlarged ideas, in several parts of philosophy, 
 to the moderns we ought chiefly to have recourse. Of cor- 
 rect and finished writing in some works of taste, also, they 
 may afford useful patterns ; but for all that belongs to 
 original genius, to spirited, masterly, and high execution, 
 our best and most happy ideas are, generally speaking, 
 drawn from the ancients. In epic poetry, for instance, we 
 are still, perhaps, unrivalled ; and modern times have pro- 
 duced no orator, who can be compared with Demosthenes 
 and Cicero. In history we have no modern narration that 
 is so elegant, so picturesque, and so animated, as those of 
 Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Livy, Tacitus, and 
 Sallust. Our dramas, with all the improvements they have 
 received, are inferior in poetry and sentiment, to those of 
 Sophocles and Euripides ; and we have no dialogue in 
 comedy, that equals the correct, graceful, and elegant sim- 
 plicity of Terence. We have no such love elegies as those 
 
 From whatever cause it arises, for what must we look among some of 
 the ancient writers 1 For what must we have recourse to the moderns ; 
 and in what also, may they afford useful patterns ; but what follows 1 How 
 is this last remark illustrated from epic poetry, oratory, history, the drama, 
 love elegies, pastoral, and lyric poetry 1 
 
262 THE ANCIENTS, &c. [Lect. 32. 
 
 of Tibullus ; no such pastorals as those of Theocritus ; arid 
 for lyric poetry, Horace stands quite unrivalled. By all 
 such, therefore, as wish to form their taste and nourish their 
 genius, the utmost attention must be devoted to the ancient 
 classics of both Greece and Rome. 
 
 Nocturna versate manu, vergate diurna. 
 Read them by day, and study them by night. 
 
 After having made these observations on the ancients and 
 the moderns, it may be proper to treat critically of the more 
 distinguished kinds of -composition, and of the characters of 
 those writers, whether ancient or modern, who have excelled 
 in them. Of orations and public discourses, much has 
 already been said. The remaining prose compositions may 
 be divided into historical writing, philosophical writing, 
 epistolary writing, and fictitious history. Historical com- 
 position shall be first considered ; and, as it is an object ot 
 dignity, we purpose to treat it at some length. 
 
 To whom is the study of them, therefore, recommended 1 After these 
 observations, what may be proper 1 Of what has much already been said ; 
 and what remarks follow ] 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. The ancients and the moderns 
 compared. 
 
 A. Remarkable phenomenon. 
 a. Four of these happy ages. 
 
 B. The ancient classics not to 
 
 be decried. 
 a. Not indebted for their cele- 
 brity to schools. 
 
 C. The ancients not to be blind- 
 
 ly venerated. 
 
 D. Favorable circumstances of 
 
 ancient times. 
 
 E. Good writing now not so 
 
 difficult. 
 
 F. Concluding remarks 
 
LECTURE XXXIII. 
 
 HISTORICAL WRITING. 
 
 As it is the office of an orator to persuade, so it is that of 
 an historian to record truth for the instruction of mankind. 
 This is the proper object and end of history; and if this ob- 
 ject were always kept in view, it would prevent many of 
 those errors into which we are liable to fall concerning this 
 species of composition. As the primary end of history is to 
 record truth — impartiality, fidelity, and accuracy, are the 
 fundamental qualities of an historian. He must neither enter 
 into faction, nor indulge in affection : but, contemplating 
 past events and characters with a cool and dispassionate 
 eye, must present to his readers a faithful copy of human 
 nature. 
 
 At the same time, it is not every record of facts, however 
 true, that is entitled to the name of history ; but such records 
 only, as enable us to apply the transactions of former ages 
 for our own instruction. The facts ought to be momentous 
 and important : represented in connection with their causes, 
 traced to their effects, and unfolded in clear and distinct 
 order. For history is designed to supply the place of expe- 
 rience. Though it enforce not its instructions with the 
 same authority, yet it furnishes us a greater variety than it 
 is possible for experience to afford, in the course of the longest 
 life. Its object is to enlarge our views of the human 
 character, and to give full exercise to our judgment on hu- 
 man affairs. It must not, therefore, be a tale, calculated to 
 please only, and addressed to the fancy ; but gravity and 
 dignity are its essential characteristics. The writer must 
 sustain the character of a wise man, writing for the instruction 
 of posterity — one who has studied to inform himself well- 
 
 As it is the office of the orator to persuade, so what is the office of the 
 historian ; and of this object what is remarked 1 What are the funda- 
 mental qualities of an historian ; and what remark fellows'? At the same 
 time, what record of facts only, is entitled to the name of history % Of the 
 facts themselves what is observed ; how should they be represented ; and 
 why] How does it compare with experience; and what is its object'? 
 What must it not, therefore, be ; and what character must the writer 
 sustain? 
 
264 HISTORICAL WRITING. [Lect. 33. 
 
 who has pondered his subject with care, and addresses him- 
 self to our judgment, rather than to our imagination. 
 
 In the conduct and management of his subject, the first 
 attention requisite in an historian, is to give it as much unity 
 as possible. His history should not consist of separate and 
 unconnected parts. Its portions should be linked together 
 by some connecting principle, which should produce in the 
 mind the impression of something that is one, whole, and 
 entire. It is inconceivable how great an effect this, when 
 happily executed, has upon a reader ; and it is surprising 
 that some able writers of history have attended so little to it. 
 Whether pleasure or instruction be the end sought by the 
 study of history, either of them is enjoyed to much greater 
 advantage, when the mind has always before it the progress 
 of some one great plan or system of action ; when there is 
 some point or centre, to which the various facts related by 
 the historian can be referred. In histories that record the 
 affairs of a whole nation or empire throughout several ages, 
 to preserve this unity is, necessarily, more difficult. Yet 
 even here, some degree of it can, by a skillful writer, be 
 still preserved. For though the whole, taken together, be 
 very complex, yet the great constituent parts of it form so 
 many subordinate wholes, when taken by themselves ; each 
 of which can be treated both as complete within itself, and as 
 connected with what goes before and what follows. In the 
 history of a monarchy, for instance, every reign should have 
 its own unity — a beginning, a middle, and an end, to the 
 system of affairs ; while, at the same time, we are taught to 
 discern how that system of affairs rose from the preceding, 
 and how it is inserted in what follows. We should be able to 
 trace all the secret links of the chain, which binds together 
 remote, and seemingly unconnected events. Of all the 
 ancient general historians, Polybius, though not in other 
 respects an elegant writer, had the most correct idea of this 
 quality of historical composition. 
 
 In the management of his subject, what is the first attention requisite 
 in an historian ; and how is this remark illustrated 1 Of the effect of this, 
 what is remarked ; and what is surprising 1 Whether pleasure or in- 
 struction be the end sought by the study of history, when is either of these 
 enjoyed to the greater advantage 1 In what histories is it difficult to pre- 
 serve this unity ; yet what remark follows ; and why is this the case 1 How 
 is this illustrated in the history of a monarchy 1 What should we be able 
 to do : and of Polvbius. what is remarked 7 
 
Lect. 33.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 265 
 
 Having- considered the unity which belongs to this kind 
 of composition, we next proceed to observe, that the author 
 must study to trace to their source, the actions and events 
 which he records. To do this successfully, he should be 
 acquainted with human nature, and also possess a large 
 share of political knowledge. His skill in the former will 
 enable him to describe the characters of individuals ; and his 
 proficiency in the latter will prepare him for the task of re- 
 cording revolutions of government, and for accounting for 
 the operation of political causes on public affairs. With 
 regard to political knowledge, the ancients wanted some 
 advantages which the moderns enjoy. There was not, in 
 ancient times, so free a communication among neighboring 
 states, as there is at present. There prevailed no regular 
 intercourse by established posts ; and there were no ambas- 
 sadors residing at distant courts. A larger experience, 
 too, of the different modes of government, has improved the 
 modern historian beyond the historian of antiquity. 
 
 We are by no means, however, to censure all the ancient 
 historians as being defective in political information. No 
 historians can be more instructive than Thucydides, Po- 
 lybius, and Tacitus. Thucydides is grave, intelligent, and 
 judicious ; always attentive to give very exact information of 
 what he relates; and to show the advantages or disadvan- 
 tages of every plan that was propo&ed, and every measure 
 that was pursued. Polybius excels in comprehensive po- 
 litical views, in penetration into great systems, and in his pro- 
 found and distinct knowledge of all military affairs. Tacitus 
 is eminent for his knowledge of the human heart ; is senti- 
 mental and refined in a high degree; conveys much in- 
 struction with respect to political matters, but none with 
 respect to human nature. 
 
 We next proceed to consider the proper qualities of histo- 
 rical narration ; as in the form of this, and not by the affected 
 mode of dissertation, is the historian to impart his political 
 knowledge. Formal discussions expose him to the suspicion 
 
 After unitv, what is next to be attended to by the historian ; and to do 
 this successfully, what is requisite 1 What will be the advantage of his 
 skill in the former, and of his proficiency in the latter 1 With regard to 
 political knowledge, what advantage have the moderns over the ancients 1 
 Why, however, are we not to censure all the ancient historians as being 
 deficient in political information ; and of Thucydides, Polybius, and Taci- 
 tus, respectively, what is remarked 7 What do we next proceed to con- 
 sider ; and why 1 Of formal discussions what is observed ; and what 
 remark follows 7 
 
 23 
 
HISTORICAL WRITING. [Lbct. 33, 
 
 of being willing to accommodate Ms facts to his theory. 
 They have also an air of pedantry, and at^ an evident result 
 of his want of art. For reflections, whether n^ral, political, 
 or philosophical, may be insinuated into the lx*dy of the 
 narration. 
 
 The first virtue of historical narration, is clearness, order, 
 and due connection. To attain this, the historian must be 
 completely master of his subject. He must see the whole as 
 at one view ; and comprehend the chain and dependance of 
 all its parts, that he may introduce every thing in its proper 
 place — that he may lead us smoothly along the tract of affairs 
 which are recorded, and may give us the satisfaction of 
 seeing how one event arises out of another. Without this 
 there can be neither pleasure nor instruction in reading his- 
 tory. Much, for this end, will depend on the observance of 
 unity in the general plan and conduct; and much, too, on 
 the proper management of transactions, which forms one of 
 the chief ornaments of this kind of writing, and is one of the 
 most difficult in execution. 
 
 In the next place, as history is a very dignified species of 
 composition, gravity must always be maintained in the nar- 
 ration. There should be nothing mean nor vulgar in the 
 style ; no quaint nor colloquial phrases ; no affectation of 
 pertness, nor of wit. The smart or the sneering manner of 
 telling a story, is inconsistent with the historical character. 
 We do not, however, pretend to say, that an historian is never 
 to let himself down. He may sometimes do it with pro- 
 priety, in order to diversify the strain of his narration, which 
 if it be perfectly uniform, is apt to become tiresome. But 
 he must be careful not to descend too far. 
 
 As history must be read with pleasure to be read with 
 profit, the great study of the historian should be to render 
 his narration interesting. This is the quality that chiefly 
 distinguishes the genius and eloquence of the writer. Two 
 things are especially conducive to this : the first is, a jusi 
 medium in the conduct of narration, between a rapid or 
 crowded recital of facts, and a prolix detail. The former 
 
 What is the first virtue of historical narration ; to attain this what id 
 requisite ; and why 1 For attaining this end, on what will much depend ? 
 In the next place, what must be always maintained in the narration ; and 
 how is this remark illustrated 1 What, however, do we not pretend to say ; 
 and why may he sometimes do this 1 What should be the great study of 
 the historian ; why ; and of this quality what is remarked 1 What is the 
 first thing that is conducive to this : and what is their effect 1 
 
Lect. 33.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 26? 
 
 embarrasses, and the latter tires us. An historian that 
 would interest us, must know when to be concise, and when 
 to enlarge ; passing lightly over slight and unimportant 
 events, but dwelling on such as are, in their nature, striking 
 and important. The next thing he must attend to, is a pro- 
 per selection of the circumstances belonging to those events 
 which he chooses to relate fully. It is by means of these 
 that a narration becomes interesting and affecting to the 
 reader. These give life, body, and coloring, to the recital of 
 facts, and enable us to behold them as present, and passing 
 before our eyes. It is this employment of circumstances in 
 narration, that is properly termed historical painting. 
 
 In all these— qualities of history, and particularly in 
 picturesque description, the ancients eminently excel. Hence 
 the pleasure of reading Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, 
 Livy, Sallust, and Tacitus. Herodotus is always an agree- 
 able writer, and relates every thing with that simplicity of 
 manner that never fails to interest the reader. Though the, 
 manner of Thucydides be more harsh and dry, yet, on great 
 occasions, such as the plague at Athens, or the defeat of the 
 Athenians in Sicily, he displays a very strong and masterly 
 power of description. Xenophon's Cyropasdia, and his 
 Anabasis, are extremely beautiful. The circumstances are 
 finely selected, and the narration is easy and engaging. 
 Sallust's Art of Historical Painting in his Catilinarian and 
 Jugurthine Wars, is well known ; though his style is liable 
 to censure, being too studied and affected. Livy is more 
 unexceptionable in his manner, and is excelled by no historian 
 whatever in the art of narration. Tacitus, also, is eminent 
 for historical painting, though in a manner altogether differ- 
 ent from that of Livy. Livy's descriptions are more full, 
 more plain, and natural ; those of Tacitus consist in a few 
 bold strokes. He selects one or two remarkable circum- 
 stances, and sets them before us in a strong, and, generally, 
 in a new and uncommon light. 
 
 The ancients employed one embellishment of history 
 which the moderns have laid aside. This was the putting of 
 orations into the mouths of celebrated personages. By means 
 
 What must an historian that would interest us know, and do 1 What 
 is the next thing to be attended to ; and of these what is remarked % What 
 is this properly termed 1 In all these qualities of history, who eminently 
 excel ; and hence what follows 1 Of them respectively, what is remarked 1 
 What embellishment of history did the ancients employ, which the moderns 
 have laid aside; and by means of these, what did they effect 1 
 
268 HISTORICAL WRITING. [Lect. S3. 
 
 of these, they diversified their history; they conveyed both 
 moral and political instruction ; and, by the opposite argu- 
 ments which were employed, they gave us a view of the sen- 
 timents of different parties. Thucydides was the first who 
 introduced this practice ; and the orations with which his 
 history abounds, are among the most valuable remains which 
 we have of ancient eloquence. It is doubtful, however, 
 whether this embellishment should be allowed to the his- 
 torian : for th-ey form a mixture that is unnatural, joining 
 together truth and fiction. We know that these orations are 
 entirely of the author's own composition, and that he has 
 introduced some celebrated person haranguing in a public 
 place, purely that he might have an opportunity of showing 
 his own eloquence, or delivering his own sentiments, under 
 the name of another. This is a sort of poetical liberty 
 which does not suit the gravity of history, throughout which 
 an air of the strictest truth should always reign. The 
 moderns are, perhaps, more chaste, when, on great occa- 
 sions, the historian delivers, in his own person, the senti- 
 ments and reasonings of opposite and contending factions. 
 
 Another splendid embellishment of historical composition, 
 is the delineation of characters. These are generally con- 
 sidered professed exhibitions of fine writing ; and an his- 
 torian who seeks to shine in them, is frequently in danger 
 of carrying refinement to excess, from a desire of appearing 
 very profound and penetrating. A writer who would 
 characterize in an instructive and masterly manner, should 
 be simple in his style, and should avoid all quaintness and 
 affectation : at the same time, he should not content himself 
 with giving us general outlines only, but should descend 
 into those peculiarities which mark a character in its strong- 
 est and most distinctive features. 
 
 As history is a species of composition designed for the 
 instruction of mankind, sound morality should always 
 reign in it. Both in describing characters, and in relating 
 transactions, the author should always show himself to be 
 
 Who first introduced this practice ; and of his orations what is remarked % 
 Why, however, is it doubtful whether this embeliishment should be allowed 
 to the historian; and what remark follows 1 Of this, what is farther ob- 
 served ; and what course have the moderns pursued 1 What is another 
 splendid embellishment of historical composition ; how are these generally 
 considered; and what fellows'? What is said of a writer who would 
 characterize in a masterly manner 1 As history is designed for the instruc- 
 tion of mankind, what should reign in it; and what remark follows 1 
 
Lect. 33.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 269 
 
 on the side of virtue. To deliver moral instructions m a 
 formal manner, it is true, falls not within his province ; but 
 as a good man, we expect him to discover sentiments of 
 respect for virtue, and of indignation at flagrant vice. To 
 appear neutral and indifferent with respect to good and bad 
 characters, derogates, greatly, from the weight of historical 
 composition, and renders the strain of it cold and uninterest- 
 ing. We are always most interested in passing transactions, 
 when our sympathy is awakened by the story, and when we 
 become engaged in the fate of the actors. But this effect 
 can never be produced by a writer, who is deficient in sen- 
 sibility and correct moral feeling. 
 
 In modern times, historical genius has shown forth with 
 most lustre in Italy. The natural characters of the Italians, 
 seems favorable to it. They are an acute, penetrating* 
 reflecting people, remarkable for political sagacity, and 
 addicted to the arts of writing. Accordingly, soon after 
 the restoration of letters, Machiavel, Guicciardini, Davila, 
 Bentivoglio, and Father Paul, became highly conspicuous 
 for historical merit. Though they have their defects, yet 
 they all appear to have conceived very just ideas of history ; 
 and are agreeable, instructing, and interesting writers. 
 Among the French there has been much good historical 
 writing ; but they have produced no such historians as the 
 Italians just mentioned. In Great Britain, history has not, 
 until recently, been fashionable. For though the celebrated 
 Buchanan of Scotland, and Lord Clarendon and Bishop 
 Burnett, of England, are very considerable historians, yet 
 they are far inferior to Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon. Of 
 the latter, however, we are constrained to say, that, while 
 his history is replete with the deepest interest, his irreligious 
 sentiments are so pernicious, as to render it a dangerous 
 work, in the hands of any youth, however well guarded. 
 
 The inferior kinds of historical composition are annals, 
 memoirs, and lives. Annals are a collection of facts, 
 according to chronological order : all that is required, there- 
 fore, of an annalist, is fidelity and distinctness. Memoirs 
 
 What falls not within his province ; hut what do we expect of him 1 
 What is the effect of appearing indifferent with regard to good or bad 
 characters ; why ; and what remark follows % Of the historical genius of 
 the Italians what is remarked ; and accordingly what follows 1 What is 
 farther observed of them ; and also of the French 1 What is said of the 
 historians of Great Britain ; and what remark follows 1 Of the latter par- 
 ticularly, what is observed 1 What are the inferior kinds of historical 
 composition ; what is remarked of annals, and also of memoirs ? 
 
 23* 
 
270 HISTORICAL WRITING. [Lect. 33, 
 
 are a composition which pretends not to hold out a complete 
 detail of the period to which it relates, but only to record 
 what the author knows in his own person, or from particular 
 information, concerning any certain object, transaction, or 
 event, It is not, therefore, expected of such a writer, that 
 he should possess that profound research, and those superior 
 talents, which are requisite in an historian. It is chiefly 
 required of him, that he should be lively and interesting. 
 The French have put forth a flood of memoirs, the greater 
 part of which are to be regarded as agreeable trifles. We 
 must, however, exempt from this censure, the memoirs of 
 the Cardinal de Retz, and those of the duke of Sully. The 
 former join to a lively narrative, great knowledge of human 
 nature. The latter deserves very particular praise. They 
 approach to the dignity of legitimate history. They are 
 full of virtue and good sense; and are well calculated to 
 form both the heads and the hearts of those who are designed 
 for high stations in the world. 
 
 The writing of lives, or biography, is a sort of compo- 
 sition less stately than history ; but it is, perhaps, more 
 instructive. It affords the full opportunities of displaying 
 the characters of eminent men, and of entering into a 
 thorough acquaintance with them. In this kind of writing 
 Plutarch excels ; but his matter is better than his manner ; 
 and he has no peculiar beauty or elegance. His judgment, 
 too, and accuracy, are not to be highly commended. But 
 he is a very humane writer, and fond of displaying great 
 men in the gentle lights of retirement. 
 
 What is not expected of such a writer ; and what is required of him 1 
 What is remarked of French memoirs ; what are exceptions ; and how is 
 this illustrated 1 Of the writing of lives what is observed ; and in this 
 kind of composition, what is said of Plutarch 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 Historical writing. 
 
 1. Unity to be attended to. 
 
 2. Actions to be traced to their 
 
 source. 
 A. Requisites for this. 
 
 3. The qualities of the narration. 
 
 A. Clearness, order, and con- 
 
 nection. 
 
 B. Gravity to be preserved. 
 
 C. The narrative to be in- 
 
 teresting, 
 a. The ancients eminent in 
 this. 
 
 D. Orations employed by the 
 
 ancients. 
 
 E. Delineation of characters. 
 
 F. Sound morality indispensable. 
 
 4. Modern historians. 
 
 5. Annals — memoirs — biography. 
 
LECTURE XXXIV. 
 
 PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING— DIALOGUE— EPIS- 
 TOLARY WRITING— FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 
 
 As the professed object of philosophy is to convey instruc- 
 tion, and as those who study it are supposed to do so for 
 their improvement, and not for their entertainment, the style, 
 the form, and the dress of such writings, are not very mate- 
 rial objects. They are not, however, to be wholly neglected ; 
 for the same truths delivered in an elegant manner, will be 
 much more effective than though they were delivered in a 
 dry and uninteresting one. 
 
 In a philosophical writer, the strictest accuracy and pre- 
 cision are required. He must employ no word of uncertain 
 meaning ; and must avoid using words that may seem to be 
 synonymous, without attending to the variations which they 
 make upon the idea. But as he may do this, and still be a 
 very dry writer, he must also study some degree of embel- 
 lishment, in order to render his composition pleasing and 
 graceful. One of the most agreeable, and, at the same 
 time, one of the most useful embellishments that a philo- 
 sopher can employ, consists in illustrations taken from his- 
 torical facts, and the characters of men. All moral and 
 political subjects naturally afford scope for these ; and wher- 
 ever there is room for employing them, they seldom fail to 
 produce a happy effect. They diversify the composition, 
 relieve the 1 mind from the fatigue of mere reasoning, and, at 
 the same time, give fuller conviction, than can otherwise 
 possibly be produced. 
 
 Philosophical writing also admits of a polished, neat, and 
 elegant style. It admits of metaphors, comparisons, and all 
 the calm figures of speech, by which an author may convey 
 his sense to the understanding with clearness and force, at 
 
 As the professed object of philosophy is to convey instruction, what fol- 
 lows ; but why are they not to be wholly neglected 1 In an historical 
 writer, what are required ; and how is this illustrated 1 But as he may 
 do this, and still be a dry writer, what follows ! "What is one of the most 
 useful embellishments that a philosopher can employ ; and what naturally 
 afford scope for these ] What is their effect 1 What style, and what 
 figures, does philosophical writing admit ; but of what must he be careful ? 
 
272 PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. [Lect. 34, 
 
 the same time that he entertains the. imagination. He must 
 be careful, however, that all his ornaments he of the chastest 
 kind, never partaking" of the florid or tumid ; which is so 
 unpardonable in a professed philosopher, that it is much 
 better for him to err on the side of unadorned simplicity, 
 than on that of too much ornament. Plato and Cicero have 
 left philosophical treatises, composed with much elegance 
 and beauty. Seneca, on the contrary, has been justly cen- 
 sured for the affectation of his style. He is too fond of a 
 certain brilliant and sparkling manner — of antitheses and 
 quaint sentences. In English, Mr. Locke's celebrated 
 Treatise on Human Understanding, is a model of a clear 
 and distinct philosophical style. The writings of Lord 
 Shaftesbury, are dressed out with too much ornament and 
 finery. 
 
 Philosophical writing sometimes assumes the form of 
 dialogue. Under this form the ancients have given us some of 
 their chief philosophical works ; and several of the moderns 
 have endeavored to imitate them. A dialogue on some phi- 
 losophical, moral, or critical subject, when well executed, 
 stands in a high rank among the works of taste ; but the 
 execution is very difficult ; for it requires more than merely 
 the introduction of different persons speaking in succession. 
 It ought to be a natural and spirited representation of real 
 conversation ; exhibiting the character and manners of the 
 several speakers, and suiting to the character of each, that 
 peculiarity of thought and expression, which distinguishes 
 him from another. A dialogue thus conducted, gives the 
 reader a very agreeable entertainment ; as by means of the 
 debate going on among the personages, he receives a fair 
 and full view of both sides of the argument, and is, at the 
 same time, amused with polite conversation, and with a dis- 
 play of consistent and well supported characters. 
 
 Among the ancients, Plato is eminent for the beauty of 
 his dialogues. In richness of imagination, no philosophical 
 writer, either ancient or modern, is equal to him. His only 
 
 Of the philosophical writings of Plato and Cicero, and of those of 
 Seneca, what is remarked 1 What is observed of Mr. Locke and Lord 
 Shaftesbury 1 What form does philosophical writing sometimes assume ; 
 and what remark follows 1 What is remarked of a dialogue on some phi- 
 losophical, moral, or critical subject ; but why is the execution difficult "? 
 What ought it to be ; what is said of a dialogue thus conducted : and why 1 
 Among the ancients, what is remarked of Plato ; and what is his only 
 fault ? 
 
Lect. 34.] EPISTOLARY WRITING. 273 
 
 fault is the excessive fertility of his imagination, which 
 sometimes carries him into allegory, fiction, enthusiasm, 
 and the airy regions of mystical theology. Cicero has 
 also distinguished himself by his dialogues ; but they are 
 not so spirited and characteristical as those of Plato. They 
 are, however, agreeable, and well supported ; and show us 
 how conversations were carried on among the principal per- 
 sons of ancient Rome, Of the light and humorous dialogue, 
 Lucian is an excellent model ; and he has been imitated by 
 many modern writers. Fontenelle has written dialogues 
 which are sprightly and agreeable; but as for characters, 
 whoever his personages are, they all become Frenchmen. 
 The divine dialogues of Dr. Henry More, amidst academic 
 stiffness, are often remarkable for character and vivacity. 
 Bishop Berkeley's dialogues furnish an instance of a very 
 abstract subject, rendered clear and intelligible by means of 
 conversation properly managed. 
 
 We proceed next to treat of epistolary writing, which 
 occupies a kind of middle place between serious and amusing 
 composition. Epistolary writing appears, at first view, to 
 stretch into a very wide field ; for there is no subject on 
 which one may not convey his thoughts to the public, in the 
 form of a letter. Lord Shaftesbury, and several other writers, 
 have chosen to give this form to philosophical treatises. But 
 this is not sufficient to class them under the head of episto- 
 lary composition. Though they bear in the title page, a 
 Letter to a Friend, yet after the first address, the friend dis- 
 appears, and we see that it is, in truth, the public with whom 
 the author corresponds. Wliere one writes a real letter on 
 some formal topic, as of moral or religious consolation to a 
 person under distress, he is at liberty to write wholly as a 
 divine or as a philosopher, and to assume the style and man- 
 ner of one, without reprehension. On such an occasion, 
 we consider the author not as writing a letter, but as com- 
 posing a discourse, suited particularly to the circumstances 
 of some one person. 
 
 What is observed of Cicero's dialogues ; of Luciairs ; and also of Fon- 
 tenelie's % Of the dialogues of Dr. Henry More, and of those of Bishop 
 Berkeley, what is remarked 1 To what do we next proceed ; and what is 
 observed of it '? Into what does epistolary writing appear, at first view, to 
 stretch; and why 1 What have Lord" Shaftesbury, and several other 
 writers, done ; but of these, what is remarked 1 When is one at liberty 
 to write wholly as a divine, or as a philosopher ; and on such occasions, 
 what do we consider the author as writing 1 
 
274 EPISTOLARY WRITING. [Lect. 34, 
 
 Epistolary writing becomes a distinct species of compo- 
 sition, when it is of the easy and familiar kind only — when 
 it is conversation carried on upon paper between two 
 friends at a distance. Much, therefore, of the merit of 
 it, will depend on its introducing us to some acquaintance 
 with the writer. There, if any where, we look for the man, 
 not for the author. Its first and fundamental requisite is, to 
 be natural and simple ; for a stiff and labored manner is as 
 bad in a letter, as it is in conversation. This does not 
 banish sprightliness and wit ; for these, when they flow 
 easy, and without being studied, are as graceful in letters 
 as they are in conversation. Generally speaking, the best 
 letters are those which are written with most facility. What 
 the heart or the imagination dictates, always flows readily ; but 
 where there is no subject to warm or interest these, constraint 
 appears ; and hence those letters of mere compliment, con- 
 gratulation, or affected condolence, never fail of being the 
 most disagreeable and insipid to the readers. It must, how- 
 ever, be remembered, that the ease and simplicity here 
 recommended in epistolary correspondence, are not to be un- 
 derstood as importing entire carelessness. In writing to the 
 most intimate friend, a certain degree of attention, both to 
 the subject and to the style, is requisite and becoming. It is 
 no more than what we owe, both to ourselves, and to the 
 friend with whom we correspond : for a slovenly and negli- 
 gent manner is a mark of disrespect. 
 
 Pliny's letters form one of the most celebrated collections 
 of epistles of ancient times. They are elegant and polite ; 
 and exhibit a very pleasing and amiable view of the author. 
 But they smell too much of the lamp. They are too highly 
 finished ; and it is difficult to persuade oneself that the au- 
 thor is not casting an eye towards the public, when he is 
 appearing to write for his friends only. Cicero's Epistles, 
 though not so showy as those of Pliny, are much more 
 valuable ; indeed, they are the most valuable collection of 
 letters extant in any language. They are composed with 
 
 When does epistolary writing become a distinct species of composition ; 
 and on what, therefore, will much of the merit of it depend % What is its 
 fundamental requisite ; and why 1 Why does this not banish spright- 
 liness and wit 1 What are. generally speaking, the best letters ; and what 
 remark follows 1 What must, however, be remarked ; and why is this the 
 case 1 What is observed of Pliny's Letters ; and what are their charac- 
 teristics 1 Of those of Cicero, what is remarked 1 How are they com- 
 posed ; and what much enhances their merit 1 
 
Lect.34.] EPISTOLARY WRITING. 275 
 
 purity and elegance, but without the least affectation ; and 
 what much enhances their merit, they were written without 
 any intention of being- published to the world. Cicero him- 
 self, it appears, kept no copies of his own letters ; but for 
 the large collection still extant, amounting to more than a 
 thousand, we are indebted to his freedman Tyro, who col- 
 lected and published them after Cicero's death. 
 
 The most distinguished collection of letters in the English 
 language, is that of Mr. Pope, Dean Swift, and their friends ; 
 a part of which are published in Mr. Pope's works, and the 
 rest in those of Dean Swift. They are entertaining and 
 agreeable ; and contain much wit and refinement. Some of 
 them, however, bear the impress of too much study and 
 attention. Those of Dr. Arbuthnot deserve high praise; 
 being written with ease and beautiful simplicity. Dean 
 Swift's, also, are unaffected ; and as a proof that they are, 
 they exhibit his character fully, with all its defects. Several 
 of Lord Bolingbroke's, and of Bishop Atterbury's letters, 
 are masterly. In those of Mr. Pope, there is, in general, 
 too much study ; and his letters in particular to Ladies, are 
 too full of affectation. 
 
 The gayety and vivacity of the French genius appears to 
 much advantage in their letters, and have given birth to 
 several agreeable publications. Balzac and Voiture are 
 both celebrated epistolary writers. The former is swelling 
 and pompous ; the latter sparkling and witty. The letters of 
 Madame de Sevigne, are esteemed the most accomplished 
 model of a familiar correspondence. They turn, indeed, 
 very much upon trifles, the incidents of the day, and the 
 news of the town ; and if they did not, they would not be 
 French ; but still, they are easy, varied, lively, and beautiful. 
 The letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, have much 
 of the French ease and vivacity; and are, perhaps, more 
 remarkable for pure epistolary style, than any other letters 
 in the English language. 
 
 There remains one other species of composition in prose, 
 
 As Cicero kept no copies of his letters, how were they preserved 1 What 
 is the most distinguished collection of letters in the English language ; 
 and where are they published 1 What is remarked of them ; but of what 
 do some of them bear the impress 1 What is observed of those of Dr. 
 Arbuthnot, Dean Swift, Lord Bolingbroke, Bishop Atterbury, and Mr. 
 Pope 1 Of the gayety and vivacity of the French genius, what is remarked ; 
 to what have they given birth ; and what illustrations follow 1 Of the 
 letters of Madame de Sevigne, and of those of Lady Montague, what is 
 observed 1 What other species of composition remains to be considered? 
 
2?6 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [Lect. 34. 
 
 to be considered, and which comprehends a very numerous, 
 though, in general, a very insignificant class of writings, 
 under the name of romances and novels. These may, at 
 first view, seem too insignificant to deserve any particular 
 attention ; but their influence is very great, both on the mo- 
 rals and the taste of a nation. In reality, fictitious histo- 
 ries might be employed for very useful purposes. They 
 furnish one of the best channels for conveying instruction, for 
 painting human life and manners, for showing the errors 
 into which we are betrayed by our passions, for rendering 
 virtue amiable, and vice odious, that can possibly be afforded. 
 The effect of well contrived stories towards accomplishing 
 these purposes, is greater than any effect that can be pro- 
 duced by simple instruction ; and hence we find, that the 
 wisest men in all ages, have more or less employed fables 
 and fictions, as the vehicles of knowledge. These have even 
 been the basis of both epic and dramatic poetry. It is not, 
 therefore, the nature of this sort of writing, considered in 
 itself, but the manner of its execution, that exposes it to con- 
 tempt. Lord Bacon remarks, that our taste for fictitious 
 history, is a proof of the greatness and dignity of the human 
 mind. ' Not satisfied with the sober realities of life,' he 
 observes, ' we create worlds according to our fancy, in order 
 to gratify our capacious desires ; accommodating the appear- 
 ances of things to the desires of the mind, not bringing 
 down the mind, as history and philosophy do, to the course 
 of events.' As fictitious history, therefore, wants neither 
 dignity nor use, we shall make a few observations on the 
 rise and progress of it, and the different forms it has 
 assumed in different countries. 
 
 Fictitious history originated at a very early period of the 
 world. In the eastern nations, particularly, the attention 
 of men was, from the earliest times, much turned towards 
 invention, and the love of fiction. Their divinity, their phi- 
 losophy, and their politics, were clothed in fables and pa- 
 rables. The Arabian Nights' Entertainments are the 
 production of a romantic invention, but of a rich and amusing 
 
 Why do these deserve particular attention ; and why might fictitious 
 histories be employed for useful purposes 1 Of their effect, what is farther 
 observed ; and hence what follows 1 Of what are these the basis ; and 
 what follows 1 Of our taste for fictitious history, what says Lord Bacon ; 
 and, therefore, what shall we do 1 What account is given of the origin 
 of fictitious history ; of the Arabian Nights, what is remarked ; and what 
 others ace mentioned? 
 
Lect. 34.] FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 27? 
 
 imagination ; exhibiting a singular and curious display of 
 manners and characters, and beautified with a very humane 
 morality. Among the ancient Greeks and Romans also, 
 we hear of fictitious histories, but none of them merit par- 
 ticular criticism. 
 
 During the dark ages, this sort of writing assumed a new 
 and very singular form, and for a long time made a great 
 figure in the world. The martial spirit of those nations 
 among whom the feudal government prevailed ; the establish- 
 ment of single combat, as an allowed method of deciding 
 causes both of justice and of honor ; the appointment of 
 champions in the cause of women, who could not maintain 
 their own right by the sword ; together with the institution 
 of military tournaments, gave rise, in those times, to that 
 marvellous system of chivalry, which is one of the most 
 singular appearances in the history of mankind. Upon 
 these were founded those romances of knight-errantry, 
 which carried an ideal chivalry to a still more extravagant 
 height than it had reached in fact. They exhibited knights 
 ds patterns, not only of the most heroic courage, but as su- 
 perlatively eminent for religion, generosity, courtesy, and 
 fidelity ; and ladies, who were distinguished, in the greatest 
 degree, for modesty, delicacy, and dignity of manners. 
 
 The earliest of these romances was written in the eleventh 
 century. The subject is the achievements of Charlemagne 
 and his peers, in driving the Saracens out of France and a 
 part of Spain — the same subject that Ariosto has taken for 
 his celebrated poem of Orlando Furioso, which, of the roman- 
 ces of those times, is unquestionably the most perfect model 
 that was produced. In Spain, where the taste for this sort 
 of writing was most prevalent, the ingenious Cervantes, in 
 the beginning of the seventeenth century, contributed greatly 
 to explode it ; and the abolition of tournaments, the pro- 
 hibition of single combat, the disbelief of magic and en- 
 chantments, and the general change of manners throughout 
 Europe, began to give a new turn to fictitious composition. 
 
 Of the second stage of romance writing, the Cleopatra of 
 
 What is said of this sort of writing during the dark ages ; and what 
 
 fave rise to that marvellous system of chivalry which then prevailed 1 
 Ipon these what were formed ; and what do they exhihit 1 When was 
 the earliest of these romances written ; what is the subject of it ; and of 
 Orlando Furioso, what remark follows 1 What was done by Cervantes 
 in Spain ; and what followed 7 What are examples of the second stage 
 of romance writing ; and of these what ig observed ; and what followed 1 
 
 94 
 
£78 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [Lect. 34. 
 
 Madame Scuderi, and the Arcadia of Sir Philip Sydney, are 
 good examples. In these, however, there was still too large 
 a proportion of the marvellous ; and the books were too 
 voluminous and unwieldly. Romance w r riting appeared, 
 therefore, in a new form : it dwindled down to the familiar 
 novel. These, at first, were, in general, of a trifling nature, 
 without the appearance of moral tendency, or useful in- 
 struction. Latterly, however, novel writing has, in its 
 spirit, been very much improved. The conduct of persons 
 in interesting situations in real life, has been exhibited; 
 that whatever is laudable or defective in character, might be 
 clearly perceived. 
 
 Upon this plan, until recently, the French far surpassed 
 the English ; and the Gil Bias of Le Sage, the Marianne of 
 Marivaux, and the Nouvelle Heloise of Rousseau, stood 
 unrivalled. This, however, at present, is far from being the 
 case. Besides Robinson Crusoe, the novels of Mr. Field- 
 ing, and those of Mr. Richardson, all of which are well 
 known, we have recently produced many works of fiction, 
 which confer the highest honor on both the morals and the 
 taste of their authors. Whilst the English language shall 
 be understood and appreciated, and a perception of the beau- 
 tiful and the pathetic remain, the works of Sir Walter Scott, 
 of Miss Porter, and of some others, of England, and of 
 Washington Irving, of America, will continue to be read 
 with deep interest, and lasting advantage. 
 
 What was, at first, the character of these ; but what has novel writing 
 latterly become 1 Upon this plan, until recently, how did the French and 
 the English compare ; and of their present state, what illustrative remarks 
 follow 1. 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Philosophical writing. 
 
 A. Accuracy and precision re- 
 
 quisite. 
 
 B. The style. 
 
 2. Dialogues. 
 
 A. Ancient dialogists. 
 
 B. Modern dialogists. 
 3 Epistolary writing. 
 
 A. A distinct species of compo- 
 sition. 
 
 a. Its requisites. 
 
 B. Ancient letters. 
 
 C. Modern letters. 
 Fictitious history. 
 
 A. Lord Bacon's remark. 
 
 B. Its origin. 
 
 C. Its different forms. 
 
 D. Its present state. 
 
LECTURE XXXV. 
 
 NATURE OF POETRY— ITS ORIGIN AND 
 PROGRESS— VERSIFICATION. 
 
 As we have now finished our observations on the differ- 
 ent kinds of writing- in prose, it remains to treat of poetical 
 composition. Before we enter on the consideration of any 
 of its particular kinds, we design, in this lecture, as an intro- 
 duction to the subject of poetry in general, to treat of its 
 nature, give an account of its origin, and make some ob- 
 servations on versification, or poetical numbers. 
 
 Our first inquiry is, What is poetry ? and wherein does it 
 differ from prose ? The answer to this question is not so 
 easy as might at first be imagined ; and critics have dis- 
 puted much concerning it. The essence of poetry is sup- 
 posed by Plato, Aristotle, and others, to consist in fiction. 
 But this is certainly too limited ; for though fiction may 
 have a great share in many poetical compositions, yet many 
 subjects of poetry may not be feigned ; as where the poet 
 describes objects which actually exist, or pours forth the 
 real sentiments of his own heart. Others have made the 
 characteristic of poetry to lie in imitation. But this is also 
 indefinite : for several other arts imitate as well as poetry ; 
 and an imitation of human characters and manners may be 
 carried on in the humblest prose, as well as in the loftiest 
 poetic strain. 
 
 Perhaps the best definition that can be given of poetry is, 
 ' that it is the language of passion, or of enlivened imagina- 
 tion, formed, most commonly, into regular numbers.' As 
 the primary aim of the poet is to please and to move, it is 
 to the imagination and the passions that he addresses himself. 
 He may, and he ought to have it in his view, to instruct and 
 to reform; but it is indirectly, and ty pleasing and moving, 
 
 Of what does it now remain to treat 1 Before we enter on the con- 
 sideration of any of its particular kinds, as what do we design this lecture 1 
 What is our first inquiry ; and what is remarked of the answer to it 1 In 
 what is the essence of poetry supposed, by some, to consist ; but why is 
 this too limited 1 In what have others made the characteristics of poetry 
 to lie ; but why is this indefinite 1 What is the best definition that can 
 be given of poetry ; and why does the poet address himself to the imagina- 
 tion and the- passions % 
 
280 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [Lect. 35. 
 
 that lie accomplishes this end. His mind is supposed to be 
 animated by some interesting object which fires his imagina- 
 tion, or engages his passions ; and which, of course, com- 
 municates to his style a peculiar elevation suited to his ideas ; 
 very different from that mode of expression, which is natural 
 to the mind in its calm, ordinary state. Though versification 
 is, in general, the external distinction of poetry, yet there 
 are some forms of verse so loose and familiar, as to be 
 hardly distinguishable from prose; such as the verse of the 
 Comedies of Terence ; and there is also a species of prose, 
 so measured in its cadence, and so much raised in its tone, 
 as to approach very near to poetical numbers ; such as the 
 Telemachus of Fenelon ; and the English translation of 
 Ossian. The fact is, so far as the exterior form is concerned, 
 verse and prose, on some occasions, run into each other, 
 like light and shade. 
 
 It has been often observed that poetry is older than prose ; 
 and the concurring voice of all antiquity attests the truth of 
 the remark. But in what sense this seemingly strange 
 paradox holds true, has not always been well understood. 
 There never, certainly, was any period of society, in which 
 men conversed together in poetical numbers,. It was in 
 very humble and scanty prose that the first tribes carried on 
 intercourse among themselves, relating to the wants and 
 necessities of life. But from the very beginning of society, 
 there w-ere occasions on which they met together for feasts, 
 sacrifices, and public assemblies ; and on all such occasions 
 music, song, and dance, made their principal entertainment. 
 It is chiefly in America, that we have the opportunity of 
 becoming acquainted with men in their savage state. Among 
 the numerous tribes of this vast continent, music and song 
 are, at all their meetings, carried on with an incredible de- 
 gree of enthusiasm. It is in songs that they celebrate their 
 religious rites ; by these they lament their public and pri- 
 vate calamities — the death of friends, or the loss of warriors ; 
 
 What ought he to have in view ; but what follows 1 In what state is 
 his mind supposed to be ; and what does this communicate to his style 1 
 Though versification, in general, is the external distinction of poetry, yet 
 what remark follows; and what illustrations are given 1 What has been 
 often observed ; and what attests the truth of the remark 1 How is this 
 seeming paradox full} 7 explained ! In what country have we an opportu- 
 nity of becoming acquainted with man in his savage state 1 Among the 
 tribes of this vast continent, what is remarked of music and song ; and 
 bow is this remark illustrated ? 
 
Lect. 35.] OF POETRY. 281 
 
 express their joy on their victories ; celebrate the great 
 actions of their nation and their heroes ; excite each other 
 to perform brave exploits in war, or suffer death and tor- 
 ments with unshaken constancy. It is, therefore, in those 
 rude effusions which the enthusiasm of fancy or passion 
 suggested to untaught men, when roused by interesting 
 events, and by their meetings together in public a»ssemblies, 
 that we see the first beginnings of poetic composition. 
 
 Man is, by nature, both a poet and a musician. The same 
 impulse which produces an enthusiastic poetic style, prompted 
 a certain melody, or modulation of sOund, suited to the emo- 
 tions of joy or grief, of admiration, love, or anger. There 
 is a power in sound, which, partly from nature, and partly 
 from habit and association, makes such pathetic impressions 
 on the fancy, as delight even the wildest barbarians. Music 
 and poetry, therefore, had the same origin ; they were 
 prompted by the same occasions ; they were written in song ; 
 and, as long as they continued united, they, no doubt, na- 
 turally tended to heighten and exalt each others power. 
 The first poets sung their own verses ; and hence the be- 
 ginning of what we call versification, or the management 
 of words so as to be suited to some tune or melody. 
 
 From what has been said, it is manifest that the first com 
 positions which were either recorded by writing, or trans- 
 mitted by tradition, must have been poetical compositions. 
 No other than these could draw the attention of men in theii 
 rude uncivilized state. Indeed they knew no other. Cool 
 reasoning and plain discourse, had no power to attract 
 savage tribes, addicted only to hunting and Avar. There 
 was nothing that could either rouse the speaker to pour 
 himself forth, or to draw the crowd to listen, but the high 
 powers of passion, of music, and of song. This vehicle, 
 therefore, and no other, could be employed by chiefs and 
 legislators, when they meant to instruct or animate their 
 tribes. Indeed, the earliest accounts which history gives 
 as concerning all nations, bear testimony to these facts. 
 In the first ages of Greece, priests, philosophers, and states- 
 
 Where, therefore, do we see the first beginnings of poetic composition 1 
 What is man by nature ; and how is this illustrated 1 What power does 
 sound possess ; of music and poetry what inference is drawn ; and what 
 remarks follow 1 From what has been said, what is manifest ; and 
 how does it appear that they knew no other 1 By whom, and when, must 
 this vehicle have been employed ; and what bear testimony to these facts % 
 From the first ages of Greece how is this illustrated 'I 
 
 24+ 
 
282 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [Lect. 35. 
 
 men, all delivered their instructions in poetry. Apollo, 
 Orpheus, and Amphion, their most ancient bards, are repre- 
 sented as the first tamers of mankind. Minos and Thales 
 sung- to the lyre the laws which they composed ; and till the 
 age immediately preceding that of Herodotus, history had 
 appeared in no other form than that of poetical tales. 
 
 In the same manner, among all other nations, poets and 
 songs are the first objects that make their appearance. 
 Among the Scythian or Gothic nations, many of their kings 
 and leaders were scolders or poets ; and it is from their 
 Runic songs, that the earliest writers of their history, acknow- 
 ledge that they had derived their chief information. Among 
 the Celtic tribes, in Gaul, Britain, and Ireland, their bards 
 were held in the highest possible estimation, and possessed 
 the greatest influence over the people. They were always 
 near the person of the chief or sovereign ; they recorded 
 all his great exploits ; they were employed as the ambassa- 
 dors between contending tribes, and their persons were held 
 sacred. 
 
 From this it follows, that as we have reason to look for 
 poems and songs among the antiquities of all countries, so 
 we may expect, that during their infancy, there will be, in 
 the strain of these, a remarkable resemblance. The occasions 
 of their being composed, are every where nearly the same. 
 The praises of gods and heroes, the celebration of famed 
 ancestors, the recital of martial deeds, songs of victory, and 
 songs of lamentation over the misfortunes and death of their 
 countrymen, occur amongst all nations ; and the same en- 
 thusiasm and fire, the same wild and irregular, bui animated 
 composition, concise and glowing style, bold and extravagant 
 figures of speech, are the general distinguishing characters 
 of all the most ancient original poetry. 
 
 Diversity of climate, and of manner of living, will, how- 
 ever, occasion some diversity in the strain of the first 
 poetry of nations ; chiefly according as those nations are of 
 a more ferocious, or more gentle spirit ; and according as 
 they advance faster or slower in the art of civilization. 
 Thus we find all the remains of the ancient Gothic po- 
 
 In the same manner, who are the first objects that make their appear- 
 ance among all nations ; and how is this illustrated from the Scythians, 
 and the Celtic tribes 1 What station did they occupy 1 From this what 
 follows ; and how is this fully illustrated 1 What will be the effect of 
 diversity of climate ; and according to what 1 What illustration of this 
 remark is given from the Gothic, Peruvian and Chinese, Celtic, Grecian, 
 and Persian poetry 1 
 
Lect. 35.] OF POETRY. 283 
 
 etry remarkably fierce, breathing- nothing but slaughter 
 and blood ; while the Peruvian and Chinese songs turned, 
 from the earliest times, upon milder subjects. The Cel- 
 tic poetry, in the days of Ossian, though chiefly of the 
 martial kind, yet had attained a considerable mixture often 
 derness and refinement. Among the Grecians, poetry ap- 
 pears to have soon received a philosophical cast, if we may 
 judge from the subjects on which it was, at an early period, 
 employed ; and the Arabians and Persians used poetry as the 
 medium of their moral instructions. 
 
 During the infancy of poetry, all the different kinds of it 
 were mingled in the same composition, according as inclina- 
 tion, enthusiasm, or casual incidents, directed the poet's 
 strain. In the progress of society and arts, they began to 
 assume those different forms, and to be distinguished by 
 those different names, under which we now know them. 
 Odes would naturally be among the first compositions ; 
 according as the bards were roused by religious feeling, 
 love, or any other warm sentiment, to pour themselves forth 
 in song. Elegiac poetiy would as naturally arise from 
 lamentations over their deceased friends. The recital of the 
 achievements of their ancestors, and their heroes, gave birth 
 to what we now call epic poetry ; and in the introduction of 
 different bards, speaking in the character of their heroes, 
 we find the first outlines of tragedy or dramatic writing. 
 
 Poetry, in its ancient original condition, was, perhaps, 
 more vigorous than it is in its modern state. It included 
 then the whole burst of the human mind — the whole exertion 
 of its imaginative faculties. It spoke the language of passion, 
 and no other ; for to passion it owed its birth. Prompted 
 and inspired by objects which to him seemed great, by 
 events which interested his country or his friends, the early 
 bard arose and sung. He sung, indeed, in wild and disor- 
 derly strains ; but they were the native effusions of his 
 heart ; they were the ardent conceptions of admiration or 
 resentment, of sorrow or friendship, which he poured forth. 
 In after ages, however, when poetry became a regular art, 
 
 During the infancy of poetry, what is remarked of all the different 
 kinds ; and what was the effect of improvement in arts 1 What would 
 naturally be among the first compositions ; and why 1 How would elegiac, 
 epic, and dramatic poetry, naturally originate'? What is remarked of 
 poetry in its ancient condition ; and what did it then include! Why did 
 it speak the language of passion only ; and how is this illustrated 1 What 
 is remarked, however, of the poetry of after ages ; and what illustration 
 follows 1 
 
284 VERSIFICATION. [Lect. 36. 
 
 studied for reputation and for gain, authors began to affect 
 what they did not feel. Composing coolly in their closets, 
 they endeavored to imitate passion, rather than to express it; 
 they tried to force their imagination into raptures, or to sup- 
 ply the defect of native warmth, by those artificial orna- 
 ments which might give composition a splendid appearance. 
 
 We next proceed to treat of English versification. Na- 
 tions whose language and pronunciation were of a musical 
 kind, rested their versification chiefly upon the quantities 
 of their syllables. Others, the quantities of whose syllables 
 was not so distinctly perceived in pronouncing them, rested 
 the melody of their verse upon the number of syllables it 
 contained, upon the proper disposition of accents and pauses 
 in it, and frequently upon that return of corresponding 
 sounds, which we call rhyme. The former was the case 
 with the Greeks and Romans ; the latter is the case with us, 
 and with most modern nations. Among the Greeks and 
 Romans, almost every syllable had a fixed and determined 
 quantity ; and their manner of pronouncing rendered this 
 so sensible to the ear, that a long syllable was precisely 
 equal in time to two short ones. Upon this principle, the 
 number of syllables in their hexameter verse was allowed 
 to vary from 1 3 to 17; but the musical time was, notwith- 
 standing, the same in every verse ; and was always equal to 
 twelve long syllables. 
 
 But the introduction of this regular succession of syl- 
 lables into English verse, would be altogether out of place ; 
 for the difference made between long and short syllables, in 
 our manner of pronouncing them, is very inconsiderable. 
 The only perceptible difference among our syllables, arises 
 from some of them being uttered with that stronger per- 
 cussion of voice, which we call accent. This accent, 
 however, does not always make the syllable longer. It 
 communicates only more force of sound; and it is upon a 
 certain order and succession of accented and unaccented 
 syllables, more than upon their being short or long, that the 
 melody of our verse depends. If we take any of Mr. Pope's 
 lines, and in reciting them alter the quantity of the syllables, 
 
 To what do we next proceed ; and on what do different nations rest 
 their versification % With whom was the former the case ; and how is this 
 fully illustrated 1 But why would the introduction of this method into 
 English verse, he out of place ; and what is the only perceptible difference 
 among our syllables % Of this accent what is remarked ; upon what does 
 the melody of our verse depend ; and how is this illustrated 1 
 
Lect. 35.] VERSIFICATION. 285 
 
 the music of the verse will not be much injured : but if we 
 do not accent the syllables according- as the verse dictates, 
 its melody will be totally destroyed. 
 
 In the construction of our verse, there is another essential 
 circumstance. This is the cassural pause, which falls towards 
 the middle of each line. This pause may fall after the 4th, 
 the 5th, the 6th, or the 7th syllable; and by this means un- 
 common variety and richness are given to English versi- 
 fication. 
 
 When the pause falls earliest, that is, after the 4th sylla- 
 ble, the briskest melody is thereby formed, and the most 
 spirited air given to the line. In the following lines of the 
 Rape of the Lock, Mr. Pope has, with exquisite propriety, 
 suited the construction of the verse to the subject. 
 
 On her white breast | a sparkling cross she wore, 
 Which Jews might kis3 | and infidels adore ; 
 Her lively looks | a sprightly mind disclose, 
 Quick as her eyes, | and as unfixed as those. 
 
 When the pause falls after the 5th syllable, which divides 
 the line into two equal portions, the melody is sensibly 
 altered. The verse loses that brisk and lively air which it 
 had with the former pause, and becomes more smooth, gen- 
 tle, and flowing. 
 
 Eternal sunshine [ of the spotless mind, 
 
 Each prayer accepted, | and each wish resign'd. 
 
 When the pause follows the 6th syllable, the tenor of the 
 music becomes solemn and grave. The verse marches now 
 with a more slow and measured pace tlfan in either of the 
 two former cases. 
 
 The wrath of Peleus' son, | the direful spring 
 Of all the Grecian woes, [ O goddess sing ! 
 
 The grave cadence becomes still more sensible, when the 
 pause follows the 7th syllable. This kind of verse occurs 
 less frequently than either of the others ; but it has a happy 
 effect in diversifying the melody of long poems. 
 
 What other circumstance is there in the construction of our verse ; and of 
 this what is remarked ] Where may it fall ; and what is its effect 1 What 
 is remarked of this pause when it falls after the 4th syllable ; and what 
 illustration is given 1 What is said of it when it falls after the 5th sylla- 
 ble ; and what is the illustration *? What is observed of the pause when 
 it follows the 6th syllable ; and what illustration follows ? When does 
 the grave cadence become still more sensible ; of this kind of verse what 
 I is observed ; and what ia the example 1 
 
286 VERSIFICATION [Lect. 36. 
 
 And in the smooth descriptive | murmur still, 
 Long loved, adored ideas, j all adieu. 
 
 We have taken our examples from verses in rhyme ; because 
 in these our versification is subjected to the strictest law. 
 As blank verse is of a freer kind, and naturally is read with 
 less cadence or tone, the pauses in it, and the effect of them, 
 are not always so sensible to the ear. It is constructed, how- 
 ever, entirely upon the same principles with respect to the 
 place of the pause, and is a noble, bold, and disencumbered 
 mode of versification. It is free from the full close which 
 rhyme forces upon the ear at the termination of every 
 couplet. Hence it is peculiarly suited to subjects of dignity 
 and force. It is more favorable than rhyme to the sublime, 
 and the highly pathetic. Rhyme finds a proper place in the 
 middle regions of poetry ; and blank verse in the highest. 
 
 The present form of our English heroic rhyme in couplets, 
 is a modern species of versification. The measure generally 
 used in the days of Queen Elizabeth and James I., was the 
 stanza of eight lines. Waller was the first who gave the 
 fashion to couplets ; and Dryden established the usage. 
 Waller harmonized our sense, and Dryden carried it to per- 
 fection. The versification of Pope is peculiar. It is flow- 
 ing and smooth, correct and labored, in the highest degree. 
 He has totally thrown aside the triplets, which are so common 
 in Dryden and the older poets. As to ease and variety, Dry- 
 den excels Pope. He makes his couplets to run into one 
 another, and has somewhat the freedom of blank verse. 
 
 Whence have we taken our examples ; why ; and of blank verse what 
 is remarked 1 From what is it free ; to what is it suited ; and for what 
 favorable 1 What is observed of the present form of our heroic rhyme ; 
 and when was the stanza of eight lines used 1 Of Waller, Dryden. and 
 Pope, what is remarked ; and how do the two latter compare 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 Poetry. 
 
 1. The definition of poetry. 
 
 2. Its origin and antiquity. 
 A. Illustrated. 
 
 3. The different kinds undis- 
 
 tinguished. 
 
 4. Its early characteristics. 
 
 5. English versification. 
 
 A. Contrasted with ancient. 
 
 B. The accent. 
 The cssural pause. 
 
 A. Its effect when differently 
 
 placed. 
 Blank verse. 
 The introduction of couplets. 
 
LECTURE XXXVI. 
 
 PASTQRAL POETRY— LYRIC POETRY. 
 
 Having, in ihe last lecture, given an account of the rise 
 and progress of poetry, and made some observations on the 
 nature of English versification, we proceed to treat of the 
 chief kinds of poetical composition, and of the critical rules 
 that relate to them. We shall first consider pastoral poetry. 
 
 It has been a prevailing opinion among authors, that, 
 because the life which mankind at first led was rural, there- 
 fore their first poetry was pastoral, or employed on the cele- 
 biation of rural scenes and objects. That it would borrow 
 rcianj of its miages and allusions from those natural objects 
 with WiJ cn men were best aC q Ua i n ted, there can be no doubt ; 
 but the cai n and tranqu.il scenes of rural felicity were, by 
 no means, ti« fi rst OD j ects w hich inspired that strain of 
 composition, whuh we now call t It was inspired in 
 
 the first periods of e», ry nalion9 b events and ob j ects which 
 roused men s passions ; nr? at Wst? awakened their wonder 
 and admiration. 1 he acti^ s of tkeir ds and heroeSj their 
 own exploits in war, the sucu sses OT m i s f or tunes of their 
 countrymen and friends, furnish the tirst themes to the 
 bards of every country. It was not till men had begun to 
 assemble in great cities, and the bustle of courts and large 
 societies was known, that pastoral poetry assumed its pre- 
 sent form. Men then began to look buck upon the more 
 simple and innocent life which their forefathers had led, 
 or which, at least, they fancied them to have led: they 
 looked back upon it with pleasure, and in those rural 
 scenes and pastoral occupations, supposing a degree of feli- 
 city to take place, superior to what they now enjoyed, con- 
 ceived the idea of celebrating it in poetry. In the court of 
 king Ptolemy, Theocritus wrote the first pastorals with 
 which we are acquainted : and in the court of Augustus, 
 Virgil imitated him. 
 
 What was done in the last lecture ; and to what do we now proceed 1 
 Of pastoral poetry, what opinion has prevailed; and of this opinion what 
 does our author remark 1 By what was it inspired ; and what furnished 
 the first themes to the bards of every country 1 It was not till when that 
 pastoral poetry assumed its present form ; what did men then begin to do ; 
 and what followed 1 Who wrote the first pastorals ; where ; and by whom 
 was he imitated ; and where ? 
 
288 PASTORAL POETRY. [Lect. 36 
 
 The pastoral is a natural and very agreeable form of poetic 
 composition. It recalls to our imagination those gay scenes 
 and pleasing views of nature, which are generally the de- 
 light of our childhood and youth; and to which, in more 
 advanced years, the greater part of men recur with pleasure. 
 It exhibits to us a life, with which we are accustomed to 
 associate the ideas of peace, of leisure, and of innocence. 
 It transports us into the calm elysian regions. At the same 
 time, no subject seems to be more favorable to poetry. 
 Amidst rural objects, nature presents, on all hands, the finest 
 field for description; and nothing appears to flow more 
 readily into poetical numbers, than rivers and mountains, 
 meadows and hills, flocks and trees, and shepherds void of 
 care. Hence this species of poetry has, at all times, a^ured 
 many readers, and excited many writers. 
 
 The pastoral poet must form to himself the ides of a rural 
 state, such as in certain periods of society may iiave act*&Uy 
 taken place, where there was ease, equality, and inno-< enc( p— 
 where shepherds were gay and agreeable, wi^ out being 
 learned or refined; and plain and artless, without being 
 gross and wretched. The great charm /*' pastoral poetry 
 arises from the view which it exhibits ^Yf tranquillity and 
 happiness of rural life. This plea- m g" illusion, tnerefore, 
 the poet must carefully maintain He must display to us all 
 that is agreeable in that state out hide whatever is displeas- 
 ing. Distresses, indeed, a^ anxieties, he may attribute to it ; 
 fo ° it would be altogether unnatural to suppose any condition 
 of human life to be without them ; but they must be of such 
 a nature- as not to shock the fancy with any thing peculiarly 
 disgusting in the pastoral life. In short, the pastoral poet 
 should be careful to exhibit whatever is most pleasing only, 
 in the pastoral state. He must paint its simplicity, its tran- 
 quillity, and its happiness ; but conceal its rudeness and 
 misery. His pictures must not be those of real life. It is 
 sufficient that they resemble it. He has occasion, accord- 
 ingly, for great ait. And to have a proper idea of pastoral 
 
 What does the pastoral recal to our imagination ; and what does it ex- 
 hibit to us 1 Whence does it transport us ; and how does it appear to be, 
 of all subjects, most favorable to poetry ! Hence what has followed 2 Of 
 what state must the pastoral poet form to himself an idea 1 From what 
 does the great charm of pastoral poetry arise ; and how must this pleasing 
 illusion be kept up ? Yv T hat may he attribute to it : why ; but of what 
 nature must the}? be 1 In short, of what should the pastoral poet be care- 
 ful ; and how is this illustrated 1 To have a proper idea of pastoral poetry, 
 what must we consider 1 
 
Lect. 36.] PASTORAL POETRY. 289 
 
 poetry, we must consider, first, the scenery ; next, the 
 characters ; and, lastly, the subjects which it exhibits. 
 
 The scene, it is evident, must always be laid in the coun- 
 try ; and much of the poet's merit depends on describing it 
 beautifully. Virgil is, in this respect, excelled by Theocri- 
 tus, whose descriptions of natural beauties are richer and 
 more picturesque than the other. In every pastoral, a rural 
 prospect should be drawn with distinctness. It is insipid to 
 have unmeaning groups of roses and violets, of birds, and 
 breezes, and brooks. A good poet should give us such a 
 landscape as a painter could copy. His objects must be 
 particularized; the stream, the rock, or the tree, must each 
 of them stand forth, so as to make a figure in the imagina- 
 tion, and to give us a pleasing conception of the place where 
 we are. In his allusions to natural objects, too, as well as 
 in professed descriptions of scenery, the poet should study 
 clearness and variety. He must diversify his face of nature, 
 by presenting to us new images ; or otherwise, he will soon 
 become insipid. It is also incumbent on him to suit the 
 scenery to the subject of the pastoral; and, according as it is 
 of a gay or melancholy kind, to exhibit nature under such 
 forms as may correspond with the emotions or sentiments 
 which he describes. Thus Virgil, when he gives the 
 lamentation of a despairing lover, communicates a gloomy 
 sadness to the scene. 
 
 Tantum inter densas, urnbrosa cacumina, fagoB 
 Assidue veniebat ; ibi b.83c incondita solus 
 Montibus et Sylvis studio jactabat inani. 
 
 Mid shades of thickest beach he pin'd alone, 
 
 To the wild woods and mountains made his moan ; 
 
 Still day by day, in incoherent strains, 
 
 'Twas all he could, despairing - told his pains. Warton. 
 
 With regard to the characters in pastorals, it is not suffi- 
 cient that they are persons who reside constantly in the 
 country. Courtiers and citizens, who resort occasionally 
 to retirement, would not figure well in pastorals. The per- 
 
 Where must the scene be laid ; what follows ; and how do Virgil and 
 Theocritus, in this respect, compare 1 In every pastoral what should be 
 done ; and why 1 What should a good poet do ; and how is this illus- 
 trated 1 What is remarked of allusions to natural objects ; and how is 
 this, also, illustrated 1 What is also incumbent on him ; and what follows "? 
 What illustration of this remark is given from Virgil 1 With regard to 
 characters in pastorals, what is not sufficient 1 "W ho would not figure 
 well in pastornls; and whv 1 
 
 25 
 
290 PASTORAL POETRY. [Lect. 36 
 
 sons in such poems must be actual shepherds, and wholly 
 engaged in rural occupations. The shepherd must be plain 
 and unaffected, without being dull or insipid. He may have 
 good sense and reflection ; he may have sprightliness and 
 vivacity ; he may have very tender and delicate feelings ; 
 since these are, more or less, the portion of man in all ranks 
 of life; and since, doubtless, there was much genius in the 
 world, before there were learning or arts to refine it. But 
 then he should never deal in general reflections, or in con- 
 ceits, for these are consequences of refinement. When 
 Aminta, in Tasso, is disentangling his mistress's hair from 
 the tree to which a savage had bound it, he is represented as 
 saying : ' Cruel tree ! how couldst thou injure that lovely 
 hair which did thee so much honor ? Thy rugged trunk was 
 not worthy of such lovely knots. What advantage have the 
 servants of love, if those precious chains are common to 
 them, and to the trees.' Strained and forced sentiments like 
 these, suit not the words. The language of rural person- 
 ages is that of plain good sense, and natural feeling. Hence 
 the charm of the following lines in Virgil : 
 
 Sepibus in nostris parvam te roscida mala 
 (Dux ego vester eram) vidi cum matre legentem : 
 Alter ab undecimo turn me jam ceperat annus, 
 Jam fragiles pateram a terra contingere ramos. 
 Ut vidi, ut perii, ut me malus abstulit error ! 
 
 Once with your mother to our field you came 
 
 For dewy apples ; thence I date my flame ; 
 
 The choicest fruit I pointed to your view, 
 
 Though young, my raptur'd soul was fix'd on you; 
 
 The boughs I just could reach with little arms ; 
 
 But then, even then, could feel thy powerful charms. 
 
 O, how I gaz'd, in pleasing transport tost : 
 
 How glow'd my heart, in sweet delusion lost! Warton. 
 
 With respect to the subject of pastorals, there is a nicety 
 which is absolutely necessary. For it is not enough, that 
 the poets should give us shepherds discoursing together. 
 Every good poem must have a topic that should, in some way, 
 be interesting. In this lies the difficulty of pastoral poetry. 
 The active scenes of country life are too barren of incidents. 
 
 What qualities may the shepherd possess ; and for what reason 1 But 
 in what should he never deal ; why ; and what illustration is given from 
 Tasso 1 What is the language of rural personages ; and of this what 
 illustration is given from Virgil 1 With respect to the subjects of pasto- 
 rals, what is remarked ; and why 1 Every good poem must have what ; 
 and of this what is remarked ] Of the active scenes of country life, and 
 of the condition of the shepherd, what is observed ; and hence what has 
 followed ? 
 
Lect. 36.] PASTORAL POETRY. 291 
 
 The condition of a shepherd has few things in it that produce 
 cariosity and surprise. Hence the generality of pastorals 
 are common place, and unusually insipid. Yet this insipi- 
 dity is not to be ascribed altogether to the barrenness of the 
 topics. It is, in a great measure, the fault of the poet; for 
 human passions are much the same in every situation and 
 rank of life. And what an infinite variety of objects within 
 the rural sphere do the passions present ! The various ad- 
 ventures which give occasion to those engaged in country 
 life to display their disposition and temper ; the scenes of 
 domestic felicity or disquiet; the attachment of friends and 
 brothers ; the rivalship and competition of lovers ; the un- 
 expected success or misfortunes of families, might give 
 occasion to many pleasing and tender incidents ; and were 
 more of the narrative and sentimental intermixed with the 
 descriptive in this kind of poetry, it would become much 
 more interesting to the bulk of readers, than it now is. 
 
 The two great fathers of pastoral poetry are Theocritus 
 and Virgil. Theocritus was a Sicilian, and has laid the 
 scene of his pastorals in that country. For the simplicity 
 of his sentiments, the harmony of his numbers, and the 
 richness of his scenery, he is highly distinguished. He is 
 the original of which Virgil is the imitator : for most of 
 Virgil's highest beauties are copied from Theocritus. He 
 must be allowed, however, to have imitated him with great 
 judgment, and, in some respects, to have improved upon 
 him. For Theocritus sometimes descends into ideas that 
 are gross and mean, and makes his shepherds abusive and 
 immodest ; while Virgil is free from offensive rusticity, and, 
 at the same time, preserves the character of pastoral sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 The modern writers of pastorals have, in general, imi- 
 tated Theocritus and Virgil. Sannazarius, however, a Latin 
 poet, in the age of Leo X., attempted a bold innovation, by 
 composing piscatory eclogues, and changing the scene from 
 woods to the sea, and from the life of shepherds to that of 
 
 Yet, to what is this insipidity not to be ascribed ; and why is it the fault 
 of the poet 1 What objects within the rural sphere do the passions pre- 
 sent 1 What would render this kind of poetry still more interesting 1 
 Who are the fathers of pastoral poetry ; and what is observed of the former % 
 How does Virgil compare with him ; and what is farther remarked on this 
 subject 1 "What is remarked of the modern writers of pastorals % Who, 
 however, attempted a bold innovation ; what was it ; and why did it net 
 succeed 1 
 
292 PASTORAL POETRY. [Lect. 36. 
 
 fishermen. But his attempt was unhappy, and he has had 
 no imitators. The toilsome life of the fisherman had 
 nothing agreeable to present to the imagination. Fish and 
 marine productions have nothing poetical in them. Of all 
 the moderns, Gesner, a poet of Switzerland, has been the 
 most happy in his pastoral compositions. He has introduced 
 in his Idyls many new ideas. His scenery is striking, and 
 his descriptions are lively. He presents pastoral life to us, 
 with all the embellishments of which it is susceptible ; but 
 without any excess of refinement. But what forms the chief 
 merit of his poetry is, he writes to the heart ; and has en 
 riched the subject of Idyls with incidents which give rise to 
 much tender sentiment. Scenes of domestic felicity are 
 beautifully painted. The mutual affection of husbands and 
 wives, of parents and children, of brothers and sisters, as 
 well as of lovers, are displayed in a touching manner. 
 
 Neither the pastorals of Mr. Pope, nor those of Mr. 
 Philips, are a great honor to English poetry. Those of Mr. 
 Pope were composed in his youth ; which may be an apology 
 for other faults, but cannot well excuse the barrenness that 
 appears in them. They are written, it is true, in remark- 
 ably smooth and flowing numbers, but this is their principal 
 merit ; for there is scarcely a thought or a description in 
 them, which is not a repetition of what is to be found in 
 Virgil, and all other poets who write of rural themes. 
 Philips attempted to be more simple and natural than Pope ; 
 but he wanted genius to support the attempt. His topics, 
 like those of Pope, are beaten ; and instead of being natural 
 and simple, he is insipid and flat. The Shepherd's Week 
 of Mr. Gay was designed to ridicule Philips ; and is an 
 ingenious burlesque of pastoral writing, when it copies, too, 
 completely, the manners of clowns and rustics. Mr. Shen- 
 stone's pastoral ballad, is one of the most elegant poems in 
 the English language. 
 
 The Gentle Shepherd of Allan Ramsay, is a pastoral 
 composition which must not be omitted. For this admirable 
 poem it is, perhaps, a disadvantage, that it is written in the 
 
 Of Gesner, what is observed ; and what is the character of his Idyls 1 
 But what is it that forms the chief merit of his poetry ; and how is this 
 illustrated ! What is said of Mr. Pope's, and of Mr. Philips's pastorals ; 
 and how is this remark fully illustrated ? Of Mr. Gay's Shepherd's Week, 
 and of Mr. Shenstone's pastoral ballad, what is observed 1 What is said 
 of the Gentle Shepherd of Allan Ramsay; and to this poem what are 
 disadvantages ? But what are its excellences ? 
 
Lect. 36.] LYRIC POETRY. 293 
 
 old rustic dialect of Scotland, which must soon be obsolete : 
 and it is a farther disadvantage to it, that it is formed so 
 accurately on the rural manners of Scotland, that none but 
 a native of that country can fully understand or relish it. 
 But of natural description it is full ; and it excels in tender- 
 ness of sentiment. The characters are skilfully drawn ; 
 the incidents are affecting, and the scenery and manners are 
 lively and correct. 
 
 We proceed next to treat of lyric poetry, or the ode — a 
 species of poetical composition which possesses much dig- 
 nity, and in which many writers have distinguished them- 
 selves in every age. Ode is, in Greek, equivalent to song 
 or hymn ; and lyric poetry implies, that the verses are accom- 
 panied with a lyre, or with a musical instrument. The 
 ode retains its first and most ancient form ; and sentiments 
 of some kind or other constitute its subject. It recites not 
 actions ; but its spirit, and the manner of its execution, give 
 it its chief value. It admits of a bolder and more passionate 
 strain, than is allowed in simple recitations. Hence the 
 enthusiasm that belongs to it. Hence, too, that neglect of 
 regularity, and that disorder it is supposed to admit. 
 
 There are four denominations under which all odes may 
 be classed. First, hymns addressed to the Supreme Being, 
 and relating to religious subjects. Of this nature are the 
 Psalms of David, which exhibit to us this species of lyric 
 poetry, in its highest degree of perfection. Secondly, he- 
 roic odes, which concern the celebration of heroes and great 
 actions. Of this kind are the odes of Pindar ; and the splendid 
 Marco Bozzaris of F. G. Halleck. Thirdly, moral and phi- 
 losophical odes, which refer chiefly to virtue, friendship, and 
 humanity. Of this kind are many of the odes of Horace, 
 and several of our best modern lyrics ; among which are, 
 1 The burial of Sir John Moore,' by the Rev. Mr. Wolf, and 
 Hal leek's elegiac, on the death of Dr. J. R. Drake — both 
 most finished productions. Fourthly, festive and amorous 
 odes, which are calculated for pleasure and amusement. 
 Of this nature are the odes of Anacreon, and many of those 
 of Thomas Moore. 
 
 To treat of what do we next proceed ; and of it what is remarked 1 To what 
 is ode equivalent ; and what does it signify 1 What does the ode retain ; 
 what constitute its subject; and what give it its chief value 1 Of what 
 does it admit ; and hence what, follows 1 Under how many denominations 
 may all odes be classed • and what are instances and examples of each 1 
 
 25* 
 
294 LYRIC POETRY. [Lect. 36. 
 
 As enthusiasm is considered the characteristic of the ode, it 
 has too much degenerated into licentiousness ; and this spe- 
 cies of writing has, above all others, been infected with the 
 want of order, method, and connection. The poet is imme- 
 diately out of sight. He is so abrupt and eccentric, so 
 irregular and obscure, that we cannot partake of his raptures. 
 It is not, indeed, necessary, that the structure of the ode 
 should be so perfectly exact and formal as a didactic poem. 
 But in every work of genius there ought to be a whole, and 
 this whole should consist of parts. These parts, too, should 
 have a bond of connection. In the ode, the transitions from 
 thought to thought may be brisk and rapid, but the connection 
 of ideas should be preserved ; and the author should think, 
 and not rave. 
 
 Pindar, the great father of lyric poetry, has led his imi- 
 tators into wildness and enthusiastic fancy. They imitate 
 his disorder, without catching his spirit. In Horace every 
 thing is correct, harmonious, and happy. His elevation is 
 moderate and not rapturous. Grace and elegance are his 
 characteristics. He supports a moral sentiment with dignity, 
 touches a gay one with felicity, and has the art to trifle most 
 agreeably. His language, too, is always very fortunate. 
 Buchanan's Ode to the First of May, is a beautiful produc- 
 tion. 
 
 In the French, the odes of Jean Baptiste Rousseau, are 
 justly celebrated for great beauty of sentiment and expression. 
 In our own language, Dryden's ode on St. Cecilia is well 
 known. Mr. Gray, in some of his odes, is eminent for ten- 
 derness and sublimity; and in the more recent works of 
 Burns and Campbell, there are found several very beautiful 
 lyric poems. 
 
 As enthusiasm is considered the characteristic of the ode, what has fol- 
 lowed; and how is this illustrated 1 What is not, indeed, necessary; but 
 what remarks follow] What is observed of Pindar, and of his imitators 1 
 What is remarked of Horace ■ and what other beautiful poem is men- 
 tioned 1 Of odes in the French and the English languages, what is 
 observed ; and what are examples 1 
 
 ANALYSIS 
 1. Pastoral poetry. 
 
 A. Its origin and its nature. 
 
 B. The state of pastoral society. 
 
 C. The scene. 
 
 D. The characters. 
 a. Illustrated. 
 
 E. The subjects 
 
 G. Modern pastorals, 
 a. Their relative merits. 
 2. Lyric poetry. 
 
 A. The nature of the ode. 
 
 a. Different kinds of odes. 
 
 b. Its enthusiasm. 
 
 c. Ancient odes. 
 
 F, Ancient pastorals. d. Modern odes. 
 
LECTURE XXXVII. 
 
 DIDACTIC POETRY— DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 
 
 Having treated of pastoral and lyric poetry, we proceed 
 next to didactic ; the express intention of which is to convey 
 instruction and knowledge. A didactic poem differs in 
 form only, from a philosophical, a moral, or a critical treatise 
 in prose. At the same time, by means of its form, it has 
 several advantages. By the charm of versification and 
 numbers, it renders instruction more agreeable ; by the 
 descriptions, episodes, and other embellishments, which it 
 may interweave, it detains and engages the fancy ; it fixes, 
 also, useful circumstances more deeply in the memory. 
 
 A didactic poem may be executed in different ways. The 
 poet may choose some instructive subject, and he may treat 
 it regularly, and in form ; or without intending a great or 
 regular work, he may only inveigh against particular vices, 
 or make some moral observations on human life and charac- 
 ters. But the highest species of didactic composition, is a 
 formal treatise on some philosophical or grave subject. Of 
 this nature we have several, both ancient and modern, of 
 great merit and character : such as Virgil's Georgics, Pope's 
 Essay on Criticism, Akenside's Pleasures of the Imagination, 
 Armstrong on Health, Young's Night Thoughts, Gold- 
 smith's Traveller and his Deserted Village, Campbell's Plea- 
 sures of Hope, Horace's, Vida's, andBoileau's Art of Poetry. 
 
 In all such works, as instruction is the professed object, 
 the fundamental merit consists in sound thought, just prin- 
 ciples, clear and apt illustrations. It is necessary, however, 
 that the poet enliven his lessons by figures, and incidents, 
 and poetical painting. Virgil, in his Georgics, presents us 
 here with a perfect model. He has the art of raising and 
 
 To what kind of poetry do we now proceed ; and what is the intention 
 of it 1 From what does a didactic poem differ in form only ; and at the 
 same time, by means of its form, what advantages has it 1 In what differ- 
 ent ways may a didactic poem be executed 1 But what is the highest spe- 
 cies of didactic composition ; and of this nature, what examples have we 1 
 In all such works, in what does the fundamental merit consist ; but what, 
 however, is necessary 1 Of this, where have we a perfect model ; and 
 what art does he possess ? 
 
296 DIDACTIC POETRY. [Lect. 37. 
 
 beautifying the most trivial circumstances in rural life. 
 When he is to say that the labor of the farmer must begin in 
 spring, he expresses h"«iself in the following manner: 
 
 Vere novo, gelidus canis cum montibus humor 
 Liquitur, et Zephyro putris se gleba resolvit; 
 Depresso incipiat jam turn mihi Taurus aratro 
 Ingemere, et sulco attritus splendescere vomer. 
 
 While yet the spring is young, while earth unbinds 
 
 Her frozen bosom to the western winds ; 
 
 While mountain snows dissolve against the sun> 
 
 And streams yet new from precipices run ; 
 
 Even in this early dawning of the year, 
 
 Produce the plough, and yoke the sturdy steer, 
 
 And goad him till he groans beneath his toil. 
 
 Till the bright share is buried in the soil. Dryden. 
 
 And instead of telling his husbandman in plain language, 
 that his crops will fail through bad management, his lan- 
 guage is, 
 
 Heu, magnum aitenus frustra speetabis acervum, 
 Concussaque famem in si 1 vis solabere quercu. 
 
 On others' crops you may with envy look, 
 
 And shake for food the long abandoned oak. Dryden. 
 
 In all didactic works, such a method and order are requi- 
 site, as shall exhibit clearly a connected train of instruction. 
 With regard to episodes and embellishments, the writers of 
 didactic poetry may indulge in great liberties. For in a 
 poetical performance, a continued series of instruction, with- 
 out entertaining embellishments, would fatigue, and even 
 disgust. The great art of rendering a didactic poem inter- 
 esting, is to relieve and amuse the reader, by connecting 
 some agreeable episodes with the principal subject. These 
 are always the parts of the work which are best known, and 
 which contribute most to support the reputation of the poet. 
 The digressions in the Georgics of Virgil are all admirable. 
 The happiness of a country life, the fable of Aristeus, and 
 the tale of Orphe-us and Eurydice, cannot be praised too 
 highly. 
 
 A didactic poet ought, also, to exert his skill in connecting 
 his episodes happily with his subjects. Virgil is dis- 
 
 To illustrate this remark, what examples are given 1 In all didactic 
 works, what are requisite ; but with regard to what may they indulge in 
 great liberties ; and why 1 What is the great art of rendering a didactic 
 poem interesting; and of these, what is observed? From Virgil what 
 examples are mentioned ? In what ought a didactic poet also to exert his 
 skill; and in this, also, who is distinguished 1 
 
Lect. 37.] DIDACTIC POETRY. 297 
 
 tinguished for his address in this point also. After seeming 
 to have left his husbandmen, he again returns to them very 
 naturally by laying hold of some rural circumstance, to 
 terminate his digression. Thus, having spoken of the 
 battle of Pharsalia, he subjoins immediately, with much art? 
 
 Scilicet et tempus veniet, cumfinibus ilhs 
 Agricola, iacurvo terram molitus aratro, 
 Exesa inve-niet scabra rubigine pila ; 
 Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanes, 
 Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulchris. 
 
 Then, after length of time, the lab'ring swame 
 
 Who turn the turf of these unhappy plains, 
 
 Shall rusty arms from the plough'd iurrows take, 
 
 And over empty helmets pass the rake ; 
 
 Amus'd at antique titles on the stones, 
 
 And mighty relics of gigantic bones. Dryderu 
 
 In our own language, as didactic writers, Dr. Akenside, 
 Dr. Armstrong, Dr. Young, Dr. Goldsmith, and Mr. Camp- 
 bell, are all celebrated. In his Pleasures of the Imagina- 
 tion, Dr. Akenside has attempted the most rich and poetical 
 Form of didactic writing; and though, in the execution of 
 the whole he is not equal, he has, in several parts, succeeded 
 happily, and displayed much genius. Dr. Armstrong, in 
 his Art of Preserving Health, has not aimed at so high a 
 strain as the other. But he is more equal ; and maintains, 
 throughout, a chaste and correct elegance. 
 
 As a moral and didactic writer, Dr. Young is very emi- 
 nent. In all his works the marks of strong genius appear. 
 His Universal Passion t possesses the full merit of that ani- 
 mated conciseness of style, and lively description of charac 
 ters, which are particularly requisite in didactic compositions 
 Though his wit may often be thought too sparkling, and his 
 sentences too pointed, yet the vivacity of his fancy is so 
 great, as to entertain every reader. In his Night Thoughts 
 there is great energy of expression, several pathetic passages, 
 many happy images, and many pious reflections. But it 
 must be allowed, that he is sometimes overstrained and 
 turbid, harsh and obscure. 
 
 To illustrate this remark, what passion is given 1 In our language, who 
 are celebrated as didactic writers; and of Dr. Akenside's Pleasures of 
 the Imagination, and Dr. Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, what is 
 remarked 1 As a moral and didactic writer, what is observed of Dr. 
 Young 1 Of his Universal Passion, and of his Night Thoughts, what is 
 yeinarked j but what must be allowed* pi 
 
298 DIDACTIC POETRY. [Lect. 37. 
 
 In praise of the Traveller, and of the Deserted Village, 
 of Dr. Goldsmith, and of the Pleasures of Hope, of Camp- 
 bell, too much can scarcely be said. They are in every 
 one's hands — live in every one's memory — are felt in every 
 one's heart ; and are the daily delight of thousands. Their 
 merits are so universally acknowledged, that the opinion of 
 the critic and the commentator is no longer asked upon 
 them. * Song,' says an elegant writer, ' is but the eloquence 
 of truth ;' and of this eloquence are these poems made up — 
 eloquence that will ever be listened to— truth that it is im- 
 possible to doubt. 
 
 Of didactic poetry, satires and epistles run into the most 
 familiar style. It is probable, that the satire is a relic of 
 the ancient comedy, the grossness of which was corrected 
 by Ennius and Lucilius. It was Horace, however, who 
 brought it to the perfection in which we now behold it. As 
 it professes to have in view the reformation of manners, vice 
 and vicious characters are its objects. It has been carried 
 on in three different ways, by Horace, Juvenal, and Perseus. 
 The satires of Horace have not much elevation. They rise 
 but little above measured prose. Ease and grace are his 
 characteristics ; and he glances rather at the follies and 
 weaknesses of mankind, than at their vices. He reproves 
 with a smiling aspect ; and while he moralizes like a sound 
 philosopher, he discovers the politeness of a courtier. Ju- 
 venal is more declamatory and serious ; and has greater 
 strength and fire. Perseus is distinguished for the noble- 
 ness and sublimity of his morality. 
 
 Poetical epistles, when employed on moral and critical 
 topics, have a resemblance, in the strain of their poetry, to 
 satires. But in the epistolary form, many other subjects 
 may be treated. Love poetry, or elegiac, may, for example, 
 be carried on in this manner. The ethical epistles of Pope 
 are a model ; and he shows in them the strength of his 
 genius. Here he had a full opportunity for displaying his 
 
 What is observed of the Traveller and the Deserted Village of Gold- 
 smith, and of the Pleasures of Hope of Campbell : and how is this remark 
 fully illustrated ! What is the most familiar style of didactic poetry ; and 
 of this what is remarked ? Who perfected it ; and what remarks follow 1 
 What is said of the sat : res of Horace; and of Juvenal and Perseus, also, 
 what is remarked 1 When have poetical epistles a resemblance to satires ; 
 and what remarks follow 1 What is observed of the ethical epistles of Mr. 
 Pope 1 Here, to do what had he an opportunity ; and what is remarked 
 of his imitations of Horace 1 
 
Lect. 37.J DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 299 
 
 judgment and wit, his concise and happy expression, 
 together with the harmony of his numbers. His imitations 
 of Horace are so happy, that it is difficult to say whether 
 the original or the copy is the most to be admired. 
 
 We proceed next to treat of descriptive poetry, in which 
 the highest exertions of genius may be displayed. In 
 general, indeed, description is introduced as an embellish- 
 ment, and constitutes not, properly, any particular species 
 or mode of composition. It is the great test of a poet's 
 imagination, and never fails to distinguish the original from 
 the second-rate genius. A writer of an inferior class, sees 
 nothing new or peculiar in the object he would paint ; his 
 conceptions of it are loose and vague ; and his expressions, 
 feeble and general. A true poet, on the contrary, places an 
 object before our eyes. He catches the distinguishing fea- 
 tures of it ; gives it the color of life and reality ; and places 
 it in such a light that a painter might copy after him. 
 
 The great art of picturesque description lies in the selection 
 of circumstances. In the first place, these should never be 
 vulgar or common ; but as far as possible, new and original, 
 that they may catch the fancy, and attract the attention. In 
 the next place, they ought to be such as particularize the 
 object described, and mark it strongly ; for all distinct ideas 
 are formed upon particulars. In the third place, there should 
 be a uniformity in the circumstances which are selected. In 
 describing a great object, all the circumstances brought for- 
 ward should tend to aggrandize it ; and in exhibiting a gay 
 object, all the circumstances should contribute to increase 
 its beauty. In the last place, the circumstances in descrip- 
 tion should be expressed with conciseness and simplicity ; 
 for, when they are either too much exaggerated, or too long 
 dwelt upon and extended, they never fail to enfeeble the 
 impression that is designed to be made. 
 
 The largest and fullest descriptive performance, in any 
 language, is the Seasons of Thomson — a work which 
 
 To what do we now proceed; and of it what remark follows 1 Of what 
 is it the great test ; what does it always distinguish ; and how is this illus- 
 trated 1 In what does the great art of picturesque description lie ; and in 
 the first place, of these what is remarked ; and why 1 In the next place, 
 of what kind should these be ; and why 1 In the third place, what should 
 there be in the circumstances selected ; and how is this illustrated 1 In 
 the last place, why should the circumstances be expressed with conciseness 
 and simplicity 1 What is the largest descriptive performance in any lan- 
 guage ; and what is said of it 1 
 
300 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [Lect. 3?. 
 
 possesses very uncommon merit. Though the style, in the 
 midst of much splendor and strength, is sometimes harsh 
 and indistinct ; yet, notwithstanding this defect, he is a strong 
 and beautiful describer ; for he possessed a feeling heart, 
 and a warm imagination. He had studied nature with great 
 care ; was enamored of her beauties ; and had the happy 
 talent of painting them like a master. Several instances of 
 most beautiful description might be selected from him, such 
 as the shower in Spring, the morning in Summer, and the 
 man perishing in the snow in Winter. But, at present, we 
 shall produce a passage of another kind, to show the force 
 of a single well chosen circumstance, to heighten a descrip- 
 tion. In his Summer, relating the effect of heat in the torrid 
 zone, he is led to take notice of the pestilence that destroyed 
 the English fleet at Carthagena, under Admiral Vernon. 
 
 You, gallant Vernon, saw 
 
 The miserable scene ; you pitying- saw, 
 To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm; 
 Saw the deep racking pang ; the ghastly form ; 
 The lip pale quiv'ring ; and the beamless eye 
 No more with ardor bright ; you heard the groans 
 Of agonizing ships from shore to shore ; 
 Heard nightly plunged, amid the sullen waves, 
 The frequent corse;. ■ 
 
 All the circumstances here selected, contribute to aug» 
 ment this dismal scene. But the last image, containing the 
 circumstance of dead bodies being thrown overboard every 
 night, is by far the most striking in the picture. 
 
 In genius, Cowper is not equal to Thomson, but he has 
 much more taste. His range is neither so wide, nor so 
 lofty, but, as far as it extends, it is peculiarly his own. He 
 cannot paint the plague, or the snow-storm, or the earth- 
 quake, as Thomson has done ; but accompany him in his 
 * winter walk at noon,' or follow him in his ramble through 
 his flower garden, and where is his equal to be found ? His 
 pictures of domestic life, too, are inimitable. He does not 
 attempt the same variety of scene that Thomson did ; but 
 
 Of the style what is remarked ; yet what follows ; and why 1 What 
 is farther remarked of him 1 Whence might several beautiful descriptions 
 be selected ; but why shall we at present produce a passage of another 
 kind % What are the circumstances that led to the passage ; and what is 
 it 1 Of this passage, what is remarked 1 How does Cowper compare 
 with Thomson; and what remark follows'? In what does Thomson 
 excel him ; but where is he unequalled 1 What does he not attempt ; and 
 what follows ? 
 
Lkc* . 37.] DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 30! 
 
 in what he does attempt he is always successful. Though 
 the grander features of nature may be beyond his grasp, 
 yet the meadow and the hay-field, the ripling rill and the 
 flower crowned porch, he places before our eyes with 
 astonishing accuracy. Sometimes, too, he takes a flight 
 beyond his ordinary reach ; and his personification of Win- 
 ter is powerful, and even sublime : 
 
 Oh Winter ! ruler of the inverted year ! 
 Thy scatter'd hair, with sleet-like ashes fill'd, 
 Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheek 
 Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, 
 A leafless brand) thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
 But urged by storms along its slippery way. 
 
 Cowper's minor poems are full of beauties of the most 
 varied kind; and for pathos and feeling, his lines 'On 
 his Mother's Picture,' are absolutely unrivalled. 
 
 Mr. Parnell's tale of the Hermit, is, throughout the 
 whole of it, conspicuous for beautiful descriptive narration. 
 The setting forth of the hermit to visit the world, his meet- 
 ing with a companion, the houses in which they are enter- 
 tained, of the vain man, the covetous man, and the good man, 
 are pieces of highly finished painting. But the richest and 
 the most remarkable of all the descriptive poems in the 
 English language, are the Allegro and Penseroso of Milton, 
 They are the storehouse from whence succeeding poets 
 have enriched their descriptions, and are to be considered 
 as inimitably fine poems. Take, for instance, the following 
 passage from the Penseroso : 
 
 -I walk unseen 
 
 On the dry, smooth-shaven green, 
 To behold the wandering moon, 
 Riding near her highest noon : 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 
 And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
 I hear the far-off curlew sound, 
 Over some wide watered shore, 
 Swinging; slow with solemn roar ; 
 
 What may be beyond his grasp ; yet what can he place before our eyes 
 with astonishing accuracy? What* too, does he sometimes do; what in- 
 stance is given ; and what also is said of his minor poems 1 What is said 
 of Mr. Parnell's Tale of the Hermit ; and in it, what are pieces of highly 
 finished painting ? Of Milton's Allegro and Penseroso, what is remarked ; 
 and as an illustration of this remark, what passage is given ? 
 
 2*? 
 
302 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. ILect. 37. 
 
 Or, if the air will not permit, 
 
 Some still removed place will fit, 
 
 Where glowing embers through the room 
 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
 
 Far from all resort of mirth, 
 
 Save the cricket on the hearth, 
 
 Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 
 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm; 
 
 Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 
 
 Be seen, in some high lonely tower, 
 
 Exploring Plato to unfold 
 
 What worlds, or what vast regions hold 
 
 Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook 
 
 Her mansion in his fleshly nook ; 
 
 And of those demons that are found 
 
 In nre 3 in air, flood, or under ground. 
 
 All here is particular, picturesque, expressive, and con- 
 cise. The picture is presented to the reader in one strong 
 point of view ; and the impression made is lively and 
 interesting. 
 
 Both Homer and Virgil excel in poetical description. In 
 the second zEneid, the sacking of Troy is so particularly 
 described, that the reader finds himself in the midst of the 
 scene. The death of Priam is a master-piece of description. 
 Homer's battles are wonderful, and universally known. 
 Ossian, too, paints in strong colors, and is remarkable for 
 touching the heart. He thus portrays the ruins of Bal- 
 clutha : ' I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were 
 desolate. The fire had resounded within the halls ; and the 
 voice of the people is now heard no more. The stream of 
 Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the 
 walls ; the thistle shook there its lonely head ; the moss 
 whistled to the wind. The fox looked out of the window ; 
 the rank grass waived round his head. Desolate is the 
 dwelling of Moina; silence is in the house of her fathers.' 
 
 Much of the beauty of descriptive poetry depends upon a 
 proper choice of epithets. With regard to this, poets are 
 too often careless ; and hence the multitude, in constant use, 
 that are both unmeaning and redundant. Every epithet 
 should add a new idea to the word which it qualifies. To 
 observe that water is liquid, and that snow is white, is little 
 better than mere tautology. But the propriety and advantage, 
 
 What is said of this passage % What two ancient poets excel in poetical 
 description ; and in the latter what instances are mentioned 1 Of Ossian, 
 too, what is remarked ; and what illustration follows 1 On what does 
 much of the beauty of descriptive poetry depend ; and with regard to this, 
 what remarks follow ? 
 
Lect. 37.] DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 303 
 
 of an ingenious selection of epithets, will appear best from 
 an example ; and the following lines from Milton, afford 
 one: 
 
 Who shall tempt with wand'ring feet 
 
 The dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss, 
 And through the palpable obscure, find out 
 His uncouth way 1 or spread his airy flight, 
 Upborne with indefatigable wings, 
 Over the vast abrupt ? 
 
 It is obvious that the description here is greatly assisted 
 by the epithets. The wand'ring feet — the unbottomed 
 abyss — the palpable obscure — the uncouth way — the inde- 
 fatigable wing, are all very happy expressions. 
 
 To illustrate these remarks, what passage is given from Milton ; and 
 what is observed of it 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Didactic poetry. 
 
 A. The manner of its execution. 
 
 a. To be rendered interesting 
 
 b. Proper order essential. 
 
 c. The episodes to be skilful- 
 
 ly connected with the 
 main subject. 
 
 B. Didactic writers of eminence. 
 a> Akenside — Armstrong. 
 
 b. Young. 
 
 C Goldsmith and Campbell. 
 
 C. Satires anu poetical epistles, 
 2. Descriptive poetry. 
 
 A. The selection of circum- 
 
 stances. 
 
 B. Distinguished descriptive 
 
 poets. 
 
 a. Thomson — Cowper. 
 
 b. Parnell— Milton. 
 
 c. Homer — Virgil — Ossian. 
 
 C. The choice of epithets. 
 
LECTURE XXXVIII. 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 
 
 Among the various kinds of poetry which we are, at 
 present, examining, that of the Scriptures justly deserves a 
 place. Viewing these sacred hooks in no higher light, than 
 as they present to us the most ancient monuments of poetry 
 at present extant, they afford a curious object of criticism. 
 They display the taste of a remote age and countiy ; and 
 exhibit a species of composition, very different from any 
 other with which we are acquainted, and at the same time, 
 beautiful. Considered as inspired writings, they give rise 
 to discussions of another kind. But it is our business, at 
 present, to consider them in a critical view ; and it is a source 
 of great pleasure, to find the beauty and dignity of the com- 
 position, adequate to the weight and importance of the mat- 
 ter. In pursuing this subject, we shall follow Dr. Lowth's 
 learned treatise, on ' The Sacred Poetry of the Hebrews.' 
 
 Few arguments are necessary to show, that among the 
 books of the Old Testament, there appears such a diver- 
 sity in style, as sufficiently discovers, which of them are to 
 be considered as poetical, and which as prose compositions. 
 While the historical books, and legislative writings of Moses, 
 are evidently prosaic in the composition, the book of Job, the 
 Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, the Lamentations 
 of Jeremiah, a great part of the prophetical writings, and 
 several passages scattered through the historical books, 
 carry the most plain and distinguishing marks of poetical 
 writing. 
 
 Poetry was cultivated among the Hebrews from the ear- 
 liest times ; but in its general construction, Hebrew poetry 
 is peculiar to itself. It consists in dividing every period 
 into correspondent, for the most part into equal numbers, 
 
 Among the various kinds of poetry that we are at present examining, 
 what deserves a place ; and in what view do these sacred books afford a 
 curious object of criticism ? What do they display ; and what exhibit 1 
 But how is it our business, at present, to consider them ; and what remark 
 follows 1 To show what, are few arguments necessary ; and how is this 
 remark illustrated 1 What is remarked of Hebrew poetry ; and in what 
 does it consist 1 
 
Lect. 38.J THE POETRY, &c. 306 
 
 which answer to one another, both in sense and sound. In 
 the first member of the period a sentiment is expressed ; and 
 in the second member, the same sentiment is amplified, or is 
 repeated in different terms, or sometimes contrasted with its 
 opposite ; but in such a manner, that the same structure, and 
 nearly the same number of words, is preserved. This is the 
 general strain of Hebrew poetry ; instances of which occur 
 every where in the Old Testament. Thus, in the XCVIth 
 Psalm : ' Sing unto the Lord a new song — sing unto the 
 Lord all the earth. Sing unto the Lord, and bless his name — 
 show forth his salvation from day to day. Declare his glory 
 among the heathen — his wonders among all the people. 
 For the Lord is great, and greatly to be praised — he is to be 
 feared above all the gods. Honor and majesty are before 
 him — strength and beauty are in his sanctuary.' It is 
 owing, in a great measure, to this form of composition, that 
 our version, though in prose, retains so much of a poetical 
 cast ; for the version being strictly word for word after the 
 original, the form and order of the original sentences are 
 still preserved. 
 
 This form of poetical composition among the Hebrews, is 
 clearly to be deduced from the manner in which their sacred 
 hymns were sung. They were accompanied with music, 
 and they were performed by choirs or bands of singers and 
 musicians, who answered alternately to each other. When, 
 for instance, one band began the hymn thus : ' The Lord 
 reigneth, let the earth rejoice ;' the chorus, or semi-chorus, 
 took up the corresponding versicle ; ' Let the multitude of 
 the isles be glad thereof.' — ' Clouds and darkness are round 
 about him,' sung the one ; the other replied, ' Judgment and 
 righteousness are the habitation of his throne.' And in this 
 manner their poetry, when set to music, naturally divided 
 itself into a succession of strophes and antistrophes, corres- 
 pondent to each other ; whence, it is probable, the responsory, 
 in the public religious service of some christian churches, 
 derived its origin. 
 
 But independent of its peculiar mode of construction, the 
 
 How is this illustrated ; and what instance is given 1 To this form what 
 is owing ; and why 1 From what is this form of composition among the 
 Hebrews to he deduced ; and by what were they accompanied 1 What in- 
 stances are given to illustrate this remark 1 How did their poetry naturally 
 divide itself; and from this, what, probably, derived its origin ? But in- 
 dependent of its mode of construction, by what is the Hebrew poetry 
 distinguished ; and what are two of its most remarkable characters 1 
 
 36* 
 
306 THE POETRY OF [Lect. 38. 
 
 sacred poetry is distinguished by the highest beauties of 
 strong, concise, bold, and figurative expression. Conciseness 
 and strength are two of its most remarkable characters. 
 We might, indeed, at first imagine, that the practice of the 
 Hebrew poets, of always amplifying the same thought by 
 repetition or contrast, might tend to enfeeble their style. 
 But this effect is not produced. Their sentences are always 
 short ; and there are no superfluous words. They never 
 dwell long upon the same thought. To their conciseness of 
 expression their poetry is indebted for much of its sublimity ; 
 and all writers who attempt the sublime, might profit much 
 by imitating, in this respect, the style of the Old Testament. 
 
 No writings whatever abound so much with bold and ani- 
 mated figures, as the sacred books. But, through our early 
 familiarity with the Scriptures, we are apt to overlook beau- 
 ties in them, which, in any other book, would attract par- 
 ticular attention. Metaphors, comparisons, allegories, and 
 personifications, occur there very frequently. In order to 
 do justice to these, however, it is necessary that we trans- 
 port ourselves, as much as possible, into the land of Judea ; 
 and place before our eyes that scenery, and those objects, 
 with which the Hebrew writers were conversant. Some 
 attention of this kind is requisite, in order to relish the 
 writings of any poet of a foreign country, and a different 
 age ; for the imagery of every good poet is copied from 
 nature, and from real life. 
 
 Natural objects are common, in some degree, to the He- 
 brews with the poets of all ages and countries. Light and 
 darkness, trees and flowers, suggest to them many beautiful 
 figures. But, in order to enjoy their figures of this kind, 
 we must remember, that several of them arise from the par- 
 ticular circumstances of the land of Judea. During the 
 summer months, little or no rain falls throughout all that 
 region. While the heat continued, the country was intolera- 
 bly parched : want of water was a great distress ; and a 
 
 What might we at first imagine; but how does it appear that this effect 
 is not produced 1 To what is their poetry indebted for much of its sub- 
 limity ; and what remark follows 1 With what figures do the sacred books 
 abound : but from our early familiarity with them, what results'? What 
 figures occur there very frequently ; but in order to do justice to them, 
 what is necessary 1 Why is some attention of this kind requisite, to relish 
 the writings of any foreign poet 1 What are common to the Hebrews, 
 with the poets of other countries ; and what illustration follows 1 But in 
 order to enjoy their figures of this kind, what must we remember j and 
 bow is this remark fully illustrated ? 
 
Lect. 38.] THE HEBREWS. 30? 
 
 plentiful shower falling-, or a rivulet breaking forth, altered 
 the whole face of nature, and introduced much higher ideas 
 of refreshment and pleasure, than the same causes can possi- 
 bly suggest to us. Hence to represent distress, such frequent 
 allusions were made by them to ' a dry and thirsty land, 
 where no water is;' and hence to describe a change from 
 distress to prosperity, their metaphors are founded on the 
 falling of showers, and the bursting out of springs in the 
 desert. Thus in Isaiah : ■ The wilderness and solitary 
 place shall be glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom 
 as the rose. For in the wilderness shall waters break out, 
 and streams in the desert ; and the parched ground shall be- 
 come a pool ; and the thirsty land, springs of water; in the 
 habitations of dragons there shall be grass, with rushes and 
 reeds.' 
 
 Of the mountains of Judea, the two most remarkable were 
 Lebanon and Carmel — the former noted for its height, and 
 the woods of lofty cedars that covered it ; the latter, for its 
 beauty and fertility, and the richness of its vines and olives. 
 Hence, with the greatest propriety, Lebanon is employed as 
 an image of whatever is great, strong, or magnificent ; 
 Carmel, of what is smiling and beautiful. ' The glory of 
 Lebanon,' says Isaiah, ' shall be given to it, and the ex- 
 cellency of Carmel.' Lebanon is often put metaphorically 
 for the temple, or for the whole state or people of Israel ; 
 Carmel, for the blessings of peace and prosperity. ' His 
 countenance is as Lebanon,' says Solomon, speaking of the 
 dignity of man's appearance ; but when he describes female 
 beauty, ' Thine head is like mount Carmel.' In images of 
 the awful and terrible kind, with which the sacred poets 
 abound, they plainly draw their descriptions from that 
 violence of the elements, and those concussions of nature, 
 with which their climate rendered them familiar. Earth- 
 quakes were frequent ; and the tempests of hail, thunder, 
 and lightning, in Judea, accompanied with whirlwinds and 
 darkness, far exceed any thing of that sort which happens 
 in more temperate regions. 
 
 Hence, what follows ; and what illustration is also given from Isaiah 1 
 Which were the two most remarkable mountains of Judea ; and for what 
 were they respectively noted 1 Hence, with the greatest propriety, what is 
 done ; and what illustrations are given from Isaiah, and from Solomon 1 
 Whence do they draw their images of the aw^ul and the terrible kind also ; 
 and how is this il'ustrated 1 
 
308 THE POETRY OF [Lect. 38 
 
 Besides the natural objects of their country, the rites of 
 their religion, and the arts and employments of their com- 
 mon life, were frequently employed as grounds of imagery 
 among the Hebrews. They were chiefly occupied with agri- 
 culture and pasturage. These were arts held in high honor 
 among them — not even disdained by their patriarchs, kings, 
 and prophets. Little addicted to commerce ; separated from 
 the rest of the world by their laws and their religion ; they 
 were, during the better days of their state, strangers, in a 
 great measure, to the refinements of luxury. Hence, 
 naturally flowed, the many allusions to pastoral life — to the 
 4 green pastures and the still waters,' and to the care and 
 watchfulness of a shepherd over his flock, which convey, 
 to this day, so much beauty and tenderness in them, in the 
 XXIIId Psalm, and in many other passages of the poetical 
 writings of Scripture. Hence, all the images founded upon 
 rural employments, upon the winepress, the threshing-floor, 
 the stubble and the chaff; and to disrelish such images, is 
 the effect of false delicacy. 
 
 The comparisons employed by the sacred poets are 
 generally short, touching on one point of resemblance only. 
 In this respect, they have the advantage over the Greek and 
 Roman authors ; whose comparisons, from their length, 
 sometimes interrupt the narration, and carry visible marks 
 of study and labor. But in the Hebrew poets, they appear 
 more like the glowings of a lively fancy, just glancing aside 
 to some resembling object, and soon returning to its track. 
 Such is the following fine comparison, in which the influence 
 of a good government upon a people, is described. ' He 
 that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God ; 
 and he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun 
 riseth ; even a morning without clouds ; as the tender grass 
 springing out of the earth, by clear shining after the rain.' 
 This is one of the most regular and formal comparisons in 
 the sacred books. 
 
 Allegory, likewise, is a figure frequently found in them. 
 
 Besides the natural objects of their country, what were frequently em- 
 ployed as grounds of imagery among the Hebrews 1 Of their habits, occu- 
 pations, and situation, what is remarked ; and hence what allusions natu- 
 rally flowed? Hence, also, what images; and of what is the disrelish of 
 such images the effect? Of the comparisons employed by the sacred poets, 
 what is remarked ; and how do they compare with those employed by 
 the Greeks and Romans'? How is this illustrated; and what example 
 is given from Isaiah 1 Of allegory, what instance was formerly given ; 
 and what is observed of it 1 
 
Lect. 38.] THE HEBREWS. 309 
 
 When formerly treating of this figure, we gave for an in- 
 stance of it, that remarkably fine and well supported alle- 
 gory, which occurs in the LXXXth Psalm, in which the 
 people of Israel are compared to a vine. Of parables, 
 which are a species of allegory, the prophetic writings are 
 full; and if to us they sometimes appear obscure, we must 
 remember, that in those early times, it was the universal 
 mode throughout all the eastern nations, to convey sacred 
 truths under mysterious figures and representations. 
 
 But the figure which, beyond all others, elevates the 
 poetical style of the Scriptures, is personification. The per- 
 sonifications of the Scriptures exceed, in boldness and 
 sublimity, every thing that can be found in other poems. 
 This is more particularly the case when any appearance or 
 operation of the Almighty is concerned. ' Before him went 
 the pestilence — the waters saw thee, O God, and were 
 afraid — the mountains saw thee, and they trembled — the 
 overflowing of the water passed by — the deep uttered his 
 voice, and lifted up his hands on high.' Indeed, the style of 
 the poetical books of the Old Testament is, beyond the style of 
 all other poetical works, fervid, bold, and animated. It is 
 very different from that regular, correct expression, to which 
 our ears are accustomed in modern poetry. It is the burst 
 of inspiration. The scenes are not coolly described, but 
 represented as passing before our eyes. Every object, and 
 every person, is addressed and spoken to as if present. Bold 
 sublimity, not correct elegance, is its character. We see the 
 spirit of the writer raised beyond himself, and laboring to 
 find vent for ideas too mighty for his utterance 
 
 After these general remarks on the poetry of the Scrip- 
 tures, we shall conclude this subject with a short account of 
 the different kinds of poetical composition in the sacred 
 books, and of the distinguishing characters of some of the 
 chief writers. 
 
 The several kinds of poetical composition found in Scrip- 
 ture, are chiefly the didactic, elegiac, pastoral, and lyric. 
 
 Of parables what is remarked ; and if to us they sometimes appear 
 obscure, what must we remember 1 What figure is it that most elevates 
 the poetical style of the Scriptures ; and what is remarked of them 1 
 When is this more particularly the case ; and what example is given ! In 
 what respects does the style of the poetical books of the Old Testament 
 surpass the style of all other poetical works ; and how is this fully illus- 
 trated 1 After these general remarks, with what shall we conclude this sub- 
 ject ? What are the several kinds of poetical composition found in Scripture 1 
 
310 THE POETRY OF [Lect. 38. 
 
 Of the didactic species of poetry, the book of Proverbs is 
 the principal instance. The first nine chapters of that book 
 are highly poetical, adorned with many distinguished graces 
 and figures of expression. At the tenth chapter the style is 
 sensibly altered, and descends into a lower strain, which is 
 continued to the end. Of elegiac poetry, many very beau- 
 tiful specimens occur in Scripture ; such as the lamentation 
 of David over his friend Jonathan ; several passages in the 
 prophetical books ; and several of David's Psalms, com- 
 posed on occasions of distress and mourning. But the most 
 regular and perfect elegiac composition in the Scripture, and, 
 perhaps, ever composed, is the book entitled the Lamentation 
 of Jeremiah. As the prophet mourns over the destruction 
 of the temple, and the holy city, and the overthrow of the 
 whole state, he assembles all the affecting images which a 
 subject so melancholy could possibly suggest. 
 
 The Song of Solomon affords us a high exemplification of 
 pastoral poetry. In its form, it is a dramatic pastoral, or a 
 continued dialogue between personages in the character of 
 shepherds ; and suitably to that form, it is full of rural and 
 pastoral images throughout. Of lyric poetry, the Old Tes- 
 tament is full. Besides a great number of hymns and songs, 
 scattered in the historical and prophetical books, the whole 
 book of Psalms is to be considered as a collection of sacred 
 odes. In these we find the ode exhibited in all the vari- 
 eties of its form, and supported with the highest spirit of 
 lyric poetry ; sometimes sprightly, cheerful, and triumphant ; 
 sometimes solemn and magnificent ; and sometimes tender 
 and soft. 
 
 With regard to the composers of the sacred books, it is 
 obvious that there is great diversity, both in style and man- 
 ner. Of the sacred poets, the most eminent are, the author 
 of the book of Job, David, and Isaiah. In the compo- 
 sitions of David, there is a great variety in the style and 
 manner. In the pleasing, the soft, and the tender, he ex- 
 cels. In his Psalms there are many lofty and sublime 
 
 Of the didactic, what is the principal instance ; and what is remarked of 
 it 1 What instances of elegiac poetry are found in Scripture ; and what 
 is particularly remarked of the Lamentations of Jeremiah 1 Of what 
 kind does the Song of Solomon afford an exemplification ; and what is said 
 of it 1 Of the lyric poetry what is remarked ; and what is said of the 
 Psalms 7 With regard to the compositions of the sacred books, what is 
 obvious ; and of the sacred poets who are the most eminent^ What is 
 said of the compositions of David ; and in what Psalms does he affect us 
 most l 
 
Lect. 38.] THE HEBREWS. 311 
 
 passages ; but in strength of description he yields to Job , 
 in sublimity, to Isaiah. The Psalms in which he affects 
 us most, are those in which he describes the happiness of 
 the righteous, or the goodness of God ; expresses the tender 
 breathings of a devout mind, or sends up moving and 
 affectionate supplications to Heaven. 
 
 Isaiah is, without exception, the most sublime of all poets. 
 Majesty is his reigning character ; and in his conceptions 
 and expressions, he possesses a dignity and grandeur, which 
 is altogether unparalleled, and peculiar to himself. When 
 we compare him with the rest of the poetical prophets, we 
 immediately see in Jeremiah a very different genius. Isaiah 
 employs himself, generally, on magnificent subjects. Jere- 
 miah seldom discovers any disposition to be sublime, and 
 inclines always to the tender and elegiac. Ezekiel, in 
 poetical grace and elegance, is much inferior to them both ; 
 but he is distinguished by a character of uncommon force and 
 ardor. Bishop Lowth compares Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah 
 to Simonides, and Ezekiel toiEschylus. 
 
 The book of Job remains to be noticed. It is known to 
 be extremely ancient, and the author of it is uncertain. It 
 is remarkable that this book has no connection with the 
 affairs or manners of the Jews or Hebrews. The poetry of 
 it, however, is not only equal to that of any other of the 
 sacred writings, but is superior to them all, Isaiah excepted. 
 It abounds in a peculiar glow of fancy, and in metaphor. 
 The author renders whatever he treats of, visible. The 
 scene is laid in the land of Uz, or tdumsea ; and the imagery 
 employed in it differs from that which was before observed to 
 be peculiar to the Hebrew poets. 
 
 What is observed of Isaiah ; and how does he compare with the rest 
 of the poetical prophets. Of Jeremiah, and of Ezekiel, what is remarked 1 
 Repeat the following observations on the book of Job. 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Introductory remarks. 
 
 2. The diversity of style of the 
 
 Old Testament. 
 
 3. The peculiar construction of 
 
 Hebrew poetry. 
 A. Its origin. 
 
 4. Figurative language of the 
 
 Scriptures. 
 
 A. Its boldness. 
 
 B. Imagery peculiar to them- 
 
 selves. 
 
 a. Illustrated. 
 
 C. Religious rites, &c. em- 
 
 ployed. 
 
 D. Comparisons. 
 
 E. Allegory. 
 
 F. Personification. 
 
 5. The different kinds of Hebrew 
 poetry. 
 
 A. Distinguished Hebrew poet*. 
 
 B. The book of Job. 
 
LECTURE XXXIX. 
 
 EPIC POETRY. 
 
 It now remains to treat of the two higher kinds of 
 poetical writing- — the epic and the dramatic. In this lecture 
 we shall examine the general principles of epic composition ; 
 after which we shall take a view of the character and genius 
 of the most celebrated epic poets. 
 
 Of all poetical works, the epic poem is uniformly allowed 
 to be the most dignified, and, at the same time, the most 
 difficult of execution. To contrive a story which shall, at 
 once, be entertaining, important, and instructive ; to fill it 
 with suitable incidents ; to enliven it with a variety of cha- 
 racters and of descriptions; and, throughout a long work, 
 to maintain that propriety of sentiment, and that elevation of 
 style, which the epic requires, is unquestionably the highest 
 effort of poetical genius. Hence so very few have succeeded 
 in the attempt, that some critics will hardly allow any other 
 poems to bear the name of epic, besides the Iliad and the 
 ^Eneid. 
 
 An epic poem may be defined to be, the recital of some 
 illustrious enterprise in a poetical form. In this definition, 
 which is sufficiently exact, are included, besides the two 
 illustrious works already mentioned, Lucan's Pharsalia, 
 Tasso's Jerusalem, Camoens' Lusiad, Fenelon's Telemachus, 
 Voltaire's Henriade, and Milton's Paradise Lost. These 
 are all epics, because they are poetical recitals of great ad- 
 ventures ; which is all that is meant by this denomination 
 of poetry. 
 
 Though it may not be allowed that it is the essence of an 
 epic poem to be wholly an allegory, or a fable contrived to 
 illustrate some moral truth, yet no poetry is certainly of a 
 more moral nature than this. Its effect in promoting virtue, 
 is not to be measured by any one maxim, or instruction, 
 
 What now remains to be treated of; and in this lecture, what shall we 
 do 1 Of the epic poem, what is uniformly allowed ; and what is unques- 
 tionably the highest effort of poetical genius 1 Hence what has followed 1 
 "What is the definition of an epic poem ; in this definition what are in- 
 cluded ; and why 1 Of the morality of the epic poem, what is remarked ; 
 and what is observed of its effect in promoting virtue 1 
 
Lect. 39.] EPIC POETRY. 313 
 
 which results from the whole story, but it arises from the im 
 pression which the parts of the poem separately, as well as 
 the whole 'aken together, make upon the mind of the reader — 
 from the great examples which it sets before us, and the high 
 sentiments with which it warms our hearts. The end 
 which it proposes is to extend our ideas of human perfection, 
 and to excite our admiration. Valor, truth, justice, fidelity, 
 friendship, piety, and magnanimity, are, consequently, pre- 
 sented to our minds in it, under the most splendid and honor- 
 able colors. In behalf of virtuous personages our affections 
 are engaged ; in their designs and their distresses, we are 
 interested ; the generous and public affections are awakened; 
 the mind is purified from sensual and mean pursuits, and 
 accustomed to take part in great heroic enterprises. 
 
 It is, indeed, no small testimony in honor of virtue, that 
 several of the most refined and elegant entertainments of 
 mankind, such as that species of poetical composition which 
 we are now considering, must be grounded on moral senti- 
 ments and impressions. This is a testimony of such weight, 
 that, were it in the power of skeptical philosophers to weaken 
 the force of those reasonings which establish the essential 
 distinctions between vice and virtue, the writings of epic 
 poets alone, would be sufficient to refute their false philoso- 
 phy — showing, by that appeal which they constantly make 
 to the feelings of mankind in favor of virtue, that the found- 
 ations of it are laid deep and strong in human nature. 
 
 The general strain and spirit of epic composition, suf- 
 ficiently distinguish it from the other kinds of poetry. In 
 pastoral writing, the reigning idea is innocence and tran- 
 quillity ; and of tragedy, the great object is compassion : 
 but the predominant character of the epic is, admiration ex- 
 cited by heroic actions. It is sufficiently distinguished from 
 history, both by its poetical form, and the liberty of fiction 
 which it assumes. It requires, more than any other species 
 of poetry, a grave, equal, and supported dignity. It takes 
 in a greater compass of time and action, than dramatic 
 writing admits ; and thereby allows a more full display of 
 
 What is the end which it proposes ; and what consequence follows 1 
 Illustrative of this, what is farther observed ? What is no small testimony 
 in honor of virtue; and of this testimony what is remarked 1 What 
 sufficiently distinguishes epic composition from the other kinds of poetry ; 
 and how is this illustrated 1 By what is it sufficiently distinguished from 
 history ; and what does it require ? How does it compare with dramatic 
 writing ; and what, follows 1 
 27 
 
314 EPIC POETRY. [Lect. 39. 
 
 characters. Dramatic writings display characters chiefly 
 by means of sentiments and passions ; epic poetry, chiefly 
 by means of actions. The emotions, therefore, which it 
 raises, are not so violent, but they are more prolonged. 
 Having thus given the general characteristics of the epic 
 poem, we shall next consider this species of composition 
 under three heads : first, with respect to the subject, or 
 action ; secondly, with respect to the actors, or characters ; 
 and lastly, with respect to the narration of the poet. 
 
 The action or subject of the epic poem, must have three 
 properties ; it must be one ; it must be great ; it must be 
 interesting. 
 
 First, the poet must choose one action, or enterprise, for 
 his subject. Aristotle, with great propriety, insists upon this 
 as essential to epic poetry ; and it is, indeed, the most mate- 
 rial of all his rules respecting it. For it is certain that, 
 in the recital of heroic adventures, several scattered and in- 
 dependent facts can never affect a reader so deeply, nor 
 engage his attention so strongly, as a tale that is one and 
 connected, where the several incidents hang upon one 
 another, and are all made to conspire for the accomplishment 
 of one end. In a regular epic, the more sensible this unity 
 is rendered to the imagination, the better will the effect be ; 
 and, for this reason, it is not sufficient for the poet to confine 
 himself to the actions of one man, or to those which hap- 
 oened during a certain period of time ; but the unity must 
 lie in the subject itself, and arise from all the parts combined 
 into one whole. 
 
 In all the great epic poems, unity of action is sufficiently 
 apparent. Virgil, for instance, has chosen for his subject, 
 the establishment of iEneas in Italy. From the beginning 
 to the end of the poem, this object is ever in our view, and 
 links all the parts of it together with full connection. The 
 unity of the Odyssey is of the same nature — the return and 
 re-establishment of Ulysses in his own country. The sub- 
 ject of Tasso is the recovery of Jerusalem from the infidels ; 
 that of Milton, the expulsion of our first parents from Para- 
 Having thus given the general characteristics of epic poetry, under 
 what three heads do we next proceed to consider it 1 What three proper- 
 ties must the action of the epic poem have 1 First, what must the poet 
 do ; what is said of this ; and why 7 Of this unity in a regular epic, what 
 is observed ; for this reason what is not sufficient ; and where must the 
 unity lie 1 How does it appear that in all the great epic poems, unity of 
 action is sufficiently apparent 1 
 
Lect. 39.] EPIC POETRY. 315 
 
 dise ; and both of them are unexceptionable in the unity of 
 the story. The professed subject of the Iliad is the anger 
 of Achilles, with the consequences which it produced. But 
 as Achilles is frequently out of sight, it must be confessed 
 that the unity is not so sensible to the imagination in this 
 poem as in the iEneid. 
 
 It is not, however, to be understood, that the unity of the 
 epic action is to exclude all episodes. On the contrary, the 
 epic poem would be cold without them. What we now un- 
 derstand by episodes is, certain actions or incidents intro- 
 duced into the narration, connected with the principal action, 
 yet not of such importance as to destroy, if they had been 
 omitted, the main subject of the poem. Of this nature are 
 the interview of Hector with Andromache, in the Iliad ; 
 the story of Nisus and Euryalus, in the iEneid ; and the 
 prospect of his descendant exhibited to Adam, in the last 
 books of Paradise Lost. 
 
 In the use of episodes, the following rules must be ob- 
 served : First, they must be naturally introduced, and have 
 such connection with the main subject of the poem, as 
 to seem inferior parts that belong to it. The episode of 
 Olinda and Sophronia, in the second book of Tasso's Jeru- 
 salem, transgresses this rule. It is too much detached from 
 the rest of the work ; and being introduced so near the 
 opening of the poem, misleads the reader into an expectation 
 that it is to be of some future consequence, whereas it proves 
 to be connected with nothing that follows. In the next place, 
 episodes ought to present to us objects of a different kind 
 from those which go before, and those which follow in the 
 course of the poem. For, it is principally for the sake of 
 variety, that episodes are introduced into epic composition. 
 In so long a work, they tend to diversify the subject, and to 
 relieve the reader by changing the scene. In the midst of 
 combats, therefore, a martial episode would not be appro- 
 priate ; but Hector's visit to Andromache, affords a pleasing 
 retreat from camps and battles Lastly, as an episode is a 
 
 What is the professed subject of the Iliad ; and what is remarked of 
 it ?- What is not, however, to be understood ; why ; and what do we now 
 understand by episodes 1 Of this nature are what episodes % In the use 
 of episodes, what is the first rule to be observed 1 What episode trans- 
 gresses this rule ; and why ? In the next place, what should episodes 
 present to us; why; and what remark follows? What illustration is 
 given 1 In the last place, what should be the character of episodes ; and 
 what follows 1 
 
316 EPIC POETRY. [Lect. 39. 
 
 professed embellishment, it ought to be particularly elegant 
 and well finished ; and, accordingly, it is, for the most part, 
 in pieces of this kind, that poets put forth their strength. 
 
 The second property of the epic action is, that it be great — 
 that it have sufficient splendor and importance, both to fix 
 our attention, and to justify the magnificent apparatus which 
 the poet bestows upon it. This is so evidently requisite, 
 that all who have attempted epic poetry, have succeeded in 
 choosing some subject sufficiently important, either by the 
 nature of the action, or by the fame of the personages con- 
 cerned in it. It contributes to the grandeur of the epic subject, 
 that it be not of modern date, nor fall within any period of 
 history with which we are intimately acquainted. Both 
 Lucan and Voltaire have, in the choice of their subjects, 
 transgressed this rule. The former does not please by con- 
 fining himself too strictly to historical truth ; and the latter 
 has improperly mingled well known events, with fiction. 
 Hence they exhibit not that greatness which the epic 
 requires. 
 
 The third property required in an epic poem is, that it be 
 interesting. It is not sufficient for this purpose that it be 
 great ; for deeds of mere valor, however heroic, may prove 
 cold and tiresome. Much will depend upon the happy 
 choice of some subject, which shall, by its nature, interest 
 the public ; as when the poet selects for his hero, one who 
 is the founder, the deliverer, or the favorite of his country. 
 But the chief circumstance which renders an epic poem in- 
 teresting, and which tends to interest, not one age or coun- 
 try alone, but all readers, is the skilfuil management of the 
 subject. The author must so contrive his plan, as that it 
 shall comprehend many affecting incidents. He must not 
 perpetually dazzle us with valiant achievements ; but he 
 must study to touch our hearts. He may sometimes be 
 awful and august; but he must often be tender and pathetic. 
 The more an epic poem abounds with situations which 
 awaken the feelings of humanity, the more interesting it is ; 
 
 What is the second property of the epic action 1 That this is indis- 
 pensably requisite, what proof have we 1 What contributes to the gran- 
 deur of the epic subject ; and who have transgressed this rule ? Why do 
 they not please ; and hence what follows % What is the third property 
 required in an epic poem 1 For this purpose what is not sufficient ; why ; 
 and on what will much depend 7 But what is the chief circumstance 
 which renders an epic poem interesting ; and how is this illustrated 1 What 
 must he not, and what must he do 1 In proportion to what is an epic poem 
 interesting ; and what remark follows 1 
 
Lect. 39.] EPIC POETRY. 317 
 
 and these always form the favorite passages of the work. 
 To render the epic interesting, great care must also be em- 
 ployed with respect to the character of the herces. He must 
 rouse our attention by a prospect of the difficulties which 
 seem to threaten disappointment to their enterprises ; he 
 must make these difficulties grow and thicken upon us by 
 degrees ; till after having kept us for some time in a state of 
 agitation and suspense, he paves the way, by a proper pre- 
 paration of incidents, for the winding up of the plot, in a 
 natural and probable manner. 
 
 Critics ha^s : generally inclined to think that the epic poem 
 should conclude happily ; and this seems to be natural. An 
 unhappy conclusion depresses the mind, and is opposed to 
 the elevating emotions which belong to this species of poetry. 
 Terror and compassion are the proper subjects of tragedy ; 
 but as the epic poem is of larger compass and extent, it 
 would be too much, if after the difficulties and troubles 
 which commonly abound in the progress of the poem, that 
 the author should bring them all at last to an unfortunate 
 issue. Accordingly, the general practice of epic poets is 
 on the side of a prosperous conclusion ; not, however, with- 
 out some exceptions. For two authors of great name — Lu- 
 can and Milton, have followed a contrary course ; the one 
 concluding with the subversion of Roman liberty, and the 
 other with the expulsion of man from Paradise. 
 
 With regard to the time of the epic action, no precise 
 boundaries can be ascertained. A considerable extent is 
 always allowed to it, as it does not necessarily depend on 
 those violent passions which can be supposed to have only a 
 short continuance. Of the Iliad, the action, according to 
 Bossu, lasts no longer than forty -seven days. The action 
 of the Odyssey extends to eight years and a half; and that 
 of the iEneid includes about six years. 
 
 From the action of the epic, we proceed to the actors or 
 personages. The personages in an epic poem should be 
 
 To render the epic interesting, about what, also, must great care be 
 taken ; and how is this fully illustrated 1 What have critics generally in- 
 clined to think ; and why does this seem natural 1 Of what are terror and 
 compassion the proper subjects ; but of the epic what is remarked 1 Ac- 
 cordingly , what has been the general practice ; but to this, what exceptions 
 have we 1 With regard to the time of the epic action, what is remarked ; 
 and why is considerable extent allowed to it 1 What is the time of the 
 Iliad, of the Odyssey, and of the iEneid 1 From the action, to what 
 do we proceed ; and of them what is remarked ? 
 27* 
 
318 EPIC POETRY. [Lect. 39 
 
 proper and well supported. They should display the features 
 of human nature; and admit of different degrees of virtue 
 and turpitude. But whatever the character be which a poet 
 gives to any of his actors, he must be careful to preserve it 
 uniform and consistent throughout. Poetic characters are 
 of two sorts — general and particular. General characters 
 are such as are wise, brave, and virtuous, without any far- 
 ther distinction. Particular characters express the species 
 of bravery, of wisdom, or of virtue, for which any one is 
 eminent. They exhibit the peculiar features which distin- 
 guish one individual from another, and which mark the 
 difference of the same moral quality in different men, accord- 
 ing as it is combined with other dispositions in their temper. 
 In this discrimination of characters, Homer excels. Tasso 
 approaches the nearest to him in this respect ; but here, Vir- 
 gil is greatly deficient. 
 
 Among epic poets, it is the practice to select some particu- 
 lar personage as the hero. This is considered essential to 
 epic composition, and is attended with several advantages. 
 It renders the unity of the subject more sensible, when there 
 is one principal figure, to which, as to a centre, all the res 
 refer. It tends to interest us more in the enterprise which 
 is carried on ; and it gives the poet an opportunity of exert- 
 ing his talents to adorn and display one character with 
 peculiar splendor. It has been asked, Who then is the hero 
 of Paradise Lost? The devil, it has been answered by 
 some critics ; and, in consequence of this idea, much ridicule 
 has been thrown upon Milton. But they have mistaken 
 that author's intention, by proceeding upon the supposition, 
 that in the conclusion of the poem, the hero must necessarily 
 be triumphant. But Milton has given a tragical conclusion 
 to his poem; and has evidently made Adam his hero. 
 
 In epic poetry, besides human characters, gods and super- 
 natural beings are introduced. This forms what is called 
 the machinery of the epic ; and the French suppose it essen- 
 tial to this species of poetry. They conceive, that in every 
 
 Poetic characters are of what two sorts ; and what is said of each 1 
 What do the latter exhibit ; and in this particular what is said of Homsr, 
 Tasso, and Virgil 1 Among epic poets, what practice has prevailed ; and 
 what advantages result from it ] "Who is the hero of Milton's Paradise 
 Lost 1 In epic poetry, what besides human characters have been intro- 
 duced ; and what does this form 1 Why do the French think this essential 
 to epic poetry ; but why does there seem to be no solid reason for their 
 opinion 1 
 
Lect. 39.] k EPIC POETRY. 319 
 
 epic, the main action ougb to be carried on by the interven- 
 tion of the gods. But there seems to be no solid reason for 
 their opinion. Lucan's poem is very spirited, and certainly 
 epic ; but neither gods nor supernatural beings are employed 
 in it. But if machinery be not absolutely necessary to the 
 epic poem, it ought not to be totally excluded. The mar- 
 vellous has a great charm for the generality of readers. It 
 gratifies and fills the imagination, and affords opportunity 
 for much sublime description. At the same time, it becomes 
 the poet to be temperate in the use of supernatural beings ; 
 and to employ the religious faith or superstition of his coun- 
 try in such a way, as to give an air of probability to events, 
 that are most contrary to the ordinary course of nature. 
 
 With regard to allegorical personages, such as Fame, 
 Discord, Love, and such like, they always form the worst 
 possible machinery. In description they may be allowed ; 
 but they should never bear any part in the action of the 
 poem. As they are only mere names of general ideas, they 
 ought not to be considered as persons, and cannot mingle 
 with human actions, without an unseemly confusion of 
 shadows with realities. 
 
 As to the narration of the epic poem, it is of little conse- 
 quence whether it proceeds in the character of the poet or 
 in the person of some of the actors. It is to be observed, 
 however, that if the narrative be given by any of the actors, 
 it affords the poet the advantage of spreading out such parts 
 of the subject as he inclines to dwell upon in person, and of 
 comprehending the rest within a short recitaL 
 
 But why should not machinery be totally excluded from if? At the 
 same time, what does it become the poet to do 1 What is observed of alle- 
 gorical personages ; and how is this illustrated 1 What two courses may 
 be pursued in narration ; and what are the advantages of the latter 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 Epic poetry. 
 
 1. The definition of an epic poem 
 A. Its design. 
 
 2. The character of the epic. 
 
 A. Unity in the aetion. 
 
 a. Illustrated. B. The machinery. 
 
 b. Episodes — their requisites. I 4. The narration. 
 
 B. The action to be great. { 
 
 C. To be interesting also, 
 a. The close. 
 
 D. The time of the action. 
 3. The personages. 
 
 A. The hero. 
 
LECTURE XL. 
 
 HOMER'S ILIAD AND ODYSSEY— VIRGIL'S 
 ^ENEID— LUCAN'S PHARSALIA, 
 
 As the epic poem is universally allowed to possess the 
 highest rank among- poetical works, it merits a particular 
 discussion. Having treated of the nature of this composi- 
 tion, and the principal rules that relate to it, we proceed 
 to make some observations on the most distinguished epic 
 poems, both ancient and modern. 
 
 Homey, as the father of epic poetry, claims the first rank. 
 In order to relish his poems, we must remember that they 
 are the oldest writings extant, except the Bible. We must 
 also divest ourselves of all modern ideas of dignity, and 
 transport our imaginations back* almost three thousand years 
 in the history of mankind. What we are to expect is a pic- 
 ture of the ancient world. We must reckon upon finding 
 characters and manners, that retain a considerable tincture 
 of the savage state ; moral ideas but imperfectly formed ; 
 and the appetites and passions of men brought under none 
 of those restraints to which, in a more advanced state of 
 society, they are accustomed. The distinguishing charac- 
 teristics of Homeric poetry are, fire and simplicity ; but in 
 order to have a clear idea of his merit, it will be of advan- 
 tage to consider the Iliad under the three heads of the sub- 
 ject and action, the characters, and the narration. 
 
 The subject of the Iliad is, unquestionably, happily chosen; 
 for no subject could be more splendid than the Trojan war. 
 A ten years' siege against Troy, and a great confederacy of 
 the Grecian states, must have spread far the renown of many 
 military exploits, and give an extensive interest in the heroes 
 who were concerned in them. Upon these traditions Homer 
 built his poem ; and as he lived two or three centuries after 
 
 Why does the epic poem merit a particular discussion ; and what remark 
 follows 1 Who claims the first rank ; and in order to relish his poems, what 
 must we remember, and what must we do 7 What are we to expect ; and 
 upon what must we reckon 1 What are the distinguishing characteristics 
 of Homeric poetry ; but to have a clear idea of the Iliad, how must we con- 
 sider it 1 Why was the subject of the Iliad happily chosen ; and how is 
 this remark illustrated 1 What gave Homer the liberty of intermingling 
 fable with history ; and what part of the war did he choose ] 
 
Lect. 40.] HOMER'S ILIAD. 321 
 
 the circumstai :es related transpired, he had full liberty to 
 intermingle fo jle with history. He chose not, however, the 
 whole Trojan war for his subject ; but selected, with great 
 judgment, the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon, 
 which includes the most interesting period of it. He has 
 thus communicated the greater unity to his performance. 
 He gained one hero, or principal character, that is, Achilles ; 
 and he shows the pernicious consequences of discord among 
 confederate princes. 
 
 The praise of high invention has, in every age, been given 
 to Homer, with the greatest reason. The prodigious num- 
 ber of incidents, of speeches, of characters divine and human, 
 with which he abounds ; the surprising variety with which 
 he has diversified his battles, in the wounds, and deaths, and 
 little history pieces of almost all the persons slain, discover an 
 invention next to boundless. Nor is his judgment less worthy 
 of admiration. His story is every where conducted with art. 
 He rises upon us gradually. He introduces his heroes with 
 exquisite skilfulness into our acquaintance. The distress 
 thickens as the poem advances ; and every thing is so con- 
 trived as to aggrandize Achilles, and to render him, as the 
 poet intended he should be, the capital figure. 
 
 It is in the characteristical part of his writings, however, 
 where Homer is without a rival. He abounds in dialogue 
 and conversation, and this produces a spirited exhibition of 
 his personages. It must, at the same time, be acknowledged, 
 that if this dramatic method is often expressive and animated, 
 it takes away, occasionally, from the gravity and majesty of 
 the epic. For example, it may be observed, that some of the 
 speeches of Homer are unseasonable, and others trifling 
 With the Greek vivacity, he has also the Greek loquacity. 
 
 Perhaps, in no character does he display greater art than 
 In that of Helen. Notwithstanding her frailty and her 
 -crimes, he continues to make her an interesting object. The 
 admiration with which the old generals behold her when she 
 as coming towards them, presents her to us with much dig- 
 nity. Her veiling herself and shedding tears in the presence 
 
 What advantage did this give him 7 What has, in every age, been given 
 to Homer ; and what discover an invention next to boundless 1 How does 
 \t appear that his judgment is not less worthy of admiration 1 Where, 
 however, is Homer without a rival ; with what does he abound ; and what 
 is its effect 1 What must, at the same time, be acknowledged ; and what 
 example is given ! In what character does he display great art ; and how 
 is this illustrated ? What exhibit the most striking features of that mixed 
 female character, which we partly condemn, and partly pity 1 
 
322 HOMER'S ILIAD. [Lect. 40. 
 
 of Priam, her grief and self-accusations at the sight of 
 Menelaus, her upbraiding Paris for his cowardice, and at 
 the same time, her returning fondness for him, exhibit the 
 most striking feature of that mixed female character, which 
 we partly condemn, and partly pity. 
 
 Paris himself, the author of all the mischief, is charac- 
 terized with the utmost propriety. He is, as we should ex- 
 pect him to be, a mixture of gallantry and effeminacy. He 
 retreats from Menelaus, on his first appearance ; but imme- 
 diately afterwards, enters into single combat with him. He 
 is a great master of civility, remarkably courteous in his 
 speeches ; and receives all the reproofs of his brother Hector 
 with modesty and deference. He is described as a person 
 of elegant taste ; and was even the architect of his own 
 palace. 
 
 Homer hasbeen charged with having made his hero, Achil- 
 les, of too brutal and unamiable a character. But this charge 
 is evidently without foundation. Achilles was, indeed, pas- 
 sionate to a great degree ; but he was far from being a con- 
 temner of laws and justice. In the contest with Agamemnon, 
 though he may carry it on with too much heat, yet he had 
 reason on his side ; for it must be remembered, he had been 
 notoriously wronged. Besides bravery and contempt of 
 death, he had also the qualities of openness and sincerity. 
 He loved his subjects, and respected the gods. He was 
 strong in his friendships; and, throughout, he was high- 
 spirited, gallant, and honorable. 
 
 Homer's gods make a great figure in the Iliad ; but his 
 machinery was not his own. He followed the traditions of 
 his country. An-d though his machinery is often lofty and 
 magnificent, yet it is true that his gods are sometimes de- 
 ficient in dignity. They have all the human passions — they 
 drink, they feast, and are vulnerable like men. While, 
 however, he at times degrades his divinities, he knows how 
 to make them appear with the most awful majesty. Jupiter, 
 for the most part, is introduced with great dignity ; and 
 several sublime conceptions are founded on the appearances 
 of Neptune, Minerva, and Apollo. 
 
 What is said of Paris ; and how is this fully illustrated 1 With what 
 has Homer been charged ; but why is this charge without foundation 1 
 Besides bravery, what qualities did Achilles possess 1 What is remarked 
 of Homer's machinery ; and of his gods, what is observed % While at 
 times he decrrades his divinities, how do they often appear - r and how is this 
 illustrated ? 
 
Lect. 40.J HOMER'S ODYSSEY. 323 
 
 With regard to the style or manner of Homer, it is easy, 
 natural, and, in the highest degree, animated. He resembles, 
 in simplicity, the poetical parts of the Old Testament. 
 Those who are acquainted with him in Mr. Pope's trans- 
 lation only, can have no conception of his manner. That 
 translation is, indeed, an excellent performance, and in the 
 main, faithful to the original ; but it is still nothing else than 
 Homer modernized. Though, in some places, it may be 
 thought to have improved Homer, yet, in the midst of the 
 elegance and luxuriancy of Mr. Pope's language, we lose 
 sight of the old bard's simplicity. 
 
 In the narration, Homer is concise and descriptive. He 
 paints his objects, as it were, to our sight. His battles are 
 admirable. We see them in all their hurry, terror, and 
 confusion. His similes are thrown out in the greatest abun- 
 dance ; and many of them are extremely beautiful. His 
 comparisons have also great merit ; but they come upon us 
 in too quick succession. They even serve, at times, to dis- 
 turb the train of his narration. His lions, bulls, eagles, 
 and herds of sheep, recur too frequently; and the allusions 
 in some of his similes, even after the allowances that are to 
 be made for ancient manners, must be admitted to be de- 
 basing. 
 
 Upon the subject of the Odyssey, the criticism of Lon- 
 ginus is not without foundation. He observes, that in this 
 poem, Homer may be likened to the setting sun, whose 
 grandeur remains without the heat of his meridian beams. 
 In vigor and sublimity, it is inferior to the Iliad. It has, 
 however, great beauties, and is confessedly a very amusing 
 poem. It possesses much greater variety than the Iliad ; 
 and exhibits very pleasing pictures of ancient manners. 
 Instead of the ferocity that pervades the Iliad, it presents us 
 with amiable images of hospitality and humanity. It enter- 
 tains us with many a wonderful adventure, and many a 
 landscape of nature ; and there is a rich vein of morality 
 and virtue running through every part of the poem. 
 
 At the same time, it contains some defects which must be 
 
 With regard to Homers style, what is observed ; and what does he re- 
 semble 1 What is said of those who are acquainted with him in Mr. Pope's 
 translation only ; and of that translation what is observed ] How is Ho- 
 mer in narration ; and how is this illustrated 1 Of his similes and his 
 comparisons, what is observed 1 Of the Odyssey, what says Longinus '? 
 Though in vigor and sublimity it is inferior to the Iliad, yet what beauties 
 has it? At the same time wh?.t defects does it contain 1 
 
324 VIRGIL'S ^ENEID. [Lect. 40. 
 
 acknowledged. Many of its scenes are evidently below the 
 level of the epic poem, The last twelve books, after Ulysses 
 is landed in Ithaca, are, in many places, tedious and languid; 
 and perhaps the poet is not happy in his discovery of Ulysses 
 to Penelope. She is too cautious and distrustful ; and we 
 meet not that surprise of joy which was to have been ex* 
 pected on such an occasion. 
 
 After these remarks on the father of epic poetry, we pro- 
 ceed to Virgil, whose character is very different from that 
 of Homer. As the distinguishing excellencies of the Iliad 
 are simplicity and fire, those of the iEneid are elegance 
 and tenderness. When we begin to read the Iliad, we find 
 ourselves in the regions of the most remote and unrefined 
 antiquity. When we open the JEneid T we discover all the 
 correctness and refinement of the Augustan age. We meet 
 with no contentions of heroes about a female slave — no 
 violent scolding, nor abusive language. There reigns 
 throughout the whole poem an uniform magnificence. 
 
 The subject of the iEneid, which is the establishment of 
 iEneas in Italy, is extremely happy. Nothing could be 
 more interesting to the Romans, than to look back to their 
 origin from so famous a hero. And while the object was 
 splendid itself, the traditionary history of his country opened 
 an interesting field to the poet ; and he could glance at all 
 the future great exploits of the Romans, in its ancient and 
 fabulous state. 
 
 With regard to the unity of action, it is, in the iEneid, per- 
 fectly well preserved. The settlement of iEneas, by the order 
 of the gods, is constantly kept in view. The episodes are 
 properly linked with the main subject. The modus, or in- 
 trigue of the poem, is happily managed. The wrath of 
 Juno, who opposes iEneas, gives rise to all his difficulties, 
 and connects the human with the celestial operations 
 throughout the whole poem. 
 
 In these main parts, Virgil has conducted his work with 
 great propriety, and shown his art and judgment ; but it is 
 not to be supposed that he is without his faults. One great 
 
 To what do we next proceed ; how does he compare with Homer ; and 
 how is this illustrated 1 What is the subject of the iEneid ; what is 
 observed of it ; why ; and what remark follows 1 How does it appear that 
 unity of action is perfectly well preserved in it 1 Though in those main 
 parts Virgil has conducted his work with propriety ; yet what is not to be 
 supposed 1 What is one great imperfection in the iEneid ; and of these 
 resoectively what is remarked ? 
 
Lect. 40.] vmGiL'S iENEID. 325 
 
 imperfection of the iEneid is, that there are scarcely any- 
 marked characters in it. Achates, Cloanthas, Gyas, and 
 other Trojan heroes who accompanied ./Eneas into Italy* are 
 insipid figures. Even iEneas himself is not a very interest- 
 ing hero. He is described, indeed, as pious and brave ; but 
 his character is not marked with any of those strokes that 
 touch the heart. The character of Dido is by far the best 
 supported in the whole work. 
 
 Besides this defect of character in the iEneid, the manage- 
 ment of the subject is also exceptionable. The six last 
 books received not the finishing hand of the author ; and for 
 this reason, he ordered his poem to be committed to the 
 flames. The wars with the Latins are unimportant and 
 uninteresting ; and the reader is tempted to take part with 
 Turnus against iEneas. 
 
 The principal excellence of Virgil is tenderness. His 
 soul was full of sensibility. He must have felt himself all 
 the affecting circumstances in the scenes he describes ; and 
 he knew how to touch the heart by a single stroke. In an 
 epic poem, this merit is the next to sublimity. The second 
 book of the ^Eneid is one of the greatest master-pieces that 
 was ever executed. The death of old Priam, and the 
 family pieces of iEneas, Anchises, and Creusa, are as tender 
 as can be conceived. In the fourth book, the unhappy pas- 
 sion and death of Dido are admirable. The episodes of 
 Pallas and Evander, of Nisus and Euryalus, of Lausus and 
 Mezentius, are all extremely fine. 
 
 In his battles, Virgil is far inferior to Homer. Bat in 
 the important episode, the descent into hell, he has surpassed 
 Homer by many degrees. There is nothing in antiquity to 
 equal the sixth book of the JKneid. The scenery, the ob- 
 jects, and the description, are great, solemn, and sublime. 
 With regard to their comparative merit, it must be allowed, 
 that Homer was the greater genius, and Virgil the more cor- 
 rect writer. Homer is more original, more bold, more 
 sublime, and more forcible. In judgment, they are both 
 eminent. Homer has all the Greek vivacity ; Virgil all the 
 
 Besides this defect, what is observed of the management of the subject j 
 and how is this illustrated % What is the principal excellence of Virgii ; 
 and what remark follows 1 In an epic poem, what rank does this merit 
 hold ; and what instances of this does this work contain 1 In his battles, 
 how does Virgil compare with Homer ; in what has he far excelled him; 
 and what is observed of it ? With regard to their comparative merit, whai 
 is observed ? 
 
 28 
 
$m LU CAN'S PHARSALIA. [Lect. 40. 
 
 Roman stateliness. The imagination of Homer is the most 
 Copious ; that of Virgil, the most correct. The strength of 
 the former lies in warming the fancy ; that of the latter in 
 touching the heart. Horner is more simple; Virgil more 
 elegant. *. 
 
 After Homer and Virgil, the next great epic poet of ancient 
 times, is Lucan. In his Pharsalia, there is little invention ; 
 and it is conducted in too historical a manner to be strictly 
 epic. It may he arranged, however, under the epic class, 
 as it treats of great and heroic adventures. The subject of 
 the Pharsalia has sufficiently the epic dignity and grandeur ; 
 and it possesses also unity of object : for it points to the 
 triumph of Caesar over the Roman liberty. 
 
 But though the subject of Lucan is confessedly heroic, 
 it is not happy. It has two defects. Civil wars present 
 shocking objects to observation, and furnish melancholy pic- 
 tures of human nature. These are not fit topics for the 
 heroic muse. It was the unhappiness of Lucan's genius 
 to delight in savage scenes, and to depict the most savage 
 forms of atrocious cruelty. Another defect of Lucan's sub- 
 ject is, that it was too near the times in which he lived. 
 This deprived him of the assistance which he might other- 
 wise have derived from fiction and machinery. The facts 
 upon which his poem is founded, were too well known, and 
 too recent, to admit of fables, and the interposition of gods. 
 
 The characters of Lucan are drawn with spirit and force. 
 But although Pompey is his hero, he has not been able to 
 make him sufficiently interesting. He is not distinguished 
 for either magnanimity or valor ; and is always surpassed 
 by Caesar. Cato is a favorite character with Lucan ; and he 
 is very careful to make him, at all times, appear to great 
 advantage. 
 
 In managing his story, Lucan confines himself too much 
 to chronological order. This breaks the thread of his nar- 
 ration, and hurries him from place to place. He is, at the 
 same time, too digressive ; and indulges preposterously in 
 geographical descriptions, and in philosophical disquisitions. 
 
 After Homer and Virgil, who is the next great epic poet of ancient 
 times 1 What is said of his Pharsalia : and why may it be ranked under 
 the epic class 1 What is said of the subject of Lucan; and what is the 
 first 1 What was the other defects ; of what did this deprive him ; and 
 why 1 How are Lucan's characters drawn ; and of Pompey and Cato 
 what is remarked 1 What are the defects in the management of his story 1 
 
Lect. 40.] LUCAN'S PHAB8ALIA. 32? 
 
 It must, notwithstanding, be allowed, that there are splen- 
 did passages in the Pharsalia ; but the strength of this poet 
 does not lie either in narration or description. His narration 
 is often dry and harsh, and his descriptions overwrought. 
 His chief merit consists in his sentiments. They are 
 noble, striking, glowing, and ardent. He is the most philo- 
 sophical, and the most patriotic poet of ancient times. He 
 was a stoic ; and the spirit of that philosophy pervades his 
 work. He is elevated and bold ; and his feelings were keen 
 and warm. 
 
 As his vivacity and fire are great, he is apt to be carried 
 away by them. Indeed, his great defect is want of mode- 
 ration. He never knows how to stop. When he would 
 aggrandize his objects, he is unnatural and tumid. His 
 taste is marked with the corruption of his age ; and instead 
 of poetry, he often exhibits declamation. 
 
 On the whole, however, he must be allowed the praise of 
 liveliness and originality. His high sentiments and his fire 
 seem to atone for his various defects. His genius had 
 strength, but was without tenderness or amenity. Compared 
 with Virgil, he may be allowed to have more fire and higher 
 sentiments, but in every thing else falls infinitely below him. 
 
 What must still be allowed ; and of his narration and description what 
 is observed ] In what does his chief merit consist ; what is said of these ; 
 and what remark follows 7 What is his great defect; and how is this 
 illustrated 1 What must he be allowed ; what remarks follow ; and how 
 does he compare with Virgil ! 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 Homer. 
 
 1. The Iliad. 
 
 A. The subject happy. 
 
 B. The poet's invention. 
 
 C. His characters. 
 
 a. Helen — Paris — Achilles. 
 
 D. The style. 
 
 E. The narration. 
 
 2. The Odyssey. 
 Virgil. 
 
 1. The ^Eneid. 
 
 A. The subject, 
 a. Its unity. 
 
 B. Virgil's defects. 
 
 C. His excellencies. 
 
 2. Homer and Virgil compared. 
 Lucan. 
 
 1. His Pharsalia. 
 
 A. The subject defective. 
 
 B. Its general character. 
 
LECTURE XLI. 
 
 TASSO'S JERUSALEM— CAMOENS 5 LUSIAD— 
 
 FENELON'S TELEMACHUS— -VOLTAIRE'S 
 
 HENRIADE— MILTON'S PARADISE 
 
 LOST. 
 
 Having examined the ancient epic poems, we proceed 
 next to Tasso, the first distinguished epic poet of modern 
 times. His Jerusalem Delivered is a strictly regular poem 
 of the epic kind, and is adorned with all the beauties that 
 belong to that species of composition. The subject is the 
 recovery of Jerusalem from the infidels, by the united pow- 
 ers of Christendom. The enterprise was splendid, venera- 
 ble, and heroic ; and an interesting contrast is exhibited 
 between the Christians and the Saracens. Religion renders 
 the subject august, and opens a field for sublime description 
 and machinery. The action, too, lies in a country, and at 
 a period of time sufficiently remote, to admit the intermixture 
 of fable with history. 
 
 In the conduct of the story, Tasso has shown a rich and 
 fertile invention ; which, in a poet, is a capital quality. His 
 events are finely diversified. He never fatigues his reader 
 by sameness or repetition. His scenes have an endless 
 variety ; and from camps and battles he frequently transports 
 us to more pleasing objects. The work, at the same time, is 
 artfully connected ; and in the midst of variety, the author 
 preserves, perfectly, the unity of his plan. 
 
 The poem is enlivened, too, with a variety of characters ; 
 and these are all supported with striking propriety. God- 
 frey, the leader of the enterprise, is prudent, moderate, and 
 brave; Tancred is amorous, generous, and gallant; Ri- 
 naldo is passionate and resentful, but full of honor and hero- 
 ism. Solyman, the tender Erminia, the artful and violent 
 Armida, the masculine Clorinda, are all well drawn and 
 
 To whom do we next proceed ; and of his Jerusalem Delivered, what is 
 remarked 1 What is the subject of it ; and of the enterprise, what is ob- 
 served 1 What effect does religion produce ; and what is said of the 
 action % In the conduct of the story, what has Tasso shown ; what is 
 said of this ; and how is this fully illustrated 1 With what too is the poem 
 enlivened : how are these supported ;, and what illustrations follow'? 
 
Lect 41.] TASSO'S JERUSALEM. 329 
 
 animated figures. In the drawing 1 of characters, Tasso is, 
 indeed, remarkably distinguished : he is superior to Virgil; 
 and yields to no poet but Homer. 
 
 He abounds very much with machinery; and in this part 
 of the work, his merit is more dubious. When celestial 
 beings interfere, Tasso is noble. But devils, enchanters, 
 and conjurers, act too great a part throughout the poem. 
 And, in general, the marvellous is carried to an extrava- 
 gance, that very much mars the interest of the work. The 
 poet had conceived too great an admiration of the romantic 
 spirit of knight-errantry. 
 
 With all the beauties of description, and of poetical style, 
 Tasso remarkably abounds. In describing magnificent ob- 
 jects, his style is firm and majestic. In gay and pleasing 
 description, it is soft and insinuating. Erminia's pastoral 
 retreat in the seventh book, and the arts and beauty of Ar- 
 mida in the fourth book, are exquisitely beautiful. His 
 battles are full of fire, and varied in the incidents. It is 
 chiefly by actions, characters, and descriptions, that he in- 
 terests us ; for in the sentimental part of his performance he 
 does not excel. He is far inferior to Virgil in tenderness; 
 and, in general, when he aims at sentiment, he is artificial. 
 
 Tasso has often been charged with abounding in point and 
 conceit ; but this is an error : for in his general character he 
 is masculine. The humor of decrying him has passed from 
 the French critics to those of England. But their censures are 
 founded either in ignorance or prejudice ; for the Jerusalem, 
 as a regular epic, ranks next to those of Homer and Virgil. 
 Tasso is eminent for the fertility of his invention, the ex- 
 pression of his characters, the richness of his description, 
 and the beauty of his style. ._ 
 
 As the Italians boast of Tasso, so do the Portuguese of 
 Camoens, who was nearly his cotemporary. The subject 
 of the poem of Camoens, is the discovery of the East Indies 
 by Vasco de Gama ; and the enterprise is alike splendid and 
 
 In the drawing of characters, how does Tasso compar^ with Virgil and 
 Homer 1 What is said of Tasso's machinery ; when is it noble ; but what 
 remarks follow 1 With what does Tasso abound ; and how is this re- 
 mark illustrated 1 What is said of his battles ; by what does he interest 
 us ; and why 1 In what is he inferior to Virgil ; and when is he artificial 1 
 With what has Tasso often been charged ; but why is this an error ] 
 What is said of the humor of decrying Tasso ; and what rank does the Je- 
 rusalem hold 1 For what is Tasso eminent 1 Of whom do the Portuguese 
 boast ; and what is the subject of his poem 1 
 
CAMOENS' LUSIAD. [Lect. 4L 
 
 interesting-. The adventures, distresses, and actions, of 
 Vasco and his countrymen, are well fancied and described ; 
 and the Lusiad is conducted on the regular epic plan. The 
 incidents of the poem are magnificent ; and if an allowance 
 be made for some wildness and irregularity, there will be 
 found in it much poetic spirit, much fancy, and much bold 
 description. In this poem, however, there is no attempt at 
 painting characters ; and the machinery of the Lusiad is 
 altogether extravagant. There prevails in it an odd mix- 
 ture of Christian ideas and Pagan mythology. The Pagan 
 divinities appear to be true deities ; and what is strange, 
 Christ and the holy Virgin are made to be subordinate 
 agents. The great purpose, notwithstanding, of the Portu- 
 guese expedition, is to extend the empire of Christianity, 
 and to extirpate Mahometanism. 
 
 In this religious undertaking, the chief protector of the 
 Portuguese is Venus, and their great adversary is Bacchus. 
 Jupiter is introduced as foretelling the downfall of Mahomet. 
 Vasco, during a storm, implores the aid of Christ and the 
 Virgin ; and, in return to his prayer, Venus appears, and 
 discovering the storm to be the work of Bacchus, complains 
 to Jupiter, and procures the winds to be hushed. All this 
 is most preposterous ; but towards the end the poet makes an 
 apology for his mythology. His apology, however, is not 
 satisfactory ; for his salvo is, that the goddess Thetis informs 
 Vasco, that she and the other heathen divinities, are nothing 
 more than names to describe the operations of Providence. 
 
 There is, however, in the Lusiad, some fine machinery of 
 a different kind. The appearance of the genius of the 
 River Ganges, in a dream, to Emanuel, King of Portugal, 
 inviting him to discover its secret springs, and acquainting 
 him that he was the destined monarch for whom the trea- 
 sures of the East were reserved, is a fine idea. But it is in 
 the fifth canto that the poet displays his noblest conception of 
 this sort. Vasco is there recounting the wonders of his 
 navigation. And when the fleet arrived at the Cape of 
 Good Hope, which had never been doubled before by any 
 
 What is said of it ; and how is this illustrated 1 In this poem, at what 
 is there no attempt; what prevails in it; and what remarks follow 7 In 
 this religious undertaking, who protects and who opposes the Portuguese ; 
 and how is Jupiter represented 1 What are all preposterous ; what is the 
 poet's apology ; and what is observed of it 1 There is, however, what in 
 the Lusiad; and what is a fine idea 1 But where does the poet display 
 his noblest conception of this sort ; and what is it '? 
 
Lect.41.] FENELON'S TELEMACHUS. 331 
 
 navigator, he relates that there appeared to them suddenly, 
 a huge phantom, rising out of the sea in the midst of tem- 
 pests and thunder, with a head that advanced to the skies, 
 and a countenance the most terrific. This was the genius 
 of that hitherto unknown ocean ; and he menaced them in a 
 voice of thunder, not to invade those undisturbed seas, and 
 foretelling the calamities that were to befal them, retired 
 from their view. This is one of the most solemn and 
 striking pieces of machinery ever employed ; and is a 
 sufficient evidence that Camoens was a poet of a bold and 
 lofty imagination. 
 
 In reviewing the epic poets, it would be unpardonable not 
 to notice the amiable author of the Adventures of Tele- 
 machus. His work, though not composed in verse, is justly 
 entitled to be considered a poem ; and the plan is, in general, 
 well contrived, having epic grandeur, and unity of action. 
 He employs the ancient mythology, and excels in its appli- 
 cation. His descriptions are rich and beautiful ; especially 
 of the softer and calmer scenes, for which the genius of 
 Fenelon was best suited. He delights in painting the inci- 
 dents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue, and the pros- 
 perity and tranquillity of peace. 
 
 His first six books are eminently excellent. The adven- 
 tures of Telemachus, as recounted to Calypso, are the chief 
 beauty of the work. The narration throughout them is 
 lively and interesting. In the books which follow, espe- 
 cially the last twelve, there is less happiness in the execution. 
 The author, in his warlike adventures, is the most unfor- 
 tunate. The principal objection to this work being classed 
 with epic poems, arises from the minute details of virtuous 
 policy, into which the author in some places enters ; and 
 from the discourses and instructions of Mentor, which recur 
 too frequently, and in which there is, doubtless, too much of 
 a common-place morality. To these peculiarities, however, 
 the author was led from the design with which he wrote — 
 that of forming a young prince to the cares and duties of a 
 virtuous monarch. 
 
 What was this ; what did he do ; and what is said of it 1 In re- 
 viewing epic poets, what would be unpardonable ; and what is said of his 
 work 1 What does he employ ; and how 1 What is observed of his 
 descriptions; and in what does he delight 1 Which books are excellent; 
 and what are the chief beautv of the work % Of the books which follow, 
 what is observed ; and where is the author the most unfortunate % What 
 is the principal objection to ranking this work with epic poems ; but to 
 these peculiarities, by what was the author led 1 
 
332 VOLTAIRE'S HENRIADE. [Lect. 41. 
 
 Several poets of the epic class, have described a descent 
 into hell ; and in the prospects they have given us of the 
 invisible world, we may observe the gradual refinement of 
 men's notions concerning a state of future rewards and pun- 
 ishments. In Homer, the descent of Ulysses into hell, is 
 indistinct and dreary. The scene is in the country of the 
 Cimmerians, who inhabit a region covered with clouds and 
 darkness; and when the dead appear, we hardly know 
 whether Ulysses is above or below ground. The ghosts, 
 too, even of the heroes, appear to be sad and dissatisfied. 
 
 In Virgil, the descent into hell discovers greater refine- 
 ment, and indicates a higher advancement in philosophy. 
 The objects are distinct, awful, and grand. There is a fine 
 discrimination of the separate mansions of the good and the 
 evil spirits. Fenelon has still improved upon Virgil. The 
 visit of Telemachus to the shades, is in a higher style of 
 philosophy. He employs the same fables and the same 
 mythology; but he refines the ancient mythology by his 
 knowledge of the true religion, and that beautiful enthu- 
 siasm for which he is so remarkable. His relation of the 
 happiness of the just, is an admirable effort in the mystic 
 strain. 
 
 In his Henriade, Voltaire has given us a regular epic 
 poem, in French verse. To deny genius to Voltaire would 
 be absurd ; and in the present work, accordingly, he dis- 
 covers, in several places, that boldness of conception, that 
 vivacity, and that liveliness of expression, for which he has 
 been so much distinguished. Several of the comparisons are 
 new and remarkably happy. But, perhaps, the Henriade 
 is not the master-piece of this writer. In the tragic line he 
 has certainly been more successful than in the epic. It may 
 be observed, too, that French versification is by no means 
 suited to epic composition. Its want of elevation is against 
 it, as well as its being fettered with rhyme. There is thence 
 not only a feebleness in the Henriade, but even a prosaic 
 flatness. The poem, consequently, languishes ; and the 
 imagination of the reader is not animated with any of that 
 
 What have several of the epic poets attempted to describe ; and in the 
 prospects they give us, what may be observed 1 How is this remark fully 
 illustrated from Homer, from Virgil, and from Fenelon ] In his Henriade, 
 what has Voltaire given us ; and in the present work, what does he dis- 
 cover % What is said of several of the comparisons ; and what remark 
 fellows'? What may also be observed; why; and what consequence 
 follows 1 
 
Lect. 41.] VOLTAIRE'S HENRIADE. 333 
 
 spirit and interest, which ought to be inspired by a sublime 
 and spirited performance of the epic kind. 
 
 The subject of the Henriade is the triumph of Henry the 
 Fourth over the arms of the League. But the action o^the 
 poem includes, properly, only the siege of Paris. It :s, in 
 its nature, sufficiently epic ; and the poem, in general, is 
 conducted according to the critical rules. But it has great 
 defects. It is founded on civil wars ; and it presents to the 
 mind the odious objects of assassinations. The events on 
 which it is founded are of too recent date, and too much 
 within the circle of well known incidents. The author has 
 farther erred, by improperly mixing fiction with truth. For 
 instance, he makes Henry travel into England, and to hold 
 an interview with Queen Elizabeth. Now Henry never 
 saw England, and never conversed with Elizabeth ; and 
 such unnatural fables are so wild, that they shock every 
 intelligent reader. 
 
 In order to embellish his subject, Voltaire has employed 
 a great deal of machinery ; but it is remarkable that his ma- 
 chinery is of the worst kind. It consists of allegorical 
 beings. Discord, cunning, and love, appear as personages, 
 mix with the human actors, and make a considerable figure 
 in the intrigue of the poem. This is contrary to every rule 
 of rational criticism. It is possible to believe in the exist- 
 ence of ghosts, angels, and devils ; but it should be consi- 
 dered that allegorical beings are no more than representations 
 of human passions and dispositions ; and they ought not to 
 have a place as actors in any poem. 
 
 In justice to our author, however, it should be observed, 
 that the machinery of St. Louis, which he also employs, is 
 possessed of real dignity. The prospect of the invisible 
 world, which St. Louis gives to Henry in a dream, is a very 
 fine passage in the Henriade. The introduction, by Death, 
 of the souls of the dead, in succession before God, and the 
 palace of the Destinies, are also passages which are striking 
 and magnificent. 
 
 Though some of the episodes in this poem are properly 
 
 What is the subject of the Henriade ; but of the action of the poem, 
 what is observed 1 Though in its nature it is sufficiently epic, yet what 
 are its defects 1 How has the author farther erred ; and what instance is 
 mentioned 1 What is remarked of the machinery of Voltaire ; and how 
 is this illustrated 1 To what is this contrary ; and what remarks follow ] 
 In justice to our author, however, what must be observed ; and what 
 instances of illustration follow % Of the episodes, the narration, and tho 
 vtrain of sentiment, what is observed : and what remark follows 1 
 
834 MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. [Lect. 41. 
 
 extended, yet the narration is altogether too general. At 
 the same time, the events are too much crowded together. 
 The strain of sentiment, however, which pervades the 
 Henriade, is noble. Religion appears always with the 
 greatest lustre ; and the poem has that spirit of humanity 
 and toleration, which is the constant distinction of men, who 
 rise far above the level of the species. 
 
 Milton, of whom we are still to speak, has marked out 
 for himself a new and very extraordinary track in poetry. 
 As soon as we open his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves 
 introduced, at once, into an invisible world, and surrounded 
 with celestial and infernal beings. Angels and devils are 
 not the machinery, but the principal actors in the poem ; and 
 wdiat in any other composition would be the marvellous, is 
 here only the natural course of events. A subject so remote 
 from the affairs of this world, may leave room to doubt 
 whether Paradise Lost can properly be classed among epic 
 poems. But whether it be epic or not, it is certainly a high 
 effort of poetical genius ; and in majesty and grandeur, is 
 equal to any performance of ancient or modern times. 
 
 How far Milton was happy in the choice of his subject, 
 may be questioned. It certainly led him upon very difficult 
 ground. Had he taken a subject that was more human, 
 and less theological ; that was more connected with the 
 occurrences of real life, and afforded a greater display of 
 the characters and passions of men, his poem would, per- 
 haps, have, to the generality of readers, been more pleasing 
 and attractive. His subject, however, was certainly suited, 
 in a peculiar manner, to the daring sublimity of his genius. 
 As he alone, perhaps, was fitted for his subject, so he has 
 shown, in the conduct of it, a stretch both of imagination 
 and invention, which is perfectly wonderful. It is astonish- 
 ing that, from the few hints given us in the sacred Scriptures, 
 he should have been able to raise so complete and regular a 
 structure, and to fill his poem with such a variety of inci- 
 dents. No doubt he is, at times, dry and harsh ; and too 
 often the metaphysician and the divine. But in the general 
 flow of his narration, he is engaging, elevated, and affect- 
 
 What has Milton marked but for himself ; and how is this illustrated 1 
 Of what may the subject leave room to doubt; but of the work what re- 
 mark follows 1 On the choice of Milton's subject, what is observed ; and 
 what would have been, to the generality of readers, more interesting 7 To 
 what, however, was it well suited ; and what remark follows 1 What is 
 matter of astonishment ; of the general plan of his narration what is ob- 
 served ; and how is this illustrated 1 
 
Lect.41.] MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. 335 
 
 ing. His objects are changed with art ; his scene is now 
 in heaven, and now on earth ; and amidst this variety, the 
 ■unity of his plan is perfectly supported. Still and calm 
 scenes are exhibited in the employments of Adam and Eve 
 when in Paradise ; and there are busy scenes, and great 
 actions, in the enterprise of Satan, arid the wars of the angels. 
 The amiable innocence of our first parents, and the pride and 
 ambition of Satan, afford a contrast throughout the whole 
 poem, which gives it an uncommon charm. 
 
 The nature of the subject did not admit of any great dis- 
 play of characters ; but such as could be introduced are 
 supported with much propriety. Satan forms a very striking 
 figure ; and Milton has artfully given him a character not 
 altogether void of some good qualities. He is brave ; and 
 to his own troops he is faithful. In the midst of his impiety, 
 he is not without remorse. He even feels a sentiment of 
 compassion for our first parents, and appeals to the necessity 
 of his situation, as an apology for his machinations against 
 them. He is actuated by ambition and resentment, rather 
 than pure malice. The characters of Beelzebub, Moloch, 
 and Belial, are well painted. But the good angels, though 
 dignified, have too much uniformity. They have their dis- 
 tinctions, however ; and it is impossible not to remark the 
 mild condescension of Raphael, and the tried fidelity of 
 Abdiel. The attempt of the poet to describe God himself, 
 was too bold, and accordingly, it is unsuccessful. Our first 
 parents are finely portrayed. Perhaps Adam is sometimes 
 represented as too knowing and refined for his situation; 
 but Eve is most happily delineated. Her gentleness, mo- 
 desty, and frailty, mark, very expressively, a female cha- 
 racter. 
 
 Milton's great and distinguishing excellence is, his sub- 
 limity. In this 3ae is far superior to any other poet. But 
 it is to be observed that his sublimity is of a peculiar kind. 
 It differs from that of Homer, which is always accompanied 
 with impetuosity and fire. There is, in Milton's sublimity, 
 a calm and amazing grandeur. Homer warms and hurries 
 
 What afford a contrast throughout the whole poem ; and what is ob- 
 served of it 1 What did not the nature of the subject admit ; but what 
 remark follows 1 How is this fully illustrated in the character of Satan ; 
 and what other characters are well painted 1 What is said of the good 
 angels 1 Where has Milton failed ; why ; and what is said of Adam and 
 Eve 1 What was Milton's distinguishing excellence ; and how does he 
 compare with Homer? 
 
336 MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. [Lect. 41. 
 
 us along. By Milton we are fixed in a state of elevation 
 and astonishment. The sublimity of the former is to be 
 found most, most commonly, in his descriptions of actions ; 
 that of the latter, in the representation of stupendous and 
 wonderful objects. 
 
 But though Milton is most distinguished for his sublimity, 
 yet his work abounds in the beautiful also, and the pleasing, 
 and the tender. When the scene is in Paradise, the imagery 
 is always gay and smiling. His descriptions show an un- 
 commonly fertile imagination ; and in his similes he is re- 
 markably happy. His faults — for what writer is without 
 them — are to be found chiefly in his learned allusions, and 
 his introduction of ancient fables. 
 
 The language and versification of Milton has high merit. 
 His style is full of majesty, and wonderfully adapted to his 
 subject. His blank verse is harmonious and diversified, 
 and affords an admirable example of that unusual elevation 
 which our language is capable of attaining by the force of 
 numbers. There may, indeed, be found prosaic lines in his 
 poem ; but these may easily be pardoned in a long w r ork, 
 where the poetry is, in general, so smooth, so varied, and 
 so flowing. 
 
 Besides its sublimity, with what also does his work abound ; and how is 
 this illustrated ? In what may his faults be chiefly found 1 Of Milton's 
 language and versification what is remarked ; and how is this fully illus- 
 trated 1 
 
 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1 
 
 Tasso's Jerusalem. 
 
 
 a. The visit to the shades. 
 
 
 A. His invention. 
 
 
 4. Voltaire's Henriade. 
 
 
 B. His characters. 
 
 
 A. The subject. 
 
 
 a. The machinery. 
 
 
 a. The machinery. 
 
 
 b. The descriptions. 
 
 
 b. The sentiment. 
 
 
 C. An objection to the 
 Camoens' Lusiad. 
 
 Doem. 
 
 5. Milton's Paradise Lost. 
 
 2 
 
 
 A. The subject. 
 
 
 A. The subject. 
 
 
 B. The characters. 
 
 
 a. The machinery. 
 Fenelon's Telemachus. 
 
 
 C. The sublimity — the tender- 
 
 3 
 
 
 ness. 
 
 
 A. Its general character 
 
 I 
 
 D. The style and versification. 
 
LECTURE XLIL 
 
 DRAMATIC POETRY— TRAGEDY. 
 
 Dramatic poetry has always, among all civilized nations, 
 been a favorite amusement. It is divided into two forms — 
 tragedy and comedy. Tragedy is the most dignified ; as 
 great and serious objects are more interesting than trifling 
 and ludicrous ones. The one rests upon the passions, the 
 virtues, the crimes, and the sufferings of mankind ; the 
 other, upon their humors, follies, and pleasures. Terror 
 and pity are the great instruments of the former ; ridicule, 
 of the latter. 
 
 Tragedy is a direct imitation of human manners and 
 actions. It does not exhibit characters by description or 
 narration ; it sets the personages before us, and makes them 
 act and speak with propriety. This species of writing, con 
 sequently, requires a deep knowledge of the human heart , 
 and when happily executed, it has a commanding power in 
 raising the strongest emotions. 
 
 Tragedy, as poetic composition, is, in its general strain 
 and spirit, favorable to virtue. It operates chiefly, by ex- 
 citing virtuous emotions. Characters of honor, claim our 
 respect and approbation; and to raise indignation, we must 
 paint a person in the odious colors of depravity and vice. 
 Virtuous men are, indeed, often represented by the tragic 
 poet, as unfortunate ; for this happens in real life : but he 
 never fails to engage our hearts in their behalf; and, in the 
 end, he always conducts them to triumph and prosperity. 
 Upon the same principle, if bad men are represented as suc- 
 cessful, they are yet finally led to punishment. The object 
 of this species of composition should, therefore, always be, 
 to improve our virtuous sensibility. If an author interests 
 
 What is remarked of dramatic poetry ; and how is it divided 1 Why is 
 tragedy the most dignified ; on what do they respectively rest ; and what 
 are their instruments 'I Of what is tragedy an imitation ; what illustration, 
 follows ; and of this species of writing, what is farther observed 1 To 
 what is tragedy favorable ; how does it operate ; and what remarks follow 1 
 Why are v.rtuous men often represented as unfortunate; but what is 
 always done 1 Upon the same principle, what is remarked of bad men? 
 What, therefore, should always be the object of this species of composition ; 
 and when has an author attained all the moral purposes of the tragic muse * 
 
338 DRAMATIC POETRY. [Lbct. 4®. 
 
 us in behalf of virtue, excites in us compassion for the dis- 
 tressed, inspires us with proper sentiments on beholding the 
 vicissitudes of life, and stimulates us to avoid the misfortunes 
 of others, by exhibiting their errors, he has attained all the 
 moral purposes of the tragic muse. 
 
 To effect this purpose, it is necessary to have an interesling 
 story as the subject, and to conduct it in a natural and proba- 
 ble manner. For the end of tragedy is not so much to 
 elevate the imagination, as it is to affect the heart. This 
 principle, which is founded in the clearest reason, excludes 
 from tragedy all machinery, and all fabulous interventions 
 whatever. Ghosts alone, from their foundation in popular 
 belief, have maintained a place in it ; but the use even of 
 them, is not to be commended, and they must be managed 
 with great art. 
 
 To promote the impression of probability,, the story of a 
 tragedy, according to some critics, should never be a pure 
 fiction, but ought to be based on real history. This, how- 
 ever, is certainly carrying the matter too far ; for a fictitious 
 tale, if properly conducted, will melt the heart as much as any 
 real history. It is sufficient that nature and probability be 
 not violated; and, therefore, the tragic poet may mingle 
 many fictitious circumstances, with real and well known 
 facts, without the least objection. The great majority of 
 readers never think of separating the historical from the 
 fabulous. They regard, and are affected by those events 
 only, that resemble nature. Accordingly, some of our most 
 affecting tragedies, such as the Fair Penitent, and Douglas, 
 are entirely fictitious in their subject. 
 
 Tragedy was, at its origin, very rude and imperfect. 
 Among the Greeks, it was nothing more than the song that 
 was sung at the festival of Bacchus. These songs were 
 sometimes sung by the whole company, and sometimes by 
 separate bands, answering alternately to each other, and 
 making a chorus. To give this entertainment the greater 
 variety, Thespis, who flourished about 530 years before the 
 Christian sera, introduced, between the songs,, a recitation 
 
 To effect this purpose, what is necessary ; and why 1 What does thie 
 principle exclude from tragedy ; and what remark follows 7 To promote 
 the impression of probability, what opinion has prevailed ; bat why is this 
 carrying the matter too farl What is sufficient; and, therefore, what 
 follows 1 Why is this the case; and what is, therefore, said of some of 
 our best tragedies 1 What was the state of tragedy at its origin j how is 
 this illustrated ; &nd what is said of Thespis and iEschylus* 
 
Lect. 42.] TRAGEDY. 
 
 in verse ; and iEschylus, who lived My years after him, 
 introduced a dialogue between two persons, or actors, com- 
 prehending some interesting story, and placed them upon a 
 stage adorned with scenery. The drama now began to 
 assume a regular form ; and was soon after brought to per- 
 fection by Sophocles and Euripides. 
 
 From this account it appears that the chorus was the 
 foundation of tragedy. But what is remarkable, the dramatic 
 dialogue, which was, at first, only an addition to it, soon 
 became the principal part of the entertainment. The chorus, 
 losing its dignity, came to be considered only an accessory 
 in tragedy. At length, in modern tragedy, it disappeared 
 altogether ; and its absence from the stage, in modern times, 
 is the chief distinction between our drama and that of the 
 ancients. With regard to the chorus, it must be allowed, 
 that it added splendor to the drama; and that it was a vehicle 
 for moral lessons, and high poetic efforts. But still it was 
 unnatural, and detracted from the interest of the piece. It 
 removed the representation from the resemblance of real 
 life ; and has, consequently, with much propriety, been dis- 
 continued. 
 
 As in the conduct of the drama, the unities of action, 
 place, and time, are considered capital circumstances, we 
 shall now proceed to treat of them. 
 
 /The unity of action is, doubtless, of great importance. It 
 refers to the relation which all the incidents introduced bear 
 to some design or effect, so as to combine them, naturally, 
 into one whole. In tragedy, this unity of subject is ex- 
 pressly essential; for a multiplicity of plots, by distracting 
 the attention, prevent the passions from rising to any height. 
 Hence the absurdity of two independent actions in the same 
 play. There may, indeed, be under-plots ; but the poet 
 should be careful to make these subservient to the main 
 action. The only object of these is to assist in bringing 
 forward the catastrophe of the play. 
 
 What did the drama now hegin to assume ; and by whom was it per- 
 fected ] From this account, what appears to have been the foundation of 
 tragedy ; but what is remarkable ; and how is this illustrated 7 With re- 
 gard to the chorus, what must be allowed ; and what remark follows 1 
 What, in the conduct of the drama, are considered capital circumstances 1 
 To what does the unity of action refer ; and why is it, in tragedy, essen- 
 tial 1 Hence what is observed ; and of under-plots what is remarked '? 
 With what must not the unity of action be confounded ; and when is 
 the plot simple 1 
 
340 DRAMATIC POETRY. [Lect. 42. 
 
 Unity of action must not, however, be confounded with 
 simplicity of plot. The plot is simple, when but a small 
 number of incidents is introduced into it ; and in this, the 
 ancients excelled the moderns. Though the modern intro- 
 duction of a great number of incidents, may be considered 
 an improvement, as it renders the piece both more instruct- 
 ing and more animated ; yet it may be carried too far ; for 
 too much action and intrigue, produce perplexity and em- 
 barrassment. Of this Congreve's Mourning Bride is an 
 example. Its events are too numerous, and too rapidly ex- 
 hibited ; and the catastrophe is intricate and artificial. 
 
 But the unity of action, besides being attended to in the 
 general construction of the fable, must be studied in all the 
 acts and scenes of the play. By an arbitrary division, there 
 are five acts in every play. For this, however, there seerrs 
 to be no necessity. On the Greek stage, the division by 
 acts was unknown. Even the word act does not, in the 
 Poetics of Aristotle, once occur. Practice, however, has 
 established this division ; and it will, in all probability, con- 
 tinue to be observed. 
 
 The first act should contain a clear exposition of the sub- 
 ject. It should introduce the personages to our acquaintance, 
 and excite curiosity. During the second, third, and fourth 
 acts, the plot should advance and thicken. The passions 
 should be kept perpetually awake. There should be no 
 scenes of idle conversation, or vain declamation. The sus- 
 pense and agitation of the reader should constantly increase. 
 It is in this that Shakspeare surpasses all other authors. In- 
 deed, sentiment and passion, pity and terror, should reign 
 in, and pervade every tragedy. 
 
 In the fifth act, which is the seat of the catastrophe, the 
 author should display all his art and genius. The un- 
 ravelling of the plot should be brought about by natural and 
 probable means. It should be simple, depend on a few events, 
 and include few persons. A passionate sensibility languishes, 
 when divided among a number of objects : it is strong and 
 
 Of the course pursued by the ancients and the moderns in this respect, 
 what is observed; and in what play is this illustrated] In what, also, 
 must the unity of action be studied ; and on this subject, what is farther 
 remarked 1 Of the first, and of the second, third, and fourth acts, what 
 is observed ; and how is this illustrated 1 Who excelled in this; and what 
 should pervade every tragedy 1 What is remarked of the fifth act ; and 
 why should the unravelling be simple, and depend on few circumstances 1 
 

 Lect. 42.] TRAGEDY. 341 
 
 vehement only when directed to a few. In the catastrophe, 
 every thing should be warm and glowing ; and the poet 
 should be simple, serious, and pathetic. English tragic 
 writers have generally inclined to an unhappy close; and 
 this seems in accordance with the spirit of the tragic 
 muse. 
 
 Why it is that the emotions of sorrow in tragedy should 
 afford gratification to the mind, is a curious inquiry ; and 
 perhaps, the best reason that can be assigned for it is. that 
 by the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, the ex- 
 ercise of all the social passions is attended with pleasure. 
 Nothing is more pleasing than love and friendship ; and 
 consequently, whenever we take a deep interest in the con- 
 cerns of others, an internal satisfaction is produced in our 
 own minds. Pity exerts a powerful influence, and is pecu- 
 liarly attractive ; and though it produces some distress, it, 
 at the same time, includes benevolence and friendship, and 
 partakes of the pleasing nature of those affections. The 
 heart is warmed by kindness and humanity ; and we are 
 pleased to find ourselves capable of entering, with becoming 
 sorrow, into the concerns of the afflicted. 
 
 Having treated of the acts of a play, we pass to the 
 scenes. The introduction of a new personage, constitutes 
 what is called a new scene. ' These scenes, or successive 
 conversations, should be closely connected ; and to effect 
 this, the poet should, in the first place, constantly keep some 
 personage before us ; and in the second place, no person 
 should be introduced or pass from before us, without suffi- 
 cient reason. If this latter rule be neglected, the nature of 
 dramatic writing is violated ; for the drama professes to be 
 a representation of real transactions. - 
 
 To the unity of action, critics have added the unities of 
 time and place. The unity of place requires that the scene 
 should not be shifted ; and the unity of time, that the action 
 continue no longer than would be required for the repre- 
 sentation. Aristotle, however, permits the action to com- 
 prehend the whole of the time of one day. The object of 
 
 What is farther remarked of the catastrophe ; and to what have English 
 trag ; c writers inclined ] Why do the emotions of sorrow in tragedy, afford 
 gratification to the mind ; and how is this fully illustrated 1 Having 
 treated of the acts of a play, to what do we pass ; for these what rules aie 
 given; and of the latter what is observed'? To the unity of action what 
 have critics added ; and of them respectively what is remarked 1 What, 
 therefore, is the object of these rules ; and what remarks follow 1 
 
342 DRAMATIC POETRY. [Lect. 42. 
 
 these rules, therefore, is to bring the imitation as close as 
 possible to reality. In modern times, too, the practice of 
 suspending the spectacle a short time between the acts, ren- 
 ders the strict confinement to time and place less necessary. 
 Strict adherence, therefore, to these unities, should not be 
 preferred to high beauties of execution, or to the introduction 
 of pathetic scenes. 
 
 From dramatic action we proceed to the characters most 
 proper to be introduced in tragedy. Some critics suppose, 
 that the nature of tragedy requires the principal personages 
 to be always of illustrious character, and high rank. They 
 affirm that the sufferings of such persons seize the heart the 
 most forcibly. This, however, is but specious reasoning; 
 for the distresses and agitations of private life, are affecting 
 in the highest degree. Desdemona, and Belvidere, interest 
 as much as though they had been queens. It is sufficient 
 that there be nothing degrading or mean in the personages 
 exhibited. Illustrious rank may give greater splendor to 
 the spectacle ; but it is the tale itself, and the art of the poet, 
 that can alone give influence to the piece. 
 
 In describing the characters of the persons represented, 
 the poet should be careful so to order the incidents that relate 
 to them, as to leave favorable impressions of the care of 
 Providence, and admiration for virtue. Unmixed characters, 
 either of good or bad men, are, perhaps, not the most suita- 
 ble for tragedy ; for the distresses of the former, being un- 
 merited, injure us, and the afflictions of the latter excite no 
 compassion. Mixed characters, therefore, such as we meet 
 with in the world, are the best field for displaying, without 
 any bad consequences to morals, the vicissitudes of life. They 
 interest the most deeply ; and while all their distresses are 
 pathetic, they are the more instructive, when their misfor- 
 tunes are represented as springing out of their own passions, 
 or as originating in some weakness incident to human nature. 
 
 The Greek tragedies are too often founded on mere destiny, 
 and inevitable misfortunes. Modern tragedy aims at a 
 higher object, and shows the direful effects of ambition, 
 
 From dramatic action to what do we proceed ; and of these what have 
 some writers supposed 2 Why is this but specious reasoning; and of this, 
 what remarks follow ] In describing characters, what course shoukl the 
 poet pursue ; and of unmixed characters, what is observed 1 What 
 characters, therefore, are the best ; and why 1 On what are the Greek 
 tragedies too often founded j but what is observed of the modern n t 
 
Lect. 42.] TRAGEDY. 343 
 
 jealousy, love, resentment, and every strong - emotion. But 
 of all the passions which have occupied the modern drama, 
 love has had the greatest triumph. In ancient tragedies love 
 is scarcely known ; and this, perhaps, is to be attributed to 
 the circumstance, that females took no part in their repre 
 sentations. It is evident, however, that no solid reason can 
 be assigned for the predominancy of love among modern 
 tragic writers ; and Home, in his Douglas, has afforded 
 sufficient proof, that the drama may produce its highest 
 effects, without any assistance from love. 
 
 Besides the arrangement of his subject, and the conduct 
 of his personages, the tragic poet must attend to the propriety 
 of his sentiments. These must correspond with the persons 
 who are represented, and with the situations in which they 
 are placed. This direction is so obvious, that it does not 
 require to be insisted upon ; and it is chiefly in the pathetic 
 *)arts, that the difficulty of following it is to be found* 
 
 Dramatic writers have generally been least successful in 
 leir attempts at exciting passion. A man under high pas- 
 ion, makes known his feelings in the glowing language of 
 ensibiiity. He does not coolly describe what his feelings 
 .re ; yet it is to this sort of description that tragic poets 
 lave recourse, when they are unable to attain the native 
 anguage of passion. Thus, in Addison's Cato, when Lu- 
 ;ia having confessed to Fortius her love for him, swears that 
 she will never marry him ; Portius, instead of giving way 
 to the language of grief, only describes his feelings : 
 
 Fix'din astonishment, I gaze upon thee, 
 Like one just blasted by a stroke from heaven, 
 Who pants for breath, and stiffens yet alive 
 In dreadful look ; a monument of wrath. 
 
 These lines might have proceeded from a bystander, but 
 are altogether improper from Portius. Similar to this descrip- 
 tive language, are the unnatural and forced thoughts which 
 tragic poets sometimes employ to exaggerate the feelings of 
 persons whom they wish to describe under high agitation. 
 Thus, when Jane Shore, in meeting with her husband in her 
 distress, and on finding that he had forgiven her, calls on the 
 
 What passion most occupies the modern drama; and what is remarked 
 of this '] Bes'des the arrangement of his subject, to what must the tragic 
 poet attend ; with what must these correspond ; and oPthis direction, what 
 is observed 1 Where have dramatic wr.ters generally been least successful ; 
 what remarks follow; and from Addison's Cato how is this illustrated 1 
 {Similar to this descriptive language are what ; and what illustrations fol- 
 low? 
 
344 DRAMATIC POETRY. [Lect. 42. 
 
 rains to give her their drops, that she may possess a con- 
 stant supply of tears, the poet strains his fancy to say some- 
 thing that shall be uncommonly lively. 
 
 The language of real passion is always plain and simple. 
 It abounds, indeed, with figures : but these express a dis- 
 turbed and impetuous state of mind, and are not for mere 
 parade and embellishment. The thoughts suggested by pas- 
 sion are natural and obvious, and not exaggerations of re- 
 sentment, subtlety, and wit. Passion neither reasons, nor 
 speculates, nor declaims : the language is short, broken, and 
 interrupted. In this the Greek tragedians excel : and this, 
 too, is the great excellence of Shakspeare. 
 
 With regard to moral sentiments and reflections, they 
 ought not to recur too frequently in tragedy. When unsea- 
 sonably used, they lose their effect, and convey an air of pe- 
 dantry. When introduced with propriety, however, they 
 have great dignity. Cardinal Wolsey's soliloquy on his 
 fall, is a fine instance of the felicity with which they may 
 be employed. 
 
 The style and versification of tragedy, should be free, 
 easy, and varied. English blank verse is peculiarly suited 
 to this species of composition. It is capable of great ma- 
 jesty, and may yet descend to the familiar ; it admits of a 
 happy variety of cadence, and is free from the monotony of 
 rhyme. Of the French tragedies, it is a great misfortune 
 that they are always in rhyme ; for it fetters the freedom of 
 the tragic dialogue, renders it languid, and is fatal to the 
 power of passion. 
 
 What is observe?; of the language of real passion ; and of passion 
 what is farther remarked 1 With regard to moral sentiments and reflec- 
 tions, what is observed ; and of their proper introduction, what instance is 
 given 7 What should the style and versification of tragedies be ; and what 
 ad\antage have the English over the French in this respect H 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 Dramatic poetry. 
 1. Tragedy. 
 
 A. Favorable to virtue. 
 
 B. The subject. 
 
 C. Its origin. 
 
 a. The chorus. 
 
 D. Unity of action. 
 
 a. Simplicity of plot. 
 
 b. Unity of the acts. 
 
 c. Tragedy gratifying. 
 
 d. The scenes. 
 
 r nity of time and place. 
 
 a. Thf characters. 
 
 b. Low in modern tragedy. 
 c The sentiments. 
 
 d. Tat style and versincaiioa 
 
LECTURE XLIIL 
 
 GREEK TRAGEDY— FRENCH TRAGEDY- 
 ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 
 
 Having treated of all the different parts of tragedy, we 
 shall now proceed to take a short view of that of Greece, 
 of France, and of England ; remarking, as we pass, on the 
 different distinguished writers of each country. 
 
 We have already observed, that in the Greek tragedy 
 there was much simplicity. The plot was natural and un- 
 encumbered ; the incidents were few ; and the conduct, with 
 respect to the unities of action, time, and place, very exact. 
 Machinery, or the intervention of the gods, was employed ; 
 and what was preposterous also, the final unravelling was 
 sometimes made to turn upon it. Love, except in one or 
 two instances, was never admitted into the Greek, tragedy. 
 Their subjects were often founded on destiny or inevitable 
 misfortunes. A vein of religious and moral sentiment 
 always runs through them, but they made less use than the 
 moderns do, of the combat of the passions, and of the dis- 
 tresses wh^ch they bring upon us. Their plots were all 
 taken from the ancient traditionary stories of their own 
 nation. Hercules furnishes matter for two tragedies. The 
 history of CEdipus, king of Thebes, and his unfortunate 
 family, for six. And the war of Troy, with its circum- 
 stances, for no fewer than seventeen. 
 
 ^schylus, who is the father of Greek traged3^, exhibits 
 both the beauties and defects of an early original writer. 
 He is bold, nervous, and animated, but very obscure and 
 difficult to be understood. The ardor of his mind hurried 
 him frequently into extravagance and bombast, and rendered 
 that indistinct which a greater degree of attention, and a 
 
 Having treated of all the different parts of tragedy, to what shall we 
 now proceed ; and what do % "What have we already observed ; and how 
 is this illustrated 1 What was employed ; and what is observed of it 1 
 What was never admitted ; on what were their subjects often founded ; and 
 what remark follows 1 From what were their plots all taken ; and how is 
 this remark illustrated 1 What does iEschylus exhibit ; and what is far- 
 ther remarked of him 1 Into what did the ardor of his mind frequently 
 hurry him ; and what followed 1 
 
846 GREEK TRAGEDY. [Lect. 43, 
 
 more refined taste, would have made elegant and perspicuous. 
 The moral sentiments which he has inculcated, spring 
 rather from a view of the evils of life, an. ' ,*& calamities of 
 the human race, than from a just knowic-Jgn of the mixed 
 state of human affairs. To support them wjth f.rm courage, 
 and determined resolution, was the great maxim he labored 
 to establish. The guilty he alarms with the terrors of di- 
 vine vengeance, and the unfortunate he teaches to submit to 
 his calamity as arising from a destiny which must be ful- 
 filled. The ghost of Darius in the Persse, the inspiration 
 of Cassandra in Agamemnon, and the songs of the Furies 
 in the Eumenides, are, however, very beautiful, and strongly 
 expressive of the author's genius. 
 
 Sophocles is the greatest of the three Greek tragedians. 
 In the conduct of his subjects, and in the sublimity of his 
 sentiments, he far surpasses either iEschylus or Euripides. 
 He is eminent for his descriptive talent also. The relation 
 of the death of CEdipus, in his OEdipus Coloneus, and of 
 the death of Haemon and Antigone, in his Antigone, are 
 perfect examples of description in tragic poets. The style 
 of Sophocles is remarkable for dignity and beauty, approach- 
 ing even to the magnificence of the epic. It is always pure, 
 perspicuous, and harmonious. He ne^er anticipates the 
 subject and issue of his plots, but evolves every incident in 
 a gradual and natural manner, and keeps the mind in a state 
 of suspense till the final catastrophe. 
 
 Euripides surpasses Sophocles in tenderness and moral 
 sentiments ; but in the conduct of his plays, he is more in- 
 correct and negligent. His expositions are made in a less 
 artful manner; and the songs cf his chorusses, though re- 
 markably poetical, have, generally, less connection with the 
 main action than those of Sophocles. The style of Euripides 
 is simple, elegant, and not nmch elevated above the language 
 of genteel conversation. It is admirably adapted for ex- 
 pressing the various passions and emotions of the mind, 
 particularly those of the tender and amiable kind ; in ex- 
 
 From what do his moral sentiments spring ; and what was the great 
 maxim which he labored to establish 1 What remark follows ; and what 
 are beautiful and strongly expressive of the author's genius'? What is 
 said of Sophocles ; in what does he excel; and what illustration is given 
 of his descriptive talent 1 What is observed of his style; and what re- 
 mark follows 1 How does Euripides compare with Sophocles 1 What is 
 said of his style ; and to what is it admirably adapted 1 
 
Lect. 43.] FRENCH TRAGEDY. 347 
 
 citing which he far surpassed his predecessors. iEschylus 
 represented men greater than they can possibly be ; Sopho- 
 cles, as they ought to be ; and Euripides, as they actually 
 are. Euripides knew more of the effect of the passions than 
 either of the former ; and hence there is more of the tender 
 and pathetic in his tragedies, than in those of his prede- 
 cessors. While they, by their representations, raise the 
 mind above the weakness of nature, or the vicissitudes of 
 fortune, he subdues and unmans it, by pictures of distress 
 and excess of feeling. On this account, Aristotle styles him 
 the most tragic of all poets. 
 
 The circumstances of theatrical representation among the 
 Greeks and Romans, were, in several respects, very singu- 
 lar, and widely different from that of modern* times. Not 
 only were the songs of the chorus accompanied with instru- 
 mental music, but the dialogue part had also a modulation of 
 its own, and was capable of being set to notes. It has also 
 been thought that, on some occasions, the pronouncing and 
 gesticulating parts were divided, and performed by different 
 persons. In tragedy, the actors wore a long robe, called 
 syrma, which flowed upon the stage. They were also 
 raised upon cothurni, which rendered their stature uncom- 
 monly high ; and they always used masks. These masks 
 were painted ; and the actors, by turning the different pro- 
 files, exhibited different emotions to the audience— a con- 
 trivance which, certainly, must have been very imperfect. 
 In the dramatic spectacles, notwithstanding, of both Greece 
 and Rome, the attention given to their exhibition and mag- 
 nificence, far exceeded any thing that has been attempted in 
 modern times. 
 
 In the composition of some of the French dramatic 
 writers, particularly Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, tragedy 
 has appeared with much lustre and dignity. They must be 
 allowed to have improved upon the ancients, in introducing 
 more incidents, a greater variety of passions, a fuller display 
 of characters, and in rendering the subject thereby more in- 
 teresting. They have studied to imitate the ancient models 
 
 How did iEschylus and Sophocles respectively represent men ; in what 
 had Euripides the advantage ; and hence what followed 1 How is this 
 illustrated; and what says Aristotle of him 1 Of the circumstances of 
 dramatic representation among the Gi'eeks and Romans, what is remarked ; 
 and how is this fully illustrated 1 Still, of their dramatic spectacles what 
 is observed 1 What is said of the compositions of some of the French 
 dramatic writers, and in what have they improved upon the ancients 1 In 
 what have they studied to imitate the ancients ; and what remarks, follow 1 
 
348 FRENCH TRAGEDY. [Lect. 43. 
 
 in-regularity of conduct. They are attentive to all the uni- 
 ties, and to all the decorums of sentiment and morality ; and 
 their style is generally very poetical and elegant. What an 
 English taste is most apt to censure in them, is the want of 
 fervor, strength, and the natural language of passion. There 
 is often too much conversation in their pieces ; they are too 
 declamatory, when they should be passionate — too refined, 
 when they should be simple. Voltaire freely acknowledged 
 these defects in French tragedy. He admits that their best 
 pieces do not make a sufficient impression on the heart, and 
 that the authors seemed afraid of being too tragic. He, 
 therefore, gave it as his judgment, that a union of the vehe- 
 mence and the action that characterize the English drama, 
 with the correctness and decorum of the French, would be 
 necessary to form a perfect play. 
 
 Corneille, who is properly the father of French tragedy, 
 is distinguished by the majesty and grandeur of his senti- 
 ments, and the fruitfulness of his imagination. His genius 
 was, unquestionably very rich, but seemed more turned 
 towards the epic than the tragic vein ; for in general he is 
 magnificent and splendid, rather than tender and touching. 
 It must be remembered, however, that it seems to have been 
 Corneille's object to set forth the human character as it 
 should be, and not as it really is ; and to this circumstance, 
 that which may seem unnatural in his tragedies, is to be 
 attributed. He composed a great number of pieces, the 
 most esteemed of which are, the Cid, Horace, and China. 
 
 Racine, as a tragic poet, is much superior to Corneille. 
 He wanted the copiousness and grandeur of Corneille's ima- 
 gination ; but is free from his bombast, and excels him greatly 
 in tenderness. His Phasdra, his Andromaque, his Athalie, 
 and his Mithridate, are admirable performances, and do no 
 small honor to the French drama. His language and ver- 
 sification are uncommonly beautiful. Of all the French 
 authors, he appears to have most excelled in poetical style ; 
 to have managed their rhyme with the greatest advantage 
 and facility, and to have given it the most complete harmony. 
 
 What is English taste most apt to censure in them ; and of this, what is 
 observed] What does Voltaire adnut; and what does he. therefore, give 
 as his judgment] What is said of Corneille ; and what is observed of 
 his genius 1 Of him what must be remembered ; and what are his best 
 pieces ] How does Racine compare with Corneille ; and what do no small 
 honor to the French drama I What is said of Ms language and versifi- 
 cation ; and what remarks fol'>w 1 
 
Lect. 43.] ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 340 
 
 Voltaire repeatedly pronounced Racine's Atlialie to be the 
 finest drama in the French language. It is altogether a 
 sacred piece, and owes much of its elevation to the majesty 
 of religion ; but it is less tender and interesting than 
 Andromaque. 
 
 Voltaire, in several of his tragedies, is inferior to neither 
 of his great predecessors. In an important article he has 
 outdone them both — in the delicate and interesting situations 
 he has contrived to introduce. Here lies his chief strength. 
 He is not, indeed, exempt from the defects of the other 
 French tragedians, of wanting force, and of being some- 
 times too long and declamatory in his speeches ; but his 
 characters are drawn with spirit, his events are striking, 
 and in his sentiments there is much elevation. His Zayre, 
 Alzire, Merope, and Orphan of China, are four admirable 
 tragedies, and deserve the highest praise. What seems very 
 remarkable is, that Voltaire, though a professed infidel, 
 should, in the strain of his sentiments, be the most religious, 
 and the most moral, of all the French tragic poets. 
 
 We have still to speak of the state of tragedy in Great 
 Britain ; the general character of which is, that it is more 
 animated and passionate than French tragedy, but less regu- 
 lar and correct, and less attentive to decorum and to ele- 
 gance. The pathetic, it must constantly be remembered, is the 
 soul of tragedy. The English, therefore, must be allowed 
 to have aimed at the highest species of excellence ; though 
 in, the execution, they have not always joined the other beau- 
 ties that ought to accompany the pathetic. 
 
 The first object that presents itself to us among the 
 English dramatists, is the great Shakspeare. Great he may 
 be justly called, as the extent and force of his natural genius, 
 both for tragedy and comedy, are altogether unrivalled. 
 But at the same time it must be acknowledged, that his 
 genius is sometimes wild, that his taste is not always cor- 
 rect, and that he was too little assisted by knowledge and 
 art. Long has he been idolized by the British nation ; much 
 
 What said Voltaire of his Athalie ; and what follows 1 How does Vol- 
 taire compare with his predecessors'? From what is he not exempt; but 
 what excellencies follow 1 Which of his tragedies deserve the highest 
 praise ; and what is a very remarkable circumstance 1 Of what have we 
 still to speak ; and how does it compare with the French 1 What must 
 constantly be remembered ; and what, therefore, follows '] Among the 
 English dramatists, who first presents himself; and why may he be called 
 great 1 What must, at the same time, be acknowledged ; and what re- 
 marks follow % 
 
 m 
 
850 ENGLISH TRAGEDY. [Lect. 43. 
 
 has been said and much written concerning him ; criticism 
 has been lavished with the utmost prodigality upon his words 
 and witticisms ; and yet it is undecided, whether his beau- 
 ties or his faults predominate. Admirable scenes and pas- 
 sages without number, there are in his plays — -passages 
 beyond what are to be found in any other dramatic writer ; 
 but there is hardly any one of his plays, which can be read 
 with uninterrupted pleasure throughout. Besides extreme 
 irregularities in conduct, and grotesque mixtures of the 
 serious and the comic in one piece, we are often interrupted 
 by unnatural thoughts, harsh expressions, a certain obscure 
 bombast, and a play upon words, which he is fond of pur- 
 suing; and these interruptions to our pleasure too frequently 
 occur, on occasions w 7 here we would least wish to meet with 
 them. All these faults, however, Shakspeare redeems, by 
 two of the greatest excellences which any tragic poet can 
 possess — his lively and diversified paintings of character, 
 and his strong and natural expression of passion. These 
 are his two chief virtues — on these his merit rests. Not- 
 withstanding his many absurdities, all the while we are 
 reading his plays, we find ourselves in the midst of our fel- 
 lows ; we meet with men — vulgar, perhaps, in their man- 
 ners, coarse and harsh in their sentiments — but still they are 
 men ; they speak with human voices, and are actuated by 
 human passions ; we are interested in what they say and do, 
 because we feel that they are of the same nature with our- 
 selves. It is, therefore, no matter of wonder, that from the 
 more polished and regular, but more cold and artificial per- 
 formances of other poets, the public should return with 
 pleasure to such warm and genuine representations of human 
 nature. 
 
 Shakspeare possesses likewise the merit of having created, 
 for himself, a sort of world of preternatural beings. His 
 witches, ghosts, fairies, and spirits of all kinds, are described 
 with such circumstances of awful and mysterious solemnity, 
 and speak a language so peculiar to themselves, as strongly 
 to affect the imagination. His masterpieces, and those in 
 which all the strength of his genius appears, are King Lear, 
 Hamlet, Othello, and Macbeth. With regard to his histo- 
 
 What are there in his plavs ; but what defects do the}' contain 1 By 
 what, however, does Shakspeare redeem all these faults; and what re- 
 marks follow 1 What is, therefore, no mattrr of wonder 1 What merit 
 does Shakspeare Lkewise possess ; and how is this illustrated 1 What are 
 his masterpieces ; and what is observed of bis historical plays 1 
 
Lect. 43.] ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 351 
 
 rical plays, they are neither tragedies nor comedies; but a 
 species of dramatic entertainment, in which he describes the 
 personages, the events, and the manners of the times of 
 which he treats. 
 
 After the age of Shakspeare, we can produce, in the 
 English language, several detached tragedies of consider- 
 able merit. But we have not many dramatic writers whose 
 whole works are entitled, either to particular criticism, or 
 very high praise. In the tragedies of Dryden and Lee, 
 there is much fire, but a great deal of fustian and rant. 
 Lee's Theodosius is the best of his pieces, and though ro- 
 mantic in the plan, and extravagant in the sentiments, does 
 not Wbnt tenderness and warmth. Otway possessed much 
 tragic spi/it , and his two principal pieces, « The Orphan,' 
 and 'Venice Preserved,' are powerful productions. These 
 may, puihapj , be considered too tragic ; the distresses being 
 so great aii tc harrow the feelings, and overwhelm the mind. 
 Though he j Dssessed much genius, and strong passion, he 
 is exceidinghr gross and indelicate. No tragedies are less 
 moral ihan those of Otway. 
 
 The tragedies of Rowe form a striking contrast to those 
 of Otway. He is full of elevated and moral sentiments. 
 The poetry is often good, and the language always pure and 
 elegant ; but in most of his plays he is too cold and uninter- 
 esting ; and flowery rather than tragic. Two of his plays, 
 however, deserve to be exempted from this censure — * Jane 
 Shore,' and the * Fair Penitent,' — in both of which there are 
 so many tender and truly pathetic scenes, as to render them 
 justly favorites of the public. 
 
 In the Revenge of Dr. Young, there are both fire and 
 genius ; but it is deficient in tenderness, and exhibits too 
 strong a conflict of direful passions. In Congreve's Mourn- 
 ing Bride, are some fine situations, and much good poetry. 
 The meeting of Almeria with her husband Osmyn, in the 
 tomb of Adselmo, is one of the most solemn and striking 
 situations to be found in any tragedy. The tragedies of 
 Mr. Thomson are so full of stiff morality, that it renders 
 
 What is remarked of English dramatic writers after the age of Shak- 
 speare ? What is remarked of the tragedies of Lee and of Dryden ; and of 
 Lee's Theodosius what is observed ] What is remarked of Otway ; and 
 how is this illustrated 1 What is said of the tragedies of Rowe; and 
 what remarks follow ] What two may be exempted from this censure ; 
 and what is remarked of them 1 What is said of the Revenge cf Dr. 
 Young, and of the Mourning Bride of Congreve ; and of the latter what 
 illustration follows 1 
 
352 ENGLISH TRAGEDY. [Lect. 43. 
 
 them dull and formal. Mr. Addison's Cato, and Mr. Home's 
 Douglas, are both admirable productions. 
 
 In reviewing the tragic compositions of different nations, 
 we find that a Greek tragedy is the relation of some dis- 
 tressful or melancholy incidents ; without much variety of 
 paits or events, but naturally and beautifully set before us ; 
 heightened by the poetry of the chorus. A French tragedy 
 is a series of artful and refined conversations, founded upon 
 a variety of tragical and interesting situations; carried on 
 with little action or vehemence ; but with much poetical 
 beauty, and high propriety and decorum. An English tra- 
 gedy is the combat of strong passions, set before us in all 
 their violence — producing deep disaster — often irregularly 
 conducted — abounding in action ; and filling the spectators 
 with grief. The ancient tragedies were more natural and 
 simple ; the modern are more artful and complex. Among 
 the French, there is more correctness ; among the English, 
 more fire. Andromaque and Zayre, soften ; Othello and 
 Venice Preserved, rend the heart. 
 
 Of the tragedies of Mr. Thomson, the Cato of Addison, and Douglas 
 of Home, what is remarked 1 In reviewing tragic compositions, what do 
 we find a Greek tragedy, a French tragedy, and an English tragedy, to be 1 
 How do the French and the English compare; and what illustration 
 follows 1 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 1. Greek tragedy. 
 
 A. iEschvlus. 
 
 B. Sophocles. 
 
 C. Euripides. 
 
 a. Manner of representation. 
 
 2. French tragedy. 
 
 A. Corneille. 
 
 B. Racine. 
 
 C. Voltaire. 
 
 3. English tragedy. 
 
 A. Shakspeare. 
 
 a. His preternatural beings. 
 
 B. Dryden — Lee — Otway. 
 
 C. Rowe — Young— Thomson. 
 
 4. The conclusion. 
 
LECTURE XLIV. 
 
 COMEDY— ANCIENT COMEDY— MODERN 
 COMEDY. 
 
 Comedy is sufficiently distinguished from tragedy, by its 
 general spirit and strain. While pity and terror, and the 
 other strong passions, forms the province of the latter, the 
 chief instrument of the former is ridicule. Follies and 
 vices, and whatever in the human character is the object of 
 censure, or excites in the beholder a sense of impropriety, 
 are subjects for the comic muse. 
 
 This general idea of comedy, as a satirical exhibition of 
 the improprieties and follies of mankind, is an idea very 
 moral and useful. To polish the manners of men, to pro- 
 mote attention to the proper decorums of social conduct, and 
 above all to render vice ridiculous, are highly commendable. 
 There are many vices that are more successfully exploded 
 by ridicule than by serious arguments. It is possible, how- 
 ever, to employ ridicule improperly; and, by its operation, to 
 do mischief instead of good. Ridicule is far from being a 
 proper test of truth ; and licentious writers of the comic sort, 
 may cast a ridicule on objects which do not deserve it. But 
 this fault is not attributable to comedy itself, but to the turn 
 and genius of the writers of it. In the hands of an immo- 
 ral author, comedy may mislead and corrupt ; but in those 
 of well intentioned writers, it is a pleasant entertainment, and 
 may lead to reformation, and the advancement of virtue. 
 
 The rules of dramatic action, prescribed to tragedy, be- 
 long also to comedy. The comic writer also, must observe 
 the unities of action, time, and place. As the scope of all 
 these rules is to bring the imitation as near as possible to 
 probability, perhaps a stricter observance of them is more 
 
 By what is comedy sufficiently distinguished from tragedy 1 What form 
 the province of the latter ; what is the chiof instrument of the former ; and 
 what are subjects for the comic muse 1 What is said of the general idea of 
 comedy ; and what are highly commendable 1 What remark follows ; but 
 what is, however, possible? Of what is ridicule not the test; and what 
 follows 1 But to what is this fault attributable ; and what illustration fol- 
 lows? What rules of dramatic action belong equally to tragedy and com- 
 edy : what remark follows ; and why 1 
 
 30* 
 
354 COxMEDY. [Lect. 44. 
 
 necessary in comedy than in tragedy ; for the subjects of 
 comedy are more familiar, and better known. 
 
 The subjects of tragedy are not confined to any particular 
 age or country ; but it is otherwise with comedy : for the 
 decorums of behavior, and the nice discriminations of cha- 
 racter which are the objects of comedy, are to be understood 
 by the natives of the country only, where the author resides. 
 We may weep for the heroes of Greece and Rome, but we can 
 be touched with the ridicule of the manners and characters 
 that come under our own observation only. The scene, there- 
 fore, of comedy, should always be laid in the authoi's own 
 country, and in his own age. The comic poet should 'catch 
 the manners living as they rise.' It is not his business to 
 amuse us with a tale of the last age, or with a Spanish or a 
 French intrigue, but to give us pictures taken from among 
 ourselves; to satirize reigning and present vices; to exhibit 
 to the age a faithful copy of itself, with its humors, its follies, 
 and its extravagancies. 
 
 There are two kinds of comedy — that of character, and 
 that of intrigue. In the latter, the plot of the play is the 
 principal object. In the former, the display of some pecu- 
 liar character is chiefly aimed at; and to this the whole ac- 
 tion is made subordinate. The French abound most in 
 comedies of character. All Moliere's capital pieces, such 
 as his Avare, his Misanthrope, and his Tartuffe, are of this 
 sort. The English, however, abound most in comedies of 
 intrigue. In the plays of Congreve, and, in general, in all 
 our comedies, there is much more story and action than 
 there is with the French. 
 
 The perfection of comedy would, perhaps, be found in 
 the mixture of these two kinds of entertainment together. 
 Without some interesting story, mere conversation is apt to 
 become insipid. There should always be so much intrigue 
 as to give us something to wish, and something to fear. The 
 incidents should be striking and natural; and should afford 
 a full field for the exhibition of character. The piece, how- 
 ever, should not be overcharged with intrigue ; for this would 
 be converting a comedy into a novel. 
 
 Of the subjects of tragedy what is remarked ; but why is it otherwise 
 with comedy 1 How is this remark illustrated ; and of the scene, therefore, 
 what is observed 1 What is not, and what is. the comic poets business ? 
 What two kinds of comedy are there; and what is observed of them re- 
 spectively 1 In which do the French, and in which the English abound; 
 and what illustrations follow 1 Where would the perfection of comedy 
 be found ; and how is this fully illustrated ? 
 
Lect.44.] ANCIENT COMEDY. 355 
 
 With respect to characters, it is a common error of comic 
 writers, to carry them much beyond real life ; and, in- 
 deed, it is very difficult to determine where wit ends, and 
 buffoonery begins. When the miser, for instance, in Plau- 
 tus, searching the person whom he suspects of having sto- 
 len his casket, after examining first his right hand, and then 
 his left, cries out, 'show me your third hand,' every one 
 must be sensible of the extravagance. Certain degrees of 
 exaggeration are allowed to the comedian ; but there are 
 limits set to it by nature and good taste, which he must not 
 pass. 
 
 Characters, in comedy, ought to be clearly distinguished 
 from one another ; but the artificial contrasting of characters, 
 and the introducing of them, always impairs, give too affect- 
 ed an air to the piece. In every sort of composition the per- 
 fection of art is to conceal art. A masterly writer will, there- 
 fore, give us his characters, distinguished rather by such 
 shades of diversity as are commonly found in society, than 
 marked with such strange oppositions, as are readily brought 
 into actual contrast in any of the circumstances of life. 
 
 As to the style of comedy, it ought to be elegant, lively, 
 and pure ; and should generally imitate the tone of polite 
 conversation. French writers have generally written their 
 comedies in rhyme ; but this is not suitable to comic compo- 
 sition, for poetry has no connection with the conversations of 
 men in common life. One of the most difficult circumstan- 
 ces in writing comedy, is to maintain throughout a current of 
 easy, genteel, unaffected dialogue, without pertness and 
 flippancy, or dullness and formality. 
 
 These are the chief observations that occur concerning the 
 general principles of this species of dramatic writing, as dis- 
 tinguished from tragedy. We next proceed to a short histo- 
 ry of its progress, and the manner in which it has been car- 
 ried on by authors of different nations. 
 
 The comedy of the ancients was an avowed satire against 
 particular persons, who were brought upon the stage by name. 
 
 With respect to characters, what is a common error ; what is very diffi- 
 cult ; and what illustration follows ? How should characters in comedy be 
 distinguished ; but what gives too affected an air to the piece 1 As, in eve- 
 ry sort of composition, the perfection of art is to conceal art, what follows 1 
 What should the style of comedy be 1 In what have the French general- 
 ly written their comedies; what is observed of it ; and what is a very diffi- 
 cult task 1 After these general observations, to what do we proceed 1 What 
 was the comedy of the ancients ; what are examples ; and what is said of 
 them 7 
 
856 ANCIENT COMEDY. f Lfct. 44 
 
 Such were the piays of Aristophanes ; and compositions of 
 so singular a nature illustrate well the turbulent licentious- 
 ness of Athens. The most illustrious personages were then 
 exposed to the unrestrained scope of the comic muse. Viva- 
 city, satire, and buffoonery, are the characteristics of Aristo- 
 phanes. Though he possessed much strength and genius, 
 yet his performances do not afford a very high idea of the 
 Attic taste of wit in his age. His ridicule is extravagant ; 
 his wit is farcical ; his personal raillery is biting and cruel ; 
 and his obscenity is intolerable. 
 
 Soon after the days of Aristophanes, the liberty previously 
 indulged by comic poets, of attacking persons byname, was 
 prohibited by law. To this the middle order of comedy suc- 
 ceeded ; in which living characters were still assailed, but 
 under fictitious names. Of these comic pieces we have no re- 
 mains. To them succeeded the new comedy; when the re- 
 presentations became what they now are — pictures of man 
 ners and characters, but not of particular persons. The au- 
 thor, the most celebrated of this kind, among the Greeks, was 
 Menander ; but his writings have perished. 
 
 Of the new comedy of the ancients, the only examples 
 that now exist, are the plays of Plautus and Terence. The 
 first is eminent for the vis comica, and for an expressive phra- 
 seology. He bears, however, many marks of the rudeness 
 of the dramatic art in his time. He abounds too much with 
 low wit ; and is by far too quaint, and too full of conceit. 
 He possesses, however, both force and vivacity; and his cha- 
 racters, though somewhat coarse, are well marked. 
 
 Terence is polished, delicate, and elegant. Nothing can 
 be more pure and graceful than his language. Decency and 
 correctness reign in his dialogues ; and his relations have a 
 picturesque and beautiful simplicity. His morality, too, is 
 unexceptionable. The situations which he introduces are of- 
 ten tender and interesting ; and many of his sentiments touch 
 the heart. He may be considered the founder of serious come- 
 dy. In his characters and plots, there is a sameness and uni- 
 formity; and in sprightliness and strength he is also deficient. 
 
 What were the characteristics of Aristophanes ; and what is further ob- 
 served of him? What was, soon after the day of Aristophanes, prohibited 
 by law ; to it what succeeded ; and what is observed of them 1 To them, 
 what succeeded : and in it who was the most celebrated writer 1 Of the 
 new comedy, whose plays are the only remains ; and of the first, what is 
 observed 1 What are the qualities of Terence ; and of him, what is far- 
 ther remarked ? 
 
Lect. 44.] MODERN COMEDY. 357 
 
 Among the moderns, the Spaniards have been remarkable 
 for their comic dramatic productions. Lopez de Vega, 
 Guillin, and Calderon, are the principal Spanish comic 
 writers. The first, who is by far the most famous of them, 
 wrote not less than a thousand plays ; and was infinitely 
 more irregular than even Shakspeare. He disregarded, 
 altogether, every rule of dramatic composition. In one 
 play he frequently includes whole years ; and his scenes are 
 often, in the same act, in Spain, in Africa, and in Italy. His 
 dramas are chiefly historical ; and are a mixture of heroic 
 speeches, serious incidents, war, ridicule, and buffoonery. 
 He jumbles together Christianity, paganism, virtues, vices, 
 angels, and gods. Notwithstanding his faults, however, he 
 possessed both genius, and imagination. . Many of his cha- 
 racters are well drawn, and his situations are generally 
 happy ; and from the products of his rich invention, 
 dramatic writers of other countries have derived many ad- 
 vantages. 
 
 French comedies are uniformly allowed to be correct, 
 chaste, and decent. France has produced several writers 
 of considerable merit, such as Regnard, Dufresny, Dancourt, 
 and Marivaux ; but the comic writer in whom the French 
 glory most, is the famous Moliere. Voltaire pronounces 
 him the most eminent comic poet of any age or country ; and 
 perhaps this decision is not merely the result of partiality. 
 Moliere is the satirist of vice and folly only. He has selected 
 a great variety of characters peculiar to the times in which 
 he lived ; and he has generally placed the ridicule justly. 
 He is full of mirth and pleasantry ; and his pleasantry is 
 always innocent. His Misanthrope and TartufTe are a kind 
 of dignified comedy, in verse ; and in them vice is exposed in 
 the style of elegant and polite satire. In his prose comedies, 
 though there is abundance of ridicule, yet there is nothing 
 to offend a modest ear, or to throw contempt upon virtue. 
 
 Together with these high qualities, Moliere has his defects 
 also. The unravelling of his plots is by no means happy. 
 
 Among the moderns, what is observed of the Spaniards ; and who are 
 their principal writers of comedy 1 What is said of the first, and how is this 
 illustrated 1 Notwithstanding his faults, what did he possess; and what 
 illustrations follow 1 What are French comedies allowed to be 1 What 
 comic writers of merit has France produced ; but in whom do they glory 
 most % What says Voltaire of him ; and of what is he always the satirist 1 
 Illustrative of his excellences, what is farther remarked 1 Together with 
 these high qualities, what defects has Moliere ; and of verse comedies, 
 and. more risible pieces, what is observed 1 
 
358 MODERN COMEDY. [Lect. 44. 
 
 This is frequently brought about with too little preparation, 
 and in an improbable manner. Perhaps his attention to the 
 full exhibition of characters, lessened his care for the con- 
 duct of the intrigue. In his verse comedies, he is not 
 always sufficiently interesting ; and his speeches frequently 
 run into prolixity. In his more risible pieces in prose he 
 is often too farcical. But, upon the whole, it may be affirmed, 
 that few writers ever attained so perfectly the true end of 
 comedy, as Moliere. His TartufTe, in the style of grave 
 comedy, and his Avare, in the gay, are accounted his two 
 capital productions. 
 
 In English comedy we are naturally led to expect a 
 greater variety of original characters, and bolder strokes of 
 wit and humor, than are to be found elsewhere, among the 
 moderns. Humor is, in a great measure, the peculiar pro- 
 vince of the English nation. The freedom of the govern- 
 ment, and the unrestrained manners of the people, tend to 
 produce singularity. In France, the influence of a despotic 
 court has spread uniformity over the nation. Comedy, 
 accordingly, flows more freely in England than in France. 
 But it is to be deeply regretted, that the comic spirit of 
 Britain has been too often disgraced by indecency and licen- 
 tiousness. 
 
 The first age of English comedy was not, however, in- 
 fected by this spirit. Neither the plays of Shakspeare, 
 nor those of Ben Jonson, can be accused of immoral ten- 
 dency. Shakspeare's general character appears to as great 
 advantage in his comedies as in his tragedies — a strong, 
 fertile, and creative genius, irregular in conduct, but singu- 
 larly rich and happy in the description of characters and 
 manners. Jonson is more regular in the conduct of his pieces, 
 but stiff and pedantic ; though not destitute of dramatic 
 genius. In the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, much fan- 
 cy appears, and many fine passages may be found ; but in 
 general, they abound with romantic incidents, with unnatural 
 characters, and with coarse allusions. 
 
 But, upon the whole, what conclusion may be drawn ; and what are his 
 best pieces] In English comedy, what are we led to expect; and why 1 
 How is England contrasted with France ; but what is, at the same time, 
 to be deeply regretted 1 Of the first age of English comedy, what is 
 observed ; and of Shakspeare, and Jonson, what is remarked 1 In the 
 plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, what may be found ; but with what do 
 they abound 1 After the restoration, what seized upon comedy as its pe- 
 culiar province ; and how is this illustrated 1 
 
Lect. 44.] MODERN COMEDY. 359 
 
 After the restoration of Charles II., the licentiousness that 
 infested the court seized upon comedy as its peculiar pro- 
 vince. It was then that the rake first became the hero of 
 every play. The ridicule was thrown, not upon vice and folly, 
 but much more commonly upon chastity and sobriety. It is 
 true, in the end of the piece, he becomes, in some degree, re- 
 formed ; but throughout the performance, he is set up as the 
 model of a fine gentleman ; and the agreeable impression 
 made by a sort of sprightly licentiousness, is left upon the 
 imagination, as a picture of the pleasurable enjoyment of 
 life ; while the reformation passes lightly away, as a matter 
 of mere form. To what sort of moral conduct such public 
 entertainments tend to form the youth of both sexes, may be 
 easily imagined. 
 
 Dryden was the first considerable dramatic writer after 
 the restoration. In his comedies there are many strokes of 
 genius ; but he is frequently hasty and careless. As his 
 object was to please, he followed the current of the times, 
 and was uniformly corrupt and licentious. His want of de- 
 cency was, at times, so gross, as to occasion the prohibition 
 of his pieces. 
 
 After Dryden, flourished Cibber, Vanbrugh, Farquhar, 
 and Congreve. Cibber possesses sprightliness, and a perk 
 vivacity ; but is forced and unnatural in his incidents. His 
 performances have all sunk into obscurity, excepting ' The 
 Careless Husband,' and ' The Provoked Husband.' Of 
 these, the first is remarkable for the easy politeness of the 
 dialogue ; and it is tolerably moral in its conduct. The 
 latter, in which Cibber was assisted by Vanbrugh, is, per- 
 haps, the best comedy in the English language. Its cha- 
 racters are natural, and it abounds with fine painting, and 
 happy strokes of humor. 
 
 Wit, spirit, and ease, characterize Sir John Vanbrugh ; 
 but he is the most indelicate and immoral of all the English 
 comedians. Congreve is, unquestionably, a writer of genius. 
 He is witty and sparkling ; and full of character and action. 
 Indeed he may be said to overflow with wit. It is often in- 
 troduced without propriety ; and, in general, it is too pointed 
 and apparent for well bred conversation. Farquhar is a 
 
 Though in the end of the piece he becomes, in some degree, reformed ; 
 yet, what, remarks follow 1 What is said of the comedies of Dryden ; and 
 to what extent did he carry his want of delicacy ? Who flourished after 
 Dryden ; and of Cibber and his performances, what is observed 1 What 
 characterize Vanbrugh ; but what remark follows 1 What is said of Con- 
 greve, and of Farquhar 1 
 
360 MODERN COMEDY. [Lect. 44. 
 
 light and gay writer ; less correct than Congreve, and less 
 brilliant ; but more easy, and nearer to real life. The two 
 least exceptionable of his plays are, * The Recruiting 
 Officer,' and ' The Beaux Stratagem.' But though the 
 least exceptionable, yet the uniform tendency of the plays of 
 both Congreve and Farquhar, is so manifestly immoral, 
 that of the former Lord Karnes, with much force, observed, 
 * If the comedies of Congreve did not rack him with re- 
 morse, in his last moments, he must have been lost to all 
 sense of virtue.' 
 
 Of late years, a reformation has gradually taken place in 
 English comedy. Our writers of comedy now seem ashamed 
 of the indecency of their predecessors. If they have not the 
 spirit, ease, and wit, of Congreve and Farquhar, they 
 have much more important qualities ; for they are both in- 
 nocent and moral. 
 
 For this improvement we are indebted to the French 
 comic writers. The introduction there of a graver comedy, 
 attracted the attention, and mei the approbation of English 
 writers. From this graver comedy wit and ridicule are 
 not excluded ; but it seeks to merit praise by tender and in- 
 teresting situations. It is sentimental and touches the heart. 
 It pleases rot so much by the laughter it excites, as by the 
 tears of affection which it draws forih. It is not, however, 
 to be supposed, that this new species of comedy is to super- 
 cede, altogether, the comedy that is founded in ridicule. 
 There are materials for both ; and the drama is the richer 
 for the innovation. At least, it may be considered as a mark 
 of true politeness and refinement of manners, that theatrical 
 exhibitions have become fashionable, which are free from ■ 
 indelicate sentiment, and an immoral tendency. 
 
 Of the latter, which are the two least exceptionable pieces ; but what re- 
 mark follows ; and what says Lord Kames 1 Of late years, what improve- 
 ment has gradually taken place in comedy ; and to whom are we indebted 
 for if? From this graver comedy, what are not excluded ; and what fol- 
 lows 1 What, however, is not to be supposed ; and what remarks follow 1 
 
 Comedy. 
 
 1. The nature of comedy. 
 
 2. Rules concerning it. 
 
 3. The subject. 
 
 A. A perfect comedy. 
 
 4. The characters. 
 
 5. The style. 
 
 6. Ancient comedy. 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 A. Aristophanes. 
 
 B. Plautus — Terence. 
 
 7. Spanish comedy. 
 
 8. French comedy. 
 
 9. English comedy. 
 
 A. Its character. 
 
 B. The principal comic writers. 
 
 10. An improvement in comedy. 
 
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