/*£ s UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 00037279809 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill http://www.archive.org/details/lecturesonrhetorblai LECTURES ON RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES. BY HUGH BLAIR, D.D. F.R.S., FROFESSOR OP RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES IN THE UNIVERSITY. AND MINISTER OF THE HIGH CHURCH, OF EDINBURGH. J With a Memoir of the Statjor'a US* TO WgiCH ARE ADDED, Copious Questions ; and an Analysis of each Leetun BY ABRAHAM MILLS, TEACHER OF RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES. Stcteotspe 5Hnfijersft£, ©ollegc atrti Scjjool lEoitfon. PHILADELPHIA: TROUTMAN & HAYES, 193 MARKET STREET. 1853. Entered, acco.-ding to the act ot congress, in the vear 1833, by James Kay Jun. 6c Brother, in the office jf the clerk of the district court of the United States in and for the eastern district o^ Pennsylvania* _ PRINTED BY SMITH & PETERS, franklin Buildings, Sixth Street below Arch, Philadelphia. PREFACE. The following Lectures were read in the university of Edinburgh, for fwenty-four years. The publication of them, at present, was not altogether a matter of choice. Imperfect copies of them, in manuscript, from note* taken by students who heard them read, were first privately handed about; and afterwards frequently exposed to public sale. When the author saw them circulate so currently, as even to be quoted in print,* and found him- self often threatened with surreptitious publications of them, he judged it to be high time that they should proceed from his own hand, rather than come into public view under some very defective and erroneous form. They were originally designed for the initiation of youth into the study of belles lettres, and of composition. With the same intention they are now published ; and, therefore, the form of Lectures, in which they were at first composed, is still retained. The author gives them to the world, neither as a work wholly original, nor as a compilation from the writings of others. On every subject contained in them, he has thought for himself. He con- sulted his own ideas and reflections : and a great part of what will be found n these Lectures is entirely his own. At the same time he availed himself if the ideas and reflections of others, as far as he thought them proper to be adopted. To proceed in this manner, was his duty as a public professor. It was incumbent on him to convey to his pupils all the knowledge that could improve them; to deliver not merely what was new, but what might be useful, from whatever quarter it came. He hopes, that to such as are studying to cultivate their taste, to form their style, or to prepare themselves for public speaking or composition, his Lectures will afford a more compre- hensive view of what relates to these subjects, than, as far as he knows, is to be received from any one book in our language. In order to render his work of greater service, he has generally referred to the books which he consulted, as far as he remembers them ; that the readers might be directed to any farther illustration which they afford. But, as such a length of time has elapsed since the first composition of these Lectures, he may, perhaps have adopted the sentiments of some author into whose writings he had then looked, without now remembering whence he derived them. In the opinions which he has delivered concerning such a variety of authors, and of literary matters, as come under his consideration, he cannot expect that all his readers will concur with him. The subjects are of such a nature, as allow room for much diversity of taste and sentiment : and the author will respectfully submit to the judgment of the public. Retaining the simplicity of the lecturing style, as best fitted for conveying instruction, he has aimed, in his language, at no more than perspicuity. If, after the liberties which it was necessary for him to take, in criticising the style of the most eminent writers in our language, his own style shall be thought open to reprehension, all that he can say, is, that his book will add one to the many proofs already afforded to the world, of its being much easier to give instruction, than to set example. * Biogrjyhia Britanica. Article Addison. EDITOR'S PREFACE. The Editor of the present edition of Dr. Blair^s Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, has endeavoured to present the work to the public, in a style which he thinks will meet with entire approbation. The plates irom which it is printed, were originally cast for Mr. George F. Hopkins, from a late London copy, and were, in general, found to be very correct ; a few errors were, however, on critical examination, detected ; but these having been carefully removed, the Editor has now no hesitation in saying, that this is as perfect an edition of the work, as any previously issued from the press, either in this country or in Great Britain. In addition to its correctness, this edition has to recommend it, a copious collection of questions, which were prepared with the greatest care and at- tention. The Editor is, however, aware, that this method of teaching has, by some gentlemen of science, been objected to ; and considering the man- ner in which questions have almost uniformly been written, the objection is certainly not without foundation. But that the student may be preserved from the disadvantages arising from using questions unskilfully prepared, and, at the same time, be relieved from the tediousness of studying the work without them, the Editor has been careful, so to construct these ques- tions, that the answers which they require, necessarily include every sen- tence of the work itself; thus effecting the double purpose of greatly facili- tating the recitations of classes, and, at the same time, of compelling each scholar to learn every word of the author. To the lectures that require them, the Editor has also affixed analyses, which are principally designed to facilitate the studies of young gentlemen at college, and of young ladies at school, who may be sufficiently advanced to pursue this course ; and it affords the Editor peculiar pleasure here to state, that they have been used by a number of classes of young ladies, educated by himself, in this city, with entire succes?.. In preparing these analyses, the Editor has generally followed the natural divisions of the lectures, as they are laid down by the author himself; but from the necessity of making each one of nearly the same length, he has, perhaps, in a few instances, extended the number of his subdivisions be- yond their natural length : he presumes, however, that no inconvenience will result to the student from the course which he has pursued, as the omission of such subdivisions as may appear unnecessary, will be attended with no material consequences. New-York, August. 1S29. 4 CONTENTS. user pa«3 I. INTRODUCTION, .. » II. Taste, 1(5 III. Criticism— Genius — Pleasures of Taste — Sublimity in Objects, 27 IV. The sublime in Writing, 3? V. Beauty and other pleasures of taste, 49 VI. Rise and progress cf language, 58 VII. Rise and progress of language and of writing, 63 VIII. Structure of language, 78 IX. Structure of language — English tongue, 89 X. Style — Perspicuity and precision, 101 XI. Structure of sentences,.. 112 XII. Structure of sentences, 128 XIII. Structure of sentences — Harmony, .. 134 XIV. Origin and Nature of Figurative Language, 146 XV. Metaphor, 158 XVI. Hyperbole — Personification — Apostrophe, 16S XVII. Comparison, Antithesis, Interrogation, Exclamation, and other figures of Speech 181 XVIII. Figurative Language — General Characters of Style — Diffuse, Concise — Feeble, Nervous — Dry, Plain, Neat, Elegant, Flowery, 19i XIX. General characters of Style — Simple, Affected, Vehement — Directions for forming a proper style, 205 XX. Critical Examination of the Style of Mr. Addison, in No. 411 of the Spectator, 216 XXI. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 412 of the Spectator 226 XXII. Criti n of the Style in No. 414 of the Spectator 242 XXIV. Critical Examinauon of the Style in a Passage of Dean Swift's writ- ings, 250 XXV. Eloquence, or Public Speaking — History of Eloquence — Grecian Elo- quence — Demosthenes, 260 XXVI. History of Eloquence continued — Roman Eloquence — Cicero — Mo- dern Eloquence, 273 XXVIL Different kinds of Public Speaking — Eloquence of Popular Assemblies — Extracts from Demosthenes, 284 XXVIII. Eloquence of the Bar — Analysis of Cicero's Oration for Cluentius, . . . 298 XXIX. Eloquence of the Pulpit, 312 XXX. Ci itical Examination of a Sermon of Bishop Atterbury 's, 326 XXXI. Conduct of a Discourse in all its Parts — Introduction — Division — Nar- ration, and Explication, 341 XXXII. Conduct of a Discourse— The Argumentative Part — The Pathetic Part — The Peroration, 353 KXXIIl Pronunciation »«»v» : litf? 01 Hie rtuiimr Otr l*i\« «V. ,'T— i w^n^eainOPC of our most uoutlar female, and one of our best male seminaries. v»a iiope ma »ra-'c "xiy xmpens9£e fjf t'?3 labour bestowed upon it, and remunerate the publishers for -osir enterprise, art) toe attsnlani ex- pense of r* '.5» ; *■» i< ' > l From the New-York Daily Advertiser, October 2d, 1829. Corrected Stereotyped Edition of Blair's Lee tares. — Messrs. Carvill have just published an edi- tion of Blair's Lectures, from the stereotype plates o( Hopkins, after making numerous corrections, and introducing many additional pages of matter, peculi- arly well calculated to make the work still more use- ful in the study of rhetoric. It is a well known fact, to all persons familiar with the highly popular and useful lectures of Dr. Blair, that numerous cases occur, in different parts of the work, in which the very faults of style which the au thor criticises and condemns, repeatedly occur. These faults are so obvious v that it must have seemed surprising, even to learners themselves, that ihey should have been allowed to disfigure all the English editions, even the most recent, as well as our own. In addition to this, there were almost innumerable irre- gularities in punctuation, calculated to confuse and mislead the reader or pupil ; and Mr. Mills, to whom the defects of the work had become intimately known, through a long course of professional use, as a teacher of rhetoric in some of the most respectable academies of this city, was very judiciously engaged to make the necessary corrections. We have had an opportu- nity to jud?e of the extent and importance of the la- bour he had to perform. About two thousand correc- tions were made in the plates ; and, in addition to these, a series of questions follows everv lecture, closely connected with the ^..iject, and requiring in the pupil a thorough knowlt^e of the lesson. These questions amount To five thousand seven hundred and fifty in all ; and each lecture is also furnished witli a brief analysis, of great convenience an^ use. We shall expect to see this improved wort . *> .(.blished in England From the New- York Commercial Advertiser, Oc- tober 3d, 1829. The Messrs. Carvills have just issued a new edi- tion of Blair's Lectures, the text for which is perhnp entitled to be called immaculate. A few years ago an edition was printed with extraordinary care, from stereotype plates. Nearly two thousand errors have however, been detected by Mr. Abraham Mills, wel known as a teacher in this city. Some few of thes# may, by possibility, have escaped Dr. Blair himsell, though they are violations of his own rules. Thf bulk of them, however, had been accumulating through the successive editions of the work, as the) were published in Great Britain and this country. Many were of a serious character, deforming the sense ; while all were important in a work expressly ] treating of accuracy in style. The punctuation in the I former editions was very slovenly. It has, as we have I ascertain^! nv an examination of the copy sent tc I us, ana by comparing it with mat imprinted from | the old plates, been judiciously corrected by Mr. I Mills. Tne questions and analysis annexed to each i lecture, are calculated to be of much practical use ir, j schools, and even in colleges, according to the pre- I sent standard of education in this country. The ! questions comprehend the literal whole of each lec- ture ; the analysis, the whole of each of them in sub- LECTURE I. INTRODUCTION. One of the most distinguished privileges which Provide* <« has conferred upon mankind, is the power of communicating their thoughts to one another. Destitute of 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 com- municated, 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 one another with most advantage. Accordingly we find, that in almost every nation, as soon as language had extended itself beyond that scanty communication which was requisite for the supply of men's necessities, the improvement of discourse began to attract regard. In the language even of rude uncultivated tribes, we can trace some attention to the grace and force of those expressions which they used, when they sought to persuade or to affect. They were early sensible of a beauty in discourse, and endeavoured to give it certain decorations, which experience had taught them it was capable of receiving, long before the study of those decora- tions was formed into a regular art. But, among nations in a civilized state, no art has been cultivated »vith more care, than that of language, style, and composition. The attention paid to it may, indeed, be assumed as one mark of the progress of society towards its most improved period. For, accord- ing as society improves and flourishes, men acquire more influence over one another by means of reasoning and discourse ; and in pro- portion as that influence is felt to enlarge, it must follow, as a natu- ral consequence, that they will bestow more care upon the methods B 2 10 INTRODUCTION. [lect. l of expressing their conceptions with propriety and eloquence. Hence we find, that in all the polished nations of Europe, this study has been treated as highly important, and has possessed a consider, able place in every plan of liberal education. Indeed, when the arts of speech and writing are mentioned, I am sensible that prejudices against them are apt to rise in the minds of many. A sort of art is immediately thought of, that ^ ostentatious and deceitful ; the minute and trifling study of words alone ; the pomp of expression ; the studied fallacies of rhetoric ; ornament substituted in the room of use. We need not wonder, that, under such imputations, all study of discourse as an art, should have suffered in the opinion of men of understanding ; and I am far from denying, that rhetoric and criticism have sometimes been so managed as to tend to the corruption, rather than to the improvement, of good taste and true eloquence. But sure it is equally possible to apply the principles of reason and good sense to this art, as to any other that is cultivated among men. If the fol- lowing Lectures have any merit, it will consist in an endeavour to substitute the application of these principles in the place of artificial and scholastic rhetoric ; in an endeavour to explode false orna- ment, to direct attention more towards substance than show, to re- commend good sense as the foundation of all good composition, and simplicity as essential to all true ornament. When entering on this subject, I may be allowed, on this occa- sion, to suggest a few thoughts concerning the importance and ad- vantages of such studies, and the rank they are entitled to possess in academical education.* I am under no temptation, for this pur- pose, of extolling their importance at the expense of any other de- partment of science. On the contrary, the study of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres supposes and requires a proper acquaintance with the rest of the liberal arts. It embraces them all within its circle, and recommends them to the highest regard. The first care of all such as wish either to write with reputation, or to speak in public so as to command attention, must be, to extend their knowledge ; to lay in a rich store of ideas relating to those subjects of which the occasions of life may call them to discourse or to write. Hence, among the ancients, it was a fundamental principle, and frequently inculcated, " Quod omnibus disciplinis et artibus debet esse instruc- ts orator;" that the orator ought to be an accomplished scholar, and conversant in every part of learning. It is indeed impossible to con- trive 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 * The author was the first who read lectures on this subject in the university of Edinburgh. He began with reading them in a private character in the year 1759. In the following year he was chosen Professor of Rhetoric by the magistrates and town-council of Edinburgh ; and, in 1762, his Majesty was pleased to erect and endow a Profession of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in that university, and the author was appointed the first Regius Professor. lect. i.] INTRODUCTION. 11 disgraced oratory, and debased it below its true standard. The graces of composition have been employed to disguise or to supply the want of matter; and the temporary applause of the ignorant has been courted, instead of the lasting approbation of the discern- ing. But such imposture can never maintain its ground long. Knowledge and science must furnish the material 5 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. Of those who peruse the following Lectures, some by the pro- fession to which they addict themselves, or in consequence of their prevailing inclination, may have the view of being employed in com- position, or in public speaking. Others, without any prospect of this kind, may wish only to improve their taste with respect to wri- ting and discourse, and to acquire principles which will enable them to judge for themselves in that part of literature called the Belles Lettres. With respect to the former, such as may have occasion to commu- nicate their sentiments to the public, it is abundantly clear that some preparation of study is requisite for the end which they have in view. To speak or to write perspicuously and agreeably with puri- ty, with grace and strength, are attainments of the utmost conse- quence to all who purpose, either by speech or writing, to address the public. For without being master of those attainments, no man can do justice to his own conceptions ; but how rich soever he may be in knowledge and in good sense, will be able to avail himself less of those treasures, than such as possess not half his store, but who can display what they possess with more propriety. Neither are these attainments of that kind for which we are indebted to nature merely. Nature has, indeed, conferred upon some a very favour able distinction in this respect, beyond others. But in these, as in most other talents she bestows, she has left much to be wrought out by every man's own industry. So conspicuous have been the effects of study and improvement in every part of eloquence ; such remark able examples have appeared of persons surmounting, by their dili gence, the disadvantages of the most untoward nature, that among the learned it has long been a contested, and remains still an unde- cided point, whether nature or art confer most towards excelling in writing or discourse. With respect to the manner in which art can most effectually fur- nish assistance for such a purpose, there may be diversity of opinions. I by no means pretend to say that mere rhetorical rules, how just soever, are sufficient to form an orator. Supposing natural genius to be favourable, more by a great deal will depend upon private ap- plication and study, than upon any system of instruction that is ca- pable of heing publicly communicated. But at the same time, though rules and instructions cannot do all that is requisite, they may, however, do much that is of real use. They cannot, it is true, in- spire genius ; but they can direct and assist it. They cannot remedy barrenness ; butthey may correct redundancy They point out pro 18 INTRODUCTION. [lect. i. per models for imitation. They bring into view the chief beauties that ought to be studied, and the principal thoughts that ought to be avoided: and thereby tend to enlighten taste, and to lead genius trom unnatural deviations, into its proper channel. What would not avail for the production of great excellencies, may at least serve to prevent the commission of considerable errors. All that regards the study of eloquence and composition, merits the higher attention upon this account, that it is intimately connect- ed with the improvement af our intellectual powers. For I must be allowed to say, that when we are employed, after a proper man- ner, in the study of composition, we are cultivating reason itself. True rhetoric and sound logic are very nearly allied. The study of arranging and expressing our thoughts with propriety, teaches to think as well as to speak accurately. By putting our sentiments into words, we always conceive them more distinctly. Every one who has the slightest acquaintance with composition knows, that when he expresses himself ill on any subject, when his arrangement is loose, and his sentences become feeble, the defects of his style can, al- most on every occasion, be traced back to his indistinct conception of the subject: so close is the connexion between thoughts and the words in which they are clothed. The study of composition, important in itself at all times, has ac- quired additional importance from the taste and manners of the present age. It is an age wherein improvements in every part of science, have been prosecuted with ardour. To all the liberal arts much attention has been paid ; and to none more than to the beauty of language, and the grace and elegance of every kind of writing. The public ear is become refined. It will not easily bear wnai is slovenly and incorrect. Every author must aspire to some merit in expression, as well as in sentiment, if he would not incur the danger of being neglected and despised. I will not deny that the love of n...iute elegance, and attention to inferior ornaments of composition, may at present have engrossed too great a degree of the public regard. It is indeed my opinion, that we lean to this extreme; often more careful of polishing style, than of storing it with thought. Yet hence arises a new reason for the study of just and proper composition. If it be requisite not to be deficient in elegance o~ ornament in times when they are in such high estimation, it is still more requisite to attain the power of distinguishing false ornament from true, in order to prevent our being (tarried away by that torrent of false and frivolous taste, which never fails, when it is prevalent, to sweep along with it the raw and the ig- norant. They who have "ever studied eloquence in its principles, nor have been trained to attend to the genuine and manly beauties of good writing, are always ready to be caught by the mere glare of language : and when thev come to speak in public, or to compose, have no other standard on which to form themselves, except what chances to be fashionable and popular, how corrupted soever, or er- roneous, that may be. But as there are many who have no such objects as either com lect. i.] INTRODUCTION. 13 position or public speaking in view, let us next consider what advan- tages may be derived by them, from such studies as form the subject ?f these lectures. To them, rhetoric is not so much a practical art as a speculative science; and the same instructions which assist ethers in composing, will assist them in discerning and relishing the beauties of composition. Whatever enables genius to execute well, will enable taste to criticise justly. When we name criticising, prejudices may perhaps arise, of the same kind with those which I mentioned before with respect to rhe- toric. As rhetoric has been sometimes thought to signify nothing more than the scholastic study of words, and phrases, and tropes, so criticism has been considered as merely the art of finding faults; as the frigid application of certain technical terms, by means of which persons are taught to cavil and censure in a learned manner. But this is the criticism of pedants only. True criticism is a liberal and humane art. It is the offspring of good sense and refined taste. It aims at acquiring a just discernment of the real merit of "authors. It promotes a lively relish of their beauties, while it preseiwes us from that blind and implicit veneration which would confound their beauties and faults in our esteem. It teaches us, in a word, to ad- mire and to blame with judgment, and not to follow the crowd blindly. In an age when works of genius and literature are so frequently the subjects of discourse, when every one erects himself into a judge, and when we can hardly mingle in polite society without bearing some share in such discussions; studies of this kind, it is not to be doubted, will appear to derive part of their importance from the use to which they may be applied in furnishing materials for those fash- ionable topics of discourse, and thereby enabling us to support a proper rank in social life. But I should be scrry if we could not rest the merit of such stu- dies on somewhat of solid andintrinsical use, independent of appear- ance and show. The exercise of taste and of sound criticism is, in truth, one of the most improving employments of the understandiig. To apply 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, be- tween 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 con- nected with the knowledge of ourselves. They necessarily lead us to reflect on the operations of the imagination, and the movements of the heart; and increare our acquaintance with some of the most refined feelings which belong to our frame. Logical and ethical disquisitions move in a higher sphere ; and are conversant with objects of a more severe kind ; the progress of the understanding in its search after knowledge, and the direction of the will in the proper pursuit of good. They point out to man the improvement of his nature as an intelligent being; and his duties as the subject of moral obligation. Belles Lettres an.I criti 14 INTRODUCTION. [lect. u cism chiefly consider him as a being endowed with those powers of uiste and imagination, which were intenaed to embellish his mind, and to supply him with rational and useful entertainment. They open a field of investigation peculiar to themselves. All that relates to beauty, harmony, grandeur, and elegance; all that can sooth the mind, gratify the fancy, or move the affections, belongs to their pro- vince. They present human nature under a different aspect from that which it assumes when viewed by other sciences. They bring to lignt various springs of action, which, without their aid, might have passed unobserved; and which, though of a delicate nature, fre- quently exert a powerful influence on several departments of human lite. such studies have also this peculiar advantage, that th^y exercise our reason without fatiguing it. They lead to inquiries acute, but not painful ; profound, but not dry nor abstruse. They strew flowers in tne path of science; and while they keep the mind bent, in some degree, and active, they relieve it at the same time from that more toilsome labour to which it must submit in the acquisition of neces- sary erudition, or the investigation of abstract truth. The cultivation of taste is farther recommended by the happy ef- fects which it naturally tends to produce on human life. The most busy man, in the most active sphere, cannot be always occupied by business. Men of serious professions cannot always be on the stretch of serious thought. Neither can the most gay and flourishing situa- tions of fortune afford any man the power of filling all his hours with pleasure. Life must always languish in the hands of the idle. It will frequently languish even in the hands of the busy, if they ha\ e not some employments subsidiary to that which forms their main pursuit. How then shall these vacant spaces, those unemployed intervals, which more or less, occur in the life of every one, be filled up! How can we contrive to dispose of them in any way that shall bv more agreeable in itself, or more consonant to the dignity of the human mind, than in the entertainments of taste, and the study of polite literature? He who is so happy as to have acquired a relish for these, has always at hand an innocent and irreproachable am-ise- ment for his leisure hours, to save him from the danger of many a pernicious passion. He is not in hazard of being a burden to him- self. He is not obliged to fly to low company, or to court the riot ol loose pleasures, in order to cure the tediousness of existence. Providence seems plainly to have pointed out this useful purpose to which the pleasures of taste may be applied, by interposing them in a middle station between the pleasures of sense, and those of pure intellect. We were not designed to grovel always among objects so low as the former; nor are we capable of dwelling constantly in so high a region as the latter. The pleasures of taste refresh the mind after the toils of the intellect, and the labours of abstiac! study; and they gradually raise it above the attachments of bense, and prepare it for the enjoyments of virtue. So consonant is t^is to experience, that in the education of youth, no object, has in every age appe.ued more important to wise men, lect. i.] INTRODUCTION. 18 tnan to tincture them early with a relish for the entertainments of taste. The transition is commonly made with ease from these to the discharge of the higher and more important duties of life. Good hopes may be entertained of those whose minds have this libe- ral and elegant turn. It is favourable to many virtues. Where- as to be entirely devoid of relish for eloquence, poetry, or any of the fine arts, is justly construed to be an unpromising symptom of youth ; and raises suspicions of their being prone to low gratifica- tions, or destined to drudge in the more vulgar and illiberal pursuits of life. There are indeed few good dispositions of any kind with which the improvement of taste is not more or less connected. A culti- vated taste increases sensibility to all the tender and humane pas- sions, by giving them frequent exercise ; while it tends to weaken the more violent and fierce emotions. ■ Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes Emollit mores, nee sinit esse feros.' The elevated sentiments and high examples which poetry, elo- quence, and history, are often bringing under our view, naturally tend to nourish in our minds public spirit, the love of glory, contempt of external fortune, and the admiration of what is truly illustrious and great. I will not go so far as to say that the improvement of taste and of virtue is the same ; or that they may always be expected to co-exist in an equal degree. More powerful correctives than taste can apply, are necessary for reforming the corrupt propensities which too fre- quently prevail among mankind. Elegant speculations are some- times found to float on the surface of the mind, while bad passions possess the interior regions of the heart. At the same time this c*nnot but be admitted, that the exercise of taste is, in its native tendency, moral and purifying. From reading the most admired productions of genius, whether in poetry or prose, almost every one rises with some good impressions left on his mind ; and though these may not always be durable, they are at least to be ranked among the means of disposing the heart to virtue. One thing is certain, and I shall hereafter have occasion to illustrate it more fully, that, without possessing the virtuous affections in a strong degree, no man can attain eminence in the sublime parts of eloquence. He mus* feel what a good man feels, if he expects greatly to move, or to in- terest mankind. They are the ardent sentiments of honour, vir- tue, magnanimity, and public spirit, that only can kindle that fire ol 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 distinguished efforts of eloquence, it must be necessary also to our relishing them with proper taste and feeling. On these general topics I shall dwell no longer; but proceed di- rectly to the consideration of the subjects which are to employ the * These polish'd arts have humaniz'd mankind, Soften'd the rude, and calm'd the boist'rous mind 16 INTRODUCTION. [lect.ii following Lectures. They divide themselves into five parts. First, some introductory dissertations on the nature of taste, and upon the sources of its pleasures. Secondly, the consideration of language Thirdly, of style: Fourthly of eloquence, properly so called, or public speaking in its different kinds. Lastly, a critical examination of the most distinguished species of composition, both in prose and verse. LECTURE II. TASTE. The nature of the present undertaking leads me to begin with some inquiries concerning taste, as it is this faculty which is always aDpealed to, in disquisitions concerning the merit of discourse in writing. There are few subjects on which men talk more loosely and indis- tinctly than on taste ; few which it is more difficult to explain with precision ; and none which in this course of Lectures will appear more dry or abstract. What I have to say on the subject, shall be in the following order. I shall first explain the Nature of Taste as a power or faculty in the human mind. I shall next consider, how far it is an improveable faculty. I shall show the sources of its im- provement, and the characters of taste in its nx.st perfect state. I shall then examine the various fluctuations to which it is liable, ai c* inquire whether there be any standard to which we can bring the different tastes of men, in order to distinguish the corrupted from the true. Taste may be defined "The power of receiving pleasure from the beauties of nature and of art." The first question that occurs concerning it is, whether it is to be considered as an internal sense, or as 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, I apprehend the question may be easily answer- ec. For nothing can be more clear, than that taste is not resolv- able into any such operation of reason. It is not merely through a discovery of the understanding or a deduction of argument, that the mind receives pleasure from a beautiful prospect or a fine poem. Such objects often strike us intuitively, and make a strong impres- sion, when we are unable to assign the reasons 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 ; that sense by which we receive and distinguish the pleasures of food, having, in several languages, lect. n.j TASTE. 17 given rise to the word taste, in the metaphorical meaning under which we now consider it. However, as in all subjects which regard Lbe operations of the mind, the inaccurate use of words is to be carefully avoided, it must not be inferred from what I have said, that reason is entirely excluded from the exertions of taste. Though taste, beyond doubt, be ultimately founded on a certain natural and instinctive sensibility to beauty, yet reason, as I shall show hereafter, assists taste in many of its operations, and serves to enlarge its power. * Taste, in the sense in which I have explained it, is- a faculty com- mon in some degree to all men. Nothing that belongs to human nature is more general than the relish of beauty of one kind or other; of what is orderly, proportioned, grand, harmonious, new, or sprightly. In children, the rudiments of taste discover them- selves very early in a thousand instances ; in their fondness for regu- lar bodies, their admiration of pictures and statues, and imitations of all kinds ; 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 shows itself in its most uncultivated state, the savages have their ornaments of dress, their war and their death songs, their harangues and their orators. We must therefore conclude the principles of taste to be deeply founded in the human mind. It is no less essential to man to have some discernment of beauty, than it is to possess the attributes of reason and of speech. f But although none be wholly devoid of this faculty, yet the de- grees in which it is possessed are widely different. In some men only the feeble glimmerings of taste appear; the beauties which they re- lish are of the coarsest kind ; and of these they have but a weak and * See Dr. Gerard's Essay on Taste : — D'Alembert'u Reflections on the use and abuse of Philosophy in matters which relate to Taste : — Reflections Critiques sur la Poesie et sur la Peinture, tome ii. ch. 22- 31 : — Elements of Criticism, chap. 25 : — Mr. Hume's Essay on the Standard of Taste : — Introduction to the Essay on the Sublime and Beau- tiful. t On the subject of taste, considered a^ a power or faculty of the mind, much less is to be found among- the ancient, than among the modern rhetorical and critical wri- ters. The following remarkable passage in Cicero serves, however, to show that hit ideas on this subject agree perfectly with what has been said above. He is sneaking of the beauties of style and numbers. " Illud autem nequis admirerur, quonam modo hffic vulgus imperitorum in audiendo notct ; cum in omni genere, turn in hoc ipso, mag na quaedam est vis, incredibilisque naturae. Omnes enim tacito quodam s«>nsu, sine ulla arte auf ratione, quae sint in artibus ac rationibus recta et prava dijudicant : idque cum faciunt in picturis, et in signis, et in aliis operibus, ad quorum intelligentiam a na tura minus habent instrumenti, turn multo ostendunt magis in verborum, numerorum OTVStunque judicio *, quod ea sunt in communibus infixa sensibus ; neque earum rerum q'iinquam funditus natura voluit esse expertem." Cic. de Orat lib. iii. cap. 50. edit. Gruteri. — Quintilian seems to include taste (for which, in the sense which we now give to that word, the ancients appear to have had no distinct name) under what he calls judicium. "Locus de judicio, mea quidem opinione adeo partibus hujus opens orani bus connectus ac mistus est, ut ne a sententiis quidem aut verbis saltern singulis possit separari- nee magis arte traditur quam gustus aut odor. — Ut contraria vitemus et communia, ne quid in eioquendo corruptum obscurumque sit, referatui oportet ad sensus qui non docentur." Institut. lib. vi. cap. 3. edit. Obrechti. C 3 18 TASTE. ^lect.h confused impression ; while in others, taste rises to an acute dis* rernmentj and a lively enjoyment of the most refined beauties. In general, we may observe, 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 judgment. The con stitution of our nature in this, as in all other respects, discovers ad mirable wisdom. In the distribution of those talents which are ne- cessary for man's well-being, nature hath made less distinction among her children. But in the distribution of those which belong only to the ornamental part of life, she hath bestowed her favours with more frugality. She hath both sown the seeds more sparingly ; and rendered a higher culture requisite for bringing them to perfection. This inequality of taste among men is owing, without doubt, in part, to the different frame of their natures; to nicer organs, and finer internal powers, with which some are endowed beyond others. But, if it be owing in part to nature, it is owing to education and culture still more. The illustration of this leads to my next remark on this subject, that taste is a most improveable faculty, if there be any such in human nature; a remark which gives great encourage- ment to such a course of study as we are now proposing to pursue. Of the truth of this assertion we may easily be convinced, by only reflecting on that immense superiority which education and improve- ment give to civilized, above barbarous nations, in refinement of taste; and on the superiority which they give in the same nation to those who have studied the liberal arts, above the rude and untaught vulgar. The difference is so great, that there is perhaps no one par- ticular in which these two classes of men are so far removed from each other, as in respect of the powers and the pleasures of taste : and assuredly for this difference no other general cause can be assigned, but culture and education. I shall now proceed to show what the means are by which taste becomes so remarkably susceptible of cultivation and progress. Reflect first upon that great law of our nature, that exercise is the chief source of improvement in all our faculties. This holds both in our bodily, and in our mental powers. It holds even in our exter- nal senses, although these be less the subject of cultivation than any of our other faculties. We see how acute the senses become in persons whose trade or business leads to nice exertions of them. Touch, for instance, becomes infinitely more exquisite in men whose employment requires them to examine the polish of bodies, than it is in others. They who deal in microscopical observations, or are accustomed to engrave on precious stones, acquire surprising accu- racy of sight in discerning the minutest objects; and practice in attending to different flavours and tastes of liquors, wonderfully im- proves the power of distinguishing them, and of tracing their com- position. Placing internal taste therefore on the footing of a simple sense, it cannot be doubted that frequent exercise, and curious at- tention to its proper objects, must greatly heighten its power. Of ihis we have one clear proof in that part of taste, which is called an ear for music. Experience every day shows, that nothing is mor*» lect. ii.] TASTE. 15 improvable. Only the simplest and plainest compositions are relished at first; use and practice extend our pleasure; teach us to relish finer melody, and by degrees enable us to enter into the intri- cate and compounded pleasures of harmony. So an eye for the beauties of painting is never all at once acquired. It is gradually formed by being conversant among pictures, and studying the work? of the best mae ters. Precisely in the same manner, with respect to the beauty of com- position and discourse, attention to the most approved models, study of the best authors, comparisons of lower and higher degrees of the same beauties, operate towards the refinement of taste. When one is only beginning his acquaintance with works of genius, the senti- ment which attends them is obscure and confused. He cannot point out the several excellencies or blemishes of a performance which he peruses; he is at a loss on what to rest his judgment: all that can be expected is, that he should tell in general whether he be pleased or not. But allow him more experience in works of this kind, and his taste becomes by degrees more exact and enlightened. He begins to perceive not only the character of the whole, but the beauties and defects of each part; and is able to describe the pecu- liar qualities which he praises or blames. The mist dissipates which seemed formerly to hang over the object ; and he can at length pro- nounce firmly, and without hesitation, concerning it. Thus "in taste, considered as mere sensibility, exercise opens a great source of im- provement. But although taste be ultimately founded on sensibility, it must not be considered as instinctive sensibility alone. Reason and good sense, as I before hinted, have so extensive an influence on all the operations and decisions of taste, that a thorough good taste may well be considered as a power compounded of natural sensibility to beauty, and of improved understanding. In order to be satisfied of this, let us observe, that the greater part of the productions of genius are no other than imitations of nature ; representations of the cha- racters, actions, or manners of men. The pleasure we receive from such imitations or representations is founded on mere taste : but to judge whether they be properly executed, belongs to the under standing, which compares the copy witli the original. In reading, for instance, such a poem as the iEneid, a great part of our plpasure arises from the plan or story being well conducted, and all the parts joined together with probability and due connexion ; from the characters being taken from nature, the sentiments neing suited to the characters, and the style to the sentiments. The pleasure which arises from a poem so conducted, is felt or enjoyed by taste as an internal sense; but the discovery of this conduct in the poem is owing to reason; and the more that reason enables us to discover such propriety in the conduct, the greater will be our pleasure. We are pleased, through our natural sense of beauty Reason shows us why, and upon what grounds, we are pleased. Wherever 'in works of taste, any resemblance to nature is aimed at* wherever there is any reference of parts to a whole, or of means to 20 TASTE. [lect. it an end, as there is indeed in almost every writing and discourse, there the understanding must always have a great part to act. Here then is a wide field for reason's exerting its powers in relation to the objects of taste, particularly with respect to composition, and works of genius; and hence arises a second and a very consi- derable source of the improvement of taste, from the application of reason and good sense to such productions of genius. Spurious beauties, such as unnatural characters, forced sentiments, affected style, may please for a little; but they please only because their opposition to nature and to good sense has not been examined, or attended to. Once show how nature might have been more justly imitated or represented ; how the writer might have managed his subject to greater advantage ; the illusion will presently be dissipat- ed, and these false beauties will please no more. From these two sources then, first, the frequent exercise of taste, and next the application of good sense and reason to the objects of taste, taste as a power of the mind receives its improvement. In its perfect state, it is undoubtedly the result both of nature and of art. It supposes our natural sense of beauty to be refined by fre- quent attention to the most beautiful objects, and at the same time to be guided and improved by the light of the understanding. I must be allowed to add, that as a sound head, so likewise a good heart, is a very material requisite to just taste. The moral beauties are not only themselves superior to all others, but they exert an influence, either more near, or more remote, on a great variety of other objects of taste. Wherever the affections, characters, or ac- tions of men are concerned, (and these certainly afford the noblest subjects to genius,) there can be neither any just or affecting des- cription of them, nor any thorough feeling of the beauty of that description, without our possessing the virtuous affections. He whose heart is indelicate or hard, he who has no admiration of what is truly noble or praise-worthy, nor the prober sympathetic sense of what is soft and tender, must have a very imperfect relish of the liighes* beauties of eloquence and poetry. The characters of taste, when brought to its most improved state, are all reducible to two, Delicacy and Correctness. Delicacy of taste respects principally the perfection of that natu ral sensibility on which taste is founded. It implies those finer or gansor powers which enahle us to discover beauties that lie hid from a vulvar eye. One may have strong sensibility, and yet be deficient in delicate taste. He may be deeply impressed by such beauties as he perceives; but he perceives only what is in some degree coarse, what is hold and palpable ; while chaster and simpler ornaments escape his notice. In this state, taste generally exists among rude and unrefined nations. But a person ol delicate taste both feels strongly, and feels accurately. He sees distinctions and differences where others see none ; the most latent beauty does not escape him, and he is sensible ol the smallest blemish. Delicacy ol taste is judged of by the same marks that we use in judging of the delicacy of an external sense. As the goodness of the palate is not tried b* lect. ii.] TASTE. 21 strong flavours, but by a mixture of ingredients, where, notwithstand- ing the confusion, we remain sensible of each : in like manner deli- cacy of internal taste appears, by a quick and lively sensibility to its finest, most compounded, or most latent objects. Correctness of taste respects chiefly the improvement which that faculty receives through its connexion with the understanding. & man of correct taste is one who is never imposed on by counter. ut 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, and no more. It is true, that these two qualities of taste, delicacy and correct- ness, mutually imply each other. No taste can be exquisitely deli- cate without being correct ; nor can be thoroughly correct without being delicate. But still a predominancy of one or other quality in the mixture is often visible. The power of delicacy is chiefly seen in discerning the true 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. Among the ancient critics, Longinus possessed most delicacy ; Aris- totle, most correctness. Among the moderns, Mr. Addison is a high examnle of delicate taste ; Dean Swift, had he written on the subject of criticism, would perhaps have afforded the example of a correct one. Having viewed taste in its most improved and perfect state, I come next to consider its deviations from that state, the fluctuations and changes to which it is liable ; and to inquire whether, in the midst of these, there be any means of distinguishing a true from a corrupted taste. This brings us to the most difficult part of our task. For it must be acknowledged, that no principle of the human mind is, in its operations, more fluctuating and capricious than taste. Its variations have been so great and frequent, as to create a suspicion with some, of its being merely arbitrary ; grounded on no foundation ascertainable by no standard, but wholly dependent on changing fancy ; the consequence of which would be, that all studies or regu- lar : i:quiries concerning the objects of taste were vain. In architec- ture, the Grecian models were long esteemed the most perfect. In succeeding ages, the Gothic architecture alone prevailed, and after- wards theGrecian taste revived in all its vigour, and engrossed the public admiration. In eloquence and poetry, the Asiatics at no time relished any thing but what was full of ornament, and splendid in a degree that we should denominate gawdy; whilst the Greeks admir- eef only chaste and simple beauties, and despised the Asiatic osten tation. In our own country, how many writings that were greatl} extolled two 01 three centuries agio, are now fallen into entire disre- pute aitu ./onvion ' Without £i»i»g uaeK LO remote lUstaiicts 22 TASTE. [lect. ii very different is the taste of poetry which prevails in Great Britain now, from what prevailed there no longer ago than the reign of kins> Charles II. which the authors too of that time deemed an Augustan age : when nothing was in vogue but an affected brilliancy of wit; when the simple majesty of Milton was overlooked, and Paradise Lost almost entirely unknown ; when Cowley's laboured and unna tural conceits were admired as the very quintessence of genius 5 Waller's gay sprightliness was mistaken for the tender spirit of lot e poetry ; and such writers as Suckling and Etheridge were held in esteem for dramatic composition ? The question is, what conclusion we are to form from such instan- ces as these? Is there any thing that can be called a standard of taste, by appealing to which we may distinguish between a good and a bad taste? Or, is there in truth no such distinction ? and are we to hold that, according to the proverb, there is no disputing of tastes ; but that whatever pleases is right, for that reason that it does please ? This is the question, and a very nice and subtle one it is, which we are now to discuss. I begin by observing, that if there be no such thing as any standard of taste, this consequence must immediately follow, that all taster are equally good; a position, which, though it may pass unnoticed in slight matters, and when we speak of the lesser differences among the tastes of men, yet when we apply it to the extremes, present- ly shows its absurdity. For is there any one who will seriously maintain that the taste of a Hottentot or a Laplander is as delicate and as correct as that of a Longinus or an Addison ? or, that he can be charged with no defect or incapacity who thinks a common news- writer as excellent an historian as Tacitus ? As it would be held downright extravagance to talk in this manner, we are led unavoid- ably to this conclusion, that there is some foundation for the prefer- ence of one man's taste to that of another; or, that there is a good and a bad, a right and a wrong in taste, as in other things. But to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is necessary to observe next, that the diversity of tastes which prevails among mankind, does not in every case infer corruption of taste, or oblige us to seek for some standard in order to determine who are in the right. The tastes of men may differ very considerably as to their object, and yet none of them be wrong One man relishes poetry most; another takes pleasure in nothingbuthistory. One prefers comedy ; another, tragedy. One admires the simple ; another, the ornamented style. The young are amused with gay and sprightly compositions. The elderly are more entertained with those of a graver cast. Some nations delight in bold pictures of manners, and strong representations of passion. Others incline to more correct and regular elegance both in description and sentiment. Though all differ, yet all pitch upon some one beauty which peculiarly suits their turn of mind; and therefore no one has a title to condemn the rest. It is not in matters of taste, as in questions of mere reason, where there is but one conclusion that can be true, and all the rest are erroneous. Truth, which is the object of reason, is one ; beauty, which is the tECT. ii.] TASTE. fc object of taste, is manifold. Taste, therefore, admits of latitu;'* ant diversity of objects, in sufficient consistency with goodness 01 just ness of taste. But then, to explain this matter thoroughly, I must observe farther that this admissible diversity of tastes con only have place where the objects of taste are different. Where it is with respect to the same object that men disagree, when one condemns that as ugly, which another admires as highly beautiful; then it is no longer diversity, but direct opposition of taste that takes place; and therefore one must be in the right, and another in the wrong, unless that absurd paradox were allowed to hold, that all tastes are equally good and true. One man prefers Virgil to Homer. Suppose that I, on the other hand, admire Homer more than Virgil. I have as yet no rea- son to say that our tastes are contradictory. The other person is more struck with the elegance and tenderness which are the charac teristics of Virgil; I, with the simplicity and fire of Homer. As long as neither of us deny that both Homer and Virgil have great beauties, our difference falls within the compass of that diversity of tastes, which I have showed to be natural and allowable. But if the other man shall assert that Homer has no beauties whatever; that he holds him to be a dull and spiritless writer, and that he would as soon peruse any old legend of knight-errantry as the Iliad ; then I exclaim, that my antagonist either is void of all taste, or that his taste Is corrupted in a miserable degree; and I appeal to whatever I think the standard of taste, to show him that he is in the wrong. What that standard is to which, in such opposition of tastes, we are obliged to have recourse, remains to be traced. A standard pro- perly signifies, that which is of such undoubted authority as to be the test of other things of the same kind. Thus a standard weight or measure, is that which is appointed by law to regulate all other- measures and weights. Thus the court is said to be the standard of good breeding; and the scripture of theological truth. When we say that nature is the standard of taste, we lay down a principle very true and just, as far as it can be applied. There is ne doubt, that in all cases where an imitation is intended of some object that exists in nature, as in representing human characters or actions, conformity to nature affords a full and distinct criterion of what is truly beautiful. Reason hath in such cases full scope for exerting its authority; for approving or condemning; by comparing the copy with the original. But there are innumerable cases in which his rile cannot be at all applied ; and conformity to nature, is an ex- pression frequently used, without any distinct or determinate mean- ing. We must therefore search for somewhat that can be rendered more clear and precise, to be the standard of taste. Taste, as I before explained it, is ultimately founded on an inter- nal sense of beauty, Avhich is natural to men, and which, in its application to particular objects, is capable of being guided and en- lightened by reason. Now were there any one person who possessed in full perfection all the powers of human nature, whose internal senses were in every instance exquisite and just, and whose reason 24 TASTE. [lect. I. was unerring and sure, the determinations of such a person con- cerning beauty, would, beyond doubt, be a perfect standard for the taste of all others. Wherever their taste differed from his, it could be imputed only to some imperfection in their natural powers. But as there is no such living standard, no one person to whom all man- kind will allow such submission to be due, what is there of sufficient authority to be the standard of the various and opposite tastes cf men ? Most certainly there is nothing but the taste, as far as it can be gathered, of buman nature. That which men concur the most in admiring, must be held to be beautiful. His taste must be esteemed just and true, which coincides with the general sentiments of men. In this standard we must rest. To the sense of mankind the ulti- mate appeal must ever lie, in all works of taste. If any one should maintain that sugar was bitter and tobacco was sweet, no reasonings could avail to prove it. The taste of such a person would infallibly be held to be diseased, merely because it differed so widely fro> the taste of the species to which he belongs. In like manner, with regard to the objects of sentiment or internal taste, the common feelings of men carry the same authority, and have a title to regulate the taste of every individual. But have we then, it will be said, no other criterion of whit is beautiful, than the approbation of the majority ? Must we collect the voices of others, before w T e form an} 1, judgment for ourselves, of what deserves applause in eloquence or poetry? By no means-, there are principles of reason and sound judgment which can be ap- plied to matters of taste, as well as to the subjects of science and philosophy. He who admires or censures any work of genius, is always ready, if his taste be in any degree improved, to assign some reasons for his decision. He appeals to principles, and points out the grounds on which he proceeds. Taste is a sort of compound power, in which the light of the understanding always mingles, more or less, with the feelings of sentiment. But though reason can cany us a certain length in judging con- cerning works of taste, it is not to be forgotten that the ultimate conclusions to which our reasonings lead, refer at last to sense and perception. We may speculate and argue concerning propriety 01 conduct in a tragedy, or an epic poem. Just reasonings on the sub- ject will correct the caprice of unenlightened taste, and establish principles forjudging of what deserves praise. But, at the same time, these reasonings appeal always in the last resort, to feeling. The foundation upon which they rest, is what has been found from experience to please mankind universally. Upon this ground we prefer a simple and natural, to an artificial and affected style; a regular and well connected story, to loose and scattered narratives: a catastrophe which is tender and pathetic, to one which leaves us unmoved. It is from consulting our own imagination and heart, and from attending to the feelings of others, that any principles are formed which acquire authority in matters of taste.* r Th* chrjerr&ce between the authors who found the standard of taste upon the coutmotj feehrgs of human mature ascertained bv general ipprobation, and tho*t xjsct.il] TASTE. 25 When we refer to the concurring sentimeu ts of men as the ultimate taste of what is to be accounted beautiful in the arts, this is to be always understood of men placed in such situations as are favourable to the proper exertions of taste. Every one must perceive, that among rude and uncivilized nations, and during the ages of igno- rance and darkness, any loose notions that are entertained concern- ing such subjects, carry no authority. In those states of society, taste has no materials on which to operate. It is either totally sup- pressed, or appears in its lower and most imperfect form. We refer to the sentiments of mankind in polished and nourishing nations; when arts are cultivated and manners refined; when works of genius are subjected to free discussion, and taste is improved by science and philosophy. Even among nations, at such a period of society, I admit that accidental causes may occasionally warp the proper operations of taste ; sometimes the taste of religion, sometimes the form of go- vernment, may for a while pervert; a licentious court may intro- duce a taste for false ornaments, and dissolute writings. The usage of one admired genius may procure approbation for his faults, and even render them fashionable. Sometimes envy may have power to bear down, for a little, productions of great merit; while popular humour, or party spirit, may, at other times, exalt to a high, though short-lived reputation, what little deserved it. But though such casual circumstances give the appearance of caprice to the judg- ments of taste, that appearance is easily corrected. In the course of time, the genuine taste of human nature never fails to disclose itself and to gain the ascendant over any fantastic and corrupted modes of taste which may chance to have been introduced. These may have currency for a while, and mislead superficial judges ; but being sub- jected to examination, by degrees they pass away ; while that alone remains which is founded on sound reason, and the native feelings of men. I by no means pretend, that there is any standard of taste, to which, in everv particular instance, ve can resort for clear and immediate determination. Where, indued, is such a standard to be found for who found it upon established principles which can be ascertained by reason, is more an apparent than a real difference. Like many other literary controversies, it turns chielly on modes of expression. For they who lay the greatest stress on sentiment and feeling, make no scruple of applying argument and reason to mat- ters of taste. They appeal, like other writers, to established principles, in judging of ftse excellencies of eloquence or poetry ; and plainly show, that the general ap- probation to which they ultima^'ly recur, is an approbation resulting from discus- sion as well as from sentiment. They, on the other hand, who, in order to vindi- cate taste from any suspicion of being arbitrary, maintain that it is ascertainable bv the standard of reason, admit, nevertheless, that what pleases universally, must, on that account, be held to be truly beautiful ; and that no rules or conclus.ons con- cerning objects of taste, can have any just authority, if they be found to co.itradict the general sentiments of men. These two systems, therefore, differ in reality Very little from one another. Sentiment and reason enter into both ; and by al lowing to each of these powers its due place, both systems may be rendered con si*tf-nt. Accordingly, it is in this light that I have endeavoured to pto ,e the sub ect. D 4 26 TASTE. [~lect. n deciding any of those great controversies in reason and philosophy; which perpetually divide mankind ? In the present case, there was plainly no occasion for any such strict and absolute provision to be made. In order to judge of what is morally good or evil, of what man ought, or ought not in duty to do, it was fit that the means of clear and precise determination should be afforded us. But to as- certain in every case with the utmost exactness what is beautiful or elegant, was not at all necessary to the happiness of man. And therefore some diversity in feeling was here allowed to take place; and room was left for discussion and debate, concerning the degree of approbation to which any work of genius is entitled. The conclusion, which it is sufficient for us to rest upon, is, that taste is far from being an arbitrary principle, which is subject to the fancy of every individual, and which admits of no criterion for deter- mining whether it be false or true. Its foundation is the same in all human minds. It is built upon sentiments and perceptions which belong to our nature; and which, in general, operate with the same uniformity as our other intellectual principles. When these senti ments are perverted by ignorance and prejudice, they are capable of being rectified by reason. Their sound and natural state is ulti- mately determined, by comparing them with the general taste oi mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please concerning the capiice and the uncertainty of taste, it is found, by experience, that there are beauties, which, if they be displayed in a proper light, have power to command lasting and generaladmiration. In every composition, what interests the imagination, and touches the heart, pleases all ages and all nations. There is a certain string to which, when properly struck, the human heart is so made as to answer. Hence the universal testimony which the most improved nations of the earth have conspired, throughout a long tract of ages, to give to some few works of genius; such as the Iliad of Homer, and the JEneid of Virgil. Hence the authority which such works have ac- quired, as standards in some degree of poetical composition; since from them we are enabled to collect what the sense of mankind is, concerning those beauties which give them the highest pleasure, and which therefore poetry ought to exhibit. Authority or prejudice may, in one age or country, give a temporary reputation to an in- different poet or a bad artist; but when foreigners, or when poste- rity examine his works, his faults are discerned, and the genuine taste of human nature appears. " Opinionum commenta delet dies ; ."naturae judicia confirmat." Time overthrows the illusions of opinion, but establishes the decisions of nature. i 26 a } QUESTIONS. Whv does the nature of the present undertaking lead our author to begin with some inquiries concerning taste ? Of it what is observed ? In what order does our author propose to treat it? How may it be defined ? What is the first question that occurs concerning it ? Of reason, what is observed? From what does it appear evident that taste is not resolvable into any operation of reason ; and why ? How is this farther illustrated, and what follows? Why must it not be inferred, from what has been said, that reason is entirely ex- cluded from the exertions of taste ? Though taste is ultimately founded on a certain natural sensibility to beauty, yet what follows ? How does it appear that taste, in the sense in which it has been explained, is a faculty common to all men ? How is this remark illustra- ted? What must we therefore con- clude ; and why ? Though none are entirely devoid of this faculty, yet how does it appear that the degrees in which ii, is possessed are widely different ? What may we in general observe ? How does it appear that the constitu- tion of our nature, in this respect, dis- covers admirable wisdom ? To what is this inequality of taste among men, to be, in part, attributed ? To what is it more particularly owing? To what does the illustration of this lead ? Of this remark, what is observed I How may we be convinced of the truth of this assertion ? Of this difference, what is observed ? What is one of the first laws of our nature? How is this illus- trated? What, therefore, cannot be doubted? In what have w r e a clear proof of this remark ; and how is this illustrated ? Of the beauty of composi- tion and discourse, what is observed? How does it appear, that when a per- son commences an acquaintance with works of genius, the sentiment which attends them is obscure and confused ? What will be the effect of greater ex- perience in w T orks of this kind ? How is this further illustrated? As taste is ultimately founded on sensibility, why may we not consider its foundation in instinctive sensibility alone ? How may we be satisfied that a good taste con- sists in natural sensibility to beauty, and an improved understanding? How is this illustrated from the reading of the JBneid of Virgil ? Ir proportion to what Avill our pleasure be increased ? Through what are we pleased ; and what does reason show us? Where must the understanding always have a greater part to act ? For wdiat is there here a wide field ; in what particular ; and hence what arises? Of spurious beauties, &c. what is observed ? How may the illusion be. dissipated ? From what does taste receive its improve- ment ? Of what is it the result in its perfect state; and wdiat does it sup- pose ? What remark is added ? Of moral beauties what is observed ? How is this illustrated ? Persons of wdiat de- scription must, necessarily, have a very imperfect relish of the highest beauties of eloquence and poetry ? To what art the characters of taste, in its most per feet state, reducible ? What does deli- cacy of taste respect ; and what does it imply? How is this illustrated ? Where does taste in this state exist ? Of a per- son of delicate taste, what is observed ? How is it illustrated, that delicacy of taste is judged of by the same marks by which we judge of the delicacy of an external sense ? What does correct- ness of taste principally respect ? What is remarked of a man of correct taste ? How does it appear that delicacy and correctness mutually imply each other? In what is the power of delicacy chiefly seen ; and of correctness ? To wdiat do they respectively lean ? Of what is the former the gift ; and how is the latter produced? What examples of illustra- tion are given from the ancients; and from the moderns? Having viewed taste in its most iru proved state, what does our author next consider ? Why does this bring us to the most difficult part of our task ? Of what have the greatness and fre- quency of its variations created suspi- cions ? How is this illustrated from the architecture, eloquence, and poetry of the ancients ; and the taste for poetry among the moderns ? What interroga- tions follow ? If there is no standard of taste, what consequence follows? Of this posj' ^on what is remarked ? How is this Vlstrated? As it would be con- 26 6 QUESTIONS. [UJT. eidered extravagant to talk in this manner, to what conclusion are we unavoidably led ? To prevent misl 1 1 kes, what observation is it necessary, in the next place, to make ? Hoav does it ap- pear that the tastes of men may differ very considerably in their object, and still none of them be wrong ? Thou«h all differ, yet upon what do all pitch? How is this illustrated ? To explain this matter thoroughly, what observation is necessary? When docs this disagree- ment amone men cease to be diversity of taste; and what follows? How is this remark illustrated from the pre- ference given by some men to Homer, and by others to Virgil'? How long may our diversity be considered natu- ral and allowable ? What assertions would induce us to consider a man's taste corrupted in a miserable degree ; and to what do we appeal ? What do we, on any subject, consider a sta i idard ? What illustrations are eiven? How far may nature be regarded as a standard? In what cases does nature afford a full and distinct criterion of what is truly beautiful? Of reason, in such cases, what is said ? Why are we sometimes under the necessity of searching for something that can be rendered more clear and precise than nature, as a standard of taste? On. what is taste ultimately founded? A person of what description might be considered a stand- ard of taste ? But as there is no such living standard, what follows; and hence what is the ultimate standard ? How is this illustrated ? How would the taste of such a person be regarded ; why; and what follows? What inter- rogations follow; and to them what reply is given; and why? Of the ad- mirer or censurer of any work of genius, what remark follows ? Though reason can carry us a certain length in judging concerning works of taste, } r et what must not be forgotten ? Concern- ing what may we speculate and argue ? On this subject, what will just reason- ing correct? At the same time, to what do these reasonings always appeal ? On what foundation do they rest? JJpon this ground, what receives our preference ? How are principles which acquire authority in maiter? of taste formed? Why is it necessary that the person to whom we refer as a standard, should live under circumstances fa- vourable to the exertions of taste? To the inhabitants of what nations do we, therefore, refer? Among nations at such a period of society, in what different ways may the proper operations of taste be warped ? What appearance do such casual circumstances give to the judgments of taste? How is that appearance easily corrected ? Of the currency winch these may have for a while, what is remarked? To what does our author not pretend ; and what illustral ive remarks follow ? What con- clusion is given, upon which it is suf- ficient for us to rest ? Of its foundation what is remarked ; and upon what is it built? When these sentiments are perverted by ignorance and prejudice- how may they be rectified? How ia their sound and natural state ultimate- ly determined? Though men declaim concernintr the caprice of taste, yet wl lat is found by experience to be true? How is this illustrated; and hence what follows? For an indifferent poet, or a bad artist, what may authority or prejudice do? But when will his faults be discerned, and the genuine taste of mankind appear? ANALYSIS. 1. Introductory remarks. 2. The definition of Taste. 3. The nature of Taste. a. Instinct and Reason. B. Its universality. c. Its degrees. d. Sources of its improvement a. Exercise. b. Reason and good sense. c. Morals. 4. The characters of Taste. a. Delicacy. B. Correctness. 5. The variations of Taste. 6. The standard of Taste. A. Arguments for, and against o standard. B. ,T, 'ie conclusion. (27) L.ECTUHE III. CRITICISM... .GENIUS....PLEASURES OF TASTE.... SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. Taste, criticism, and genius, are words currently employed, With- out distinct ideas annexed to them. In beginning a course of lec- tures where such words must often occur, it is necessary to ascertain their meaning with some precision. Having in the last lecture treat- ed of taste, I proceed to explain the nature and foundation of criti- cism. True criticism is the application of taste and of good sense to the several fine arts. The object which it proposes is, to distin- guish what is beautiful and what is faulty in every performance ; from particular instances to ascend to general principles ; and so to form rules or conclusions concerning the several kinds of beauty in works of genius. The rules of criticism are not formed by any induction a priori, as it is called ; that is, they are not formed by a train of abstract reasoning, independent of facts and observations. Criticism is an art founded wholly on experience; on the observations of such beau- ties as have come nearest to the standard which I before established ; that is, 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 composition, were not rules first disco vered 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 taking their rise at first from feeling and experience, were found on examination to be so consonant to reason and to the principles of human nature, as to pass into established rules, and to be conveniently applied for judging of the excellency of any per- formance This is the most natural account of the origin of criti- cism. 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 fourded in nature, nature will often suggest them in practi ;o. Homer, it is more than probable, was ac- quainted with no systems of the art of poetry. Guided by genius alone, he composed in verse a regular story, which all posterity has admired. But this is no argument against the usefulness of criticism as an art. For as nc 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 obsprvations or rules can indeed supply the defect of genius, or inspire it where it »8 CRITICISM. [lect. hi. 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 imitation of nature. Critical rules are designed chiefly .o show the faults that ought to be avoided. To nature we must be ndebted for the production of eminent beauties. From what has been said, we are enabled to form a judgment con- cerning those complaints which it has long been fashionable for petty authors to make against critics and criticism. Critics have been represented as the great abridgers of the native liberty of genius; as the imposers of unnatural shackles and bonds upon writers, from whose cruel persecution they must fly to the public, and implore its protection. Such supplicatory prefaces are not calculated to give yery favourable ideas of the genius of the author For every good 'vriier will be pleased to have his work examined by the principles jf sound understanding and true taste. The declamations against criticism commonly proceed upon this supposition, that critics are such as judge by rule, not by feeling ; which is so far from being true, that they who judge after this manner are pedants, not critics. For all the rules of genuine criticism I have shown to be ultimately founded on feeling; and taste and feeling are necessary to guide us in the application of these rules to every particular instance. As there is nothing in which all sorts of persons more readily affect to be judges than in works of taste, there is no doubt that the number of incompetent critics will always be great. But this affords no more foundation for a general invective against criticism, than the lumber of bad philosophers or reasoners affords against reason and philosophy. An objection more plausible maybe formed against criticism, from the applause that some performances have received from the public, which, when accurately considered, are found to contradict the rules established by criticism. Now, according to the principles laid down in the last lecture, the public is the supreme judge to whom the last appeal must be made in every work of taste; as the standard of taste is founded on the sentiments that are natural and common to all men. But with respect to this, we are to observe, that the sense of the public is often too hastily judged of. The genuine public taste does not always appear in the first applause given upon the publication of any new work. There are both a great vulgar and a small, apt to be catched and dazzled by very superficial beaa- ties, the admiration of which in a little time passes away; and some- times a writer may acquire great temporary reputation merely by his compliance with the passions or prejudices, with the party -spirit or superstitious notions that may chance to rule for a time almost a whole nation. In such cases, though the public may seem to praise, true criticism may with reason condemn ; and it will in progress of time gain the ascendant: for the judgment of true criticism, and the voice of the public, when once become unprejudiced and dispassion- ate, will ever coincide at last. Instances, I admit, there are of some works that contain gros? transgressions of the laws of criticism, acquiring, nevertheless, a lect. in.] GENIUS. 29 general, and even a lasting admiration. Such are the plays of Shakspeare, which, considered as dramatic poems, are irregular in the highest degree. But then we are to remark, thai ihey have gained the public admiration, not by their being irregular, not by their transgressions of the rules of art, but in spite of such trans- gressions. They possess other beauties which are conformable to just rules; and the force of these beauties has been so great as to overpower all censure, and to give the public a degree of satisfaction superior to the disgust arising from their blemishes. Shakspeare pleases, not by his bringing the transactions of many years into one play ; not by his grotesque mixtures of tragedy and comedy in one piece, nor by the strained thoughts and affected witticisms, which he someti mes employs. These we consider as blemishes, and impute them to the grossness of the age in which he lived. But he pleases by his animated and masterly representations of characters, by the liveliness of his descriptions, the force of his sentiments, and his possessing, beyond all writers, the natural language of passion: Beauties which true criticism no less teaches us to place in the highest rank, than nature teaches us to feel. I proceed next to explain the meaning of another term, which there will be frequent occasion to employ in these lectures ; that is, genius. Taste and genius are two words frequently joined together; and therefore by inaccurate thinkers, confounded. They signify, how ever, two quite different things. The difference between them can be clearly pointed out ; and it is of importance to remember it. Taste consists in the power of judging ; genius, in the power of executing. One may have a considerable degree of taste in poetry, eloquence, or any of the fine arts, who has little or hardly any genius for composition or execution in any of these arts: but genius cannot be found without including taste also. Genius, therefore, deserves to be considered as a higher power of the mind than taste. Genius always imports something inventive or creative ; which does not rest in mere sensibility to beauty where it is perceived, but which can, moreover, produce new beauties, and exhibit them in such a manner as strongly to impress the minds of others. Refined taste forms a good critic ; but genius is farther necessary to form the poet, or the orator. It is proper also to observe, that genius is a word, which, in com- mon acceptation, extends much farther than to the objects of taste. It is used to signify that talent or aptitude which we receive from nature, for excelling in any one thing whatever. Thus we e.peak of a genius for mathematics, as well as a genius for poetry; of a genius for war, for politics, or for any mechanical employment. This talent or aptitude for excelling in some one particular, is, I have said, what we receive from nature. By art and study, no doubt, it may be greatly improved ; but by them alone it cannot be acquir- ed. As genius is a higher faculty than taste, it is ever, according to the usual frugality of nature, more limited in the sphere of its opera- tions. It is not uncommon to meet with persons who have an excel- 3C PLEASURES OF TASTE. [lect m. lent taste in several of the polite arts, such as music, poetry, painting, and eloquence, altogether: but, to find one who is an excellent per former in all these arts, is much more rare; or rather, indeed, such an one is not to be looked for. A sort of universal genius, or one who is equally and indifferently turned towards several different pro- fessions and arts, is not likely to excel in any. Although there may be some few exceptions, yet in general it holds, that when the bent of the mind is wholly directed towards some one object, exclusive in a manner of others, there is the fairest prospect of eminence in that, whatever it be. The rays must converge to a point, in order to glow intensely. This remark I here choose to make, on account of its great importance to young people; in leading them to examine with care, and to pursue with ardour, the current and pointing of nature towards those exertions of genius in which they are most likely to excel. A genius for any of the fine arts, as I before observed, always sup- poses taste ; and it is clear, that the improvement of taste will serve both to forward and to correct the operations of genius. In propor- tion as the taste of a poet, or orator, becomes more refined with re- spect to the beauties of composition, it will certainly assist him to produce the more finished beauties in his work. Genius, however, in a poet or orator, may sometimes exist in a higher degree than taste; that is, genius may be bold and strong, when taste is neither very delicate, nor very cerrect. This is often the case in the infan cy of arts ; a period, when genius frequently exerts itself with great vigour, and executes with much warmth ; while taste, which requires experience, and improves by slower degrees, hath not yet attained to its full growth. Homer and Shakspeare are proofs of what I now assert ; in whose admirable writings are found instances of rudeness and indelicacy, which the more refined taste of later writers, who had far inferior genius to them, would have taught them to avoid. As all human perfection is limited, this may very probably be the law of our nature, that it is not given to one man to execute with vigour and fire, and, at the same time, to attend to all the lesser and more refined graces that belong to the exact perfection of his work: while, on theotherhand, a thorough taste for those inferior graces is for the most part, accompanied with a diminution of sublimity and force. Having thus explained the nature of taste, the nature and impor- tance of criticism, and the distinction between taste and genius; I am now to consider the sources of the pleasures of taste. Here opens a very extensive field ; no less than all the pleasures of the imagination, as they are commonly called, whether afforded us by natural objects, or by the imitations and descriptions of them. But it is not necessary to the purpose of my lectures, that all these should be examined ful'y ; the pleasure which we receive from discourse, or writing, being the main object of them. All that I propose is to give some openings into the pleasures of taste in general ; and to insist more particularly upon sublimity and beauty lect. in.] PLEASURES OF TASTE. 31 We are far from having yet attained to any system concerning this subject. Mr. Addison was the first who attempted a regular in- quiiy, in his Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagination, published In the sixth volume of the Spectator. He has reduced these pleasures under three heads, — beauty, grandeur, and nove'lty. His specula- tions 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 philosophical criticism, are not very considerable ; though some ingenious writers have pursued the sub- ject. This is owing, doubtless, to that thinness and subtilty which are found to be properties of all the feelings of taste. They are engaging objects ; but when we would lay firm nold of them, and subject them to a regular discussion, they are always ready to elude our grasp. It is difficult to make a full enumeration of the several objects that give pleasure to taste : it is more difficult to define all those which have been discovered, and to reduce them under pro- per classes ; and, when we would go farther, and investigate the effi cient causes' of the pleasure which we receive from such objects, here", above all, we find ourselves at a loss. For instance ; we all learn by experience, that certain figures of bodies appear to us more beautiful than others. On inquiring farther, we find that the reac'darity 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 what is the cause of regularity and variety producing in our minds the sensation of beauty, any reason we can assign is extremely imperfect. These first principles of internal sensation, nature seems to have covered with an impenetrable veil. It is some comfort, however, that although the efficient cause be obscure, the final cause of those sensations lies in many cases more open : and, in entering on this subject, we cannot avoid taking notice of the strong impression which the powers of taste and imagina- tion are calculated to give us of the benignity of our Creator. By endowing us with such powers, he hath 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 beer, 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 gran- deur, with which we are now so much delighted. This additional embellishment and glory, which for promoting our entertainment, the Author of nature hath poured forth upon his works, is one stri- king testimony, among many others, of benevolence and goodness. This thought, which Mr. Addison first started, Dr. Akenside, in hi* poem on the Pleasures of the Imagination, has happily pursued. Not content With every food of life to nourish man, By kind illusions of the wondering sense, Thou mak'st all nature beauty to his eye, Or music to his ear. 32 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. [lect ni I shall begin with considering the pleasure which arises from sub limity or grandeur, which I propose to treat at some length ; both, as this has a character more precise and distinctly marked than any other of the pleasures of the imagination, and as it coin- cides more directly with our main subject. For the greater dis- tinctness I shall, first, treat of the grandeur or sublimity of external objects themselves, which will employ the rest of this lecture ; and, afterwards, of the description of such objects, or, of what is called the sublime in writing, which shall be the subject of a following *ecture. I distinguish these two things from one another, the gran- deur of the objects themselves when they are presented to the eye, and the description of that grandeur in discourse or writing ; though most critics, inaccurately I think, blend them together; and I con- sider grandeur and sublimity as terms synonymous, or nearly so. If there be any distinction between them, it arises from sublimity's expressing grandeur in its highest degree.* It is not easy to describe, in words, the precise impression which great and sublime objects make upon us, when we behold them ; but every one has a conception of it. It produces a sort of internal ele- vation and expansion ; it raises the mind much above its ordinary state, and fills it with a degree of wonder and astonishment, which it cannot well express. The emotion is certainly delightful ; but it is altogether of the serious kind ; a degree of aw&ilness and solem nity, even approaching to severity, commonly attends it when at its height ; very distinguishable from the more gay and brisk emotion raised by beautiful objects. The simplest form of external grandeur appears in the vast and boundless prospects presented to us by nature; such as wide extend- ed plains, to which the eye can see no limits ; the firmament of heaven ; or the boundless expanse of the ocean. All vastness pro- duces the impression of sublimity. It is to be remarked, however, that space extended 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 the perpetual motion and irresistible force of that mass of waters. Wherever space is concerned, it is clear that amplitude or greatness of extent, in one dimension or other, is necessary to grandeur. Remove all bounds from any ob- ject, and you presently render it sublime. Hence infinite space, endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind with great ideas. From this some have imagined, that vastness, or amplitude of ex- tent, is the foundation of all sublimity. But I cannot be of this opinion, because many objects appear sublime which have no rela- tion to space at all. Such, for instance, is great loudness of sound. The burst of thunder or of cannon, the roaring of winds, the shout- " See a Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful : — Dr. Gerard on Taste, section ii : — Elements of O'ticism, chap. iv. lect. m,J SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 33 ing of multitudes, the sound of vast cataracts of water, are all mcontestably grand objects. "I heard the voice of a great multi- tude, as the sound of many waters, and of mighty thunderings, " saying, Allelujah." In general we may observe, that great power and strength exerted, always raise sublime ideas ; and perhaps the most copious source of these is derived from this quarter. Hence the grandeur of earthquakes and burning mountains ; of great conflagrations ; of the stormy ocean, and overflowing waters ; of tempests of wind; of thunder and lightning; and of all the uncom- mon violence of the elements. Nothing is more sublime than mighty power and strength. A stream that runs within its banks, is a beautiful object, but when it rushes down with the impetuosity and noise of a torrent, it presently becomes a sublime one. From lions and other animals of strength, are drawn sublime comparisons in poets. A race-horse is looked upon with pleasure ; but it is the war-horse, " whose neck is clothed with thunder," that carries gran- deur in its idea. The engagement of two great armies, as it is the highest exertion of human might, combines a variety of sources of the sublime ; and has accordingly been always considered as one of the most striking and magnificent spectacles that can be either pre- sented to the eye, or exhibited to the imagination in description. For the farther illustration of this subject, it is proper to remark, that all ideas of the solemn and awful kind, and even bordering on the terrible, tend greatly to assist the sublime ; such as darkness, solitude, and silence. What are the scenes of nature that elevate the mind in the highest degree, and produce the sublime sensation ? Not the gay landscape, the flowery field, or the flourishing city ; but the hoary mountain, and the solitary lake ; the aged forest, and the torrent falling over the rock. Hence, too, night-scenes are common- ly the most sublime. 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 we view it en- lightened by all the splendour of the sun. The deep sound of a great bell, or the striking of a great clock, are at anytime grand ; but when heard amid the silence and stillness of the night, they become doub- ly so. Darkness is very commonly applied for adding sublimity to all our ideas of the Deity. "He maketh darkness his pavilion; he " dwelleth in the thick cloud." So Milton : How oft, amidst Thick clouds and dark, does heaven's all-ruliug Sire Choose to reside, his glory unobscur'd, And with the majesty of darkness round Circles his throne Book II. 263. Observe, with how much art Virgil has introduced all those ideas of silence, vacuity, and darkness, when he is going to introduce his hero to the infernal regions, and to disclose the secrets of the great deep. Dii, quibus imperium est animarum, umbra*que silentes, Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia lat6, Sit mini fas audita loqui ; sit numine vestro Pandere res alta terra et caligine mersas. (bant obscuri, sola sub nocte, per umbram, 5 34 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. [lect. hi Perque domos Ditis vacuos, et inania regna ; Quale per incertam lunam, sub luce maligna Est iter in Sylvis * These passages I quote at present, not so much as instances of sab- lime writing, though in themselves they truly are so, as to show, by the effect of them, that the objects which they present to us, belong to the class of sublime ones. Obscurity, we are farther to remark, is not unfavourable to the sub- lime. Though it render the object indistinct, the impression, how- ever, may be great; for as an ingenious author has well observed, it is one thing to make an idea clear, and another to make it affect- ing to the imagination ; and the imagination may be strongly affect- ed, and, in fact, often is so, by objects of which we have no clear conception. Thus we see, that almost all the descriptions given us of the appearances of supernatural beings, carry some sublimity, though the conceptions which they afford us be confused and indis- tinct. Their sublimity arises from the ideas, which they always convey, of superior power and might, joined with an awful obscuri- ty. We may see this fully exemplified in the following noble pas- sage of the book of Job. " In thoughts from the visions of the '•'night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and "trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit " passed before my face ; the hair of my flesh stood up : it stood "still; but I could not discern the form thereof; an image was " before mine eyes ; there was silence ; and I heard a voice — Shall " mortal man be more just than God ?"t (Job iv. 15.) No ideas, it is plain, are so sublime as those taken from the Supreme Being ; the most unknown, but the greatest of all objects; the infinity of whose nature, and the eternity of whose duration, joined with the omnipo- tence of his power, though they surpass our conceptions, yet exalt • Ye subterranean gods, whose awful s\\3 •• The gliding ghosts and silent shades ou*y : O Chaos, hear ! and Fhlegethon profound ! Whose solemn empire stretches wide around ; Give me, ye great tremendous powers ! to tell Of scenes and wonders in the depths of hell ; Give me your mighty secrets to display, From those black realms of darkness to the day. PITT Obscure they went ; through dreary shades that led Along the waste dominions of the dead ; As wander travellers in woods by night, By the moon's doubtful and malignant light. DRVDKN. + The picture which Lucretius has drawn of the dominion of superstition ovei mankind, representing it as a portentous spectre showing its head from the clouds and dismaying the whole human race with its countenance, together with the mag- nanimity of Epicurus in raising himself up against it, carries all the grandeur of a sublime, obscure, and awful image. Humana ante oculos foede cum vita jacerct In terris, oppressa gravi sub religione, Qua caput coeli regiouibus ostendebat, Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans, Primum Graius homo mortales tollere contra Est oculos ausus L&« »• lect.iii.] SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 35 them to the highest. In general, all objects that are greatly raised above us, or far removed from us, either in space or in time, are apt to strike us as great. Our viewing them, as through the mist of distance or antiquity, is favourable to the impressions of their subli- mity. As obscurity so disorder too, is very compatible with grandeur ; nay, 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 mind's exerting any great effort. Exact proportion of parts, though it enters often into the beautiful, is much disregarded in the sublime. A great mass of rocks, thrown together by the hand of nature with wildness and confusion, strike the mind with more grandeur, than if they had been adjusted to one another with the most accurate symmetry. In the feeble attempts, which human art can make towards produ- cing grand objects, (feeble, I mean, in comparison with the powers of nature,) greatness of dimensions always constitutes a principal part. No pile of building can convey any idea of sublimity, unless it be ample and lofty. There is too, in architecture, what is called greatness of manner; which seems chiefly to arise, from presenting the object to us in one full point of view ; so that it shall make its impression whole, enth*e, and undivided upon the mind. A Gothic cathedral raises ideas of grandeur in our minds, by its size, its height, its awful obscurity, its strength, its antiquity, and its durability. There still remains to be mentioned one class of sublime objects, which may be called the moral, or sentimental sublime ; arising from certain exertions of the human mind ; from certain affections, and actions, of our fellow-creatures. These will be found to be all, or chiefly, of that class, which comes under the name of magnanimi- ty or heroism : and they produce an effect extremely similar to what is produced by the view of grand objects in nature; filling tbe mind with admiration, and elevating it above itself. A noted in- stance of this, quoted by all the French critics, is the celebrated Qu'il Mount t of Corneille, in the tragedy of Horace. In the fa- mous combat between the Horatii and the Curiatii, the old Iioratius being informed that two of his sons are slain, and that the third had betaken himself to flight, at first will not believe the report; but be- ing thoroughly assured of the fact, is fired with all the sentiments of high honour and indignation at this supposed unworthy behaviour of his surviving son. He is reminded, that his son stood alone against three, and asked what he wished him to have done? "To have died," he answers. In the same manner Porus, *aken prisoner by Alexander, after a gallant defence, and asked how he wished to be treated? answering, "Like a king;" and Cae- sar chiding the pilot who was afraid to set out with him in the storm, "Quid times? Caesarem vehis;"are good instances of this sentimental subhme. Wherever, in some critical and high situation, we oehold a man uncommonly intrepid, and resting upon himself; superior to passion and to fear ; animated by some great principle 36 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. L le ct.iu. to the contempt of popular opinion, of selfish interest, of dangers, or of death ; there we are struck with a sense of the sublime.* High virtue is the most natural and fertile source of this moral sublimity. However, on some occasions, where virtue either has no place, or is but imperfectly displayed, yet if extraordinary vigour and force of mind be discovered, we are not insensible to a de- gree of grandeur in the character; and from the splendid conqueror or the daring conspirator, whom we are far from approving, we cannot withhold our admiration.! I have now enumerated a variety of instances, both in inanimate objects and in human life, wherein the sublime appears. In all these instances, the emotion raised in us is of the same kind, although the objects that produce the emotion be of widely different kinds. A question next arises, whether we are able to discover some one fundamental quality in which all these different objects agree, and which is the cause of their producing an emotion of the same na- ture in our minds ? Various hypotheses have been formed concern- ing this ; but, as far as appears to me, hitherto unsatisfactory. Some have imagined that amplitude, or great extent, joined with simplici- ty, is either immediately, or remotely, the fundamental quality of whatever is sublime ; but we have seen that amplitude is confined to one species of sublime objects, and cannot, without violent strain- * The sublime, in natural and in moral objects, is brought before us in one view, and compared together, in the following beautiful passage of Akenside's Pleasures of the Imagination : Look then abroad through nature to the range Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, Wheeling, unshaken, thro' the void immense ; And speak, O man! does this capacious scene, With half that kindling majesty dilate Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose, Refulgent, from the stroke of Caesar's fate, Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel, And bade the father of his country hail ? For, lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, And Rome again is free. Book L t Silius Italicus has studied to give an august idea of Hannibal, by representing hiaa as surrounded with all his victories, in the place of guards. One who had formed a design of assassinating him in the midst of a feast, is thus addressed : Fallit >e, mensas, inter quod credis inermem ; Tot bellis quassita viro, tot caedibus, armat Majestas sterna ducem. Si admoveris ora Cannas et Trebiam ante oculos, Trasymenaque busta Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis umbram. A thought somewhat of the same nature occurs in a French author: "II se " cache ; mais sa reputation le dfecouvre ; 11 maiche sans suite Si sans 6quipage ; "mais chacun, dans son esprit, le met sur un char de triomphe. On compte en le "voyant, les ennemis qu'il a vaincus, non pas les serviteurs qui le suivent. Tout "seul qu'il est, on se figure, amour de lui, ses vertus, et ses victoires, qui l'accom- " pagnent. Moins il est superbe, plus il devient venerable." Oraison funcbre de M. de Turenne, par M. Flechier. Both these passages are splendid, rather than sublime. In the first, therr- is a want of justness in the thought : in the secc.nd. of simplicity in the expression LECT. III.] SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 3? tng be applies to them all. The author of "a Fhilosophical In " quiry into the origin of our ideas of the sublime and beautiful,"* to whom we are indebted for several ingenious and original thoughts upon this subject, proposes a formal theory upon this foundation, that terror is the source of the sublime, and that no objects have this character, but such as 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 though this is very properly illustrated by the author, (many of whose sentiments on that head I have adopted,) yet he seems to stretch his theory too far, when he represents the sublime as con- sisting wholly in modes of danger, or of pain. For the proper sensation of sublimity appears to be distinguishable from the sen- sation of either of these ; and on several occasions, to be entirely separated from them. In many grand objects, there is no coinci- dence with terror at all ; as in the magnificent prospect of wide extended plains, and of the starry firmament ; or in the moral dis- positions and sentiments, which we view with high admiration ; and in many painful and terrible objects also, it is clear there is no sort of grandeur. The amputation of a limb, or the bite of a snake, are exceedingly terrible ; but are destitute of all claim whatever to sublimity. I am inclined to think, that mighty force or power, whether accompanied with terror or not, whether employed in pro- tecting, or in alarming us, has a better title, than any thing that has yet been mentioned, to be the fundamental quality of the sublime ; as, after the review which we have taken, there does not occur to me any sublime object, into the idea of which, power, strength, and force, either enter not directly, or are not at least intimately asso- ciated with the idea, by leading our thoughts to some astonishing power as concerned in the production of the object. However, I do not insist upon this as sufficient to found a general theory : it is enough, to have given this view of the nature and different kinds of sublime objects ; by which I hope to have laid a proper foundation for discussing, with greater accuracy, the sublime in writing and composition. * Mr. Burke. QUESTIONS. How are taste, criticism, and (jenius, currently employed? What therefore is here necessary ? What is true criti- cism ; what object does it propose ; and how does it proceed ? Of the rules of criticism, what is remarked ? On the observation of what beauties is criti- cism founded ? How is this illustrated from Aristotle's rules concerning the unity of action in dramatic anil epic composition? Of such observations, what is remarked ? Why may a mas- terly genius untaught, compose agree- ably to the most important rules of criticism ? What illustration is given ? Why is this no argument against the usefulness of criticism as an art ? As no observations or rules can supply the defects of genius, or inspire it where it is wanting, what are their advantages ? For what are critical rules chiefly de- signed ? For what must we look tr 37 a QUESTIONS. [lect. Ill nature? What advantage do we de- rive from what has been said? How have critics been represented? Why are not such prefaces calculated to give a very favourable idea of the genius of the author ? Upon what sup- position do the declamations against criticism commonly proceed? How does it appear that this is not true? How is this illustrated ? Why will the number of incompetent critics always be great; and what follows? What more plausible objection maybe formed against criticism? According to the principles laid down in the last lecture, to whom must the last appeal in every work of taste be made; and why? With respect to this, what is observed ' How is this observation illustrated ? In such cases, of the public, and of true criticism, what is said? The plays of Shakspeare, as dramatic compositions, contain the grossest violations of the laws of criticism; why then are they admired? With what, in his writings, are we displeased; but in what does he surpass all other writers? What does our author next proceed to ex- plain ? How do taste and genius differ ? How is this difference illustrated 2 What does genius, therefore, deserve to be considered ; and what does it im- port? Which forms the critic; and which the poet and orator? On the common acceptation of the word genius, what is it proper to observe ; and what is it used to signify? Howls this illus- trated? Whence is this talent for ex- celling received? Of the effect of art and study, what is remarked ? How is the remark illustrated, that genius is more limited in its sphere of operation than taste ? What is said of a universal genius; and why? Why is this remark here made ? As a genius for the fine arts supposes taste, what is clear? How is this illustrated, in reference to a poet or an orator ? What remark fol- lows, and when is this the case? Of the writings of Homer and Shakspeare, as proofs of this observation, what is said? As all human perfection is limit- ed, what, in all probability, is a law of cur nature? Having explained the nature of taste, &c. what are we next to consider ? How extensive is the field that is here opened to us? Why need not a!! these he examined fully ? What ifi all that >ur author proposes? Who was the first that attempted a regular inquiry into the sources of the pleasures of taste; and under what heads he reduced them? Of his speculations on this subject what is remarked ; and of what has he the merit? Why have not very considerable advances made since his time, in this part of philosophical criticism ? What is a very diificult task ; and when do we find ourselves at a loss? How is this illus- trated? Of the efficient and final of these sensations, what is observed; and, on entering on this subject, what can we not avoid? What remark fol- lows? Without what might "the i sary purposes of life have i dantly answered? Of this addil embellishment and glory, what served? By whom, and in what lan- guage, has this thought been happily preserved ? With what does our author b and why does he propose to treat it at some length? What i which he proposes to treat it ? two things does our author distinj and what does he consider synonimous terms? If there be any distil between them, whence does it arise ? What is it not easy to describe in words? What effect does it pn What is the nature of the emotion that it produces; and from what : very distinguishable? In whal the simplest form of external gna appear? What examples are Though all vastness produces Ehe im- pression of sublimity, yet, what is remarked? How is this illustrated ? Whence arises the excessive gra I of the firmament; and of the ocean? Wherever space is concerned, what is evident? How is this illustrated; and hence, what follows? From this, what have some imagined ? Why is not our author of this opinion ? What are in contestably grand objects ? "What il- lustration is given? In general, what may we observe; and hence, what fol- lows ? When is a stream of water beau- tiful ; and when sublime 1 From what animals do we draw sublime compari- sons? What remark follows? How has the engagement of two great armies always been considered; and why? Farther to illustrate this subject, whal is it proper to remark? "What are the scenes of nature that elevate the mind I.ECT. IV.] QUESTIONS 37 ft in the highest degree, and produce the sublime sensation?" Hence, what fol- lows ; and what illustration is given ? For what purpose is darkness very commonly applied? What illustrations are given from David, from Milton, , and from Virgil ? For what are these passages here quoted ? From what ob- eervation does it appear that obscurity is not unfavourable to the sublime ? Thus, in the descriptions of the ap- pearances of supernatural beings, what do we see ? From what does their sub- limity arise ? In what passage may we see this fully exemplified ? Why are ideas taken "from the Supreme Being more sublime than any others? In general, what objects strike us as great; and what is favourable to the impres- sions of their sublimity ? How does it appear that disorder frequently heigh- tens grandeur? Of exact proportion of parts, what is said ? How is this il- lustrated from an irregular mass of rocks? In the attempts which human art can make towards producing the sublime, what always constitutes a principal part ? From what does great- ness of manner, in architecture, seem chiefly to arise? By what does a Gothic cathedral raise ideas of grandeur in the mind ? What class of sublime objects still remain to be mentioned ; and from what do they arise? Under what names do they chiefly fall ; and what effect do they produce ? Repeat the instances given from Comeille, from Porus and Alexander, and from Ca?sar and the pilot. Where are we struck with a sense of the sublime ? Repeat the passage from Akenside. What is the most natural source of this sub- limity? On what occasions, when virtue either has no place, or is imperfectly displayed, can we not withhold our ad- miration ? Of the emotion raised in the variety of instances enumerated, what is said? What question next arises? What have some imag ined to be the fundamental quality of the sublime; but what have we seen? What theory is proposed by Mr. Burke ; what is said of it ; and why ? In what grand ob- jects, or moral dispositions and senti- ments, is there no coincidence with terror ; and in what terrible ol also, is there no sort of grandeur ? What is our author inclined to think is the fundamental quality of the sub- lime ; and for what reason ? ANALYSIS. 1. Criticism. A. The definition of Criticism. B. The nature and object of Criti- cism, c. Objections to it considered. 2. Genius. A. The distinction between Taste «nd Genius. B. Tie nature of Genius. c. The connexion between Taste and Genius. 3. The pleasures of Taste. A. Mr. Addison's Theory. B. The sources of the pleasures of Taste. 4. Grandeur, or Sublimity, in external objects. a. The nature of Sublimity. E. The sources of Sublimity c. Solemn and awful objects. d. Obscurity. e. Disorder. F. Moral Sublimity. g. The foimdation of the Sublime, lecture IV. THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. Having treated of grandeur or sublimity in external objects, the way seems now to be cleared, for treating, with more advantage, of the descriptions of such objects : or, of what is called the sublime in writing. Though I may appear early to enter on the consideration of this subject ; yet, as the sublime is a species of writing which de 38 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [lect. iv. pends less than any other on the artificial embellishments of rheto- ric, it may be examined with as much propriety here, as in any sub- sequent part of the lectures. Many critical terms have unfortunately been employed in a sense too loose and vague; none more so, than that of the sublime. Every one is acquainted with the character of Caesar's Commenta- ries, and of the style in which they are written : a style remarkably pure, simple, and elegant ; but the most remote from the sublime of any of the classical authors. Yet this author has a German critic, Johannes Gulielmus Bergerus, who wrote no longer ago than the year 1720, pitched upon as the perfect model of the sublime, and has composed a quarto volume, entitled Dc naturalipulchritudine Ora- tionis; the express intention of which is to show, that Caesar's Com- mentaries contain the most complete exemplification of all Longi- nus's rules relating to sublime writing. This I mention as a strong proof of the confused ideas which have prevailed, concerning this subject. The true sense of sublime writing, undoubtedly, is such a description of objects, or exhibition of sentiments, which are in themselves of a sublime nature, as shall give us strong impressions of them. But there is another very indefinite, and therefore very improper, sense, which has been too often put upon it; when it is applied to signify any remarkable and distinguishing excellency of composition ; whether it raise in us the ideas of grandeur, or those of gentleness, elegance, or any other sort of beauty. In this sense, Caesar's Commentaries may, indeed, be termed sublime, and so may many sonnets, pastorals, and love elegies, as well as Homer's Iliad. But this evidently confounds the use of words, and marks no one species, or character, of composition whatever. I am sorry to be obliged to observe, that the sublime is too often used in this last and improper sense, by the celebrated critic Longi- nus, in his treatise on this subject. He sets out, indeed, with des- cribing it in its just and proper meaning ; as something that elevates the mind above itself, and fills it with high conceptions, and a noble pride. But from this view of it he frequently departs; and substi- tutes in the place of it, whatever, in any strain of composition, pleases highly. Thus, many of the passages which he produces as instances of the sublime, are merely elegant, without having the most distant relation to proper sublimity; witness Sappho'sfamous ode, on which he descants at considerable length. He points out five sources of the sublime. The first is boldness or grandeur in the thoughts ; the second is, the pathetic ; the third, the proper application of figures ; the fourth, the use of tropes and beautiful expressions ; the fifth, musical structure and arrangement of words. This is the plan of one who was writing a treatise of rhetoric, or of the beauties of writing in general ; not of the sublime in particular. For of these five heads, only the two first have any peculiar relation to the sub- xime ; boldness and grandeur in the thoughts, and in some instances the pathetic, or strong exertions of passion ; the other three, tropes, figures, and musical arrangement, have no more relation to the sublime, than to other kinds of good writing; perhaps less to the lect. iv.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 39 sublime, than to any other species whatever ; because it requires less the assistance of ornament. From this it appears, that clear and precise ideas on this head are not to be expected from that writer. I would not, however, be understood, as if I meant, by this censure, to represent his treatise as of small value. I know no critic, ancient or modern, that discovers a more lively relish of the beauties of fine writing, than Longinus ; and he has also the merit of being himself an ex :ellent, and in several passages, a truly sublime, writer. But as his work has been generally considered as a standard on this sub- ject, it was incumbent on me to give my opinion concerning the benefit to be derived from it. It deserves to be consulted, not so much for distinct instruction concerning the sublime, as for excellent general ideas concerning beauty in writing. I return now to the proper and natural idea of the sublime in composition. The foundation of it must always be laid in the na- ture of the object described. Unless it be such an object as, if pre- sented to our eyes, if exhibited to us in reality, would raise ideas of that elevating, that awful and magnificent kind, which we call sub- lime ; the description, however finety drawn, is net entitled to come under this class. This excludes all objects that are merely beautiful, gay, or elegant. In the next place, the object must not only, in it- self, be 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 des- cribed with strength, with conciseness, and simplicity. This depends, principally, upon the lively impression which the poet, or orator, has of the object which he exhibits ; and upon his being deeply affected, and warmed, by the sublime idea which he would convey. If his own feeling be languid, he can never inspire us with any strong emotion. Instances, which are extremely necessary on this subject, will clearly show the importance of all the requisites which I have just now mentioned. It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient authors, that we are to look for the most striking instances of the sublime. I am inclined to think that the early ages of the world, and the rude unim- proved state of society, are peculiarly favourable to the strong emo- tions of sublimity. The genius of men is then much turned to admi- ration and astonishment. Meeting with many objects, to them new and strange, their imagination is kept glowing, and their passions are often raised to the utmost. They think, and express themselves boldly, and without restraint. In the progress of society, the genius and manners of men undergo a change more favourable to accuracy, than to strength or sublimity. Of all writings, ancient or modern, the sacred Scriptures afford u? the highest instances of the sublime. The ^ .-©criptions of the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble ; both fmm the grandeur of the ob- ject and the manner of representing \ Whai ai: fiSs'emblage, for instance, of awful and sublime idea? is v\ denied to BS> S> that pas- sage of the xviiith psalm, where an ap t x^t r >nce of the J> m.ghty is described : " In my distress I called upon th e Lord ;" be fc«ur \ ..:n. He bowed the heavens, and " came down, and darkness wa- >.\ . his feet ; and he did ride up- "on a Cherub, and did fly ; ye«, w 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, agreeably to the principles established in the last lecture, we see with whatpropriety and success the circumstances of darkness and terror are applied for heightening the sublime. So, also, the pro- phet Habakkuk, in a similar passage : " He stood, and measured "the earth : he beheld, and drove asunder the nations. The ever- " lasting mountains were scattered ; the perpetual hills did bow ; " his ways are everlasting. The mountains saw thee ; and they " trembled. The overflowing of the water passed by. The deep " uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high." The noted instance given by Longinus, from Moses, " God said, " let there be light; and there was light ;" is not liable to the censure which I passed on some of his instances, of being foreign to the subject. It belongs to the true sublime ; and the sublimity of it arises from the strong conception it gives, of an exertion of power, producing its effect with the utmost speed and facility. A thought of the same kind is magnificently amplified in the following passage of Isaiah : (chap. xliv. 24, 27, 2S.) "Thus saith the Lord, thy Re- " deemer, and he that formed thee from the womb : I am the Lord " that maketh all things, that stretcheth forth the heavens alone, that " spreadeth abroad the earth by myself — that saith to the deep, be " dry, and I will dry up thy rivers ; that saith of Cyrus, he is my "shepherd, and shall perform ail my pleasure; even, saying to Je- rusalem, thou shalt be built; and to the temple, thy foundation " shall be laid." There is a passage in the psalms, which deserves to be mentioned under this head: "God," says the psalmist, "stil- " leth the noise of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tu- " mults of the people." The joining together two such grand ob- jects, as the raging of the waters, and the tumults of the people, between which there is so much resemblance as to form a very na- tural association in the fancy, and the representing them both as sub- ject, at one moment, to the command of God, produces a noble ef- fect. Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics, has bee. greatly admired for sublimity ; and he owes much of his grandem to that native and unaffected simplicity which characterizes his man« ner. His descriptions of hosts engaging ; the animation, the fire, and rapidity, which he throws into his battles, present to every reader of the Iliad, frequent instances of sublime writing. His introduc- tion of the gods, tends often to heighten, in a high degree, the ma- jesty of his warlike scenes. Hence Longinus bestows such high and just commendations on that passage, in the xvth book of the Iliad, where Neptune, when preparing to issue forth into the engagement is described as shaking the mountains with his steps, and driving his chariot along the ocean. Minerva, arming herself r or fight m lect. iv.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 41 the vth book ; and Apollo, in the xvth, leading on the Trojans, and flashing terror with his xEgis on the face of the Greeks, are simi lar instances of great sublimity added to the description of battles, by the appearances of those celestial beings. In the xxth book, where all the gods take part in the engagement, according as they severally favour either the Grecians or the Trojans, the poet's ge- nius is signally displayed, and the description rises into the most awful magnificence. All nature is represented as in commotion. Jupiter thunders in the heavens ; Neptune strikes the earth with his trident; the ship r i, 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 region should be laid open to the view of mortals. The passage is worthy of being inserted. The works of Ossian (as I have elsewhere shown) abound with AuTXP l-ril /U.tQ' OUthOV 'O\VU7T10l «At/9cV Xl'ApSv, ''ftgro cT"E£K JtgXTS^B, kxoc;coc avi i'' 1 'A6»'vh,— Avi of' ' v Aga; iTi^a'biv, igjiAvin xxihxTrt iircc, — "ft? TKC otjUpCDT^KC /UZAX^tS 6so< ST^t/VGVTSff, St/^/Ssxcv, it A' ai/TU; sg/J* ^ywvre fixguxt. AitVOV J' 'i(sP'JVT>17i TTXTilg Xvf^Sv TS 6im Tt *T-^o6tr' xutxp, h(g6i YXotuAxihv eti'v«£i Txlxv dLTTiipiTiM , opiocv !■ (U» d uTrepBt Txlxv xv*ppyi£ui Yli l abode. ) 4 5 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [lect. iv angels, decribes 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 subline : From their foundations loos'ning to and fro, They pluck'd the seated hills, with all their load, Rocks, waters, woods ; and by the shaggy tops Uplifting, bore them in their hands. Whereas Claudian, in a fragment upon the wars of the giants, has contrived to render this idea of their throwing the mountains, which is in itself so grand, burlesque and ridiculous ; by this single circum- stance, of one of his giants with the mountain Ida upon his shoulders, and a river which flowed from the mountain, running down along the giant's back, as he held it up in that posture. There is a de- scription too in Virgil, which, I think, is censurable; though more slightly in this respect. It is that of the burning mountain iEtna ; a subject certainly very proper to be worked up by a poet into a sub lime description : -Iloriificis juxta tonat iF.tna minis. Interduinqiie atram prorumpit ad a>thera nubem, Turbine fumantem piceo, et candente favilla; Attollitque globos llammarum. et sidera lanibit. 1 1 1 1 n i ii scopulos, avulsaque viscera montis Erigit eructans, liquefactaque saxa sub auras Cum gemitu glomerat, fundoque cxastuat imo.* art. III. 671. Here, after several magnificent images, the poet concludes with per- sonifying the mountain under this figure, " eructans viscera cum gemitu," belching up its bowels with a groan ; which, by likening the mountain to a sick or drunk person, degrades the majesty of the description. It is to no purpose to tell us, that the poet here al- ludes to the fable of the giant Enceladus lying under mount iEtna; and that he supposes his motions and tossings to have occasioned the fiery eruptions. He intended the description of a sublime ob- ject; and the natural ideas, raised by a burning mountain, are infinite- ly more lofty, than the belchings of any giant, how huge soever. The debasing effect of the idea which is here presented, will appear in a stronger light, by seeing what figure it makes in a poem of Sir Rich- ard I'jlackmore's, who, through a monstrous perversity of taste, had chosen this for the capital circumstance in his description, and there- by (as Dr. Arbuthnot humourously observes, in his Treatise on the Art of Sinking,) had represented the mountain as inafitofthecholic .- merowejnuch-of his grandeur? What, to every reader of the Iliad, presents fre- quent instances of sublime writing? What often heightens the maj< his warlike scenes? Hence, on what passage has Longinus bestowed hig h and just commendations? What is said of the passage in the 20th book, where all the gods take part in the en ment? Repeat it. In Ossian, what are particularly favourable to the sublime ? What does he possess ? In what t\iv> he not deal ; how does he throw forth his images; and what is the effect? For what do we look amonsr poets of more polished times; and why? Where dwells the sublime, and with what does it materially associate itself? Re- peat the passage. What is said of it? Why have these instances been pro- duced? To what are they respect i\ civ exposed? Why is a delect, either in conciseness or simplicity, hurtful, in a peculiar manner, to the sublime? Re- peat Lucan's amplification of Ci address to the pilot. Why is rhyme un- favourable to the sublime; and what, in it, weakens the native force of sub- limity? What tends farther to enfeeble ft? How is this illustrated from Ho- mer's description of the nod of Jupiter? Of Pope's translation, what is remark- ed? Of our blank verse, what is ob- served? By what author is the tallest proof of tliis given? Repeat the illus- tration. What is said of it ? What is mentioned as another necessary requi- site to the sublime ? From what does it arise ; what does it suppose ; and why ? From what does it appear that the great art of the writer, and the tliiri- culty of sublime description, lies here ? In order to render a storm or a tempest sublime in description, what is requi- site? Repeat the passage in which this is happily effected by Virsril. Ol* this description, what is said ? What, when description is meant to be sublime, seems not to have been sufficiently attended to? When may a writer's descriptions have improprieties in them, and yet be beautiful; and why ? Why is the case quite different with the sublime ? Of the nature of the emotion aimed at by the sublime, what is observed ; and why? What is said of Milton's descrip- tion of the battle of the angels ? Repeat it. How has Claudius rendered this idea burlesque and ridiculous? What description in Virgil is also censurable? Repeat it. What is said of this descrip- tion? How will the debasing effect of the idea here presented, appear in a still stronger light? What do such in- stances show .' Where are the proper sources of the sublime to be found ? How can we not expect to produce it ? Of what does it, lor the most part^ stand clear; how must it come; and of what must it be the natural orl- spring ? Whence may we draw the sublime? In judging of any striking beauty in composition, to what must we attend ; and when only can we pro- nounce it sublime ? Why cannot the emotion of the sublime be protracted ? \\ hat is the utmost that we can ex- pect ? In whom does this effulgence frequently break forth with great lus- tre ? Of the writings of some few indi- viduals, such as Demosthenes and Pla- to, what is observed ? What is remark- ed of what is called a sublime style ; and what are persons apt to imagine? How does it appear that notliing can be more false than this opinion is ? Ot this illustration, what has Boileau ob- served? In general, hi all good wri- tings, where does the sublime lie; and what follows? What expressions does the sublime reject ; and of beinroswots and srenes: whitp with ; nnocence; blue, with the sereni- lect. v.] BEAUTY. 51 cy of the sky. Independent of associations of this kind, all that we can farther observe concerning colours is, that those chosen for beauty are, generally, delicate, rather than glaring. Such are those paintings with which nature hath ornamented some of her works, and which art strives in vain to imitate ; as the feathers of several kinds of birds, the leaves of flowers, and the fine variation of co- lours exhibited by the sky at the rising and setting of the sun. These present to us the highest instances of the beauty of colouring; and have accordingly been the favourite subjects of poetical description in all countries. From colour we proceed to figure, which opens to us forms of beauty more complex and diversified. Regularity first occurs to be noticed as a source of beauty. By a regular figure, is meant, one which we perceive to be formed according to some certain rule, and not left arbitrary, or loose, in the construction of its parts. Thus, a circle, a square, a triangle, or a hexagon, please the eye, by their regularity, as beautiful figures. We must not, however, con- clude, that all figures please in proportion to their regularity ; or that regularity is the sole, or the chief, foundation of beauty in figure. On the contrary, a certain graceful variety is found to be a much more powerful principle of beauty, and is therefore studied a great deal more than regularity, in all works that are designed merely to please the eye. 1 am, indeed, inclined to think, that regularity ap- pears beautiful to us, chiefly, if not only, on account of its sugges- ting the ideas of fitness, propriety, and use, which have always a greater connexion with orderly and proportioned forms, than with those which appear not constructed according to any certain rule. It is clear, that nature, who is undoubtedly the most graceful artist, hath, in all her ornamental works, pursued variety with an apparent neglect of regularity, Cabinets, doors, and windows, are made after a regular form, in cubes and parallelograms, with exact propor- tion 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 ca- nal is an insipid figure, in comparison of the meanders of rivers. Cones and pyramids are beautiful; but trees growing in their natural wilderness, are infinitely more beautiful than when trimmed into py- ramids and cones. The apartments of a house must be regular iu their disposition, for the conveniency of its inhabitants ; but a gar den which is designed merely for beauty, would be exceedingly dis gusting, if it had as much uniformity and order in its parts as > dwelling-house. Mr. Hogarth, in his Analysis of Beauty, has observed, that figure' bounded by curve lines are, in general, more beautiful than those bounded by straight lines and angles. He pitches upon two lines., on which, according to him, the beauty of figure principally depends; and he has illustrated and supported his doctrine, by a surprising number of instances. The one is the waving line, or a curve bend- ing backwards and forwards, somewhat in the form of the letter S H 52 BEAUTY. (lect. v This he calls the line of beauty ; and shows how often it is found 'n shells, flowers, and such other ornamental works of nature ; as is common also in the figures designed by painters and sculptors, for the purpose of decoration. The other line, which he calls the line of grace, is the former waving curve, twisted round some solid body. The curling worm of a common jack is one of the instances he gives of it. Twisted pillars, and twisted horns, also exhibit it. In all the instances which he mentions, variety plainly appears to be so material a principle of beauty, that he seems not to err much wben he defines the art of drawing pleasing forms, to be the art of varying well. For the curve line, so much the favourite of painters, derives, according to him, its chief advantage, from its perpetual bending and variation from the stiff regularity of the straight line. Motion furnishes another source of beauty, distinct from figure Motion of itself is pleasing; and bodies in motion are, "ceteris paribus," preferred to those in rest. It is, however, only gentle mo- tion 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 ; the swiftness with which lightning darts through the heavens, is magnifi- cent 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 several instances, of approaching towards each other. Thus, a smooth running stream is one of the most beautiful objects in nature: as it swells gradually into a great river, the beautiful, by degrees, is lost in the sublime. A young tree is a beautiful object ; a spreading ancient oak, is a venerable and a grand one. The calmness of a fine morning is beautiful; the universal stillness of the evening is highly sublime. But to return to the beauty of motion, it will be found, I think, to hold very generally, that motion in a straight line is not so beautiful as in an undulating waving direction; and motion upwards is, com- monly too, more agreeable than motion downwards. The easy cur- ling motion of flame and smoke may be instanced, as an object singularly agreeable : and here Mr. Hogarth's waving line recurs upon us as a principle of beauty. That artist observes, very ingeni- ously, 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 movements are made in waving lines: an observation not unworthy of being attended to, by all who study • the grace of gesture and action. Though colour, figure, and motion, be separate principles of bfc&nty ; yet in many beautiful objects they all meet, and thereby render the beauty both greater, and more complex. Thus, in flow- ers, trees, animals, we are entertained at once with the delicacy of the colour, with the gracefulness of the figure, and sometimes also with the motion of the object. Although each of these produce a separate agreeable sensation, yet they are of such a similar nature, as readily to mix and blend in one general perception of beauty, which we ascribe to the whole object as its cause : for beauty is al lect. v.J BEAUTY. 53 ways conceived oy us, as something residing in the object which raises the pleasant sensation; a sort of glory which dwells upon, and invests it. Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful ob- jects 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 productions 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 gay, cheerful, and placid sensation which character- izes beauty. To have an eye and a taste formed for catching the pe- culiar beauties of such scenes as these, is a necessary requisite for all who attempt poetical description. The beauty of the human countenance is more complex than any that we have yet considered. It includes the beauty of colour, ari- sing from the delicate shades of the complexion; and the beauty of figure, arising from the lines which form the different features of the face. But the chief beauty of the countenance depends upon a mysterious expression, which it conveys, of the qualities of the mind; of good sense, or good humour ; of sprightliness, candour, benevo- 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; whether we are taught by instinct, or by experience, to form this connexion, and to read the mind in the countenance, belongs not to us now to inquire, nor is indeed easy to resolve. The fact, is certain, and acknowledged, that what gives the human countenance its most distinguishing beauty, is what is called its expression; or an image, which it is conceived to show of internal moral dispositions. This leads us to observe, that there are certain qualities of the mind which, whether expressed in the countenance, orby 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 great virtues, which require extraordinary efforts, and turn upon dangers and sufferings ; as heroism, magnanimity, contempt of plea- sures, and contempt of death, These, as I have observed in a for- mer lecture, excite in the spectator an emotion of sublimity and grandeur. The other class is generally of the social virtues, and Mich as are of a softer and gentler kind ; as compassion, mildness, friendship, and generosity. These raise in the beholder a sensation of pleasure, so much akin to that produced by beautiful external objects, that, though of a more dignified nature, it may, without impropriety, be classed under the same head. A species of beauty, distinct from any I have yet mentioned, ari- ses from design or art; or in other words, from the perception Oj means being adapted to an end ; or the parts of any thing 1 ,eing web fitted to answer the design of the whole. When, in considering the structure of a tree or a plant, we observe how all the parts, the roots the stem, the bark, and the leaves, are suited to the growth and 54 BEAUTY. [lect. ▼ nutriment of the whole; much more when we survey all the parts and members of a living animal, or when we examine any of the curious works of art; such as a clock, a ship, or any nice machine* the pleasure which we have in the survey, is wholly founded on this sense of beauty. It is altogether different from the perception of beauty produced by colour, figure, variety, or any of the causes for- merly mentioned. When I look at a watch, for instance, the case of it, if finely engraved, and of curious workmanship, strikes me as beautiful in the former sense; bright colour, exquisite polish, figures finely raised and turned. But when I examine the spring and the wheels, and praise the beauty of the internal machinery, my pleasure then arises wholly from the view of that admirable art, with which so many various and complicated parts are made to unite for one purpose. This sense of beauty, in fitness and design, has an extensive influ- ence over many of our ideas. It is the foundation of the beauty which we discover in the proportion of doors, windows, arches, pillars, and all the orders of architecture. Let the ornaments of a building be ever so fine and elegant in themselves, yet, if they interfere with this sense of fitness and design, they lose their beauty, and hurt the eye, like disagreeable objects. Twisted columns, for instance, are undoubted- ly ornamental; but as they have an appearance of weakness, they al- ways displease when they are made use of to support any part of a building that is massy, and that seems to require a more substantial prop. We cannot look upon any work whatever, without being led, by a natural association of ideas, to think of its end and design, and of course to examine the propriety of its parts, in relation to this design and end. When their propriety is clearly discerned, the work seems always to have some beauty; but when there is a total want of proprietv, it never fails of appearing deformed. Our sense of fitness and design,therefore, is so powerful, and holds so high a rank among our perceptions, as to regulate, in a great measure, our other ideas of beauty : an observation which I the rather make, as it is of the utmost importance, that all who study composition should carefully attend to it. For, in an epic poem, a history, an oration, or any work of ge- nius, we always require, as we do in other works, a fitness, or adjust- ment of means to the end which the author is supposed to have in view. Let his descriptions be ever so rich, or his figures ever so ele- gant, yet, if they are out of place, if they are not proper parts of that whole, if they suit not the main design, they lose all their beauty, nay, from beauties they are converted into deformities. Such power has our sense of fitness and congruity, to produce a total transformation of an object whose appearance otherwise would have been beautiful, After having mentioned so many various species of beauty, it now only remains to take notice of beauty as it is applied to writing or d is- course; a term commonly used in a sense altogether loose and unde- termined. For it is applied to all that pleases, either in style or sen- timent, from whatever principle that pleasure flows; and a beautiful poem or Oration means, in common language, no other than a good one, or one well composed. In this sense, it is plain, the worn isal lect. v.] PLEASURES OF TASTE. 55 together indefinite, and points at no particular species or kind of beau- ty. There is, however, another sense, somewhat more definite, in which beauty of writing characterizes a particular manner ; when it is used to signify a certain grace and amenity in the turn either of style or sentiment for which some authors have been peculiarly distin- guished. In this sense, it denotes a manner neither remarkably sub- lime, nor vehemently passionate, nor uncommonly sparkling ; but such as raises in the reader an emotion of the gentle, placid kind, similar to what is raised by the contemplation of beautiful objects in nature; which neither lifts the mind very high, nor agitates it very much, but diffuses over the imagination an agreeable and pleasing serenity. Mr. Addison is a writer altogether of this character ; and is one of the most proper and precise examples that can be given of it. Fenelon, the author of the Adventures of Telemachus, may be given as another example. Virgil too, though very capable of rising on oc- casions into the sublime, yet, in his general manner, is distinguished by the character of beauty and grace, rather than of sublimity. Among orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful than Demosthenes, whose genius led him wholly towards vehemence and strength. This much it is sufficient to have said upon the subject of beauty. We have traced it through a variety of forms ; as next to sublimity, it is the most copious source of the pleasures of taste; and as the consideration of the different appearances, and principles of beauty, tends to the improvement of taste in many subjects. But it is not only by appearing under the forms of sublime or beautiful, that objects delight the imagination. From several other principles also, they derive their power of giving it pleasure. Novelty, for instance, has been mentioned by Mr. Addison, and by every writer on this subject. An object which has no merit to recommend it, except its being uncommon 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 gene- rally 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 quick 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 have in itself no charms to hold our attention, the shining gloss thrown upon it by novelty soon wears off. Besides novelty, imitation is another source of pleasuio io taste. This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms, the secondary pleasures of imagination ; which fonn, doubtless, a very extensive class. For all imitation affords some pleasure ; not only the imitation of beauti- ful or great objects, by recalling the original ideas of beauty or grandeur which such objects themselves exhibited; but even objects which have neither beauty nor grandeur, nay, some which are terri- UIp or deformed, please us in a secondary or represented view. 46 IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. [lect. v. The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to taste: there is no agreeable sensation we receive either from beauty or snblimity, but what is capable of being heightened by the power of musical sound. Hence the delight of poetical numbers, and even of the more concealed and looser measures of prose. Wit, humour, and ridicule, likewise open a variety of pleasures of taste, quite distinct from any that we have yet considered. At present it is not necessary to pursue any farther the subject ct the pleasures of taste. I have opened some of the general princi • pies ; it is time now to make the application to our chief subject If the question be put, to what class of those pleasures of taste which 1 have enumerated, that pleasure is to be referred which we receive from poetry, eloquence, or fine writing? My answer is, not to any one, but to them all. This singular advantage, writing and discourse possess, that they encompass so large and rich a field on all sides, and have power to 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 pleasure arise from sublimity, from beauty in its different forms, from design, and art, from moral sentiment, from novelty, from harmony, from wit, humour, and ridi- cule. To whichsoever of these the peculiar bent of a person's taste lies, from some writer or other, he has it always in his power to re- ceive the gratification of it. Now this high power which eloquence and poetry possess, of sup- plying taste and imagination with such a wide circle of pleasures, they derive altogether from their having a greater capacity of imita- tion and description than is possessed by any other art. Of all the means which human ingenuity has contrived for recalling the images of real objects, and awakening, by representation, similar emotions to those which are raised by the original, none is so full and exten- sive as that which is executed by words and writing. Through the assistance of this happy invention, there is nothing, either in the natural or moral world, but what can be represented and set before the mind, in colours very strong and lively. Hence it is usual among critical writers, to speak of discourse as the chief of all the imitative or mimetic arts; they compare it with painting and with sculpture, and in many respects prefer it justly before them. This style was first introduced by Aristotle in his poetics; and, since his time, has acquired a general currency among modern au- thors. But as it is of consequence to introduce as much precision as possible into critical language, I mtut observe, that this manner of speaking is not accurate. Neither discourse in general, nor po- etry in particular, can be called altogether imitative arts. We must distinguish betwixt imitation and description, which are ideas that should not be confounded. Imitation i3 performed by means of somewhat that has a natural likeness and resemblance to the thing imitated, and of consequence is understood by all : such are statues and pictures. Description, again, is the raising in the mind the conception of an object by means of some arbitrary or instituted symbols, understood only by those who agree in the institution of lect. v.] IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. 5? them ; such are words and writing. Words have no natural re semblance to the ideas or objects which they are employed to si* nify ; but a statue or a picture has a natural likeness to the original And therefore imitation and description differ considerably in theii nature from each other. As far, indeed, as the poet introduces into his work persons actually speaking ; and, by the words which he puts into theii mouths, represents the discourse which they might be supposed to hold ; so far his art may more accurately be called imitative; and this is the case in all dramatic composition. But, in narrative or descriptive works, it can with no propriety be called so. Who for instance, would call Virgil's description of a tempest, in the first JEneid, an imitation of a storm? If we heard of the imitation of t battle, we might naturally think of some mock fight, or representa tion of a battle on the stage, but would never apprehend, that i y meant one of Homer's descriptions in the Iliad. I admit, at the same time, that imitation and description agree in their principa' effect, of recalling, by external signs, the ideas of things which w« do not see. But though in this they coincide, yet it should not bt forgotten, that the terms themselves are not synonymous ; that the} import different means of effecting the same end ; and of courst make different impressions on the mind.* Whether we consider poetry in particular, and discourse in gene ral, as imitative or descriptive ; it is evident that their whole pow er, in recalling the impressions of real objects, is derived from the significancy of words. As their excellency flows altogether from tins source, we must, in order to make way for further inquiries, * Though in the execution of particular parts, poetry is certainly descriptive rather than imitative, yet there is a qualified sense in which poetry, iu the general, may be termed an imitative art. The -subject of the poet (as Dr. Gerard has shown in the ap- pendix to his Essay on Taste) is intended to be an imitation, not of things really exist- ing, but of the course of nature : that is, a feigned representation of such events, 01 such scenes, as though thev never had a being, yet might have existed ; and which, therefore, by their probability, bear a resemblance to nature. It was probably in this sense, that Aristotle termed poetry a mimetic art. How far either the imitation or the description which poetry employs, is superior to the imitative powers of paint ing and music, is well shown bv Mr. Harris, in his treatise on music, painting, and poetry. The chief advantage which poetry, or discourse in general, enjoys, is, thai whereas, bv the nature of his art, the painter is confined to the representation of a sin- gle moment, writing and discourse can trace a transaction through its whole pro- •gress That moment, indeed, which the painter pitches upon for the'subject of his picture, he may be said to exhibit with more advantage xhan the poet or orator ; inas- much as he sets before us, in one view, all the minute concurring circumstances of the event which happens in one individual point of time, as they appear in nature > while discourse is obliged to exhibit them in succession, and by means of a detail which is in danger of becoming tedious, in order to be clear ; or, if r jt if ."ct vi.] OF LANGUAGE. 61 more or less complete, according as the vocal organs had it in their power to affect this imitation. Wherever objects were to be named, in which sound, *aoise, 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 lan- guages, we find a multitude of words that are evidently constructed upon this principle. 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; wd.en a serpent is said to hiss ; a fly to buz, and falling timber to crash; when a stream is said to flow, and hail to rattle , the analogy between the word and the thing signified is plain- ly discernible. In the names of objects which address the sight only, where neither noise nor motion are concerned, and still more .11 ine terms appropriated to moral ideas, this analogy appears to fad Many learned men, however, have been of opinion, that though in such cases it becomes more obscure, yet it is not altogether lost ; but that throughout the radical words of all languages, there may be traced some degree of correspondence with the object signified. With regard to moral and intellectual ideas, they remark, that in every language, the terms significant of them, are derived from the names of sensible objects to which they are conceived to.be analo- gous; and with regard to sensible objects pertaining merely to sight, they remark, that their most distinguishing qualities have certain radical sounds appropriated to the expression of them, in a great variety of languages. Stability, for instance, fluidity, hollowness, smoothness, gentleness, violence, &c. they imagine to be painted by the sound of certain letters or syllables, which have some relation to hose different states of visible objects, on account of an obscure resemblance which the organs of speech are capable of assuming to such external qualities. By this natural mechanism, they imagine all languages to have been at first constructed, and the roots of their capital words formed.* " The author who has carried his speculations on this subject the farthest, is the President Des Brosses, in his " TraiJe de la Formation M6chanique des Langues." Some of the radical letters or syllables which he supposes to carry this expressive power in most known languages are, St, to signify stability or rest ; Fl, to de- note fluency ; CI, a gentle descent ; R, what relates to rapid motion ; C, to cavity or hollowness, he. A century before his time, Dr. Wallis, in his Grammar of the English Language, had taken notice of these significant roots, and represented it as a peculiar excellency of our tongue, that beyond all others, it .expressed the nature of the objects which it named, by employing sounds sharper, softer, weak- er, stronger, more obscure, or more stridulous, according as the idea which is to be suggested requires. He gives various examples. Thus, words, formed upon St, always denote firmness and strength, analogous to the Latin sto ; as stand, stay staff, stop, stout, steady, stake, stamp, stallion, stately, he. Words beginning with Str, intimate violent force and energy, analogous to the Greek a-Tfrntu/ut; as, strive, strength, strike, stripe, stress, struggle, stride, stretch, strip, Sic. Thr, implies forcible motion : as throw, throb, thrust, through, threaten, thraldom Wr, obliquity or distortion ; as, wry, wrest, wreath, wrestle, wring, wrong, wran- gle, wrath, wrack, he. Sw, silent agitation, or lateral motion ; as, sway, swing 62 RISE AND PROGRESS [lect. v? As far as this system is founded in truth, language appears to be not altogether arbitrary in its origin. Among the ancient Stoic and Platonic philosophers, it was a question much agitated, " Utruni nomina rerum sint natura, an impositione ? (pCdei i\ dittel ;" by which they meant, whether words were merely conventional symbols ; of the rise of which no account could be given, except the pleasure of the first inventors of language? or, whether there was some principle in nature that led to the assignation of particular names to particular objects? and those of the Platonic school favoured the latter opin- ion.* This principle, however, of a natural relation between words and objects, can only be applied to language in its most simple and pri- mitive state. Though in every tongue, some remains of it, as I have shown above, can be traced, it were utterly in vain to search for it throughout the whole construction of any modern language. As the multitude of terms increase in every nation, and the immense field of language is filled up, words, by a thousand fanciful and irre- gular methods of derivation and composition, come to deviate wide- ly from the primitive character of their roots, and to lose all analogy or resemblance in sound to the things signified. In this state we now find language. Words, as we now employ them, taken in the general, may be considered as symbols, not as imitations; as arbi- trary, or instituted, not natural signs of ideas. But there can be no doubt, I think, that language, the nearer we remount to its rise among men, will be found to partake more of a natural expression. As it could be originally formed on nothing but imitation, it would, in its primitive state, be more picturesque ; much more barren in- deed, and narrow in the circle of its terms, than now ; but as far as it went, more expressive by sound of the thing signified. This, swerve, sweep, swim. SI, a gentle fall or less observable motion ; as, slide, slip, sly, slit, slow, slack, sling. Sp, dissipation or expansion ; as spread, sprout, sprinkle, split, spill, spring. Terminations in ash, indicate something acting nimbly and sharply; as, crash, gash, rash, flash, lash, slash. Terminations in ash, some- thing acting more obtusely and dully ; as, crush, brush, hush, gush, blush. The learn- ed author produces a great many more examples of the same kind, which seem to leave no doubt, that the analogies of sound have had some influence on the for- mation of words. At the same time, in all speculations of this kind, there is so much room for fancy to operate, that they ought to be adopted with much caution in forming any general theory. *Vid. Plat, in Cratylo. "Nomina verbaque non posita fortuito, sed quadam vi et " ratione naturae facta esse, P. Nigidius in Grammaticis Commentariis docc-t ; rem " sane in philosophise dissertationibus celebrem. In earn rem multa argumenta " dicit, cur videri possint, verba esse naturalia, magis qv.am arbitraria. Jos, in* " quit, cum dicimus, motu quodam oris conveniente, cum ipsius verbi demonstra- " tione utimur, et labias sensim primores emovemus, ac spiritum atque animam " porro versum, et ad eos quibus consermocinamur jntendimus. At contra cum " dicimus J\"os, neque profuso intentoque flatu vocis, neque projectis labiis pro- " nunciamus ; sed et spiritum et labias quasi intra nosmet ipsos coercemus. Hoc " sit idem et in eo quod dicimus tu, et ego, et rnihi, et tibi. Nam sicuti cum adnui- " mus et abnuimus, motus quodam illo vel capitis, vel oculomm, a natura rei quain " significat, non abhorret, ita in his vocibus quasi gestus quidam oris et spiritus " naturalis est. Eadem ratio est in Gratis quoque vocibus quam esse in iiostnY " animadvertimus." A. Gellius, Noct. Atticw, lib. x. cap. 4 lect. vt.J OF LANGUAGE. 63 then, may be assumed as one character of the first state, or begin- nings of language, among every savage tribe. A second character of language, in its early state, is drawn from the manner in which words were at first pronounced, or uttered, by men. Interjections, I showed, or passionate exclamations, were the first elements of speech. Men laboured to communicate their feel- ings to one another, by those expressive cries and gestures which nature taught them. After words, or names of objects, began to be invented, this mode of speaking, by natural signs, could not be all at once disused. For language, in its infancy, must have been ex- tremely barren ; and there certainly was a period among all rude nations, when conversation was carried on by a'very few words, in- termixed with many exclamations and earnest gesture s. 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 labour to make themselves un- derstood, by varying their tones of voice, and accompanying their tones with the most significant gesticulations they could make. At this day, when persons attempt to speak in any language which they } ossess imperfectly, they have recourse to all these supplemental methods, in order to render themselves more intelligible. The plan, too, according to which I have shown, that language was originally constructed, upon resemblance or analogy, as far as was possible, to the thing signified, would naturally lead men to utter their words with more emphasis and force, as long as language was a sort of painting by means of sound. For all those reasons this may be as- sumed as a principle, that the pronunciation of the earliest languages was accompanied with more gesticulation, and with more and greater inflections of voice, than what we now use; there was more action in it; and it was more upon a crying or singing tone. To this manner of speaking, necessity first gave rise. But we must observe, that after this necessity had, in a great measure, ceas- ed, 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. Wherever there was much fire and vivacity in the genius of nations, they were naturally inclined to a mode of conver sation which gratified the imagination so much; for an imagination which is warm, is always prone to throw both a great deal of action, and a variety of tones, into discourse. Upon this principle, Dr. Warburton accounts for so much speaking by action, as we find among the Old Testament prophets; as when Jeremiah breaks the potter's vessel, in sight of the people ; throws a book into the Euphrates; puts on bonds and yokes; and carries out his household stuff; all which, he imagines, might be significant modes of expies- sion, very natural in those ages, when men were accustomed to ex- plain themselves so much by actions and gestures. In like manner, among the northern American tribes, certain motions and actions were found to he much used as explanatory of their meaning, on ail 64 RISE AND PROGRESS [uot, vj their ^eat occasions of intercourse with each other ; and by the belts and strings of wampum, which they gave and received, they were accustomed to declare their meaning, as much as hy their dis- courses. With regard to inflections of voice, these are so natural, that to some nations, it has appeared easier to express different ideas, by va- rying the tone with which they pronounced the same word, than tc contrive words for all their ideas. This is the practice of the Chi- nese in particular. The number of words in their language is said not to be great; but in speaking, they vary each of their words on no less than five different tones, by which the) 7 make the same word signify five different things. This must give a great appearance of music or singing to their speech. For those inflections of voice which, in the infancy of language, were no more than harsh or dis- sonant cries, must, as language gradually polishes, pass into more smooth and musical sounds; and hence is formed, what we call the prosody of a language. It is remarkable, and deserves attention, that, both in the Greek and Roman languages, this musical and gesticulating pronunciation was retained in a very high degree. Without having attended to this, we shall be at a loss in understanding several passages of the classics, which relate to the public speaking, and the theatrical en- tertainments of the ancients. It appears from many circumstances, that the prosody both of the Greeks and Romans, was carried much farther than ours; or that they spoke with more and stronger inflec- tions of voice than we use. The quantity of their syllables was much more fixed than in any of the modern languages, and render- ed much more sensible to the ear in pronouncing them. Besides quantities, or the difference of short and long, accents were placed upon most of their syllables, the acute, grave, and circumflex ; the use of which accents we have now entirely lost, but which, we know, determined the speaker's voice to rise or fall. Our modern pronun- ciation must 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 instru- ments; as several learned men have fully proved. And if this was the case, as they have shown, among the Romans, the Greeks, it is well known, w r ere still a more musical people than the Romans, and carried their attention to tone and pronunciation much farther in every public exhibition. Ariscotle, in his poetics, considers the music of tragedy as one of its chief and most essential parts. The case was parallel with regard to gestures; for strong tones, and animated gestures, we may observe, always go together. Ac* lion is treated of by all the ancient critics, as the chief quality in every public speaker. The action, both of the orators and the play- ers in Greece and Rome, was far more vehement than what we are accustomed to. Roscius would have seemed a madman to us. Ges- ture was of such consequence upon the ancient stage, that there is reason for believing, that on some occasions, the speaking and the lect. vi.] OF LANGUAGE. 65 acting part were divided, which, according to our ideas, would form a strange exhibition ; 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 Ros- cius, whether he could express a sentiment in a greater variety of phrases, or Roscius in a greater variety of intelligible significant ges- tures. At last, gesture came to engross the stage wholly; for, under the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius, the favourite 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 obliged to be made, for restraining the senators from studying the pantomime art. Now, though in declamations and theatrical exhi- bitions, both tone and gesture were doubtless carried much farther than in common discourse; yet public speaking, of any kind, must, in every country, bear some proportion to ,the manner that is used in conversation, and such public entertainments as I have now men- tioned could never have been relished by a nation, whose tones and gestures, in discourse, were as languid as ours. When the barbarians spread themselves over the Roman empire, these more phlegmatic nations did not retain the accents, the tones, and gestures, which necessity at first introduced, and custom and fancy afterwards so long supported, in the Greek and Roman lan- guages. As the Latin tongue was lost in their idioms, so the charac- ter of speech and pronunciation began to be changed throughout. Europe. Nothing of the same attention was paid to the music of language, or to the pomp of declamation and theatrical action. Both conversation and public speaking became more simple and plain, such as we now find it; without that enthusiastic mixture ot tones and gestures, which distinguished the ancient nations. At the restoration of letters, the genius of language was so much alterec, and the manners of the people had become so different, that it was no easy matter to understand what the ancients had said, concerning their declamations and public spectacles. Our plain manner of speaking in these northern countries, expresses the passions with suf- ficient energy, to move those who are not accustomed to any more vehement manner. But, undoubtedly, more varied tones, and more animated motions, carry a natural expression of warmer feelings. Accordingly, in different modern languages, the prosody of speech partakes more of music, in proportion to the liveliness and sensi- bility of the people. A Frenchman both varies his accents, and gesticulates, while he speaks, much more than an Englishman. An Italian, a great deal more than either. Musical pronunciation and expressive gesture, are to this day the distinction of Italy. From the pronunciation of language, let us proceed, in the third place, to consider the style of language in its most early state, and its progress in this respect also. As the manner in which men first uttered their words, and maintained conversation, was strong and expressive, enforcing their imperfectly expressed ideas bv cries K 9 66 RISE AND PROGRESS [lect. vi and gestures ; so the language which they used, could he no other than full of figures and metaphors, not correct indeed, but forcible and picturesque. 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 pol- ished state; and that, then, they were devised by orators and rhe- toricians. The contrary of this is the truth. Mankind never em- ployed 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 yiind, or any sort of moral and intellectual ideas. Hence, the early language of men being entirely made up of words descriptive of sensible objects, it became of necessity extremely metaphorical. — For, to signify any desire or passion, or any act or feeling of the mind, they had no precise expression which was appropriated to that purpose, but were under a necessity of painting the emotion or passion which they felt, by allusion to those sensible objects which had most relation to it, and which could render it, in some sort, visible to others. But it was not necessity alone, that gave rise to this figured style. Other circumstances also, at the commencement of language, con- tributed to it. In the infancy of all societies, men are much un- der the dominion of imagination and passion. They live scattered and dispersed ; they are unacquainted with the course of things ; they are, every day, meeting with new and strange objects. Fear and surprise, wonder and astonishment, are their most frequent pas- sions. Their language will necessarily partake of this character oi their minds. They will be prone to exaggeration and hyperbole. They will be given to describe every thing with the strongest co- lours, and most vehement expressions ; infinitely more than men living in the advanced and cultivated periods of society, when their imaginations are more chastened, their passions are more tamed, and a wider experience has rendered the objects of life more fa miliar to them. Even the manner in which I before showed that the first tribes of men uttered their words, would have considerable influence on their style. Wherever strong exclamations, tones, and gestures, enter much into conversation, the imagination is always more exercised ; a greater effort of fancy and passion is excited.— 'Jonsequently, the fancy kept awake, and rendered more sprightly by this mode of utterance, operates upon style, and enlivens it more. These reasonings are confirmed by undoubted facts. The style of all the most early languages, among nations who are in the first lect. vi.] OF LANGUAGE. 67 and rude periods of society, is found, without exception, to be full of figures; hyperbolical and picturesque in a high 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. The Iro- quois and Illinois carry on their treaties and public transactions with bolder metaphors, and greater pomp and style, than we use in our poetical productions.* Another remarkable instance is the style of the Old Testament, which is carried on by constant allusions to sensible objects. Iniquity, or guilt, is expressed by " a spotted garment ;" misery, by " drinking the cup of astonishment;" vain pursuits, by "feeding on ashes;" a sinful life, by " a crooked path ;" prosperity, by " the candle of the Lord shining on our head ;" and the like, in innumerable instances. Hence we have been accustomed to call this sort of style the orien- tal style ; as fancying it to be peculiar to the nations of the east ; whereas, from the American style, and from many other instances, it plainly appears not to have been peculiar to any one region or climate ; but to have been common to all nations in certain periods of society and language. Hence we may receive some light concerning that seeming para- dox, that poetry is more ancient than prose. I shall have occasion to discuss this point fully hereafter, when I come to treat of the nature and origin of poetry. At present, it is sufficient to observe, that, from what has been said, it plainly appears that the style of all language must have been originally poetical ; strongly tinctured with that enthusiasm, and that descriptive metaphorical expression, which distinguishes poetry. As language in its progress began to grow more copious, it gra- dually lost that figurative style, which was its ea rly character. When men were furnished with proper and familiar names for every object, both sensible and moral, they were not obliged to use so many cir- cumlocutions. Style became more precise, and, of course, more simple. Imagination, too, in proportion as society advanced, had less influence over mankind. The vehement manner of speaking * Thus, to give an instance of the singular style of these nations, the Five Na- tions of Canada, when entering on a treaty of peace with us, expressed themselves by their chiefs, in the following language : " We are happy in having buried under " ground the red axe, that has so often been dyed with the blood of our brethren. " Now, in this sort, we inter the axe, and plant the tree of peace. We plant a tree " whose top will reach the sun, and its branches spread abroad, so that it shad be " seen afar off. May its growth never be stifled and choaked ; but may it shade both " your country and ours with its leaves ! Let us make fast its roots and extend theiu •' to the utmost of your colonies. If the French should come to shake this tree, we « K-ijuld know it by the motion of its roots reaching into our country. May the Great u Spirit allow us to rest in tranquillity upon our mats, and never again dig up the ax u to cut down the tree of peace ! Let the earth be trod hard over it, where it lies " buried. Let a strong stream run under the pit, to wash the evil away out of our u sight and remembrance. The fire that had Vong burned in Albany is extinguished. " The bloody bed is wasned clean, and the tears are wiped from our eves. We now « renew the covenant chain of friendship. Let it be kept bright and clean as silver, " and not suffered to contract anv rust. Let not any one pull away his arm from it." These passages are extracted from Cadwallader Colden's History of the Five Indian Nations : where it appears, from the authentic documents he produces, that such is their genuine style. 68 QUESTIONS. [LEuT. VI. by tones and gestures, began to be disused. The understanding was more exercised ; the fancy less. Intercourse among mankind becoming more extensive and frequent, clearness of style, in signi- fying their meaning to each other, was the chief object of attention. In place of poets, philosophers became the instructors of men ; and in their reasonings on all ditferent subjects, introduced that plainer and simpler style of composition which we now call prose. Among the Greeks, Pherecydes of Scyros, the master of Pythagoras, is re- corded to have been the first who, in this sense, composed any wri- ting in prose. The ancient metaphorical and poetical dress of lan- guage was now laid aside from the intercourse of men, and reserved for those occasions only, on which ornament was professedly studied. Thus I have pursued the history of language through some of the variations it has undergone : I have considered it, in the first struc- ture and composition of words ; in the manner of uttering or pro- nouncing words ; and in the style and character of speech. I have yet to consider it in another view, respecting the order and arrange- ment of words ; when we shall find a progress to have taken place, similar to what I have been now illustrating:. QUESTIONS. Of the consideration of language, what is remarked ? In what order does our author propose to treat of it ? What does language, in general, signify ? By these sounds what are meant ? What will appear from what is afterwards to be offered ? From what does it ap- pear, that words and ideas may, in general, be considered arbitrary and conventional ? Of which, what is a clear proof? In what state do we now behold this artificial method of com- municating thought? What has lan- guage become ? By what remark is this illustrated ? Of what has language become the instrument ; and how is .his also illustrated ! How long has language been found in this refined Btate ; and what is the consequence ? To have reason for the highest asto- nishment, to what period must we carry our thoughts back ; and on what must we reflect? What do we admire; £.nd on what do we plume ourselves? What remark follows? In what cir- cumstances did mankind live, when language began to be formed ? Of this situation, what is remarked? What would one naturally think ; and why? What i\vo points seem to be attended with equal difficulty ? Upon considerinu what, do difficulties increase upon us: and for what, consequently, does there appear no small reason? If we admit that language had a divine origin, what can we not suppose; why; and what consequence follows ? Of this history, what is observed? If we sup- pose that there was a period, before words were invented or known, what follows; and why? How is this illus- trated? Of those exclamations, there- fore, what is remarked ? When more enlarged communications became ne- cessary, in what manner did men pro ceed in the assignation of names ? What illustrations follow ? Under what circumstances, could he not do other wise ? What would be supposing an effect without a cause; and why? .n this case, what motive would operate most generally'? Where was the imita- tion of words abundantly evident ; and why? Thus, in all languages, what do we find? How is this illustrate ! ' Where does this analogy seem to fail ' Many learned men, however, have been of what opinion ? With regard to moral and intellectual ideas, and also with regard to sensible objects that ad LECT. VI.j QUESTIONS. 68 a mess themselves merely to the sight, what do they remark? How is this il- lustrateu ? Of this system, what is re- marked ? What question was much agitated among the ancient Stoic and Platonic philosophers? Which opinion wd the Platonic school favour ? When, only, can this principle of natural rela- tion be applied? Though in every tongue, some remains of it can be traced, yet what were utterly vain ; and why ? What may words, as we now empby them, be considered ; but of what can there be no doubt; and what remark follows ? From What is a second character of language drawn ? What have been shown to have been the first elements of speech ? How did men labour to communicate their feel- ings to one another ? After words began to be invented, why could not this mode of speaking, by natural signs, be at once disused? What rendered these helps absolutely necessary, for explain- ing their conceptions? How would rude and uncultivated men labour to make themselves understood ; and why? How is this further illustrated? To what would this plan also naturally \ead ? For all those reasons, what may be assumed as a principle ? Though necessity gave rise to this mode of speaking, yet, what must we observe ? Of nations possessing much fire and vivacity, what is observed ; and why? For what does Dr. War- ourton account ; and what illustration is given ? In like manner, what were found to be much used among the northern American tribes; and how were they accustomed to declare their meaning? With regard to inflections of voice, what is observed? With what nation, particularly, is this the practice ? As the number of words in their lan- guage is not great, how do they vary them? What appearance must this give to their speech ; why ; and hence is formed what ? What is remarkable, and deserves attention ? Without having attended to this, in understanding - what, shall we be at a loss? From many cir- cumstances, with regard to the prosody of the Greeks and the Romans, what appears manifest? Of the quantity of their syllables what is observed ? Be- sides quantities, what were plp.ced up- on most of their syllables ; and of their use, what is reraark°G ? How would our modern pronunciation have ap- peared to them? To what did the declamation of their orators approach ; arid of what was it capable ? If this was the case among the Romans, of the Greeks what is well known ? How did Aristotle consider the music of tragedy ? Why was the case parallel with regard to gestures ? How is ac- tion treated of by all the ancien critics ? Of the action of the Greeks and Romans what is remarked ? How would Roscius have seemed to us? From the importance of gesticulation on the ancient stage, what haA-e we reason to believe ? What do we learn from Cicero? Under the reigns of Au- gustus and Tiberius, what became the favourite entertainment of the pub- lic ? To how great an extent was it carried, and what laws consequently became necessary ? What evidence have we that such public; entertain- ments as have been mentioned, could never have been relished by a nation whose tones and gestures were as languid as ours are? What effect was produced by the barbarians, when they spread themselves over the R- -nan em- pire ? As the Latin tongue was lost in their idiom, so what followed? To what was not the same attention paid ? What became more simple and plain ; and without what ? What is said of the genius of language at the restora- tion of letters ? Of our plain manner of speaking in these northern countries, what is remarked ? What is the effect of more varied tones, and more anima- ted motions ? Accordingly, what effect is produced; and how is this illustrated? From the pronunciation of language, to what do we proceed ? What reason have we to believe that the language of the ancients was full of figures and metaphors ? What are we, upon a su- perficial view, apt to imagine ? How does it appear that the contrary of this is the truth ? What is the first reason for this ? What is the second ; hence, what follows ; and why ? What other circumstances, besides necessity, con- tributed to produce this figurative style; and what, consequently, follows? Of the style of the earliest languages, what is observed ? Where have we a striking instance of this ? What exam pie is given ? Repeat it. What is ano- ther remarkable instance ; and how is 65 b RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. VII, this illustrated ? Hence, to what have we been accustomed; and why ? From the American style, what plainly ap- pears ? Concerning what, may we consequently receive some light ? On his subject, what, at present, is it suffi- cient to observe ? When did language .ose this figurative character; and why? As style became more concise, what followed ; and what was its influence on the imagination? As intercourse among mankind became more exten- sive, what was the chief object of atten- tion ? How was prose introduced ? Among the Greeks, who was the first prose writer ; what was now laid aside from the intercourse of men ; and for what occas ons was it resumed ? Thus, how has language been considered ; and what remains to be done ? ANALYSIS. Language. a. Its signification. b. Its present state. c. Its origin. D. The first method of communi- cating thoughts. E. The principle upon which lan- guage was formed. Pronunciation. A. Inflections, B. Gestures. The character ofLanjjuage changed. The style of early Languages. A . The employment of figures. b. These reasonings confirmed c. The origin of Prose. LECTURE VII. RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AND OF WRITING. When we attend to the order in which words are arranged in a sentence, or significant proposition, we find a very remarkable dif- ference between the ancient and the modern tongues. The consi- deration 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 that alteration of which I now speak, let us go back, as we did formerly, to the most early 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 our savage to be unac- quainted with words, he would, in that case, labour to make himself be understood, by pointing earnestly at the object which he desired, ind 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 according to the Latin order, " fruit give me ;" " fructum da mihi ;" ♦or this plain reason, that his attention was wholly directed towards rruit, the desired object. This was the exciting idea ; the objeel which moved him to speak ; and of course would be the first named. Such an arrangement is precisely putting into words the gesture lect. vii.] OF LANGUAGE. 69 which nature taught the savage to make, before he W£j acquainted with words ; and therefore it may be depended upon as certain, that he would fall most readily into this arrangement. Accustomed now to a different method of ordering our words, we call this an inversion, and consider it as a forced and unnatural order of speech. But though not the most logical, it is, however, in one view, the most natural order ; because it is the order sug- gested by imagination and desire, which always impel us to mention their object in the first place. We might therefore conclude, a priori, that this would be the order in which words were most commonly arranged at the beginnings of language; and accordingly we find, in fact ; that, in this order, words are arranged in most of the an- cient tongues ; as in the Greek and the Latin; and it is said also, in the Russian, the Sclavonic, the Gaelic, and several of the Ameri can tongues. In the Latin language, the arrangement which most commonly obtains, is, to place first in the sentence, that word which expresses theprincipal object of the discourse, together with its circumstances; and afterwards, the person or the thing that acts upon it. Thus Sallust, comparing together the mind and the body : " Animi imperio, corporis servitio, magis utimur," which order certainly renders the sentence more lively and striking, than when it is arranged according to our English construction ; "we make most use of the direction of the soul, and of the service of the body." The Latin ordei gratifies more the rapidity of the imagination, which naturally runs first to that which is its chief object ; and having once named it, carries it in view throughout the rest of the sentence. In the same manner in poetry : Justura et tenacem propositi virum, Non civium ardor prava jubentium, Non vultus instantis tyranni, Mente quatit solida Every person of taste must be sensible, that here the words are ar- ranged with a much greater regard to the figure which the several objects make in the fancy, than our English construction admits ; which would require the " Justum et tenacem propositi virum," though undoubtedly the capital object in the sentence, to be thrown into the last place. I have said, that, in the Greek and Roman languages, the most common arrangement is, to place that first which strikes the imagi nation of the speaker most. I do not, however, pretend, that this holds without exception. Sometimes regard to the harmony of the period requires a different order 5 and in languages susceptible of so much musical beauty, and pronounced with so much tone and modu- lation as were used by those nations, the harmony of periods was an object carefully studied. Sometimes, too, attention to the perspi- cuity, to the force, or to the artful suspension of the speaker's mean- ing, alter this order; and produce such varLursin the arrangement, that it is not easy to reduce them to any one principle. But, in general, this was the genius and character of most of tho ancient "0 RISE AND PROGRESS [^ect. vii languages, to give such full liberty to the collocation of words, as allowed them to assume whatever order was most agreeable to the speaker's imagination. The Hebrew is, indeed, an exception ; which, though not altogether without inversions, yet employs them less frequently, and approaches nearer to the English construction, than either the Greek or the Latin. All the modern languages of Europe have adopted a different ar- rangement from the ancient. In their prose compositions, very lit- tle variety is admitted in the collocation of words; they are mostly fixed to one order, and that order is, what may be called, the ordei of the understanding. They place first in the sentence, the person or.thing which speaks or acts ; next, its action; and lastly, the ob- ject of its action. So that the ideas are made to succeed to one an- other, 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 impossiHe for me to pass over in silence, such re- markable mildness, such singular and unheard of clemency, and such unusual moderation in the exercise of supreme power." Here we have first presented to us, the person who speaks : " It is im- possible for me f 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 I have translated these words, 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 inusitatam inauditamque " clementiam, tantumque in summa potestate rerum omnium modum, "tacitus nullo modo prseterire possum." (Orat. pro. Marcell.) The Latin order is more animated ; the English more clear and distinct. The Romans generally arranged their words according to the order in which the ideas rose in the speaker's imagination. — We arrange them according to the order in which the understanding directs those ideas to be exhibited, in succession, to the view of an- other. Our arrangement, therefore, appears to be the consequence of greater refinement in the art of speech ; as far as clearness in communication is understood to be the end of speech. In poetry, where we are supposed to rise above the ordinary style, and to speak the language of fancy and passion, our arrangement is not altogether so limited; but some greater liberty is allowed for transposition and inversion. Even there, however, that liberty is confined within narrow bounds, in comparison of the ancient lan- guages. The different modern tongues vary from one another in this respect. The French language is, of them all, the most determin- ate in the order of its words, and admits the least of inversion, either in prose or poetry. The English admits it more. But the Italian retains the most of the ancient transpositive character; though one is apt to think it attended with a little obscurity in the style of some of their authors, who deal most in these transpositions. lect. m.] OF LANGUAGE. 71 It is proper next to observe, that there is one circumstance in the structure of all the modern tongues, which, of necessity, limits their arrangement, in a great measure, to one fixed and determinate train. We have disused those differences of termination, which in the Greek and Latin, distinguished the several cases of nouns, and tenses of verbs ; and which, thereby, pointed out the mutual rela- tion of the several words in a sentence to one another, though the related words were disjoined, and placed in different parts of the sentence. This is an alteration in the structure of language, of which I shall have occasion to say more in the next lecture. One obvious effect of it is, that we have now, for the most part, no way left Us to show the close relation of any two words to each other in mean- ing, but bj placing them close to one another in the period. For instance ; tne Romans could, with propriety, express themselves thus • Extinctum nymphae crudeli funere Daphnim Flebant Because " extinctum & Daphnim" being both in the accusative case, this showed, that the adjective and the substantive were related to each other, though placed at the two extremities of the line ; and that both were governed by the active verb "flebant," to which *' nymphae" plainly appeared to be the nominative. The different terminations here reduced all into order, make the connexion of the several words perfectly clear. But let us translate these words literally into English, according to the Latin arrangement; " dead the nymphs by a cruel fate Daphnis lamented ;" and they become a perfect riddle, in which it is impossible to find any meaning. It was by means of this contrivance, which obtained in almost all thv ancient languages of varying the termination of nouns and verbs, ana thereby pointing out the concordance and the government of the words in a sentence, that they enjoyed so much liberty of trans- position, and could marshal and arrange their words in any way that gratified the imagination, or pleased the ear. When language came to be modelled by the northern nations, who overran the empire, they dropped the cases of nouns, and the different terminations uf verbs, with the more ease, because they placed no great value upon the advantages arising from such a structure of language. They were attentive only to clearness, and copiousness of expression. — They neither regarded much the harmony of sound, nor sought to gratify the imagination by the collocation of words. They studied solely to express themselves in such a manner asshould exhibit their ideas to others in the mostdistinctand intelligible order. And hence, if our language, by reason of the simple arrangement, of its words, possesses less harmony, less beauty, and less force, than the Greek or Latin ; it is, however, in its meaning, more obvious and plain. Thus I have shown what the natural progress of language has been, in several material articles : and this account of the genius and progress of language, lays a foundation for many observations. both curious and useful. From what has been said in this, and the L 72 RISE AND PROGRESS [lect. vii • preceding lecture, it appears that language was at first barren in words, but descriptive by the sound of these words ; and expressive in the manner of uttering them, by the aid of significant tones and gestures : style was figurative and poetical ; arrangement was fanci- ful and lively. It appeal's, thai, in all the successive changes which language has undergone, as the world advanced, the understanding has gained ground on the fancy and imagination. The progress of language, in this respect, resembles the progress of age in man. — The imagination is most vigorous and predominant in youth; with advancing years, the imagination cools, and the understanding nper.s. Thus language, proceeding from sterility to copiousness, hath, at the same time, proceeded from vivacity to accuracy ; from fire and enthusiasm, to coolness and precision. Those characters of early language, descriptive sound, vehement tones and gestures, figurative style, and inverted arrangement, all hang together, have a mutual influence on each other, and have all gradually given place to arbi- trary sounds, calm pronunciation, simple style, plain arrangement. Language is become, in modern times, more correct, indeed, and accurate ; but, however, less striking and animated : in its ancient state, more favourable to poetry and oratory ; in its present, to reason and philosophy. Having finished my account of the progress of speech, I proceed to give an account of the progress of writing, which next demands our notice ; though it will not require so full a discussion as the for- mer subject. s Next to speech, writing is beyond doubt, the most useful art which men possess. It is plainly an improvement upon speech, and therefore must have been posterior to it in order of time. At first, men thought of nothing more than communicating their thoughts to one another, when present, by means of words, or sounds, which they uttered. Afterwards, they devised this further method, of mu- tual communication with one another, when absent, by means ol marks or characters presented to the eye, which we call writing. Written characters are of two sorts. They are either signs for things, or signs for words. Of the former sort, signs of things, are I he 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. These two kinds ol writing are generically and essentially distinct Pictures were, undoubtedly, the first essay towards writing. Imi- tation 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 discovered, this was the only sort of writing known in the kingdom of Mexico. By his- lect. vii.] , OF WRITING. 73 torical pictures, the Mexicans are said to have transmitted me me- mory of the most important transactions of their empire. These, however, must have been extremely imperfect records ; and the nations who had no other, must have been very gross and rude. — Pictures could do no more than delineate external events. They could neither exhibit the connexions of them, nor describe such qualities as were not visible to the eye, nor convey any idea of the dispositions or words of men. To supply, in some degree, this defect, there arose, in process of time, the invention of what are called hieroglyphical characters which may be considered as the second stage of the art of writing Hieroglyphics consist in certain symbols, which are made to stand for invisible' objects, on account of an analogy or resemblance which such symbols were supposed to bear to the objects. Thus, an eye, was the hieroglyphical symbol of knowledge ; a circle, of eternity, which has neither beginning nor end. Hieroglyphics, therefore, were a more refined and extensive species of painting. Pictures delineated the resemblance of external visible objects. Hiero- glyphics painted invisible objects, by analogies taken from the ex- ternal world. Among the Mexicans, were found some traces of hieroglyphical characters, intermixed with their historical pictures. But Egypt was the country where this sort of writing was most studied, and brought into a regular art. In hieroglyphics w; . conveyed all the boasted wisdom of their priests. According to the properties which they ascribe to animals, or the qualities with which they supposed natural objects to be endowed, they pitched upon them to be the emblems, or hieroglyphics, of moral objects ; and employed them in their writing for that end. Thus, ingratitude was denominated by a viper; imprudence, by a fly ; wisdom, by an ant; victory, by a hawk; a dutiful child, by a stork; a man universally shunned, by an eel, which they supposed to be found in company with no other fish. Sometimes they joined together two or more of these hiero- glyphical characters; as, a serpent with a hawk's head, to denote nature, with God presiding over it. But, as many of those pro- perties of objects which they assumed for the foundation of their hieroglyphics, were merely imaginary, and the allusions drawn from them were forced and ambiguous; as the conjunction of their charac- ters rendered them still more obscure, and must have expressed very indistinctly the connexions and relations of things; this sort of wri- ting could be no other than enigmatical, and confused in the highest degree; and must have been a very imperfect vehicle of knowledge of any kind. It has been imagined, that hieroglyphics were an invention of the Egyptian priests, for concealing their learning from common view ; and that, upon this account, it was preferred by them to the alpha- betical method of writing. But this is certainly a mistake. Hie- roglyphics were, undoubtedly, employed at first from necessit}^ not from choice or refinement; and would never have been thought ot, 10 74 RISE AND PROGRESS [lect. to. if alphabe tical characters had been known. The nature of the in- vention plainly shows it to have been one of those gross and rude essays towards writing, which were adopted in the early ages of the world, in order to extend farther the first method which they had employed of simple pictures, or representations of visible objects. Indeed, in after times, when alphabetical writing was introduced into Egypt, and the hieroglyphical was, of course, fallen into disuse, it is known, that the priests still employed the hieroglyphical charac- ters, as a sacred kind of writing, now become peculiar to themselves, and serving to give an air of mystery to their learning and religion. In this state, the Greeks found hieroglyphical writing, when they began to have intercourse with Egypt; and some of their writers mistook this use, to which they found it applied, for the cause that had given rise to the invention. As writing advanced, from pictures of visible objects, to hiero- glyphics, or symbols of things invisible ; from these latter, it advanc- ed, among some nations, to simple arbitrary marks which stood fo^ objects, though without any resemblance or analogy to the objects signified. Of this nature was the method of writing practised among the Peruvians. They made use of small cords, of different colours ; and by knots upon these, of various sizes, and differently ranged, they contrived signs for giving information, and communicating their thoughts to one another. Of this nature also, are the written characters, which are used to this day throughout the great empire of China. The Chinese have no 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. By consequence, the number of these characters must be immense. It must correspond to the whole number of objects, or ideas, which they have occasion to express ; that is, to the whole number of words which they employ in speech; nay,- it must be greater than the number of words ; one word, by varying the tone with which it is spoken, may be made to signify several different things. They are said to have seventy thousand of those written characters. To read and write them to perfection, is the study of a whole life ; which subjects learning, among them, to infinite disadvantage; and must have greatly retarded the progress of all science. Concerning the origin of these Chinese characters, there have been different opinions, and much controversy. According to the most probable accounts, the Chinese writing began, like the Egyp- tian, with pictures and hieroglyphical figures. These figures being, in progress, abbreviated in their form, for the sake of writing them easily, and greatly enlarged in their number, passed, at length, into those marks or characters which they now use, and which have spread themselves through several "nations of the east. For we are informed, that the Japanese, tne Tonquinese, and the Coroeans, who speak different languages from one another, and from the in- habitants of China, use, however, the same written characters with them; and, by this means,correspond intelligibly with each other in lect. vii.] OF WRITING. 75 writing, though ignorant of the language spoken in their several countries; a plain proof, that the Chinese characters are, like hie roglyphics, independent of language: are signs of things, not of words. We have one instance of this sort of writing in Europe. Our cyphers, as they are called, or arithmetical figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, &c. which we have derived from the Arabians; are significant marks, precisely of the same nature with the Chinese characters. Thej have no dependence on words ; but each figure denotes an object, denotes the number for which it stands; and, accordingly, on be- ing presented to the eye, is equally understood by all the nations who have agreed in the use of these cyphers; by Italians, Spaniards, French, and English, however different the languages of those na- tions are from one another, and whatever different names they give, in their respective languages, to each numerical cypher. As far, then, as we have yet advanced, nothing has appeared which resembles our letters, or which can be called writing, in the sense we now give to that term. What we have hitherto seen, were all direct signs for things, and made no use of the medium of sound, or words; either signs by representation, as the Mexican pictures; or signs by analogy, as the Egyptian hieroglyphics; or signs by in- stitution, as the Peruvian knots, the Chinese characters, and the Arabian cyphers. At length, in different nations, men became sensible of the im- perfection, the ambiguity, and the tediousness of each of these methods of communication with one another. They began to con- sider, that by employing signs which would stand not directly for things, but for the words which they used in speech for naming these things, a considerable advantage would be gained. For they re- flected farther, that though the number of words in every language be, indeed, very great, yet the number of articulate sounds, which are used in composing these words, is comparatively small. The same simple sounds are continually recurring and repeated; and are combined together, in various ways, for forming all the variety of words which we utter. They bethought themsel ves, therefore, of inventing signs, not for each word by itself, but for each of those simple sounds which we employ in forming our words; and, by joining together a few of those signs, they saw that it would be practicable to express, in writing, the whole combinations of sounds which our words require. The first step, in this new progress, was the invention of an al- phabet of syllables, which probably preceded the invention of an al- phabet 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 language, 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 7b RISE AND PROGRESS [lect. vit their m&st simple elements, reduced them to a very few vowels and consonants; and, by affixing to each of these, the signs which we now call letters, taught men how, by their combinations, to put in writing all the different words, or combinations of sound, which they em- ployed in speech. By being reduced to this simplicity, the art of writing was brought to its highest state of perfection; and in this frtate, we now enjoy it in all the countries of Europe. To whom we are indebted for this sublime and refined discovery, does not appear. Concealed by the darkness of remote antiquity, the great inventer is deprived of those honours which would still be paid to his memory, by all the lovers of knowledge and learning. It appears from the books which Moses has written, that among the Jews, and probably among the Egyptians, letters had been invented prior to his age. The universal tradition among the ancients is, that they were first imported into Greece oy Cadmus the Phoenician ; who, according to the common system of chronology, was cotempo- rary with Joshua; according to sir Isaac Newton's system, cotempo- rary with king David. As the Phoenicians are not known to have been the inventers of any art or science, though, by means of their ex- tensive commerce, they propagated the discoveries made by other nations, the most probable and natural account of the origin of al- phabetical characters is, that they took rise in Egypt, the first civi- lized kingdom of which we have any authentic accounts, and the great source of arts and polity among the ancients. In that country, the favourite study of hieroglyphical characters, had directed much attention to the art of writing. Their hieroglyphics are known to have been intermixed with abbreviated symbols, and arbitrary marks; whence, at last, they caught the idea of contriving marks, notfor things merely, butfor sounds. Accordingly Plato (in Phsedo) expressly attributes the invention of letters to Theuth, the Egyptian, who is supposed to have been the Hermes, or Mercury, of the Greeks. Cadmus himself, though he passed from Phoenicia to Greece, yet is affirmed, by several of the ancients, to have been ori- ginally of Thebes in Egypt. Most probably, Moses carried with him the Egyptian letters into the land of Canaan ; and there |being adopted by the Phoenicians, who inhabited part of that country, they were transmitted into Greece. The alphabet which Cadmus brought into Greece was imperfect, and is said to hove contained only sixteen letters. The rest were after- wards added, according as signs for proper sounds were found to be wanting. It is curious to observe, that the letters which we use at this day, can be traced back to this ver alphabet of Cadmus. The Roman alphabet, which obtains with us, and with most of the Eu- ropean nations, is plainly formed on the Greek, with a few variations. And all learned men observe, that the Greek characters, especially according to the manner in which they are formed in the oldest in- scriptions, have a remarkable conformity with the Hebrew or Sama- ritan characters, which, it is agreed, are the same with the Phoenician, crthe alphabet of Cadmus. Invert the Greek characters from left to right, according to the Phoenician and Hebrew manner of wr: usci. vir.] OF WRITING. T ting, and they are nearly the same. Besides the conformity of figuie, the names or denominations of the letters, alpha, beta, gamma, &c. and the order in which the letters are arranged, in all the several alphabets, Phoenician, Hebrew, Greek, and Roman, agree so much as amounts to a demonstration, that they were all derived originally from the same source. An invention so useful and simple was gree- dily received by mankind, and propagated with speed and facility through many different nations. The letters were originally written from the right hand towards the left ; that is, in a contrary order to what we now practise. This manner of writing obtained among the Assyrians, Phoenicians, Ara- bians, 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, which was called Bovstro- phedon ; or, writing after the manner in which oxen plough tfea ground. Of this, several specimens still remain ; particularly, the inscription on the famous Sigean monument; and down to the days of Solon, the legislator of Athens, this continued to be the com- mon method of writing. At length, the motion from the left hand to the right being found more natural and commodious, the practice of writing, in tnis direction, prevailed throughout all the countries of Europe. Writing was long a kind ot engraving. Pillars, and tables of stone, were first employed for this purpose, and afterwards plates oi the softer metals, such as lead. In proportion as writing becamt more common, lighter and more portable substances were employ- ed. 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. In later times, the hides of animals, properly prepared and polished into parchment, were the most common materials. Our present method of writing on paper, is an invention of no greater antiquity than the fourteenth century. Thus I have given some account o- the progress of these two great arts, speech and writing; by which men's thoughts are com- municated, and the foundation laid for all knowledge and improve- ment. Let us conclude the subject, with comparing in a few words, spoken language, and written language ; or words uttered in oui hearing, with words represented to the eye ; where we shall find several advantages and disadvantages to be balanced on both sides. The advantages of writing above speech are, that writing is both the more extensive, and a more permanent method of communication. More extensive, as it is not confined within the narrow circle of those who hear our words, but, by means of written characters, we can send our thoughts abroad, and propagate them through the world ; we can lift our voice, so as to speak to the most distant regions of the earth. More permanent also ; as it prolongs this voice to the most distant ages; it gives us the means of recording our senti- ments to futurity, and of perpetuating the instructive memory of 78 RISE AND PROGRESS, &c. [lect. v. past transactions. It likewise affords this advantage to such as read, above such as hear, that, having the written characters before thei: eyes, they can arrest the sense of the writer. They can pause, and revolve, and compare, at their leisure, one passage with another : whereas, the voice is fugitive and passing ; you must catch the words the moment they are uttered, or you lose them for ever. But, although these be so great advantages of written language, that speech, without writing, would have been very inadequate for the instruction of mankind ; yet we must not forget to observe, that spoken language has a great superiority over written language, in point of energy or force. The voice of the living speaker, makes an impression on the mind, much stronger than can be made by the perusal of any writing. The tones of voice, the looks and gesture, which accompany discourse, and which no writing can convey, ren- der discourse, when it is well managed, infinitely more clear, and more expressive, than the most accurate writing. For tones, looks, and gestures, are natural interpreters of the sentiments of the mind. They remove ambiguities ; they enforce impressions ; they operate on us by means of sympathy, which is one of the most powerful in- struments of persuasion. Our sympathy is always awakened more,, by hearing the speaker, than by reading his works in our closet. Hence, though writing may answer the purposes of mere instruction, yet all the great and high efforts of eloquence must be made by means of spoken, not of written language. QUESTIONS. In attending to the order in which words are arranged in a sentence, what do we find ? What advantage will a consideration of this difference afford ? Th it we may conceive clearly the na- ture of this difference, what is neces- say? What must we figure to cur- s'.- /es ? Unacquainted with words, how w 'aid he proceed ? Having acquired w ds, what one would he first utter ? 1 v would he express himself, and for v Lat reason? Of such an arrangement, what is remarked ? What do we now call this order ; why ; and how do Ave consider it? Though not the most logical, yet why is it the most natural order ? What might we therefore conclude ; and accordingly, what do we find ? What arrangement, in the Latin lan- guage, most commonly obtains, and what example is given? What does the Latin order gratify? In the exam- ple here given, of what must every person of taste be sensible ? In the Creek and Roman languages, what is the most common arrangement ? What, sometimes, requires a different order ; and what remark follows ? Sometimes. what was the genius and character of most of the ancient languages ? What one is an exception ; and what is said of it ? Of the prose compositions of mo- dern languages, what is remarked , and what may that order be railed 1 How do they dispose of the parts of their sentences; and what follows? By what example is this remark illus- trated? Here, what have we present- ed to us? What order would Cicero have used ? How do these two orders compare with each other? How did the Romans generally arrange their words ? How do we arrange them ? Of what does our arrangement appear to be the consequence ; and how far ? Of our arrangement in poetry, what is ob- served ? In what order do different modern tongues vary in this respect ? What is it proper next *.o observe? What is that circumstance ? What is one obvious effect of this? What illus- tration of this remark is given ? By means of this contrivance, what did the ancients enjoy ? When were these cases of nouns and terminations of verbs dropped ; and why ? To what tuo. what alters this order ; and what only were they attentive? What did effect would it produce? In general,' they not much regard; what solely LECT. VII.] QUESTIONS. 78 study ; and hence what follows ? Thus, what has been shown ; and for what does it lay a foundation ? From what has been said in this, and the preceding lecture, what appears evident 1 In the successive changes which language has undergone, what, also, is evident ? In this respect, what does the progress of language resemble ? How is this illustra- ted ? What were the characteristics of early language, and to what have they all gradually given place? How do the modern and ancient characters of language compare ? In its ancient state, to what was it most favourable ; and to what is it most favourable in its modern? Having finished his ac- count of the progress of speech, to what does our author next proceed ; and what does he say of it ? Next to speech, what is the most useful art that men possess ? As it is plainly an improve- ment upon speech, what necessarily follows ? Of what only did men at first think ; and what did they afterwards devise ? Of what two sorts are written characters? What are examples of the former; and of the latter? What were, doubtless, the first essay towards writing; and why? For what purposes would those methods soon be employ- ed 1 How is this illustrated ? Where do we find this method to have prevailed ; and at what time ? ' The memory of what did the Mexicans transmit by his- torical pictures ? Of these records, and of the nations who had no other, what is remarked? What only could pic- tures delineate ; and what could they not do ? To supply, in some degree, this defect, what, in process of time, arose ; and how may they be consider- ed ? In what do hieroglyphics consist ? What examples are given ? What ad- vantage had hieroglyphics over pic- tures? What did pictures delineate? What did hieroglyphics paint ; and how ? Among the Mexicans, what were found ? Where was this kind of writing most studied, and brought to a regular art? In hieroglyphics, what was conveyed ? By what were they governed in forming them ? How is this remark illustrated ? What did they sometimes join together ; and what ex- ample is given 7 Why was this sort of writing enigmatical and confused, and a very imperfect vehicle of know- ledge of any kind ? Who, has it been imagined, invented M hieroglyphics ; and for what purpose ? How does it appear that this is certain- ly a misiake ? What does the nature of the invention plainly show it to have been? After alphabetical writing was introduced into Egypt, for what pur pose did the priests still employ hiero- glyphical characters ? Who found hic- roglyphical writing in this state ; and what was the consequence? As wri- ting advanced from pictures to hiero- glyphics, from these latter to what did it advance ? Where was this kind of wri- ting practised ? What method did they contrive to give information, or com- municate their thoughts to one an- other ? Where are these characters at present used ? As the Chinese have no alphabet of letters, howare their words composed ; and what is the conse- quence ? To what must the number ol these characters correspond ? How many of them are they said to have ? What time does it require to learn to read and to write them correctly ; and to what does this subject learning ? In what manner, is it probable, the Chi- nese proceeded in forming these cha- racters ? What reason have we for be- lieving this to have been the case ? What instance of this sort of writing have we in Europe ; and whence did we derive it ? Of these figures, what is observed; and accordingly, what fol lows? As far as we have advanced, what has not appeared ? Of what we have hitherto seen, what is observed ; and what examples are given ? Of what did men at length become sensi- ble? How did they begin to consider that much advantage would be gain- ed? On what did they reflect ? Of the same simple sounds, what is remarked ? Of what did they therefore bethinl* themselves ? In this new progress, what was the first step ; hnd what is said of it ? How was the number of characters in writing reduced to a much smaller compass than the num- ber of words in the language? Still, of the number of characters, what is ol»- served? At length, by some happy genius, what was effected ? By being reduced to this simplicity, to what was the art of writing brought ? Of the au- thor of this sublime discovery, what is observed ? What appears, from the books of Moses? What is the tradition among the ancients ; and with whom was he contemporary ? Of the Phuuii 78 6 QUESTIONS. [lect. VII. eians, what is said ; and what infer- ence follows? In that country, to what had the favourite study of hiero- glyphics directed much attention ; and oi mem, what is known ? Accordingly, to whom does Plato attribute the in- vention of letters ? Of what nation was Cadmus, originally ? How, is it proba- ble, these characters were introduced to the Phoenicians ? How many letters did the alphabet of Cadmus contain ; and how were the rest added ? What is it curious to observe ? Of the Roman alphabet, what is said; and of the Greek, what do all the learned observe ? How will the Greek and Hebrew cha- racters appear nearly the same ? What amounts to a demonstration that they were all originally derived from the same source ; and how was this inven- tion received ? How were the letters originally written ; and where did this method obtain'? What method was adopted by the Greeks ? Of this me- thod, what specimens remain ; and how long did it continue ? At length, what method prevailed; and why? What were at first employed for purposes of writing; and what several improve- ments succeeded? When was paper invented ? Thus, an account of what has been given ; and with what is the subject concluded? What advantages have writing above speech ? Why is it more extensive; and why more per- manent? What advantage does it likewise afford ; and why? But. al- though these are the advantages of written language, yet whatmusl we not forget ? Repeat the succeeding remarks, on the advantages of spoken language. Hence, what follows ? ANALYSIS. 1. Arrangement. A. The origin of arrangement. B. Arrangement of the Greek and Latin languages. c. Arrangement of modern lan- guages. a. Necessarily limited. 2. Writing. Division of written characters. A. Signs of things. a. Pictures. b. Hieroglyphical characters. c. Arbitrary marks. B. Signs for words. a. The alphabet of syllables. b. Alphabetical characters. 3. Comparative advantages of speech and writing. LECTURE VIII. STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. After having given an account of the rise and progress of Ian guage, I proceed to treat of its structure, or of general grammar. The structure of language is extremely artificial ; and there are few sciences in which a deeper, or more refined logic is employed, than in grammar. It is apt to be slighted by superficial thinkers as be longing 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, would abundantly repay our study in maturer years ; and to the ignorance of it, must be attribu- ted many of those fundamental defects which appear in writing. Few authors have written with philosophical accuracy on the principles of general grammar ; and what is more to be regretted, fewer still have thought of applying those principles to the English language. While the French tongue has long been an object of attention to many able and ingenious writers of that nation, who have considered its construction, and determined its propriety with great accuracy, the genius and grammar of the English, to the re- proach of the country, have not been studied with equal care, oi lect. vni.J STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 79 ascertained with the same precision. Attempts have been made, indeed, of late, towards supplying this defect ; and some able wri- ters have entered on the subject ; but much remains yet to be done. I do not propose to give any system, either of grammar in gene- ral, or of English grammar in particular. A minute discussion ot the niceties of language would carry us too much off from other ob- jects, which demand our attention in the course of lectures. But I propose to give a general view of the chief principles relating to this subject, in observations on the several parts of which speech or language is composed ; remarking, as I go along, the peculiarities of our own tongue. After which, I shall make some more particu- lar remarks on the genius of the English language. The first thing to be considered is, the division of the several parts of speech. The essential parts of speech are the same in all langua- ges. There must always be some words which denote the names of objects, or mark the subject of discourse ; other words, which de- note the qualities of those objects, and express what we affirm con- cerning them; and other words, which point out their connexions and relations. Hence, substantives, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, prepositions, and conjunctions, must necessarily be found in all lan- guages. The most simple and comprehensive division of the parts of speech is, into substantives, attributives, and connectives.* Sub- stantives are all the words which express the names of objects, or the subjects of discourse ; attributives, are all the words which ex- press any attribute, property, or action of the former ; connectives, are what express the connexions, relations, and dependencies, which take place among them. The common grammatical division of speech into eight parts ; nouns, pronouns, verbs, participles, ad- verbs, prepositions, interjections, and conjunctions, is not very lo- gical, as might be easily shown ; as it comprehends, under the ge- neral term of nouns, both substantives and adjectives, which are parts of speech generically and essentially distinct ; while it makes a separate part of speech of participles, which are no other than verbal adjectives. However, as these are the terms to which our ears have been most familiarized, and, as an exact logical division is of no great consequence to our present purpose, it will be bettei to make use of these known terms than of any other. We are naturally led to begin with the consideration of substan tive nouns, which are the foundation of all grammar, and may be considered as the most ancient part of speech. For, assuredly, as goon as men had got beyond simple interjections, or exclamations of * Quintilian informs us, that this was the most ancient division. " Turn videbit quot u et quae sunt partes orationis. Quanquam de numero parum convenit. Veteres " enim, quorum fuerant Aristoteles atque Theodictes, verba modo, et nomina, et con- " vinctiones tradiderunt. Videlicet, quod in verbis vim sermonis, in nominibus mate '• riam, (quia alteram est quod loquimur, alteram de quo loquiraur) in convinctionibus " autem complexum eorum esse judicarant ; quas conjunctiones a plerisque dici scio , " sed hffic videtur ex s-uvrfW^* magis propria translatio. Paulatim a philosophicis ae '' maxime a stoicis, auctus est numeras ; ac primiim convinctionibus articuli adjecti ; ♦post prsposif iones ; nominibus, appellatio, deinde pionomen ; deinde mistum verba • pariicipium ; ipsis verbis, adverbia." Lib. i. cap. iv. 80 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, [lect. viij. passion; and began to communicate themselves by discourse, they would be under a necessity of assigning names to the objects they saw around them, which, in grammatical language, is called the in- vention of substantive nouns.* And here, at our first setting out, somewhat curious occurs. The individual objects which surround us, are infinite in number. A savage, wherever he looked, beheld forests and trees. To give separate names to every 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 distinguished from this by peculiar qualities of size or appearance, yet that they also agreed and resembled one another, in certain common quali- ties, such as springing from a root, and bearing branches and leaves, he formed in his mind some general idea of those common quali- ties, and ranging all that possessed them under one class of objects, he called that whole class, a tree. Longer experience taught him to subdivide this genus into the several species of oak, pine, ash, and the rest, according as his observation extended to the several quali- ties in which these trees agreed or differed. But, still, he made use only of general terms in speech. For the oak, the pine, and the ash, were names of whole classes of objects ; each of which included an immense number of undistinguished in- dividuals. Here then it appears, that though the formation of ab- stract, or general conceptions, is supposed to be a difficult opera- tion of the mind ; such conceptions must have entered into the very first formation of language. For, if we except only the proper names of persons, such as Caesar, John, Peter, all the other sub- stantive nouns which we employ in discourse, are the names, not * I do not mean to assert, that among- all nations, the first invented words were sim- ple and regular substantive nouns. Nothing is more difficult than to ascertain the pre- cise steps in which men proceeded in the formation of language. Names for objects must, doubtless, have arisen in the most early stages of speech. But, it is probable, as the learned author of the Treatise on the Origin and Progress of Language, has shown, (vol. i. p. 371, 395,) that, among several savage tribes, someof the first articulate sounds that were formed, denoted a whole sentence, rather than the name of a particular ob- ject ; conveying some information, or expressing some desires or fears suited to the circumstances in which that tribe was placed, or relating to the business they had mos frequent occasion to carry on ; as, the lion is coming, the river is swelling, &.c. Many of their first words, it is likewise probable, were not simple substantive nouns, but sub- stantives, accompanied with some of those attributes, in conjunction with which they were most frequently accustomed to behold them ; as, the great bear, the little hut. the wound made by the hatchet, &.c. Of all which, the author pioduces instances from se- veral of the American languages ; and it is, undoubtedly, suitable to the natural coui se of the operations of the human mind, thus to begin with particulars the most obvious to sense, and to proceed, from these, to more general expressions. He likewise observes, that the words of those primitive tongues are far from being, as we might suppose them, rude and short, and crowded with consonants ; but, on the contrary, are, for the most -art, long words, and full of vowels. This is the consequence of their being formed upon the natural so'inds which the voice utters with most ease, a little varied and distinguished by art'culation : and he shows this to hold, in fact, among most of the barbarous languages which aj » known. lect. viii.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 81 of individual objects, but of very extensive genera, or species of objects; as man, lion, house, river, &c. We are not, however, to imagine that this invention of general, or abstract terms, requires tny great exertion of metaphysical capacity : for, by whatever eteps the mind proceeds in it, it is certain that, when men have once ob- served resemblances among objects, they are naturally inclined to call all those which resemble one another, by one common name ; and, of course, to class them under one species. We may daily observe this practised by children in their first attempts towards ac- quiring language. But now, after language had proceeded as far as I have described, the notification which it made of objects was still very imperfect: for, when one mentioned to another in discourse, any substantive noun, such as, man, lion, or tree, how was it to be known which man, which lion, or which tree, he meant, among the many com- prehended under one name ? Here occurs a very curious, and a very useful contrivance for specifying the individual object intended, by means of that part of speech called the article. The force of the article consists in pointing or singling out from the common mass, the individual of which we mean to speak. In English we have two articles, a and the ; a is more general and un- limited ; the more definite and special. */2 is much the same with one, and marks only any one individual of a species; that individual being either unknown or left undetermined ; as, a lion, a king.- — The, which possesses more properly the force of the article, ascer- tains some known or determined individual of the species; as, the lion, the king. Articles are words of great use in speech. In some languages, however, they are not found. The Greeks have but one article, 6 7] to, which answers to our definite, or proper article, the. They have no word which answers to our article a, but they supply its place by the absence of their article : Thus, BatfiXsu? signifies a king ; 6 BatfiXsus, the king. The Latins have no article. In the room of it, they employ pronouns; as, hie, ille, iste, for pointing out the objects which they want to distinguish. "Noster sermo," says Quintilian, " articulos non desiderat,' ideoque in alias partes ora- " tionis sparguntur." This, however, appears to me a defect in the Latin tongue: as articles contribute much to the clearness and pre- cision of language. In order to illustrate this, remark what difference there is in the meaning of the following expressions in English, 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 I need not explain, because any one who understands the language, conceives it clearly at first hearing, through the different application of the articles a and the. Whereas, in Latin, "filius regis," is wholly undetermined; and to explain, in which of these three senses it is to be understood, for it may bear any of them, a circumlocution of several words 11 82 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, [lect. viii must be used. In the same manner, " are you a king ?" " are you " the king?" are questions of quite separate import; which, how- ever, are confounded together in the Latin phrase, "esne tu rex?" " thou art a man," is a very general and harmless position ; but, " thou art the man," is an assertion capable, we know, of striking terror and remorse into the heart. These observations illustrate the force and importance of articles: and at the same time, I gladly lay hold of any opportunity of showing the advantages of our own language. Besides this quality of being particularized by the article, three affections belong to substantive nouns, number, gender, and case, which require our consideration. Number distinguishes them as one, or many, of the same kind, called the singular and plural ; a distinction found in all languages, and which must, indeed, have been coeval with the very infancy of language; as there were few things which men had more frequent occasion to express, than the difference between one and many. For the greater facility of expressing it, it has, in all languages, been marked by some variation made upon the substantive noun ; as we see, in English, our plural is commonly formed by the addi- tion of the letter S. In the Hebrew, Greek, and some other an- cient languages, we find not only a plural, but a dual number; the rise of which may very naturally be accounted for, from separate terms of numbering not being yet invented, and one, two, and many, being all, or at least, the chief numeral distinctions which men, at first, had any occasion to take notice of. Gender, is an affection of substantive nouns, which will lead us into more discussion than number. Gender, being founded on the distinction of the two sexes, it is plain, that in a proper sense, it can only find place in the names of living creatures, which admit the distinction of male and female; and, therefore, can be ranged under the masculine or feminine genders. All other substantive nouns ought to belong to what grammarians call, the neuter gender, which is meant to imply the negation of either sex. But, with respect to this distribution, somewhat singular hath obtained in the structure of language. For, in correspondence to that distinction of male and female sex, which runs through all the classes of ani- mals, men have, in most languages, ranked a great number of in- animate objects also, under the like distinctions of masculine and feminine. Thus we find it, both in the Greek and Latin tongues. Gladius, a sword, for instance, is masculine ; sagitta, an arrow, is feminine ; and this assignation of sex to inanimate objects, this distinction of them into masculine and feminine, 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 ina- nimate objects are not distributed into masculine and feminine ; but, many of them are also classed, where ail of them ought to have been, under the neuter gender; as,templum,a. church; sedile, a seat But the "renins of the French and Italian tongues differs, in this lect. vin.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 83 respect, from the Greek and Latin. In the French and Italian, from whatever cause it has happened, so it is, that the neuter gen- der is wholly unknown, and that all their names of inanimate ob- jects are put upon the same footing with living creatures ; and dis- tributed, without exception, into masculine and feminine. The French have two articles, the masculine le, and the feminine la ; and one or other of these is prefixed to all substantive nouns in the language, to denote their gender. The Italians make the Same universal use of their articles il and lo, for the masculine ; and la for the feminine. In the English language, it is remarkable that there obtains a pe- culiarity 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. The Eng- lish is, perhaps, the only language in the known world (except the Chinese, which is said to agree with it in this particular) where the distinction of gender is properly and philosophically applied in the use of words, and confined as it ought to be, to mark the real dis- tinctions of male and female. Hence arises a very great and signal advantage of the English tongue, which it is of consequence to remark.* Though in com- mon discourse, as I have already observed, 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 discourse, 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; if I am speaking of virtue, in the course of ordi- nary conversation, or of strict reasoning, I refer the word to no sex or gender; I say, "virtue is its own reward;" or, "it is the law of " our nature." But if I choose to rise into a higher tone ; if I seek to embellish and animate my discourse, I give a sex to virtue ; I say, "she descends from heaven;" "she alone confers true honour " upon man ;" " her gifts are the only durable rewards." By this means we have it in our power to vary our style at pleasure. By making a very slight alteration, we can personify any object that we choose to introduce with dignity ; and by this change of man- ner, we give warning that we are passing from the strict and logical, to the ornamented and rhetorical style. This is an advantage which not only every poet, but every good writer and speaker in prose, is, on many occasions, glad to lay hold of, and improve; and it is an advantage peculiar to our tongue; no other language possesses it. For, in other languages, every word has one fixed gender, masculine, feminine, or neuter, which can, * The following observations on *he metaphorical use of genders, in the English lan- guage, are taken from Mr. Harris s Hernces. 84 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [lect. viii upon no occasion, be changed; ageri), for instance, in Greek, virtus in Latin, and la vertu in French, are uniformly feminine. She, must always be the pronoun answering to the word, whether you be writing in poetry or in prose, whether you be using the style ol reasoning, or that of declamation : whereas, in English, we can ei- tber express ourselves with the philosophical accuracy of giving no gender to things inanimate ; or by giving them gender, and trans- forming them into persons, we adapt them to the style of poetry, and, when it is proper, we enliven prose. It deserves to be farther remarked on this subject, that, when we employ that liberty which our language allows, of ascribing sex to any inanimate object, we have not, however, the liberty of mak ing it of what gender we please, masculine or feminine ; but are, in general, subjected to some rule of gender which the currency of Ian guage has fixed to that object. The foundation of that rule is ima- gined, by Mr. Harris, in his " Philosophical Inquiry into the Prin ciples of Grammar,"' to be laid in a certain distant resemblance, or analogy, to the natural distinction of the two sexes.. Thus, according to him, we commonly give the masculine gender to those substantive nouns used figuratively, which are conspicuous for the attributes of imparting, or communicating; which are by nature strong and efficacious, either to good or evil ; or which have a claim to some eminence, whether laudable or not. Those again, he imagines, to be generally made feminine, which are conspicuous for the attributes of containing, and of bringing forth; which ha^a* more of the passive in their nature, than of the afctive ; which are peculiarly beautiful, or amiable ; or which have respect to such ex- cesses as are rather feminine than masculine. Upon these princi- ples he takes notice, that the sun is always put in the masculine gen- der with us, the moon in the feminine, as being the receptacle of the sun's light. The earth is, universally, feminine. A ship, a coun- try, a city, are likewise made feminine, as receivers, or containers. God, in all languages, is masculine. Time, we make masculine, on account of its mighty efficacy ; virtue, feminine, from its beauty and its being the object of love. Fortune is always feminine. Mr. Har- ris imagines, that the reasons which determine the gender of such capital words as these, hold in most other languages, as well as the English. This, however, appears doubtful. A variety of circum- stances, which seem casual to us, because we cannot reduce them to principles, must, unquestionably, have influenced the original for- mation of languages: and in no article whatever does language ap- pear to have been more capricious, and to have proceeded less ac- cording to fixed rule, than in the imposition of gender upon things inanimate ; especially among such nations as have applied the dis- tinction of masculine and feminine to all substantive nouns. Having discussed gender, I proceed, next, to another remarkable peculiarity of substantive nouns, which, in the style of grammar, is called their declension by cases. Let us, first, consider what cases signify. In order to understand this, it is necessary to observe, that, after men had given names to external objects, had particularized ljsct. vrn] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 85 them by means of the article, and distinguished them by number md gender, still their language remained extremely imperfect, till they had devised some method of expressing the relations which those objects bore, one towards another. They would find it of lit- tle use to have a name for man, lion, tree, river, without being able, at the same time, to signify how these stood with respect to each other; whether, as approaching to, receding from, joined with, and the like. Indeed, the relations which objects bear to one another, are immensely numerous; and therefore, to devise names for them all, must have been among the last and most difficult refinements of language. But, in its most early periods, it was absolutely necessary to express, in some way or other, such relations as were most im- portant, and as occurred most frequently in common speech. Hence the genitive, dative, and ablative cases of nouns, which express the noun itself, together with those relations of, to, from, with, and by $ the relations which we have the most frequent occasion to mention. The proper idea then of cases in declension, is no other than an expression of the state, or relation which one object bears to another, denoted by some variation made upon the name of that object; most commonly in the final letters, and by some languages, in the initial. All languages, however, do not agree in this mode of expression. The Greek, Latin, and several other languages, use declension. Tl> English, French, and Italian, do not; or, at most, use it very impei fectly. In place of the variations of cases, the modern tongues ex- press the rotations of objects, by means of the words called preposi- tions, which denote those relations, prefixed to the name of the object. English nouns have no case whatever, except a sort of genitive, commonly formed by the addition of the letter s to the noun; as when we say "Dryden's Poems," meaning the Poems of Dryden. Our personal pronouns have also a case, which answers to the accusative of the Latin, /, me; he, him ; who, ivhom. There is nothing, then, or at least very little, in the grammar of our Ian guage, which corresponds to declension in the ancient languages Two questions, respecting this subject, may be put. First, Which of these methods of expressing relations, wdiether that by declen- sion, or that by prepositions, was the most ancient usage in lan- guage? And next, Which of them has the best effect? Both methods, it is plain, are the same as to the sense, and differ only in form. For the significancy of the Roman language would not have been altered, though the nouns, like ours, had been without cases, provi- ded they had employed prepositions: and though, to express a dis- ciple of Plato, they had said, " Discipulus de Plato," like the modern Italians, in place of "Discipulus Platonis." Now with respect to the antiq.iity of cases, although they may, on first view, seem to constitute a more artificial method than the other, of denoting relations, yet there are strong reasons for think- ing that tliis was the earliest method practised by men. We find, in fact, that declensions and cases are used in most of what, are called t^e mother tongues, or original languages, as well as in the Greek N 88 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. fj*c*. vn, and Latin. And a very natural and satisfying accoun* "an be given why this usage should have early obtained. Relations are Jie most abstract and metaphysical ideas of any which men have occasion to form, when they are considered by themselves, and separated from the related object. It would puzzle any man, as has been well ob- served by an author on this subject, to give a distinct account of what is meant by such a word as of 'or from, when itstands by itself, and to explain all that may be included under it. The first rude in- venters of language, therefore, would not for a long while arrive at such general terms. In place of considering any relation in the ab- stract, and devising a name for it, they would much more easily conceive it in conjunction with a particular object; and they would express their conceptions of it, by varying the name of that object through all the different cases; hominis, of a man; homini,to a man; homine, with a man, &c. But though this method of declension was, probably, the only method which men employed, at first, for denoting relations, yet, in progress of time, many other relations being observed, besides those which are signified by the cases of nouns, and men also becoming more capable of general and metaphysical ideas, separate names were gradually invented for all the relations which occurred, form- ing that part of speech which we now call prepositions. Preposi- tions, being once introduced, they were found to be capable of sup- plying the place of cases, by being prefixed to the nominative of the noun. Hence, it came to pass, that as nations were intermixed by migrations and conquests, and were obliged to learn and adopt the languages of one another, prepositions supplanted the use of cases and declensions. When the Italian tongue, for instance, sprung out of the Roman, it was found more easy and simple by the Gothic nations, to accommodate a few prepositions to the nomina- tive of every noun, and to say, di Roma, a I Roma di Carthago, al Carthago, than to remember all the variety of terminations, Romas, Romam, Carthaginis, Carthaginem, which the use of declensions required in the ancient nouns. By this progress we can give a. na- tural account how nouns, in our modern tongues, come to be so void of declension : a progress which is fully illustrated in Dr. Adam Smith's ingenious Dissertation on the Formation of Languages. With regard to the other question on this subject, Which of these two methods is of the greatest utility and beauty? we shall find ad- vantages and disadvantages to be balanced on both side^. There is no doubt that, 'by abolishing cases, we have rendered the structure of modern languages more simple. We have disembarrassed it of all the intricacy which arose from the different forms of declension, of which the Romans had no fewer than five; and from all the ir- regularities in these several declensions. We have thereby rendered our languages more easy to be acquired, and less subject to the perplexity of rules. But, though the simplicity and ease of lan- guage be great and estimable advantages, yet there are also such disadvantages attending the modern method, as leave the balance on the whole, doubtful, or rather incline it to the side of antiquity lect. viir.] STRUCTURE UF LANGUAGE. 87 For, in the first place, by our constant use of prepositions for expressing the relations of things, we have filled language with a multitude of those little words, which are eternally occurring in eve ry sentence, and may be thought thereby to have encumbered speech, by an addition of terms; and by rendering it more prolix, to have enervated its force. In the second place, we have certainly .endered the sound of language less agreeable to the ear, by de- priving it of that variety and sweetness, which arose from the length of words, and the change of terminations occasioned by the cases in the Greek and Latin. But, in the third place, the most material disadvantage is, that, by this abolition of cases, and by a similar al- teration, of which I am to speak in the next lecture, in the conjuga- tion of verbs, we have deprived ourselves of that liberty of transpo- sition in the arrangement of words, which the ancient languages enjoyed. In the ancient tongues, as I formerly observed, the different ter- minations, produced by declension and conjugation, pointed out the reference of* the several words of a sentence to one another, without the aid of juxtaposition ; suffered them to be placed, without ambi- guity, in whatever order was most suited to give force to the mean- ing, or harmony to the sound. But now, having none of those marks of relation incorporated with the woi^s themselves, we have no other way left us, of showing what words in a sentence are most closely connected in meaning, than that of placing, them close by one another in the period. The meaning of the sentence is brought out in separate members and portions; it is broken down and di- vided : whereas the structure of the Greek and Roman sentences, by the government of their nouns and verbs, presented the meaning so interwoven and compounded in all its parts, as to make us per- ceive it in one united view. The closing words of the period as- certained the relation of each member to another; and all that ought to be connected in one idea, appeared connected in the expression. Hence, more brevity, more vivacity, more force. That luggage of particles, (as an ingenious author happily expresses it), which we are obliged always to carry along with us, both clogs style, and enfeebles sentiment.* * " The various terminations of the same word, whether verb or noun, are always conceived to be more intimately connected with the term which they serve to lengthen, .han the additional, detached, and in themselves insignificant particles, which we are obliged to employ as connectives to our significant words. Our method gives almost the fame exposure to the one as to the other, making the significant parts, and the in significant, equally conspicuous ; theirs much oftener sinks, as it were, the former into the latter, at once preserving their use and hiding their weakness. Our modern lan- guages may, in this respect, be compared to the art of the carpenter in its rudest state ; when the union of the materials employed by the artisan, could be effected only by the help of those external and coarse implements, pins, nails, and cramps. The ancient languages resemble the same art in its most improved state, after the invention of dove- tail joints, grooves, and mortices ; when thus all the principal junctions are effected, by forming properly the extremities or terminations of the pieces to be joined. For, by means of these, the union of the parts is rendered closer, while that by which that union is produced, is scarcely perceivable." The Philosophy of Rhetoric, by Dr. Camp- bell, vol. ii. p. 412. 88 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, [uct. ,m. Pronouns are the class of words most nearly related to substantive nouns; being, as the name imports, representatives, or substitutes, of nouns. I, thou, lie, she, and it, are no other than an abridged way of naming the persons, or objects, with which we have immedi- ate intercourse, or to which we are obliged frequently to refer in discourse. Accordingly, they are subject to the same modifications with substantive nouns, of number, gender, and case. Only, with respect to gender, we may observe, that the pronouns of the first and second person, as they are called, /and thou, do not appear to have had the distinctions of gender given them in any language ; for this nlain reason, that, as they always refer to persons who are present to each other when they speak, their sex must appear, and therefore needs not be marked by a masculine or feminine pronoun. But, as the third person may be absent, or unknown, the distinction of gender there becomes necessary; and accordingly, in English, it hath all the three genders belonging to it; he, she, it. As to cases, even those languages which have dropped them in substantive nouns, sometimes retain more of them in pronouns, for the sake of the greater readi- ness in expressing relations; as pronouns are words of such frequent occurrence in discourse. 1 n English, most of our grammarians hold the personal pronouns to have two cases, besides the nominative; a genitive, and accusative; /, mine, me; thou, thine, thee; he, his, him; tvho, whose, whom. In the first stage of speech, it is probable that the places of those pronouns were supplied by pointing to the object when present, and naming it, when absent. For one can hardly think that pronouns were of early invention; as they are words of such a particular and artificial nature. /, thou, he, it, it is to be observed, are not names peculiar to any single object, but so very general, that they may be applied to all persons, or objects, whatever, in certain circumstan- ces. //, is the most general term that can possibly be conceived, as it may stand for any one thing in ti^e universe, of which we speak. At the same time, these pronouns have this quality, that in the cir- cumstances in which they are applied, they never denote more than one precise individual; which they ascertain and specify, much in the same manner as is done by the article. So that pronouns are, at once, the most general, and the most particular words in language. They are commonly the most irregular and troublesome words to the learner, in the grammar of all tongues ; as being the words most in common use, and subjected thereby to the greatest varieties. Adjectives, or terms of quality, such as, great, little, black, white, yours, ours, are the plainest and simplest of all that class of words which are termed attributive. They are found in all languages; and, in all languages,must have been very early invented ; as objects could not be distinguished from one another, nor any intercourse be carried on concerning them, till once names were given to their different qualities. I have nothing to observe in relation to them, except that singu- larity which attends them in the Greek and Latin, of having the fame form given them with substantive nouns; being declined, like lect vm.J STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 80 them, by cases, and subjected to the like distinctions of number and gender. Hence it has happened, that grammarians have made them jo belong to the same part of speech, and divided the noun into sub- stantive and adjective ; an arrangement founded more on attention to the external form of words, than to their nature and force. For adjectives or terms of quality, have not, by their nature, the least resemblance to substantive nouns, as they never express any thing which can possibly subsist by itself ; which is the very essence of the substantive noun. They are, indeed, more akin to verbs, which, like them, express the attribute of some substance. It may, at first view, appear somewhat odd and fantastic, that ad- jectives should, in the ancient languages, have assumed so much of the form of substantives ; since neither number, nor gender, nor cases, nor relations, have any thing to do, in a proper sense, with mere qualities, such as good or great, soft or hard. And yet bonus, and magnus, and tener, have their singular and plural, their mascu- line and feminine, their genitives and datives, like any of the names of substances, or persons. But this can be accounted for from the genius of those tongues. They avoided, as much as possible, consi- dering qualities separately, or in the abstract. They made them a part, or appendage, of the substance which they served to distin- guish : they made the adjective depend on its substantive, and re- semble it in termination, in number, and gender, in order that the two might coalesce the more intimately, and be joined in the form of expression, as they were in the nature of things. The liberty of transposition, too, which those languages indulged, required such a method as this to be followed. For allowing the related words of a sentence to be placed at a distance from each other, it required the. relation of adjectives to their proper substantives to be pointed out, by such similar circumstances of form and termination, as, accord- ing to the grammatical style, should show their concordance. When I say in English, the " Beautiful wife of a brave man," the juxta- position of the words prevents all ambiguity. But when I say in Latin, " Formosa fortis viri uxor ;" it is only the agreement, in gender, number, and case, of the adjective "formosa," which is the first word of the sentence, with the substantive " uxor," which is the last word that declares the meaning. QUESTIONS. After having given an account of the rise and progress of language, to xvhat does our author proceed ? Of the structure of language, and of its com- parison with other sciences, what is remarked 1 Why is it apt to be slighted by superficial thinkers ? To the igno- rance of what was then inculcated, what is to be attributed'? On what iiave kw authors written with philo- sophical accuracy ; and what is still more to be regretted? Hdw does the attention of the French and English to this subject compare? What has lately been attempted; and how have they succeeded ? What is not our au- thor's purpose ; and why not ? Of what does he propose to give a general view ; and how? What is the first thing to be considered? Of the essential parts of speech in all languages, what is ob- served ? How is this remark illustrated: S9 a QUESTIONS. [lect. nn and hence, what follows ? What is the most simple and comprehensive division of the parts of speech ? How are these respectively classed? Of the common grammatical division of speech into eight parts, what is observed; and why ? Why, then, will it be better to make use of these known terms, than of any others? With what are we na- turally led to begin ; and why? What here occurs; and why? A savage, be- holding trees in' every direction, found what to be an impracticable underta- king ? What was his first object ? By what was he led to form, in his mind, some general ideas of the common qualities of all trees? What did longer experience teach him ? To what disad- vantage was he still subject ; and why ? Hence, then, what appears evident? How is this illustrated ? What, howe- ver, are we not to imagine ; and why not? Where is this daily practised ? Why was the notification which lan- guage made of objects, still very im- perfect ? Here, what useful and very curious contrivance occurs? In what does the force of the article consist? In English, how many articles have we? Define them. A, is much the same with what, and what does it mark? Of the article the, what is observed ? What article, only, have the Greeks, and to what does it answer? How do they supply the place of our article a ? How is this illustrated ? As the Latins had no article, how did they supply its place ? Why does this appear to be a defect in the Latin tongue ? How is this illustrated? Of each of these phrases, what is remarked ? Of "filius regis," what is observed ; and to ex- plain in which of these senses it is to be understood, what is necessary ? To il- lustrate the force and importance of the article, what further examples are given ? Of showing; what, does our au- thor gladly lay hold of any opportuni- ty? What other affections belong to substantive nouns ? How does number distinguish them ? Of this distinction what is said ; and why must it have oeen coeval with the very infancy of language ? For the greater facility of expressing it, by what has it, in all lan- guages been marked? In what lan- guages do we find a dual number ; and how may its origin be accounted for? Of gender, what is remarked ? Why is it, in ita proper sense, confined to the names of living creatures ; and there fore, what follows? To what ough* all other substantive nouns belong; and what is it meant to imply ? With respect to this distribution, what has obtained? How is this remark illustra- ted? What examples are given? 01 this assignation of sex to inanimate objects, what is remarked? What is observed of the gender of inanimate objects in the Greek and Latin lan- guages? How do the French and Italian tongues differ from them in this respect? In the latter, how is the gen- der of nouns designated ? In the Eng- lish language, what peculiarity ob- tains? What are the marks of the three genders ; and when is it used ? In this respect, what advantage has the English language over all others, the Chinese excepted ? What does the genius of it permit? What example of illustration is given? By this means, what have we it in our power to do; and how? Of this advantage, what is further observed ; and why ? What in- stances are mentioned ? In English, how can we avoid this difficulty ? What deserves further to be remarked ? Where is the foundation of this rule imagined to be laid? Thus, according to him, to what substantive nouns, used figuratively, do we give the masculine nender; and to what the feminine? Upon these principles, of what does he take notice ? What does Mr. Harris further imagine ? Why does this ap- pear doubtful ? Having discussed gender, to what does our author next proceed ? To un- derstand what case signifies, what is it necessary to observe? What would they find of little use? Of the relation which objects bear to one another, what is observed ; and what follows ? But, in its earliest periods, what was neces- sary; and hence, what cases were found ? What, then, is the proper idea of cases in declension ? What evidence have we that all languages do not agree in this mode of expression? How do modern tongues express the relations of objects? What case only, have Eng- lish nouns ; and how is it formed 1 What, in our language answers to the accusative casein Latin? What is there not, then, in our language ? What two questions, therefore, concerning this subject, may be put? Of boil methods, what is remarked • and why ? Which LECT. VIII.] QUESTIONS. S9 b was the earliest method practised by men? Where do we, in fact, find that declensions and cases are used ? What natural account can be given, why this usage should have early obtained? What has been well observed, by our author, oil thi-3 subject ? What infe- rence, therefore, follows? How would they most naturally conceive the rela- tions of a thing; and how would they express their conceptions of it ? How were separate names invented, to ex- press the relations which occurred ; and what are they called ? Prepositions be- ing once introduced, how were they found to be capable of supplying the place of cases; and hence, what came to pass? How is this illustrated? By this progress, of what can we give a natural account ? With regard to the other question on this subject, what shall we find? What efiect has been produced, by the abolition of cases ? Of what have we disembarrassed it ; and how have we thereby rendered it ? Notwithstanding!: these advantages, yet what disadvantages, in the first place, leave the balance inclining to the side of antiquity? What in the second place ? But, in the third place, what is the most material disadvantage? In the ancient tongues, what did the d li- ferent terminations pcint out ; and how did it suffer them to be placed ? In ex- pressing relations, what method only have we now left ? How s the meaning of a sentence brought "*ut ? How did the structure of the Greek and Roman sentences express their meaning ? How was the relation of each member as- certained ; and hence, what was pro- duced ? What are pronouns ? Of them, what is remarked ; and accordingly, to what are they subject ? Why have not / and thou had the distinctions of gen- der given to them in any language? Why is the distinction of gender neces- sary in the third person? Of the cases of I pronouns, what is remarked? In English, what cases have pronouns? How is it probable the places of pronouns were supplied, in the first stage of speech ; and why? OfI,thou, he, and iY, what istobe observed? Oi' it, what is remarked; and why ? What other quality have these pronouns ; so that what follows ? Why are they troublesome to the learner ? Ot adjectives, what is remarked? Where are they found ; and why must they have been early invented? What, only, is to be observed, in relation to them ? Hence, what has happened; and on what is this arrangement founded? Why have not adjectives the least re- semblance to substantive nouns? To what are they more akin ? What may, at first view, appear somewhat odd and fantastic; and why? How can this be accounted for ? What did they avoid ; and what did they make them ? On what did they make the adjective de- pend; and why? What did the liberty of transposition require, and for what reason ? How is this illustrated ? ANALYSIS. The parts of Speech. 1. Articles. a. The indefinite article. B. The definite article. c. The importance of the article illustrated. 2. Substantive nouns. a. Number. b. Gender. a. Its philosophical applica- tion. 6. Mr. Harris's Theory. c. Case. a. Its signification. b. Its variations. (a.) By declension. (b.) By prepositions. 3. Pronouns. a. Their origin. 4. Adjectives. LECTURE IX. STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE.— ENGLISH TONGUE. Of the whole class of words that are called attributive, indeed, of all the parts of speech, the most complex, by far, is the verb. It Is chiefly in this part of speech, that the subtile and profound meta- physic of language appears ; and, therefore, in examining the na- ture and different variations of the verb, there might be room for •m STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [lect. ix ample discussion. But as I am sensible, that such grammatical dis eussions, when they are pursued far, become intricate and obscure, [ shall avoid dwelling any longer on this subject than seems abso- lutely necessary. The verb is so far of the same nature with the adjective, that it expresses, like it, an attribute, or property, of some person or thing. But. it does more than this. For, in all verbs, in every language, there are no less than three things implied at once; the attribute of some substantive, an affirmation concerning that attribute, and time. Thus, when I say, ' the sun shineth ;' shining is the attribute ascribed to the sun; the present time is marked; and an affirmation i ; included, that this property of shining belongs, at that time, to the sun. The participle ' shining,' is merely an adjective, which denotes an attribute or property, and also expresses time; but car- ries no affirmation. The infinitive mood, ' to shine/ may be called the name of the verb; it carries neither time nor affirmation; but simply expresses that attribute, action, or state of things, which is to be the subject of the other moods and tenses. Hence the infinitive often carries the resemblance of a substantive noun; and both in English and Latin, is sometimes constructed as such. As, 'scire tuum nihil est.' 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.' And, in English, in the same manner: 'To write well is difficult; to speak eloquently is still more difficult' But as, through all the other ten- ses and moods, the affirmation runs, and is essential to them; 'the sun shineth, was shining, shone, will shine, would have shone,' &c. the affirmation seems to be that which chiefly distinguishes the verb from the other parts of speech, and gives it its most conspicuous ">ower. Hence there can be no sentence, or complete proposition, vithout a verb either expressed or implied. For, whenever we speak, we always mean to assert, that something is, or is not ; and the word which carries this assertion, or affirmation, is a verb. From this sort of eminence belonging to it, this part of speech hath re- ceived its name, verb, from the Latin verbum, or the word, by way of distinction. Verbs, therefore, from their importance and necessity in speech must have been coeval with men's first attempts towards the forma tion of language ; though, indeed, it must have been the work ol long time, to rear Item up to that accurate and complex structure which they now possess. It seems very probable, as Dr. Smith has suggested, that the radical verb, or the first form of it, in most Ian 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. By degrees, after pronouns were invented, such verbs became personal, and were branched out into all the variety of tenses and moods. The tenses of the verb are contrived to imply the several distine* tions of time. Of these I must take some notice, in order to show the admirable accuracy with which language is constructed. We think commonly of no more than the three great divisions of time, lect ex.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. Si Into the past, the present, and the future; and we might imagine, that if verbs had been so contrived, as simply to express these, no more was needful. But language proceeds with much greater subtilty. It splits time into its several moments. It considers time as nevei standing still, but always flowing ; things past, as more or less per- fectly completed; and things future, as more or less remote, by differ ent gradations. Hence the great variety of tenses in most tongues. The present may, indeed, be always considered as one indivisible point, susceptible of no variety. " I write, or, I am writing; scribo." But it is not so with the past. There is no language so poor, but it hath two or three tenses to express the varieties of it. Ours hath no fewer than four. 1. A past action may be considered as left un- finished ; which makes the imperfect tense, ; *I was writing, scribe- bam." 2. As just now finished. This makes the proper perfect tense, which, in English, is always expressed by the help of the aux- iliary verb, " I have written." 3. It may be considered as finished some time ago ; the particular time left indefinite. " I wrote, scrip- si-" which may either signify, "I wrote yesterday, or, I wrote a twelvemonth ago." This is what grammarians call an aorist, or in- definite past. 4. It may be considered as finished before something else, which is also past. This is the plusquamperfect. " I had writ- ten ; scripseram. I had written before I received his letter." Here we observe with some pleasure, that we have an advantage pver the Latins, who have only three varieties upon the past time. They have no proper perfect tense, or one which distinguishes an action just now finished, from an action that was finished some time ago. In both these cases they must say, "scripsi." Though there be a manifest difference in the tenses, which our language express- es, by this variation, " I have written," meaning, I have just now finished writing; and, " I wrote," meaning at some former time, since which, other things have intervened. This difference the Romans have no tense to express ; and, therefore, can only do it by a circumlocution. The chief varieties in the future time are two ; a simple or inde- finite future; 'I shall write; scribam ;' and a future, relating to something else, which is also future. 'I shall have written ; scrip- sero.' I shall have written before he arrives * Besides tenses, or the power of expressing times, verbs admit the distinction of voices, as they are called, the active and the passive ; according as the affirmation respects something that is done, or some- thing that is suffered; 'I love, or I am loved.' They admit, also, the distinction of moods, which are designed to express the affirma- tion, whether active or passive, under different forms. The indica- tive 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 propositior. * On the tenses of the verbs, Mr. Harris's Hermes may be consulted, by such as tock of words which they received from their ancestors, remain as the foundation of their speech throughout many ages, while their manners undergo, perhaps, very great alterations. National charac- ter will, however, always have some perceptible influence on tne turn of language; and the gayety and vivacity of the French, and the gravity and thoughtfulness of the English, are sufficiently im- pressed on their respective tongues. From the genius of our language, and the character of those who speak it, it may be expected to have strength and energy. It is, in- deed, naturally prolix, owing to the great number of particles and auxiliary verbs which we are obliged constantly to employ; and this prolixity must, in some degree, enfeeble it. We seldom can express so much bv one word as was done by the verbs, and by the nouns, in the Greek and Roman languages. Our style is less compact; our conceptions being spread out among more words, and split, as it were, into more parts, make a fainter impression when we after them. Notwithstanding this defect, by our abounding in terms for expressing all the strong emotions of the mind, and by the liberty which we enjoy, in a greater degree than most natiens, of com- pounding words, our language may be esteemed to possess consider- * A np-er, wrath, passion, rage, fury, outrage, fierceness, sharpness, animosity, ciioler resentment heat, heart-burning-, to fume, storm, inflame, be incensed, to vex, kindle innate, enrage, exasperate, provoke, fret ; to be sullen, hasty, hot, rough, soui peevish, fcc. Preface to Greenwood's Grammar. 13 58 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [lect. hc able force of exi ression ; comparatively, at least, with the other modern tongues, though much below the ancient. The style oi Milton alone, both in poetry and prose, is a sufficient proof, that the English tongue is far from being destitute of nerves and energy. The flexibility of a language, or its power of accommodation to different styles and manners, so as to be either grave and strong, o easy and flowing, or tender and gentle, or pompous and magnificent as occasions require, or as an author's genius prompts, is a quality of great importance in speaking and writing. It seems to depend upon three tilings; the copiousness of a language; the different ar- rangements of which its words are susceptible; and the variety and beauty of the sound of those words, so as to correspond to many different subjects. Never did any tongue possess this quality so eminently as the Greek, which every writer of genius could so mould, as to make the style perfectly expressive of his own manner and pe- culiar turn. It had all the three requisites, which I have mentioned as necessary for this purpose. It joined to these the graceful variety of its different dialects; and thereby readily assumed every sort ot character which an author could wish, from the most simple and most familiar, up to the most majestic. The Latin, though a very beautiful language, is inferior, in this respect, to the Greek. It has more of a fixed character of stateliness and gravity. It is always firm and masculine in t'f,c tenour of its sound; and is supported by a certain senatorial dignity, of which it is difficult for a writer to di- vest it wholly, on any occasion. Among the modern tongues, the Italian possesses a great deal more of this flexibility than the French. By its copiousness, its freedom of arrangement, and the great beauty and harmony of its sounds, it suits itself very happily to most sub- jects, either in prose or in poetry; is capable of the august and the strong as well as the tender; and seems to be, on the whole, the most perfect of all the modern dialects which have arisen out of the ruins of the ancient. Our own language, though not equal to the Italian in flexibility, yet is not destitute of a considerable degree of this quality. If any one will consider the diversity of style which appears in some of our classics, that great difference of manner, for instance, which is marked by the style of Lord Shaftesbury, and that of Dean Swift, he will see, in our tongue, such a circle of ex- pression, such a power of accommodation to the different taste of writers, as redounds not a little to its honour. What the Englislrhas been most taxed with, is its deficiency in harmony of sound. But though every native is apt to be partial to the sounds of his own language, and may, therefore, be suspected of not being a fair judge in this point; yet, I imagine, there are evi- dent grounds on which it may be shown, that this charge against our tongue has been carried too for. The melody of our versification, its power of supporting poetical numbers without any assistance from rhyme, is alone a sufficient proof that our language is far from being unmusical. Our verse is, after the Italian, the most diversified and harmonious of any of the modern dialects; unquestionably far beyond the French verse, in variety, sweetness, and melody. Mr. lf.it. ix.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 99 Sheridan has shown, in his lectures, that we abound more in vowel and diphthong sounds, than most languages; and these too, so divi ded into long and short, as to afford a proper diversity in the quanti- ty of our syllables. Our consonants, he observes, which appear so crowded to the eye on paper, often form combinations, not disagree- able to the ear in pronouncing; and, in particular, the objection which has been made to the frequent recurrence of the hissing con- sonant s in our language, is unjust and ill-founded. For, it has not been attended to, that very commonly, and in the final syllables es- pecially, this letter loses altogether the hissing sound, and is trans- formed into a z, which is one of the sounds on which the ear rests with pleasure ; as in has, these, those, loves, hears, and innumerable more, where, though the letter s be retained in writing, it has really the power of z, not of the common s. After all, however, it must be admitted, that smoothness, or beau- ty of sound, is not one of the distinguishing properties of the Eng- lish tongue. Though not incapable of being formed into melodious arrangements, yet strength and expressiveness, more than grace, form its character. We incline, in general, to a short pronunciation of our words, and have shortened the quantity of most of those which we borrowfrom the Latin, as orator, spectacle, theatre, liberty, and such like. Agreeable to this, is a remarkable peculiarity of English pronunciation, the throwing the accent farther back, that is, nearer the beginning of the word than is done by any other nation. In Greek and Latin, no word is accented farther back than the third syllable from the end, or what is called the antepenult. But, in English, we have many words accented on the fourth, some on the fifth s) liable from theend, as, memorable, conveniency, ambulatory, vrojitableness. The general effect of this practice of hastening the accent, or placing it so near the beginning of a word, is to give a brisk and a spirited, but at the same time, a rapid and hurried, and not \ ery musical, tone to the whole pronunciation of a people. Ti e English tongue possesses, undoubtedly, this property, that it is th'j most simple in its form and construction, of all the European diale.ts. It is free from all intricacy of cases, declensions, moods, and .^nses Its words are subject to fewer variations from their orig< >al form tha those of any other language. Its substantives havr no distinction of gender, except what nature has made, and but one variation in case. Its adjectives admit of no change at all, ex- cept what expresses the degree of comparison. Its verbs, instead of running through all the varieties of ancient conjugation, suffer no more than four or five changes in termination. By the help of a few prepositions and auxiliary verbs, all the purposes of significance in meaning are accomplished ; while the words, for the most part, preserve their form unchanged. The disadvantages in point of ele- gance, brevity, and force, which follow from this structure of our lan- guage, I have before pointed out. But, at the same time, it must be ad- mitted, that such a structure contributes to facility. It renders the ac- quisition of our language less laborious, the arrangement of our words more plain and obvious, the rules of our syntax fewer and more simple P 100 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [lect. ix I ?rree, indeed, with Dr. Lowth, (Preface to his grammar) in thinking, that the simplicity and facility of our language occa sion its being frequently written and spoken with less accura ;y. It was necessary to study languages which were of a more complex and artificial form, with greater care. The marks of gen- der and case, the varieties of conjugation and declension, the mul- tiplied rules of syntax, were all to be attended to in speech. Hence language became more an object of art. It was reduced into form; a standard was established ; and any departures from the standard became conspicuous. Whereas, among us, language is hardly con- sidered as an object of grammatical rule. We take it for granted, that a competent skill in it may be acquired without any study: and that in a syntax so narrow and confined as ours, there is nothing which demands attention. Hence arises the habit of writing in a loose and inaccurate manner. I admit, that no grammatical rules have sufficient authority to con- trol the firm and established usage of language. Established cus- tom in speaking and writing, is the standard to which we must at last resort for determiningevery controverted point in language and style. But it will not follow from this, that grammatical rules are superseded as useless. In every language, which has been in any degree cultivated, there prevails a certain structure and analogy of parts, which is understood to give foundation to the most reputable usage of speech; and which, in all cases, when usage is loose or du- bious, possesses considerable authorit} T . In every language, there are rules of S3'ntax which must be inviolably observed by all who would either write or speak with an)' propriety. For syntax is no other than that arrangement of words, inasentence, which renders the meaning of each word, and the relation of all the words to one another, most clear and intelligible. All the rules of Latin syntax, it is true, cannot be applied to our language. Many of these rules arose from the particular form of their language, which occasioned verbs or prepositions to govern, some the genitive, some the dative, some the accusative or ablative case. But, abstracting from these peculiarities, it is to be always remembered, that the chief and fundamental rules of syntax are common to the English as well as the Latin tongue; and, indeed, be- long equally to all languages. For in all languages, the parts which compose speech are essential!}^ the same; substantives, adjectives, verbs, and connecting particles: and wherever these parts of speech are foun J, there are certain necessary relations among them, which regulate their syntax, or the place which they ought to possess hi a sentence. Thus, in English, just as much as in Latin, the adjective must by position, be made to agree with its substantive; and the verb must agree with its nominative in person and number; because, from the nature of things, a word, which expresses either a quality or an action, must correspond as closely as possible with the name of that thing whose quality, or whose action, it expresses. Two or more substantives, joined by a copulative, must always require the verbs or pronouns, to which they refer, to be placed in the plural lect. ix.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 101 number; ctrerwise, their common relation to these verbs or pro nouns is not pointed out. An active verb must, in every language, govern the accusative ; that is, 'clearly point out some substantive noun, as the object to which its action is directed. A relative pro- noun must, in every form of speech, agree with its antecedent in gender, number, and person ; and conjunctions, or connecting parti- cles, ought always to couple like cases and moods ; that is, ought to join together words which are of the same form and state with each other. I mention these, as a few exemplifications of that fun- damental regard to syntax, which, even in such a language as ours, is absolutely requisite for writing or speaking with any propriety. Whatever the advantages or defects of the English language be, as it is our own language, it deserves a high degree of our study and attention, both with regard to the choice of words which we employ, and with regard to the syntax, or the arrangement of these words in a sentence. We know how much the Greeks and Romans, in their most polished and flourishing times, cultivated their own tongues. We know how much study both the French, and the Italians, have bestowed upon theirs. Whatever knowledge may be acquired by the study of other languages, it can never be communicated with ad- vantage, unless by such as can write and speak their own language well. Let the matter of an author be ever so good and useful, his compositions will always suffer in the public esteem, if his expression oe deficient in purity and propriety. At the same time, the attain- ment of a correct and elegant style, is an object which demands ap- plication and labour. If any imagine they can catch it merely by the ear, or acquire it by a slight perusal of some of our good authors, they will find themselves much disappointed. The many errors, even in point of grammar, the many offences against purity of language, which are committed by writers who are far from being contempti- ble, demonstrate, that a careful study of the language is previously requisite, in all who aim at writing it properly.* aUESTIOtfS. Of the verb, what is observed ? In it, what appears ; and therefore, what follows? Why will our author avoid dwelling longer on this subject, than is absolutely necessary ? What property has tbe verb, in common with the ad- jective? In all verbs, what three things are implied at once ? How is this re- mark illustrated ? Of the particle shi- iting; what is remarked ? What may the infinitive mood, to shine, be called; and why ? Hence, what resemblance does the infinitive mood often carry ? What examples are given ? What is that which chiefly distinguishes the verb from'other parts of speech? Hence, what follows;, and why? What ha* arisen from this sort of eminence? Why must verb" have been coeval with men's first attempts towards the formation of language? What, is it probable, was its radical form ; and why ? What did such verbs afterwards become, and into what did they branch out ? For what are the tenses contri ved? Why must notice be taken of these ? Of what divisions of time do we naturally think ? Under what circum- stances might we imagine that no more were needful ? But how does language * On this subject, the reader ought to peruse Dr. Lc "*K\" fti "i Introduction to English Grammar, with Critical Notes; Dr. Campbell's Phil «ct. w Hence it follows, that when, on the other hand, we seek to pre- vent a quick transition from one object to another, when we are making some enumeration, in which we wish that the object should appear as distinct from each other as possible, and that the mind should rest, for a moment, on each object by itself ; in this case co- pulatives may be multiplied with peculiar advantage and grace. As when Lord Bolingbroke says, ' Such a man might fall a victim to power ; but truth, and reason, and liberty, would fall with him.' In the same manner, Csesar describes an engagement with the Nervii : ' His equitibus facile pulsis ac proturbatis, incredibili celeritate ad flumen decurrerunt ; ut pene uno tempore, et ad silvas, et in flumine, et jam in manibus nostris, hostes viderentur.'* Bel. Gal. 1. 2. Here, although he is describing a quick succession of events yet, as it is his intention to show in how many places the enemy seemed to be at one time, the copulative is very happily redoubled in order to paint more strongly the distinction of these several places. This attention to the several cases, when it is proper to omit and when to redouble the copulative, is of considerable importance to all who study eloquence. For, it is a remarkable particularity in language, that the omission of a connecting particle should some- times serve to make objects appear more closely connected; and that the repetition of it should distinguish and separate them, in some measure, from each other. Hence, the omission of it is used to denote rapidity; and the repetition of it is designed to retard and to aggravate. The reason seems to be, that, in the former case, Ihe mind is supposed to be hurried so fast through a quick succes- sion of objects, that it has not leisure to point out their connexion; it drops the copulatives in its hurry ; and crowds the whole series together, as if it were but one object. When we enumerate, with a view to aggravate, the mind is supposed to proceed with a more slow and solemn pace ; it marks fully the relation of each ob- ject to that which succeeds it; and, by joining them together with several copulatives, makes you perceive, that the objects, though connected, are yet, in themselves, distinct; that they are many, not one. Observe, for instance, in the following enumeration, made by the apostle Paul, what additional weight and distinctness is given to each particular, by the repetition of a conjunction, ' I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor pow- ers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love ot God.' Rom. viii. 38, 39. So much with regard to the use of copu- latives. I proceed to a third rule, for promoting the strength of a sentence, of a sudden, the cavalry make their appearance behind ; other bodies of men are seer. drawing near; the enemies turn their backs ; the horse meet them in their flight; a great slaughter ensues." * " The enemy, having easily beat off, and scattered this body of horse, ran dow» f what should sentences be cleared ? As every word ought to present a new idea, what follows ? What fault stands opposed to this? What examples are given to illustrate this remark ? In both these instances, what is observed of the second member of the sentence ; and what remark follows? When words are multiplied, without a corresponding multiplication of ideas, what is their effect ? After removing superfluities, what is the second direction given for promoting the strength of a sentence ? Of these little words, what is remarked ? Why cannot a particular set of rules respecting them be given? What, then, must here direct us? Of the splitting of particles, what is observed ? What example is given? In such instances what effect is produced ; and why are we, in thought, put to a stand ? What do some writers needlesely multiply? What example is given? Where is 6uch a style proper ? But, in the ordi- nary current of discourse, how should vre express ourselves? Where do other writers make it a practice of omitting the relative ? What examples are given ? Of this eliptical style, what is remarked ? How, therefore, should these sentences be written? What is the first observation, made on the copu- lative and ; and what sort of effect has it ? To illustrate this remark, from whom is an example taken; and of what is he speaKing ? Repeat the pas- sage. Hen* are how many avds? Of this agreeable writer, what is farther remarked ? Of a writer, so accurate as Dean Swift, what is strange ? Repeat the sentence; and of it, what is remark- ed ? What, in the next place, is worthy of observation? Who makes this re- mark ; what examples are given ; and what is said of them? Hence, what iol- lows? What examples from Lord Bo- lingbroke, and from Caesar, are given to illustrate this observation? Of the latter illustration, what is remarked? Why is this attention to the copulative of considerable importance to all who study eloquence? Hence, for what purpose, are the omission, and the re- petition of it, respectively used ; ami for what reason ? To illustrate this more fully, what example is given from the writings of the apostle Paul ? What is the third rule for promoting the strength of a sentence ? W T hat must every one see; and what is equally plain? What, however, cannot be ascertained by any precise rule ? With what must this vary? What must be studied, in the first place ; and of the nature of our language, what is remarked? In our language, where, for the most part, are the important words placed? To illustrate this remark, what example is given ; and of this order, what is ob- served? What, however, is sometimes advantageous? WTiat example is given from Mr. Pope ? From the great liberty of inversion, what advantage did the Greek and Latin writers enjoy? Who endeavoured to imitate them in this ? What was the con?? quence ; ant 1 why ? What two instances are giver, from Mr. Gordon, to illustrate this re- mark ? But, notwithstanding these in- stances, of our language, what is re- marked ? What example illustrates this remark; and of it, what is evident ? Of some writers, what is observed? what instance is given ; and to it, what is owing ? From what will this appear? Of what is he speaking ? Repeat the passage. Of this passage, what is ob- served ? On opening any page of Mr. Addison, what will we see ? What ex- ample is given ? How does this style compare with the style of Lord Shaftesbury ? Whether we practice inversion or not. what is a point of great moment? LECT. XII.] QUESTIONS. 133 b How is this remark illustrated ? How will this be made clearer? Repeat it. Of this sentence, what is observed? What does it contain ; yet of these, what is remarked? Further to illustrate this subject, what different arrangement is given ; and what is said of it ? What is the fourth rule for constructing sen- tences with strength ? What is it call- ed ; and how is it always considered ? Why does this sort of arrangement please? What says Quintilian ? Of this beauty, whose orations furnish us with many examples? What naturally led hiiu to the study of it ; and what does he generally do? What instance is given from him, and also from Lord Bolingbroke? What observation must, however, be made ? What remark fol- lows ? What is there approaching to a climax, which it is a general rule to follow ? What twofold reason is there for this last direction ? What illustra- tion follows? In general, what is al- ways agreeable ? What illustration of this remark is given from Mr. Addison? What is the fifth rule for the strength of sentences? Of such conclusions, what is observed ? There are sentences of what kind ; and in this case, what follows ? What illustration is given from Lord Bolingbroke ? Of what parts of speech does our author now speak ; and how should they always be dispo- sed? Agreeably to this rule, what should we always avoid? What in- stance is noticed ? Why do all correct writers shun this phraseology ? For the same reason, what verbs should we not employ in closing sentences? In preference to which, what should be used ? Of the pronoun it, as a closing word, what is remarked ; and when, especially, should it be avoided? In what noble sentence from the Specta- tor, is the bad effect of this close sen eibiy perceived? With what word should it have closed? Besides parti cles and pronouns, what always brings up the rear of a sentence with a bad grace ? By what senteuce may we judge of this? Of the \ phrase, to say no more, what is obs y ■ % 'd ? With what is the proper disposition of such circumstances in a sentence often at- tended ; and why ? What says Quin- tilian ? When the sense admits it, where should they be placed ? On this subject, what rule is given ; and with what provision? What instance follows? How would the two circumstances, some time ago, and in conversation, have had a better effect? What fur- ther illustration e given from Lord Bolingbroke ; and how may the ar- rangement be improved ? What is the last rule given, relating to the strength of a sentence? Why is this rule given ? When it is otherwise, what is the con- sequence ? Thus, what says Lord Bo- lingbroke ; and how might the opposi- tion have been rendered more complete' 2 Repeat the passage from Mr. Pope's preface to his Homer, which fully ex- emplifies this rule? Of periods, thus constructed, what is remarked ; but ol what must we beware? When only ought it to be studied ? If such a con- struction be aimed at in all our senten- ces, what will be the consequence ? 01 the style of Isocrates, among the an- cients, what is remarked? This re- mark, finishes what? For what two reasons has our author insisted on this subject fully; and why? How is this illustrated? In what does every one feel this ; and what follows ? What ie the fundamental rule for the construc- tion of sentences? What arrangements strike us as beautiful ; and to this point, what have tended ? Under what cir- cumstances, would there be occasion for few rules ? What properties would their sentences then acquire; and why? Of what are embarrassed, obscure, and feeble sentences, the result? What have hereastrictconnexion; and what follows? ANALYSIS. Strength. 1. Redundant words. A. Redundant members. 2. Copulatives, relatives, and other particles. A. The splitting of particles. B. The multiplication, and omis- sion of them. c. The copulative and. d. Copulatives further illustrated. 3. The proper disposition of the Cu pi- tal words. A. The advantages of the GreeK and Latin languages. B. The subject further illustrated 4. The order of succession in sentences. 5. Sentences not to be concluded with adverbs, &c. 6. Similarity of language in contrast ed sentences. 7. A fundamental rule. ( 134 ) LECTURE XIII. STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES.. ..HARMONY. Hitherto we have considered sentences, with respect to theu meaning, under the heads of perspicuity, unity, and strength. We are now to consider them, with respect to their sound, their har- mony or agreeableness to the ear ; which was the last quality be- longing to them that I proposed to treat of. Sound is a quality much inferior to sense ; yet such as must not be disregarded. For, as long as sounds are the vehicle of coiivej-- ance for our ideas, there will be always a very considerable connex- ion between the idea which is conveyed, and the nature of the sound which conveys it. Pleasing ideas can hardly be transmitted to the mind by means of harsh and disagreeable sounds. The imagina tion revolts as soon as it hears them uttered. ' Nihil,' says Quintilian, 'potest intrare in affectum, quod in aure, velut quodam vestibule statimoffendit.'* Music has naturally a great power overall men, to prompt and facilitate certain emotions; insomuch, that there are hardly any dispositions which we wish to raise in others, but certain sounds may be found concordant to those dispositions, and tending to promote them. Now, language may, in some degree, be ren- dered capable of this power of music; a circumstance which must needs heighten our idea of language as a wonderful invention. Not content with simply interpreting our ideas to others, it can give them those ideas enforced by corresponding sounds; and, to the pleasure of communicating thought, can add the new and separate pleasure of melody. In the harmony of periods, two things may be considered. First, agreeable sound, or modulation in general, without any particular expression : Next, the sound so ordered, as to become expressive of the sense. The first is the more common; the second, the high- er beauty. First, let us consider agreeable sound, in general, as the proper- ty of a well-constructed sentence: and, as it was of prose sentences we have hitherto treated, we shall confine ourselves to them under this head. This beauty of musical construction in prose, it is plain, will depend upon two things; the choice cf words, and the arrange- ment of them. I begin with the choice of words; on which head, there is no* much to be said, unless I were to descend into a tedious and fi ivo- lous detail concerning the powers of the several letters, or simple sounds, of which speech is composed. It is evident, that words * Nothing can enter into the affections, which stumbles at the threshold by offea ding the ear.' lect. xin.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 135 are most agreeable to the ear which are composed of smooth and '"quid sounds, where there is a proper intermixture of vowels 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. Vowels give softness; consonants, strength to the sound of words. The musio of language requires a just proportion of both; and will be hurt, will be rendered either grating or effeminate,by an excess of either. Long words are commonly more agreeable to the ear than mono- syllables. Theyplease it by the composition, or succession of sounds which they present to it: and accordingly, the most musical lan- guages abound most in them. Among words of any length, those are the most musical, which do not run wholly either upon long or short syllables, but are composed of an intermixture of them ; such as repent, produce, velocity, celerity, independent, impetuosity. The next head, respecting the harmony which results from a proper arrangement of the words and members of a period, is more complex, and of greater nicety. For, let the words themselves be ever so well chosen, and well sounding, yet, if they be ill disposed, the music of the sentence is utterly lost. In the harmonious struc- ture and disposition of periods, no writer whatever, ancient or modern, equals Cicero. He had studied this with care; and was fond, perhaps to excess, of what he calls, the ' Plena ac numerosa oratio.' We need only open his writings to find instances that will render the effect of musical language sensible to every ear. What, for example, can be more full, round, and swelling, than the follow- ing sentence of the 4th Oration against Catiline ? ' Cogitate quan- tis labonbus fundatum imperium, quanta virtute stabilitam liberta- tem, quanta Deorum benignitate auctas exaggeratasque fortunas, una nox pene delerit.' In English, we may take, for an instance of a musical sentence, the following from Milton, in his Treatise on Education : ' 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 Or- pheus was not more charming.' Every thing in this sentence con- spires to promote the harmony. The words are happily chosen ; full of liquid and soft sounds; laborious, smooth, green, goodly , me- lodious, charming : and these words so artfully arranged, that were we to alter the collocation of any one "of them, we should, present- ly, be sensible of the melody suffering. For, let us 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 pleasure; — ' that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming.' The structure of periods, then, being susceptible of a very sen- sible melody, our next inquiry should be, how this melodious structure is formed, what are the principles of it, and by what laws 136 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [legs-, xih it is regulated ? And, upon this subject, were I to follow the ancient rhetoricians, it would be easy to give a great variety of rules. For here they have entered into a very minute and particular detail*, more particular, indeed, than on any other head that regards lan- guage. They hold, that to prose as well as to verse, there belong certain numbers, less strict, indeed, yet such as can be ascertained by rule. They go so far as to specify the feet as they are called, that is, the succession of long and short syllables, which should en- ter into the different members of a sentence, and to show what the effect of each of these will be. Wherever they treat of the struc- ture of sentences, it is always the music of them that makes the principal object. Cicero and Quintilian are full of this. The other qualities of precision, unity, and strength, which we consider as of chief importance, they handle slightly ; but when they come to the 'junctura et numerusj the modulation and harmony, there they are copious. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, one of the most ju- dicious critics of antiquity, has written a treatise on the Composition of Words in a Sentence, which is altogether confined to their musical effect. He makes the excellency of a sentence to consist in four things ; first, in the sweetness of single sounds ; secondly, in the com- position of sounds, that is, the numbers or feet; thirdly, in change or variety of sound; and fourthly, in sound suited to the sense. On all these points he writes with great accuracy and refinement: and is very worthy of being consulted; though were one now to write a book on the structure of sentences, we should expect to find the subject treated of in a more extensive manner. In modern times, this whole subject of the musical structure of discourse, it is plain, has been much less studied; and indeed, for several reasons, can be much less subjected to rule. The reasons, it will be necessary to give, both to justify my not following the tract of the ancient rhetoricians on this subject, and to show how it has come to pass, that a part of composition, which once made so conspicuous a figure, now draws much less attention. In the first place, the ancient languages, I mean the Greek and the Roman, were much more susceptible than ours, of the graces and the powers of melody. The quantities of their syllables were more fixed and determined ; their words were longer and more sono- rous ; their method of varying the terminations of nouns and verbs, both introduced a greater variety of liquid sounds,and freed them from that multiplicity of little auxiliary words which we are oblig- ed to employ ; and what is of the greatest consequence, the in- versions which thevr languages allowed, gave them the power of pla- cing their words in whatever order was most suited to a musical ar- rangement. All these were great advantages which they enjoyed above us, for harmony of period. In the next place, the Greeks and Romans, the former especially, were, in truth, much more musical nations than we; their genius was more turned to delight in the melody of speech. Music is known to have been a more extensive art among them thac it is with us; more generally studied, and applied to a greater variety lect. xin.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 137 of objects. Several learned men, particularly the Abbe d j Bos, :n his Reflections on Poetry and Painting, have clearly proved, that the theatrical compositions of the ancients, both their tragedies and comedies, were set to a kind of music. Whence the modos fecit, and the tibiis dextris et sinistris, prefixed to the editions of Terence's plays. All sort of declamation and public speaking, was canied on by them in a much more musical tone than it is among us. It approached to a kind of chanting or recitative. Among the Athenians, there was what was called the Nomic melody ; or a par- ticular measure prescribed to the public officers, in which they were to promulgate the laws to the people ; lest, by reading them with improper tones, the laws might be exposed to contempt. Among the Romans, there is a noted story of C. Gracchus, when he was declaiming in public, having a musician standing at his back, in or- der to give him the proper tones with a pipe or flute. Even when pronouncing those terrible tribunitial harangues, by which he in flamed the one half of the citizens of Rome against the other; this attention to the music of speech was, in those times, it seems, thought necessary to success. Quintilian, though he con- demns the excess of this sort of pronunciation, yet allows a ' can- tus obscurior' to be a beauty in a public speaker. Hence, that variety of accents, acute, grave, and circumflex, which we find marked upon the Greek syllables, to express, not the quantity of them, but the tone in which they were to be spoken; the appli- cation of which is now wholly unknown to us. And though the Ro- mans did not mark those accents in their writing, yet it appears from Quintilian, that they used them in pronunciation : ' Quantum quale,' says he/comparantes gravi, interrogantes acuto tenore concludu^.' As, music, then, was an object much more attended to in speech, among the Greeks and Romans, than it is with us; as, in all kinds of public speaking, they employed a much greater variety of notes, of tones or inflections of voice, than we use; this is one clear rea- son of their paying a greater attention to that construction of sen- tences, which might best suit this musical pronunciation. It is farther known, that, in consequence of the genius of their languages, and of their manner of pronouncing them, the musical arrangement of sentences did, in fact, produce a greater effect in public speaking among them, than it could possibly do in any mo dern oration ; another reason why it deserved to be more studied. Cicero, in his treatise, entitled, Orator, tells us, * Condones ssepe exclamare vidi, cum verba apte cecidissent. Id enim expectant aures.'* And he gives a remarkable instance of the effect of an harmonious period upon a whole assembly, from a sentence of one of Carbo's orations, spoken in his hearing. The sentence was, i Patris dictum sapiens temeritas filii comprobavit.' By means of the sound of which, alone, he tells us, ' Tantus clamor concionis * 'I Jv^e often been witness to bursts of exclamation in the public assemblies, when sentences closed musically ; for that is a pleasure which the ear expects.' 18 ' 38 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [iect. xixi. excitatus est, ut prorsus admirable esset.' He makes us remark the feet of which these words consist, to which he ascrihes the power of the melody; and shows how, by altering the collocation, the whole effect would be lost; as thus: 'Patris dictum sapiens com- probavit temeritas filii.' Now though it be true that Carbo's sen- tence is extremely musical, and would be agreeable, at this day, to an audience, yet I cannot believe that an English sentence, equally harmonious, would, by its harmony alone, produce any such effect on a British audience, or excite any such wonderful applause and admiration, as Cicero informs us this of Carbo produced. Our northern ears are too coarse and obtuse. The melody of speech has less power over us; and by our simpler and plainer method of uttering words, speech is, in truth, accompanied with less melody than it was among the Greeks and Romans.* For these reasons, I am of opinion, that it is in vain to think of bestowing the same attention upon the harmonious structure of our sentences, that was bestowed by these ancient nations. The doctrine of the Greek and Roman critics, on *his head, has misled some to imagine, that it might be equally applied to our tongue; and that our prose writing might be regulated by spondees and trochees, and iambus's and paeons, and other metrical feet. But first, our words cannot be measured, or, at least, can be measured very imperfectly by any feet of this kind. For, the quantity, the length, and shortness of our syllables, is far from being so fixed and subjected to rule, as in the Greek and Roman tongues; but very often left arbitrary, and determined by the emphasis, and the sense. Next, though our prose could admit of such metrical regu- lation, yet, from our plainer method of pronouncing all sorts of dis- course, the effect would not be at all so sensible to the eai, nor be relished with so much pleasure, as among the Greeks and Romans : and, lastly, this whole doctrine about the measures and numbers of prose, even as it is delivered by the ancient rhetoricians themselves, is, in truth, in a great measure, loose and uncertain. It appears, indeed, that the melody of discourse was a matter of infinitely more attention to them, than ever it has been to the moderns. But, though they write a great deal about it, they have never been able to re duce it to any rules which could be of real use in practice. If we consult Cicero's Orator, where this point is discussed with the most minuteness, we shall see how much these ancient critics differed from one another, about the feet proper for the conclusion, and other parts of a sentence; and how much, after all, was left to the judgment of the ear. Nor, indeed, is it possible to give precise rales concerning this matter, in any language ; as all prose composition must be allowed to run loose in its numbers; and according as the tcnourofa discourse varies, the modulation of sentences must vary infinitely. " ' In versa quidem, theatra tota exclamant si fait una syllaba aut brevior aut longi^**. Nee ver6 multitudo pedes novit, nee ullos numeros tenet ; nee illud quod offenctit, aut cur, aut in quo offendat, intelligit ; et tarnen omnium longitudinum et brevitatura in sonis sicut acutarum, graviumque vocum, judicium ipsa natura t* auribus nostris collocavit ' Cicero. Orator, c. 5. lect xiii.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 13-* But, although I apprehend that this musical arrangement can- not be reduced into a system, I am far from thinking that it is a quality to be neglected in composition. On the contrary, I hold its effect to be very considerable; and that every one who studies to write with grace, much more, who seeks to pronounce in public with success, will be obliged to attend to it not a little. But it is his ear, cultivated by attention and practice, that must chiefly di- rect him ; for any rules that can be given on this subject, are very general. Some rules, however, there are, which may be of use to form the ear to the proper harmony of discourse. I proceed to mention such as appear to me most material. There are two things on which the music of a sentence chiefly depends. These are the proper distribution of the several members of it; and, the close or cadence of the whole. First, I say, the distribution of the several members is to be carefully attended to. It is of importance to observe, that whatever is easy and agreeable to the organs of speech, always sounds grateful to the ear. While a period is going on, the termi- nation of each of its members forms a pause, or rest, in pronounc- ing: and these rests should be so distributed as to make the course of the breathing easy, and, at the same time, should fall at such distances, as to bear a certain musical proportion to each other. This will be best illustrated by examples. The following sentence is from Archbishop Tillotson : ' This discourse concerning the easi- ness of God's commands, does, all along, suppose and acknow- ledge 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 ■s.nd virtuous education.' Here there is no harmony; nay, thete is some degree of harshness and unpleasantness; owing principally to this, that there is, properly, no more than one pause or rest in the sentence, fallingbetwixtthe two members into which it is divided, each of which is so long as to occasion a considerable stretch of the ^reath in pronouncing it. Observe, now, on the other hand, the ease with which the fol- lowing 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, lie concludes, there is no more to be seen ; when he is at the end of his line, he is at the bottom of the ocean ; when he has shot his best, he is sure none ever did, or ever can, shoot better, or beyond it. His own reason he holds to be the certain measure of truth; and his own knowledge, of what is possible in nature.'* Here every * Or this instance. He is addressing himself toLady Essex, upon the death of her cnild: ' I was once in hope, that what was so violent could not be long: but, when I ob- served your grief to grow stronger with age, and to increase, like a stream, the farthei it ran ; when I saw it draw out to such unhappy consequences, and to threaten, no less than your child, your health, and your life, I could no longer forbear this endeavour 140 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [lect. xiii. thing is, at once, easy to the breath, and grateful to the ear; and, it is this sort of flowing measure, this regular and proportional division of the members of his sentences which renders Sir Wil- liam Temple's style always agreeable. I must observe at the same time, that a sentence, with too many rests, and these placed at in- tervals too apparently measured and regular, is apt to savour of affectation. The next thing to be attended to, is, the close or cadence of tbe whole sentence, which, as it is always the part most sensible to the ear, demands the greatest care. So Quintilian ; 'Non igitur du- rum sit, neque abruptum, quo animi, velut, respirant ac reficiuntur Haec est sedes orationis; hoc auditor expectat; hie laus omnis de- clamat.'* The only important rule that can be given here, is, that when we aim at dignity or elevation, the sound should be made to g;row to the last; the longest members of the period, and the fullest •md most sonorous words, should be reserved to the conclusion. As an example of this, the following sentence of Mr. Addison's may be given : < It fills the mind (speaking of sight) with the largest variety of ideas; converses with its objects at the greatest distance; and continues the longest in action, without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments.' Every reader must be sensible of a beauty here, both in the proper division of the mem- bers and pauses, and the manner in which the sentence is rounded, and conducted to a full and harmonious close. The same holds in melody, that I observe to take place with re- spect to significancy : that a falling off at the end, always hurts great- ly. For this reason, particles, pronouns, and little words, are as un- gracious to the ear, at the conclusion, as I formerly showed they were inconsistent with strength of expression. It is more than pro- bable, that the sense and the sound have here a mutual influence on each other. That which hurts the ear seems to mar the strength of the meaning: and that which really degrades the sense, in conse quence of this primary effect, appears also to have a bad sound. How disagreeable is the following sentence of an author, speaking of the Trinity! 'It is a mystery which we firmly believe the truth of, and humbly adore the depth of.' And how easily might it have been mended by this transposition ! ' It is a mystery, the truth of which we firmly believe, and the depth of which we humbly adore.' In general it seems to hold, that a musical close, in our language, requires either the last syllable, or the last but one, to be a long syllable. Words which consist only of short syllables, as, con- trary, particular, retrospect, seldom conclude a sentence har- nor end it without begging of you, for God's sake and for your own, for your children and your friends, your country and your family, that you would no longer abandon yourself to a disconsolate passion ; but that you would at length awaken your piety give way to your prudence, or, at least, rouse the invincible spirit of the Percys, tha' never yet shrunk at any disaster.' * ' Let there be nothing harsh or abrupt in the cenclusion of the sentence, on which the mind pauses and rests. This is the most material part in the structure of discourse Here every beprer expects to be gratified; here his applause breaks forth.' lect. xiii.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 14\ moniously, unless a run of long syllables, before, has rendered them agreeable to the ear. It is necessary, however, to observe, that sentences so constructed as to make the sound always swell and grow towards the end, and to rest either on a long or a penult long syllable, give a discourse the tone of declamation. The ear soon becomes acquainted with the melody, and is apt to be cloyed with it. If we would keep up the attention of the reader or hearer, if we would preserve vivacity and strength in our composition, we must be very attentive to vary our measures. This regards the distribution of the members, as well as the cadence of the period. Sentences constructed in a similar manner, with the pauses falling at equal intervals, should never follow one another. Short sentences should be intermixed with long and swelling ones, to render discourse sprightly, as well as magnificent. Even discords, properly introduced, abrupt sounds, departures from regular cadence, have sometimes a good effect. Monotony is a great fault into which writers are apt to fall, who are fond of harmo- nious arrangement : and to have only one tune, or measure, is not much better than having none at all. A very vulgar ear will enable a writer to catch some one melody, and to form the run of his sen- tences according to it ; which soon proves disgusting. But a just and correct ear is requisite for varying and diversifying the melody; and hence we so seldom meet with authors, who are remarkably hap- py in this respect. Though attention to the music of sentences must not be neglect- ed, yet it must also be kept within proper bounds: for all appear- ances of an author's affecting harmony, are disagreeable: especially when the love of it betrays him so far, as to sacrifice, in any in- stance, perspicuity, precision, or strength of sentiment, to sound. All unmeaning words, introduced merely to round the period, or fill up the melody, comphmenta numeroriim, as Cicero calls them, are great blemishes in writing. They are childish and puerile ornaments, by which a sentence always loses more in point of weight, than it can gain by such additions to the beauty of its sound. Sense has its own harmony, as well as sound ; and, where the sense of a period is expressed with clearness, force, and dignity, it will seldom happen but the words will strike the ear agreeably; at least, a very moderate attention is all that is requisite for making the cadence of such a period pleasing: and the effect of greater attention is often no other, than to render composition languid and enervated. After all the labour which Quintilian bestows on regulatingthe measures of prose, he comes at last, with his usual good sense, to this conclusion : ' In universum, si sit necesse, duram potius atque asperam compositio- nem malimesse, quam effeminatamac enervem, qualis apud multos. Ideoque, vincta quaedam de industria sunt solvenda, ne laborata vide- antur; neque ullum idoneum aut aptum verbum preetermittamus. gratia lenitatis.'* (Lib. ix. c. 4.) * ' Upou the whole, I would rather choose that composition should appear rou;?h and harsh, if that be necessary, than that it should he enervated and effem- 142 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [lkct. xiii. Cicero, as I before observed, is one of the most remarkable pat- terns of a harmonious style. His love of it, however, is too visible, and the pomp of his numbers sometimes detracts from his strength. That noted close of his, esse video tur, which, in the Oration Pro Lege Manilla, occurs eleven times, exposed him to censure among his contemporaries. We must observe, however, in defence of this great orator, that there is a remarkable union,in his style, of harmo- ny 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 musi- cal arrangment. Milton, in some of his prose works, has very fine- ly turned periods ; but the writers of his age indulged a liberty of inversion, which now would be reckoned contrary to purity of style; and though this allowed their sentences to be more stately and sonorous, yet it gave them too much of a Latinised construction and order. Of later writers, Shaftesbury is, upon the whole, the most correct in his numbers. As his ear was delicate, he has at- tended to music in all his sentences; and he is peculiarly happy in this respect, that he has avoided the monotony into which writers, who study the grace of sound, are very apt to fall ; having diversi- fied his periods with great variety. Mr. Addison has also much harmony in his style ; more easy and smooth, hut less varied, than Lord Shaftesbury. Sir William Temple is, in general, very flouring and agreeable. Archbishop Tillotson, is too often careless and languid ; and is much outdone by Bithop Atterbury in the music of his periods. Dean Swift despised musical arrangement alto- gether. Hitherto I have discoursed of agreeable sound, or modulation, m general. It yet remains to treat of a higher beauty of this kind ; the sound adapted to the sense. The former was no more than a simple accompaniment, to please the ear; the latter supposes a pe- culiar expression given to the music. We may remark two degrees of it: First, the current of sound, adapted to the tenour of a dis- course; next, a particular resemblance effected between some ob- ject and the sounds that are employed in describing it. First, I say, the current of sound maybe adapted to the tenour of a discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a correspondence with our ideas ; partly natural, partly the effect of artificial associations. Hence it happens, that any one modulation of sound continued, im- prints on our style a certain character and expression. Sentences con- structed with the Ciceronian fulness and swell, produce the impression of what is important, magnificent, sedate : for this is the natural tone which such a course of sentiment assumes. But they suit no vio- lent passion, no eager reasoning, no familiar address. These always require measures brisker, easier, and often more abrupt. And, hiate. such as we find the style of too many. Some sentences, therefore, which we have studiously formed into melody, should be thrown loose, that they may not seem too much laboured : nor ought we ever to omit any proper or expressive word, for the sake of smoothing a period.' lect. xiii.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 143 tnerefore', to swell, or to let down the periods, as the subject de- mands, is a very important rule in oratory. No one tenour, what- ever, supposing it to produce no bad effect from satiety, will answer to all different compositions; nor even to all the parts of the same composition. It were as absurd to write a panegyric, and an invec- tive, in a style of the same cadence, as to set the words of a tender love-song to the air of a warlike march. Observe, how finely the following sentence of Cicero, is adapted to represent the tranquillity and ease of a satisfied state. ' Etsi ho- mini nihil est magis optandum quam prospera, aequabilis, perpetua- que forUna, secundo vitse sine ulla offensione cursu ; tamen, si mihi tranquilla etplacata omnia fuissentincredibili quadam et pene divi- na, qua nunc vestro beneficio fruor, laetitiae voluptate caruissem.'* Nothing was ever more perfect in its kind : it paints, if we may so speak, to the ear. But, who would not have laughed, if Cicero had employed such periods, or such a cadence as this, in inveighing against Mark Antony, or Catiline? What is requisite, therefore, is, that we previously fix, in our mind, a just idea of the general tone of sound which suits our subject; that is, which the sentiments we are to express most naturally assume, and in which they most com monly vent themselves; whether round or smooth, or stately and solemn, or brisk and quick, or interrupted and abrupt. This gene ral idea must direct the modulation of our periods; to speak in the style of music, must give us the key note, must form the ground of the melody; varied and diversified in parts, according as either our sentiments are diversified, or as is requisite for producing a suitable variety to gratify the ear. It may be proper to remark, that our translators of the Bible have often been happy in suiting their numbers to the subject. Grave, solemn, and majestic subjects, undoubtedly require such an arrange- ment of words as runs much onlong syllables ; and, particularly, they require the close to rest upon such. The very first verses of the Bible, are remarkable for this melody; 'In the beginning, God cre- ated the heavens and the earth ; and the earth was without form and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.' Several other oassages, particularly some of the Psalms, afford striking examples of this sort of grave, melodious construction. Any composition that arises considerably above the ordinary tone of prose, such as monumental inscriptions, and panegyrical characters, naturally runs into numbers of this kind. But in the next place, besides the general correspondence of the current of sound with the current of thought, there may be a more particular expression attempted, of certain objects, by means of re- sembling sounds. This can be, sometimes, accomplished in prose composition; but there only in a more faint degree; nor is it so much expected there. In poetry, chiefly, it is looked for; wlierc attention to sound is more demanded, and where the inversions and * Orat. ad Quirites, post Pe-iitum. 144 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [lect. xiii liberties of poetical style give us a greater command of sound : as- sisted, too, by the versification, and that cantus obscurior, to which we are naturally led in reading poetry. This requires a little more illustration. The sounds of words may be employed for representing, chiefly, three classes of objects; first, other sounds; secondly, motion ; and thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind. First, I say, by a proper choice of words, we may produce a re- semblance of other sounds which "We mean to describe, such as, the noise of waters, the roaring of winds, or the murmuring of streams. This is the simplest instance of this sort of beauty. For the medium through which we imitate here, is a natural one ; sounds represent- ed by other sounds ; and between ideas of the same sense, it is easy to form a connexion. No very great art is required in a poet when he is describing sweet and soft sounds, to make use of such words as have most liquids and vowels, and glide the softest; or, when he is describing harsh sounds, to throw together a number of harsh sylla- bles which are of difficult pronunciation. Here the common struc- ture of language assists him ; for it will be found, that in most lan- guages, the names of many particular sounds are so formed, as to carry some affinity to the sound which they signify; as with us, the whistling of winds, the buz and hu??i of insects, the hiss of serpents, the crash of falling timber; and many other instances, where the word has been plainly framed upon the sound it represents. I shall produce a remarkable example of this beauty from Milton, taken from two passages in Paradise Lost, describing the sound made, in the one, by the opening of the gates of hell ; in the other, by the opening of those of heaven. The contrast between the two, dis- plays, to great advantage, the poet's art. The first is the opening of helPs gates : -On a sudden, open fly, With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound, TV infernal doors ; and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder. B. L Observe, now, the smoothness of the other* -Heaven opened wide Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges turning. B. ii. The following beautiful passage from Tasso's Gierusalemme, has been often admired on account of the imitation effected by sound of the thing represented : Chiama gli habitator de l'ombre eterne II rauco suon de la Tartareo tromba: Treman le spaciose atra caverne, Et l'aer cieco a quel rumor rimbomba; Ni stridendo cosi de la superne Regioni dele cielo, il folgor piomba; Ne si scossa giammai la terra, Quand i vapori in sen gravida serra. Cant. iv. Stanz. 4. 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 lect. xin.l HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 145 gentle, equable or interrupted, easy or accompanied with effort Though there be no natural affinity between sound, of any kind, and motion, yet, in the imagination, there is a strong one ; as ap- pears from the connexion between music and dancing. And there- fore, here it is in the poet's power to give us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would describe, by means of sounds which cor- respond, in our imagination, with that motion. Long syllables natu- rally give the impression of slow motion; as in this line of Virgil : Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. A succession of short syllables presents quick motion to the mind ; as Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum. Both Homer and Virgil are great masters of this beauty ; and their works abound with instances of it; most of them, indeed, so often quoted, and so well known, that it is needless to produce them. I shall give one instance, in English, which seems happy. It is the descrip- tion of a sudden calm on the seas, in a poem, entitled, The Fleece. -With easy course The vessels glide ; unless their speed be stopp'd By dead calms, that oft lie on these smooth seas When every zephyr sleeps ; then the shrouds drop , The downy feather, on the cordage hung, Moves not; the flat sea shines like yellow' gold Fus'd in the fire, or like the marble floor Of some old temple w ;, le. The third set of objects which I mentioned the sound of words as capable of representing, consists of the passions and emotions of the mind. Sound may, at first view, appear foreign to these ; but, that here also, there is some sort of connexion, is sufficiently pro- ved by the power which music has to awaken, or to assist certain passions, and, according as its strain is varied, to introduce one train of ideas, rather than another. This, indeed, logically speaking, cannot be called a resemblance between the sense and the sound, seeing long or short syllables have no natural resemblance to any thought or passion. But if the arrangement of syllables, by their sound alone, recall one set of ideas more readily than another, and dispose the mind for entering into that affection which the poet means to raise, such arrangement may, justly enough, be said to resemble the sense, or be similar and correspondent to it. I admit, that, in many instances, which are supposed to display this beauty of accommodation of sound to the sense, there is much room for imagination to work ; and, according as a reader is struck by a pas- sage, he will often fancy a resemblance between the sound and the sense, which others cannot discover. He modulates the numbers to nis own disposition of mind; and, in effect, makes the music which he imagines himself to hear. However, that there are real instan- ces of this kind, and that poetry is capable of some such expression, cannot be doubted. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, affords a very beautiful exemplification of it, in the English language. With- out much study or reflection, a poet describing pleasure, joy, and 19 146 QUESTIONS. LECT. XIII agreeable objects, from the feeling of his subject, naturally runs into .smooth, liquid, and flowing numbers : Or, Naraque ipsa decoram Caesariem nato genetrix, lumenque juventae Purpureum, et ketos oculis atBarat honores. Mv. L Devenere locos lactos et amaena vireta Portunatorum, memorum, sedesque bcatas ; Largior hie campos aether, et lumine vestit Purpureo, solemque suutn, sua sidera norant. J£i». VI. Brisk and lively sensations, exact quicker and more animated num- bers : , Juvenum manus emicat ardens Littus in Hesperium. iEi». VII. Melancholy and gloomy subjects, naturally express themselves in slow measures, and long words : In those deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells. Et caliganteni nigra formidine lucum. I have now given sufficient openings into this subject : a moderate acquaintance with the good poets, either ancient or modern, will suggest many instances of the same kind. And with this I finish the discussion of the structure of sentences : having fully considered them under all the heads I mentioned ; of perspicuity, unity, strength, and musical arrangement. Q,UESTIO]VS # How have we hitherto considered sentences; and how are we now to consider them ? Of sound, what is o!> served ; and why must it not be disre- garded ? What remark follows ? What is their effect on the imagination? What says Quintilian ? How extensive is the power of music over mankind ? Of what, therefore, may language be rendered capable ; and of what must this heighten our ideas ? What remark rollows? In the harmony of periods, what two things may be considered ? Of them, respectively, what is obser- ved ? First, then, what shall we consi- der ; and to what shall we confine our- selves ? This beauty of musical con- struction in prose, will depend upon what two things ? With what does our au- thor begin ; and on this head, what is observed ? What words, is it evident, are most agreeable to the ear ? What may always be assumed as a principle? What do vowels and consonants, re- spectively, trive to the sound of a word ? What does the music of language re- quire ; and what will be the effect of an excess in either ? Which are most ayreeablp to the ear? By what do they please it; and what follows? Among words of any length, which are the most musical; and what ex- amples are given ? Of the next head, what is observed ; and why ? In the harmonious structure and dfepoi of periods, who excelled all other wri- ters ? What is said of him ; and what example is given ? In English, from whom is a sentence selected ; and what is it ? What is said of it ? The struc- ture of periods being susceptible of very considerable melody, what is our next inquiry ? Were we to follow the ancient rhetoricians upon this subject, why would it be easy to give a great variety of rules ? What do they hold ; and how far do they go? What, con- sequently, follows? Who are full of this? What qualities do they handle slightly ; and where are they copious ? Of Dionycius of Halicarnassus, what ia observed ; and what has he done ? Ii. what four things does he make the ex- cellence of a sentence to consist ? On ail these points, how does he write j and what follows? Of this whole sub- ject of musical structure of discourse, what is observed ? Why will it be ne, cessary to give the reasons ibr this'* What is the first reason assigned ; an LECT. XIII. J QUESTIONS. 146 a why ? What is the next reason assign- ed? Of music, among them, what is observed ? What have several learned men clearly proved ; and what fol- lows ? How was all sort of declama- tion and public speaking carried on by them ; and to what did it approach 1 Anting the Athenians, what existed ? Anions: the Romans, what noted stoiy pre/ails? What remark follows'? Of Quintilian, what is here observed? Hence, what do we find marked upon the Greek syllables ; and for what pur- pose ? Of the Romans, what is here observed? What is one clear reason why the Greeks and Romans paid much greater attention to the musical construction of their sentences than we do? What is further known, as an- other reason why it deserved to be more studied ? What does Cicero tell us ; and what does he give ? By means of the sound of which, alone, what effect does he tell us was produced ? Though it be true that Carbo's sentence is ex- tremely musical, yet, what cannot our author believe ; why ; and what fol- lows ? For these reasons, of what is it in vain to think ? What has tho doc- trine of the Greeks and Romans, on this head, misled some to imagine ? On this subject, what is first remarked ; and why ? What is the next remark ? And lastly, of this whole doctrine, what is remarked ? Of the attention of the an- cients to the melody of discourse, what is further observed ? If we consult Ci- cero's Orator, what shall we see ? Why is it not possible to give precise rules concerning this matter, in any language ? Notwithstanding this musi- cal arrangement cannot be reduced into any system, yet what is our au- thor far from thinking ? On the con- trary, what does he hold; and what follows? What, in this, must chiefly direct him ; and why ? On what two tilings does the music of a sentence chiefly depend? In the proper distri- bution of the several members of a sen- tence, what is it of importance to observe? WTiile the period is going on, what does the termination of each of its mem- bers form ; and how should these rests be distributed ? By what example will this be best illustrated ? Why is there not, in this sentence', any harmony? On the other hand, what shall we ob- serve ? Of what is he speaking ? Re- peat the passage. Of this passage, what is observed; and to this sort of flowing measure, what must be attri- buted ? What must, however, at the same time be observed ? What is the next thing to be attend- ed to ? What says Quintilian on this subject ? When we aim at dignity, what is the only important rule that can be given ? What example of this is given ? Hence, of what must every reader be sensible ? W'hy does a fall- ing off at the end injure the melody of a sentence ? What is here more than probable; and for what reason? Tc illustrate this remark, what example is given ; and how might it be correct- ed? In general, what seems to hold true ? Under what circumstances only, do short syllables conclude a sentence harmoniously? What sentences is it necessary, however, to observe, give a discourse the tone of declamation ; and why ? If we would keep up the atten tion of the reader or hearer, what is requisite ? What does this equally re- gard ? What sentences should never follow one another ? Why should short sentences be intermixed with long ones; and even what have sometimes a good effect ? Of monotony, what is observed ; what writers are apt to fall into it ; and what follows ? How are a very vulgar ear, and a just and correct one. here contrasted ? Though attention to the music of sentences must not be neglected, yet why must it be kept in proper bounds? What are great blemishes in writing; and why?A& sense has its own harmony, as well a.-* sound, what follows? To what conclu- sion does Quintilian, after all the labour which he bestows to regulate the measure of prose, come ? What is here said of Cicero ; and what must we ob- serve hi his defence ? Amono; the few English classical writers, what is re- marked of Milton, and of the writers of the age in which he lived ? Of Lord Shaftesbury, wha.t is observed ; and also of Mr. Addison, Sir William Tem- ple, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop At- terbury, and Dean Swift? Hitherto, ol what has our author discoursed ; and what yet remains ? How are these con- trasted ? What are the two decrees oi ; t, which we may remark ? With what have sounds a correspondence ; and hence, what happens? What is the effect of sentences constructed alter the Ciceronian fulness.- ind why? Wha 146 6 QUESTIONS. [lect. XIII. •do thev not suit ; and what do these -equire ? What, therefore, follows? How is this illustrated ; and what were absurd ? Of the sentence here intro- duced from Cicero, what is remarked ? To have used the same periods where, would have been laughable ; and hence, what is requisite? What must this general idea direct ? What may it be proper here to remark? What do grave, solemn, and majestic subjects, require ? Where are examples ol this to be found ; and what, naturally runs into numbers of this kind? But, in the next place, what is remarked ? Where can this, sometimes, be accomplish- ed ; but where is it to be chiefly looked for ; and why ? What three classes of objects may sounds of words be em- ployed to represent ? First, by a proper choice of words, what may be pro- duced ; and why ? How is this illus- trated ? Here, what assists him ; and why? What examples are given? What remarkable example of this beauty is produced from Milton ? Re- peat the passages. What other beauti- ful passage is given for the same pur- pose? In the second place, what diffe- rent kinds of motion are imitated by sounds of words? What observation follows ; and, therefore, here, what is in the poet's power ? What impression do long syllables give ; of which, what example have we ? What is the effect of short syllables ; and what example is given? Of Homer and Virgil, what is here observed ? What happy instance is given in English ? In what does the third set of objects, which the sounds 01 words are capable of representing, con- sist? What remark follows? What, cannot this be called ; and why ? But what follows ? What is here admitted ? What follows ; and what examples are given? Without much study, what may a poet do? Of brisk and lively, and also of melancholy sensations, what is observed ? What is the closing remark ? ANALYSIS. Harmony. 1. Sounds without reference to sense. a. The choice of words. B. The arrangement of words and members of periods. a. The advantages of the Greeks and Romans. b. The proper distribution of the members of a sentence. c. The close or cadence of the whole. 2. Sounds adapted to the sense. a. Adapted to the tenour of a dis- course. B. Resemblance between the sound and the object described. a. Other sounds. b. Motion. c. Emotions and passions. LECTURE XIV. ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. Having now finished what related to the construction of sen- tences, I proceed to other rules concerning style. My general di- vision of the qualities of style, was into perspicuity and ornament. Perspicuity, both in single words and in sentences, 1 have considered. Ornament, as far as it arises from a graceiu., strong, and melodious construction of words, has also been treated of. Another, and a great branch of the ornament of style, is, figurative language ; which is now to be the subject of our consideration, and will require a full discussion. Our first inquiry must be, what is meant by figures of speech 1* In general, they always imply some departure from simplicity of * On the subject of figures of speech, all the writers who treat of rhetoric or eomposi- ion, have insisted largely. To make references, therefore, r n this subject, were endless. On the foundations of figurative language, in genera., one of the most sensible and in- structive writers appears to me to be M. Marsais, in his Traite des Tropes pour servir a- Introduction a la Rhetorique etala Loeique. For observations on particular figures, he Elements of Criticism may be consulted, whe're the subject is fully handled, ana il nstrated by a great variety of examples. lect. xiv.J FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 147 expression ; the idea which we intend to convey, not only enunciat- ed to others, but enunciated, in a particular manner, and with some circumstance added, which is designed to render the impression more strong and vivid. When I say, for instance, ' That a good man enjoys comfort in the midst of adversity;' I just express my thought in the simplest manner possible. But when I say, ' To the upright there ariseth light in darkness;' the same sentiment is ex- pressed in a figurative style; a new circumstance is introduced ; light is put in the place of comfort, and darkness is used to suggest the idea of adversity. In the same manner, to say, ' It is impossi- ( ble, by any search we can make, to explore the divine nature fully,' is to make a simple proposition. But when we say, ' Canst thou, by searching, find out God? Canst thou find out the Almighty to perfec- tion ? It is high as heaven, what canst thou do ? deeper than hell, what canst thou know?' This introduces a figure into style; the proposition being not only expressed, but admiration and astonish- ment being expressed together with it. But, though figures imply a deviation from what may be reckoned the most simple form of speech, we are not thence to conclude, that they imply any thing uncommon, or unnatural. This is so far from being the case, that, on very many occasions, they are both the most natural, and the most common method of uttering our sentiments. It is impossible to compose any discourse without using them often; nay, there are few sentences of any length, in which some expression or other, that may be termed a figure, doe^ not occur. From what causes this happens, shall be afterwards ex plained. The fact, in the mean time, shows, that they are to be accounted part of that language which nature dictates to men. They are not the inventions of the schools, nor the mere product ol study: on the contrary, the most illiterate speak in figures, as of- ten as the most learned. Whenever the imaginations of the vulgar are much awakened, or their passions inflamed against one another, they will pour fourth a torrent of figurative language as forcible as could be employed by the most artificial declaimer. What then is it, which has drawn the attention of critics and rhetoricians so much to these forms of speech ? It is this : They remarked, that in them consists much of the beauty and the force of language; and found them always to bear some characters, or distinguishing marks, by the help of which they could reduce them under separate classes and heads. To this, perhaps, they owe their name of figures. As the figure, or shape of one body, distinguishes it from another, so these forms of speech have, each of them, a cast or turn peculiar to itself, which both distinguishes it from the rest, and distinguishes it from simple expression. Simple expres- sion just makes our idea known to others; but figurative language, over and above, bestows a particular dress upon that idea ; a dress, which both makes it to be remarked, and adorns it. Hence, this sort of language became early a capital object of attention to those who studied the powers of speech. Figures, in general, may be dercribed to be that language, which 148 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF L lect. xiv .s prompted either by the imagination, or by the passions. The justness of this description will appear, from the more particular ac- count I am afterwards to give of them. Rhetoricians commonly divide them into two great classes; figures of words, and figures of thought. The former, figures of words, are commonly called tropes, and consist in a word's being employed to signify something that is different from its original and primitive meaning; so that if you alter the word, you destroy the figure. Thus, in the instance I gave before; 'Light ariseth to the upright in darkness.' The trope consists in ' light and darkness' being not meant literally, but substituted for comfort and adversity, on account of some resem- blance or analogy which they are supposed to bear to these con- ditions of life. The other class, termed figures of thought, suppo- ses the words to be used in their proper and literal meaning, and the figure to consist in the turn of the thought; as is the case in ex- clamations, interrogations, apostrophes, and comparisons; where, though you vary the words that are used, or translate them from one language into another, you may, nevertheless, still preserve the same figure in the thought. This distinction, however, is of no great use, as nothing can be built upon it in practice ; neither is it always very clear. It is of little importance, whether we give to some par- ticular mode of expression the name of a trope, or of a figure; provided we remember, that figurative language always imports some colouring of the imagination, or from some emotion of passion, ex- pressed in our style: and, perhaps, figures of imagination, and figures of passion, might be a more useful distribution of the subject. But without insisting on any artificial divisions, it will be more useful, that I inquire into the origin and the nature of figures. On- ly, before I proceed to this, there are two general observations which it may be proper to premise. The first is, concerning the use of rules with respect to figurative language. I admit, that persons may both speak and write with propriety, who know not the names of any of the figures of speech, nor ever studied any rules relating to them. Nature, as was before observed, dictates the use of figures; and, like Mons. Jourdain, in Moliere, who had spoken for forty years in prose, Without ever knowing it, many a one uses metaphorical expressions to good pur- pose, without any idea of what a metaphor is. It will not, how- ever, follow thence, that rules are of no service. All science arises from observations on practice. Practice has always gone before me- thod and rule ; but method and rule have afterwards improved and perfected practice in every art. We every day meet with persons who sing agreeably without knowing one note of the gamut. Yet, it has been found of importance to reduce these notes to a scale, and to form an art of music ; and it would be ridiculous to pretend, that the art is of no advantage, because the practice is founded in nature. Propriety and beauty of speech, are certainly as improveable as the ear or the voice; and to know the principles of this beauty, or the rea- sons which render one figure, or one manner of speech,preferable tfv another, cannot fail to assist and direct a proper choice lect. xiv.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 149 But I must observe, in the next place, that although this part of style merits attention, and is a very proper object of science e Oratore, L. iii c. 53 lbct xv.] METAPHOR. 163 With a thick cloud by vapours made ; Canst have no power to shut his eyes, Whose flame's so pure that it sends up no smoke, Yet how do tears but from some vapours rise ! Tears that be winter all my year; The fate of Egypt I sustain, And never feel the dew of rain, From clouds which in the head appear; But all my too much moisture owe To overflowings of the heart below.* Trite and common resemblances should indeed be avoided in qui metaphors. To be new, and not vulgar, is a beauty. But when they are fetched from some likeness too remote, and lying too far out of the road of ordinary thought, then, besides their obscurity, they have also the disadvantage of appearing laboured, and, as the French call it, ' recherche :' whereas metaphor, like every other orna- ment, loses its whole grace, when it does not seem natural and easy. It is but a bad and ungraceful softening which writers sometimes use for a harsh metaphor, when they palliate it with the expression, as it were. This is but an awkward parenthesis ; and metaphors, which need this apology of an as it were, would, generally, have been better omitted. Metaphors, too, borrowed from any of the sciences, especially such of them as belonged to particular profes- sions, are almost always faulty by their obscurity. In the fourth place, it must be carefully attended to, in the con- duct of metaphors, never to jumble metaphorical and plain lan- iruao-e together; never to construct a period so, that part of it must be understood metaphorically, part literally; which always produces a most disagreeable confusion. Instances which are but too fre- quent, even in good authors, will make this rule and the reason of it, be clearly understood. In Mr. Pope's translation of the Odys- sey, Penelope, bewailing the abrupt departure of her son Tele- machus, 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.! IV. l>62. Here, in one line, her son is figured as a column; and in the next, he returns to be a person, to whom it belongs to take adieu, and to ask 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 ascribed no- thing to him, but what belonged to it. He was not at liberty to as- * See an excellent criticism on this sort of metaphysical poetry, in Dr. Johnson's Life of Cowley. t In the original, there is no allusion to a column, and the Metaphor is reguiarb supported. *H gravat artes Infra se positas. Urit qui prsegravat. He dazzles who bears down with his weight ; makes plainly an inconsistent mixture of metaphorical ideas. Js 1 either can this other passage be altogether vindicated : Ah ! quanta laboras in Charybdi, Digne puer meliore flamma? Where a whirlpool of water, Charybdis, is said to be a flame not good enough for this young man; meaning, that he was unfortu- nate in the object of his passion. Flame is, indeed, become al- * In my observation on this passage, I find that I had coincided with Dr. Johnson who passes a similar censure upon it, in his life of Addison. 166 METAPHOR. [lect. xv most a literal word for the passion of love : but as it still retains, in some degree, its figurative power, it should never have been used as synonymous with water, and mixed with it in the same metaphor. When Mr. Pope (Eloisa to Abelard) says, All then is full, possessing- and possest, No craving void left aking in the breast . A void may, metaphorically, be said to crave : but can a vo :< i be said Lo uke? A good rule has been given for examining the propriety of meta- phors, when we doubt whether or not they be of" the mixed kind ; namely, that we should try to form a picture upon them, and consi- der 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, as in all those faulty instances I have now been giving; or whether the object was, all along, presented in one natural and consistent point of view. As metaphors ought never to be mixed, so, in the sixth place, we should avoid crowding them together on the same object. Suppos- ing each of the metaphors to be preserved distinct, yet, if they be heaped on one another, they produce a confusion somewhat of the same kind with the mixed metaphor. We may judge of this by the following passage from Horace : Motum ex Metello consule civicum, Bellique causas, et vitia et modos, Ludumque fortune, gravesque Principum amicitias, et arma Nondum expiatis uncta cruoribus ; Periculosa plenum opus aleae Tractas, et incedis per ignes Suppositos cineri doloso.* Lib. ii. 1. This passage, though very poetical, is, however, harsh and ob- scure; owing to no other cause but this, that three distinct meta- phors are crowded together, to describe the difficulty of Pollio's writing a history of the civil wars. First, ' Tractas arma uncta cru- oribus nondum expiatis;' next, ' opus plenum periculosae aleae ;' and then ; ' Incedis per ignes suppositos doloso cineri.' The mind has difficulty in passing readily through so many different views, given it in quick succession, of the same object. The only other rule concerning metaphors which I shall add, ir» * Of warm commotions, wrathful jars, The growing seeds of civil wars ; 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 ; Yet unaton'd (a labour vast ! Doubtful the die, and dire the cast !) Fou treat adventurous, and incautious tread On fires with faithless embers overspread. Fbakci» lect. xv.] METAPHOR. 167 tiie seventh place, is, that they be not too far pursued. If the re- semblance, on which the figure is founded, be long dwelt upon, and carried into all its minute circumstances, we make an allegory in- stead 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, v/hich I before remarked. Lord Shaftesbury is sometimes guilty of pursuing his metaphors too far. Fond, to a high degree, of every decoration of style, when once he had hit upon a figure that pleased him, he was extremely loth to part with it. Thus, in his advice to an author, having taken up soliloquy or meditation, under the metaphor of a proper method of evacua- tion for an author, he pursues this metaphor through several pages, under all the forms 'of discharging crudities, throwing off froth and scum, bodily operation, taking physic, curing indigestion, giving vent to choler, bile, flatulencies, and tumours;' till, at last, the idea becomes nauseous. Dr. Young, also, often trespasses in the same way. The merit, however, 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 na- tural and beautiful. But his imagination was strong and rich, rather than delicate and correct. Hence, in his Night Thoughts, there prevails an obscurity, and a hardness in his style. The meta- phors are frequently too bold, and frequently too far pursued; the reader is dazzled, rather than enlightened ; and kept constantly on the stretch to keep pace with t«f. author. We may observe, for instance, how the following metaphor is spun out: Thy thoughts are vagabond ; all outward bound, Midst sands,and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure; If gain'd, dear bought : and better miss'd than gain'd. Fancy and sense, from an infected shore, Thy cargo brings ; and pestilence the prize ; Then such the thirst, insatiable thirst, By fond indulgence but inflam'd the more, Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tir'd. Speaking of old age, he says, it should Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore Of lhat vast ocean, it must sail so soon ; And put good works on board ■; and wait the wind That shortly blows us into worlds unknown. The two first lines are uncommonly beautiful ; 'walk thoughtful on the silent,' &c. but when he continues the metaphor, 'to putting good worksonboard, and waitingthe wind,' it plainly becomes strain- ed, and sinks in dignity. Of all the English authors, I know none so happy in his metaphors as Mr. Addison. His imagination was neither so rich nor so strong as Dr. Young's ; but far more chaste and delicate. Perspicuity, natural grace and ease, always distinguish his figures. They are neither harsh nor strained : they never appeal 2B 168 ALLEGORY. [lect. xy to have been studied or sought after : but seem to rise of their own accord from the subject, and constantly embellish it. I have now treated fully of the metaphor, and the rules that should govern it, a part of style so important, that it required particular illustration. I have only to add a few words concerning allegory. An allegory may be regarded as a continued metaphor; as it is the representation of some one thing by another that resembles it, and that is made to stand for it. Thus, in Prior's Henry and Em- ma, Emma, in the following allegorical manner, describes her con- stancy to Henry : Did I but purpose to embark with thee On the smooth surface of a summer's sea, While gentle zephyrs play with prosperous gales, And fortune's favour fills the swelling sails ; But would forsake the ship, and make the shore, When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar ? We may take also from the scriptures a very fine example of an allegory, in the 80th Psalm ; where the people of Israel are repre- sented under the image of a vine, and the figure is supported through- out with great correctness and beauty ; ' Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt, thou hast cast out the heathen and planted it. Thou preparedst room before it, and didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the land. The hills were covered with the shadow of it ; and the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. She sent out her boughs into the sea, and her branches into the river. Why hast thou broken down her hedges, so that all they which pass by the way do pluck her ! The boar out of the wood doth waste it ; and the wild beast of the field doth devour it. Return, we beseech thee, God of Hosts, look down from heaven, and behold, and visit this vine !' Here there is no circumstance, (except, perhaps, one phrase at the beginning, ' thou hast cast out the heathen') that dees not strictly agree to a vine, whilst, at the same time, the whole quadrates happily with the Jewish state represented by this figure. This is the first and principal requisite in the conduct of an allegory, that the figurative snd the literal meaning be not mixed inconsistently toge- ther. For instance, instead of describing the vine, as wasted by the boar from the wood, and devoured by the wild beast of the field, had the Psalmist said, it was afflicted by heathens, or overcome by enemies, (which is the real meaning) this would have ruined the al- legory, and produced the same confusion, of which I gave examples in metaphors, when the figurative and literal sense are mixed and j jmbled together. Indeed, the same rules that were given for meta- phors, may also be applied to allegories, on account of the affinity they bear to each other. The only material difference between them, besides the one being short and the other being prolonged,is, that a metaphor always explains itself by the words that are connect- ed with it in their proper and natural meaning ; as when I say 'Achilles was a lion;' an 'able minister is the pillar of the state.' My lion and my pillar are sufficiently interpreted by the mention of Achilles and the minister, which I join to them: but an allegory is, or may be, allowed to stand more disconnected with the literal mean LECT- XV.] ALLEGORY. mg ; the interpretation not so directly pointed out, but left to our own reflection. Allegories were a favourite method of delivering instructions in ancient times ; for what we call fables or parables, are no other than allegories ; where, by words and actions attributed to beasts or inani- mate objects, the dispositions of men are figured ; and what we call the moral, is the unfigured sense or meaning of the allegory. An aenigma, or riddle, is also a species of allegory ; one thing represent- ed or imagined by another ; but purposely wrapt up under so many circumstances, as to be rendered obscure. Where a riddle is not intended, it is always a fault in allegory to be too dark. The mean- ing should be easily seen through the figure employed to shadow it. However, the proper mixture of light and shade in such composi- tions, the exact adjustment of all the figurative circumstances with the literal sense, so as neither to lay the meaning too bare and open, nor to cover and wrap it up too much, has ever been found an af- fair of great nicety ; and there are few species of composition in which it is more difficult to write so as to please and command atten- tion, than in allegories. In some of the visions of the Spectator, we have examples of allegories very happily executed. QUESTIONS. After the pre.iminary observations made relating to figurative language in general, of what does our author come to treat? With which does he bes;in ; and on what is it founded ? Hence, of it, what is observed ? How is this remark illustrated ? Of the com- I>arison betwixt the minister and a pil- ar, what is remarked ? This, therefore, is what ; and how does it affect the fan- cy ? Of the mind, when thus employed, what is observed ? At what, therefore, need we not be surprised; and what remark follows ? How is this illustrated, from the words here casually employ- ed 1 Why is the metaphor commonly ranked amoig tropes, or figures of thought ? But provided the nature of it be well understood, what matters but little ; and to what has our author con- fined it ? In what sense, however, is the word metaphor sometimes used ? From what example is this illustrated ; and of it, what is observed ? How does Aristotle, in his Poetics, use metaphor ? But to tax him with what, would be unjust ; and why ? Now, however, what is inaccurate? To what does metaphor more nearly approach than any other figure ; and what is its pecu- liar effect? In order to produce this ef- fect, what is required; and why? What, therefore, is necessary ? But be- fore entering on these, what does our author propose to do; and why? Whence is the instance taken ? Re- peat it. Of it, what is observed? On this passage, what two remarks are made? By what arrangement would the sentiment have been enfeebled ? Having mentioned with applause this instance from Lord Bolingbroke, what, does our author think it incumbent on him here to notice ? Of his writings, what is our author's opinion? What merit have his political writings ? Of his philosophical works, what is ob served ? Of what is this author an un- happy instance ? Returning from tkis digression, to what does our author pro- ceed ? What is the first ? Of this di- rection, what is observed ? How is this illustrated? Whatmustwe remember? What remark follows ? Of the exces- sive employment o r them, what is ob- served ? What air does it give to com- 169 a QUESTIONS. [lect. XV position ; and how does this appear ? As the affectation and parade of ornament detract as much from an author as they do from a man, what follows? What :s most unnatural ? For what do we re- spectively look, when he reasons, when he describes, or when he relates ? What k one of the greatest secrets in compo- sition ? What does this give ? What is the effect of a right disposition of the shade ? What says Cicero on this sub- ject ? By whom should this admonition be attended to ? What does the second rule given, respect? How extensive is the field of figurative language? What objects may be introduced into figures with propriety ? But of what must we beware ; and even when ? In what subjects is it an unpardonable fault to introduce mean and vulgar metaphors ? What do we find in the treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift's works ? Authors of what cha- racter, have fallen into this error? What instance is given ? Of Shaks- peare, what is here observed ? What example is given from his Henry V. ? In the third place, about what should particular care be taken ? The trans- gression of this rule, makes what ; and what issaid of them? Who ahounds with metaphors of this kind ? What did he, and some of the writers of his aire, seem to consider the perfection of wit ? This makes a metaphor resemble what ; and is the reverse of what rule ? Re- peat the fallowing verses from Cowley, in which he is speaking of his mis- tress ; and also his address to sleep. What should be avoided in our meta- phors ? What is a beauty ? When have metaphors the disadvantage of appearing laboured ; and when do they lose their whole grace ? What paliative do writers sometimes use for a harsh n etnphor ; and what is said of it ? What metaphors are almost al- ways faulty by their obscurity? In the fourth place, what must be carefully attended to ? What noes a violation of this direction always pro- duce ? What will make this rule, and the reason of it, clearly understood? What is the first one given ? Here, in one line, her son is made to appear like what ; and what does he return to be n the next ? To what should the poet have kept himself? To do what was he not at liberty ; and why ? Of the rule which Horace applies to charac- ters, what is observed ? Repeat it ; and also Mr. Pope's lines addressed to the Rang? Of the latter, what is observed? What is said of the works of Ossian ? What examples are given ? What do they, however, afibrd ; and what is it ? Of the metaphor in this passage, what is observed? If it be faulty to jumble together metaphorical and plain lan- guage, what, in the fifth place, is still more so ? What is this called ; and what is said of it? What instance is given ? What does this make ? What says Quintilian on this subject? What example is given from Shakspeare's Tempest ; and of it, what is observed ? What one is given from Romeo and Juliet ? Here, how is the angel repre- sented? What inaccuracy of the same kind is given from Mr. Addison ; and what is observed of it? What does the same author, in one of his numbers ol tne Spectator, say ; and of it, what is observed ? In what passages is Horace also incorrect; and what is said ol them? What illustration of this rule is given from Mr. Pope? What good rule has heen given for examining the pro- priei) of a metaphor? By this n, of what should we become sensible? As metaphors ought never to be mixed, so, in the sixth place, what should we avoid ? How may they produce a con- fusion of the same kind with the mix- ed metaphor ? By what passage from Horace may we judge of this? To v hat is the harshness and obscurity of this passage owing ? What are they ? In what does the mind here find diffi- culty ? What is the only other rule which is to be given concerning meta- phors ? How shall we weary the fan- cy, and render our discourse obscure ? What is this called? To what is this error in Cowley owing? Of Lord Shaftesbury, what is observed ? What illustration is given ? Of the merit of Dr. Young in figurative language, what is remarked? Of his metaphors, and of his imagination, what is ob- served ? Hence, in his Night Thou /iits, what prevails? What is said of the metaphors? In the following metaphor, what may we observe? Repeat it. Speaking of old age, what does he say and what is remarked of this passage ? How does Mr. Addison, in metaphori- cal language, compare with othei LECT. XV QUESTIONS. 169 * English authors ? How does his imagi- nation c Dmpare with that of Dr. Young ? What always distinguish his figures ? Of what has our author now treated fully ; and, as a part of style, what is observed of it ? How may an allegory be regarded ; and why ? What exam- ple is given from Prior? What very fine example of this figure may we take from scripture? Here, what is not found ? What is the first and prin- cipal requisite in the conduct of an al- legory? How is this illustrated ? What rules may be applied to allegories? What is the only material difference between them? What illustration is given ? How does it appear that alle- gories were a favourite method of de- livering instructions in ancient times ? What is an enigma, or riddle ? Where a riddle is not intended, what follows ? What has ever been an affair of great nicety ; and what is the consequence ? Where have we examples of allego- ries very happily executed ? ANALYSIS. Metaphor. A. The metaphor and the compari- son contrasted. B. The peculiar properties of the metaphor. c. Rules for the conduct of metaphors. a. They should be suited to the subject. 6. They should be drawn from ob- jects of dignity. c. The resemblance should be clear and perspicuous. d. Metaphorical and plain lan- guage should not be jumbled to- gether. e. Two metaphors L-hould not meet on the same ot |ect. f. They should not be crowded to- gether on the same object. g. They should not be too far pur- sued. . Allegory. a. Its nature. B. Fables and senigmas. LECTUME XVI. HYPERBOLE.— PERSONIFICATION.— APOSTROPHE. The next figure concerning which I am to treat, is called hyper- bole, or exaggeration. It consists in magnifying an object beyond its natural bounds. It may be considered sometimes as a trope, and sometimes as a figure of thought : and here, indeed, the distinc- tion between these two classes begins not to be clear, nor is it ot any importance that we should have recourse to metaphysical sub- tilties, in order to keep them distinct. Whether we call it trope or figure, it is plain that it is a mode of speech which hath some foun- dation in nature. For in all languages, even in common conversation, hyperbolical expressions very frequently occur : as swift as the wind ; as white as the snow ; and the like : and our common forms of com- pliment are almost all of them extravagant hyperboles. If any thing be remarkably good or great in its kind, we are instantly ready to add to it some exaggerating epithet ; and to make it the greatest or best we ever saw. The imagination has always a tendency to gratify itself, by magnifying its present object, and carrying it to excess. More or less of this hyperbolical turn will prevail in lan- guage, according to the liveliness of imagination among the people who speak it. Hence, young people deal always much in hyper- boles. Hence, the language of the orientals was far more hyperbo- lical than that of the Europeans, who are of more phlegmatic, or, it you please, of more correct imagination. Hence, among all wri- 170 HYPERBOLE. [lect. xvi ters ia early tinies, and in the rude periods of society, we may ex pect this figure to abound. Greater experience, and more cultivat- ed society, abate the warmth of imagination, and chisten the mar- ner of expression. The exaggerated expressions to which our ears are accustomed in conversation, scarcely strike us as hyperboles. In an instant we make the proper abatement, and understand them according to their just value. But when there is something striking and unusual in the form of a hyperbolical expression, it then rises into a figure of speech which draws our attention: and heve it is necessary to ob- serve, that, unless the reader's imagination be in such a state as dis- poses it to rise and swell along with the hyperbolical expression, he is always hurt and offended by it. For a sort of disagreeable force is put upon him; he is required to strain and exert his fancy, when he feels no inclination to make any such effort. Hence the hyper- bole is a figure of difficult management; and ought neither to be frequently used, nor long dwelt upon. On some occasions, it is un doubtedly proper ; being, as was before observed, the natural style of a sprightly and heated imagination ; but when hyperboles are un- seasonable, or too frequent, they render a composition frigid and unaffecting. They are the resource of an author of feeble imagina tion; of one, describing objects which either want rative dignity in themselves, or whose dignity he cannot show by describing them simply, and in their just proportions, and is therefore obliged to rest upon tumid and exaggerated expressions. Hyperboles are of two kinds ; either such as are employed in des- cription, or such as are suggested by the warmth of passion. The best by far, are those which are the effect of passion: for if the imagination has a tendency to magnify its objects beyond their na- tural proportion, passion possesses this tendency in a vastly strongei degree; and therefore not only excuses the most daring figures, but very often renders them natural and just. All passions, without ex- ception, love, terror, amazement, indignation, anger, and even grief, throw the mind into confusion, aggravate their objects, and of course, prompt a hyperbolical style. Hence the following sentiments of Sa- tan 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 w.ath, and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell, And in the lowest depth, a lower deep Still threat'iiing" to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. B iv. 1. 73 In simple description, though hyperboles are not excluded, vet they must be used with more caution, and require more prepara- tion, in order to make the mind relish them. Either the object described must be of that kind, which of itself seizes the fancj strongly, and disposes it to run beyond bounds; something vast, surprising, and new: or the writer's art must be exerted in heating fancy gradually, and preparing it to think highly of the object lect. xvi.] HYPERBOLE. 171 which he intends to exaggerate. When a poet is describing an earthquake or a storm, or when he has brought us into the midst of a bactle, we can bear strong hyperboles without displeasure. But when he is describing only a woman in grief, it is impossible not to be disgusted with such wild exaggeration as the following, in one of our dramatic poets ; 1 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 drown'd The wrath of Heaven, and quench'd the mighty ruin. Lee Th is 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, cannot be allowed an equal liberty ; for this plain reason, that the one is supposed to ut- ter the sentiments of passion, the other speaks only the language of description, which is always, according to the dictates of nature, on a lower tone: a distinction, which, however obvious, has not been attended to by many writers. How far a hyperbole, supposing it properly introduced, may be safely carried without overstretching it; what is the proper measure and boundary of this figure, cannot, as far as I know, be ascertained by any precise rule. Good sense and just taste must determine the point, beyond which, if we pass, we become extravagant. Lucan may be pointed out as an author apt to be excessive in his hyperboles. Among the compliments paid by the Roman poets to their Empe- rors, it had become fashionable to ask them, what part of the hea- vens they would choose for their habitation, after they should have become gods ? Virgil had already carried this sufficiently far in his address to Augustus. -Tibi brachia contrahit intrens Scorpius, et Coeli justa plus parte relinquit.* But this did not suffice Lucan. Resolved to outdo all his predeces- sors, in a like address to Nero, he very gravely beseeches him not to choose his place near either of the poles, but to be sure to occupy just the middle of the heavens, lest, by going either to one side or the other, his weight should overset the universe: Sed neque in Arctoo sedem tibi legeris orbe, Nee polus adversi calidus qua mergitur Austri ; jEtheris immensi partem si presseris unam Sentiet axis onus. Librati pondera Cadi Orbe tene medio.f Phars. I. 53. * 'The Scorpion, ready to receive thy laws, Yields half his region, and contracts his paws.' Drftex t ' But oh! whatever be thy Godhead great, Fix not in regions too remote thy seat ; Nor deign thou near the frozen bear to shine, Nor where the sultry southern stars decline. Press not too much on any part the sphere, Hard were the task thy weight divine to bear ; Soon would the axis feel th' unusual load, And, groaning, bend beneath th' incumbent God ) O'er the mid orb more equal shalt thou rise, And with a juster balance fix the skies. Rows 172 PERSONIFICATION. [lect. xvj Such thoughts as these, are what the French call oxdrte, ami always proceed from a false fire of genius. The Spanish and African writers, as Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustin, are remarked for being fond of them. As in that Epitaph on Charles V. by a Spanish writer: Pro tumulo ponas orbcm, pro tegmine caelum, Sidera pro facibus, pro lacrymis nnria. Sometimes they dazzle and impose by their boldness; but wherever reason and good sense are so much violated, there can be no true beauty. Epigrammatic writers are frequently guilty in this res- pect ; resting the whole merit of their epigrams on some extrava- gant hyperbolical turn ; such as the following of Dr. Pitcairn's, upon Holland's being gained from the ocean ; Tellurem fecere Dii ; sua littora Belga;; Iminenszeque mulis opus utrumque fuit; Dii vacuo sparsas glomerarunt aethere terras, Nil ibi quod opcri possit obesse fuit. At Belgis maria et coeli, naturaqne rertim Obstitit; obstantes hi domucre Deos. So much for the hyperbole. We proceed now to those figures which lie altogether in the thought; where the words are taken in their com- mon and literal sense. Among these, the first place is unquestionably due to personifi- cation, or that figure by which we attribute life and action to inan- imate objects. The technical term for this is Prosopopoeia; but as person! lication is of the same import, and more allied to our own language, it will be better to use this word. It is a figure, the use of which is veiy extensive, and its founda- tion is laid deep in human nature. At first view, and when considered abstractly, it would appear to be a figure of the utmost boldness, and to border on the extravagant and ridiculous. For what can seem more remote from the track of reasonable thought, than to speak of stones and trees, and fields and rivers, as if they were living creatures, and to attribute to them thought and sensation, affections and actions? One might imagine this to be no more thai- childish conceit, which no person of taste could relish. In fact, however, the case is very different. No such ridiculous effect is produced by personification, when properly employed ; on the contrary, it is found to be natural and agreeable, nor is any very uncommon degree of passion required, in order to make us relish it. All poetry, even in its most gentle and humble forms, abounds with it. From prose, it is far from being excluded; nay, in com- mon conversation, very frequent approaches are made to it. When we say, the ground thirsts for rain, or the earth smiles with plenty : when we speak of ambition's being restless, or a disease being deceit- ful, such expressions show the facility with which the mind can ac- commodate the properties of living creatures to things that are in- animate, or to abstract conceptions of its own forming. Indeed, it is very remarkable, that there is a wonderful proneness in human nature to animate all objects. Whether this arises from a sort of assimilating principle, from a propension to spread a resern lect. xvi. j - PEKSuNIFICATION. '73 blance of ourselves over all other things, or from whatever other oaase it arises, so it is, that almost ev^ry emotion, which in the least agitates the mind, bestows upon its "bject a momentary idea of life. Let a man by an unwary step, sprain his ankle, or hurt his foot upon a stone, and in the ruffled, discomposed moment, he will sometimes feel himself disposed to break the stone in pieces, or to utter passionate expressions against it, as if it had done him an injury. If one has been long accustomed to a certain set of objects which have made a strong impression on his imagination ; as to a house where he has passed many agreeable years; or to fields, and trees, and mountains, among which he has often walked with the greatest delight ; when he is obliged to part with them, especially if he has no prospect of ever seeing them again, he can scarce avoid having somewhat of the same feeling as when he is leaving old friends. They seem endowed with life. They become objects of his affection ; and in the moment of his parting, it scarcely seems absurd to him, to give vent to his feeling in words, and to take a formal adieu. So strong is that impression of life, which is made upon us by the more magnificent and striking objects of nature especially, that I doubt not, in the least, of this having been one cause of the multi- plication of divinities in the heathen world. The belief of Dryads and Naiads, the genius of the wood, and the god of the river, among men of lively imaginations, in the early ages of the world, easily arose from this turn of mind. When their favourite rural objects had often been animated in their fancy, it was an easy transition to at- tribute to them some real divinity, some unseen power or genius which inhabited them, or in some peculiar manner belonged to them. Imagination was highly gratified, by thus gaining some- what to rest upon with more stability ; and when belief coincided so much with imagination, very slight causes would be sufficient to establish it. From this deduction, may be easily seen how it comes to pass, that personification makes so great a figure in all compositions, where imagination or passion have any concern. On innumerable occasions, it is the very language of imagination and passion, and therefore, deserves to be attended to, and examined with peculiar care. There are three different degrees of this figure ; which it is necessary to remark and distinguish, in order to determine the pro- priety of its use. The first is, when some of the properties or qualities of living creatures are ascribed to inanimate objncts , the second, when those inanimate objects are introduced 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, consists in ascribing to inanimate objects some of the qualities of living creatures. Where this is done, as is most commonly the case, in a word or two, and byway of an epithet added to the object, as, "a raging storm, a deceitful disease, a cruel disaster," &c. it raises the style so little, that the humblest discourse will admit it without any force. This, 2C : 74 PERSONIFICATION. [iaw. xvi. ndeed, is .such an obscure degree of personification, that one may doubt whether it deserves the name, and might not be classed with simple metaphors, which escape in a manner unnoticed. Happily employed, however, it sometimes adds beauty and sprightliness to an expression; as in this line of Virgil; Aut conjurato descendens Dacus ab Istro. Geor. II. 474. Where the personal epithet, conjurato, applied to the river Istro, is in- finitely more poetical than if it had been applied to tne person, thus : Aut conjuratus descendens Dacus ab Istro. A very little taste will make any one feel the difference between these two lines. The next degree of this figure is, when we introduce inanimate objects acting like those that, have life. Here we rise a step high- er, and the personification becomes sensible. According to the nature of the action, which we attribute to those inanimate objects, and the particularity with which we describe it, such is the strength of the figure. When pursi ed to any length, it belongs only to studied harangues, to highly figured and eloquent discourse ; when slightly touched, it may be admitted into subjects cf less elevation. Cicero, for instance, speaking of the cases where killing another is lawful in self-defence, uses the following words : ' Ahquando nobis gladius ad occidendum hominem ad ipsis porrigitur kgibus.' (Orat. pro Milone.) The expression is happy. The laws are personified, as reaching forth their hand to give us a sword for putting one to death. Such short personifications as these may be admitted even into moral treatises, or works of cool reasoning; and provided they be easy and not strained, and that we be not cloyed with too fre- quent returns of them, they have a good effect on style, and render it both strong and lively. The genius of our language gives us an advantage in the use of this figure. As, with us, no substantive nouns have gender, or are masculine and feminine, except the proper names of male and fe- male creatures ; by giving a gender to any inanimaie object, or ab- stract idea, that is, in place of the pronoun it, using the personal pronouns, he or she, we presently raise the style, and begin personi- fication. In solemn discourse, this may often be doj.e to good pur- pose, when speaking of religion, or virtue, or our country, or any such object of dignity. I shall give a remarkably fine example, from a sermon of Bishop Sherlock's, where we shall see natural re ligion beautifully personified, and be able to judge from it, of the spirit and grace which this figure, when well conduc led, bestows on a discourse. I must take notice, at the same time, that it is an in- stance of this figure, carried as far as prose, even in its highest ele vation, will admit, and therefore suited only to compositions where the great efforts of eloquence are allowed. The aiihoris compar- ing together our Saviour and Mahomet; ' Go,* says i e, ' to your na tural religion : lay before her Mahomet, and his disciples, arrayed in armour and blood, riding in triumph over the spc.is of thousands who fell by his victorious sword. Show her the cit ts which he set ^ lect. xvi.] PERSONIFICATION. .75 in flames, the countries which he ravaged and destroyed, and the miserable distress of all the inhabitants of the earth. When she has viewed him in this scene, carry her into his retirement ; show her the prophet's chamber; his concubines and his wives; and let her hear him allege revelation, and a divine commission, to justify his adulte- ry and lust. When she is tired with this prospect, then show her the blessed Jesus, humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men. Let her see him in his most retired privacies : let her follow him to the mount,and hear his devotions and supplications to God. Carry her to his table, to view his poor fare, and hear his heavenly discourse. Let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider the patience with which he endured the scoffs and reproaches of his enemies. Lead her to his cross ; let her view him in the agony of death, and hear his last prayer for his persecutors; Fat her, for give them, for they know not what they do ! When natural religion has thus viewed both, ask her which is the Prophet of God ? But her answer we have already had, when she saw part of this scene, through the eyes of the cen- turion, who attended at the cross. By him she spoke, and said, Truly, this man was the Son of God.'* This is more than elegant ; it is truly sublime. The whole passage is animated ; and the figure rises at the conclusion, when natural religion, who, before, was only a spectator, is introduced as speaking by the centurion's voice. It has the better effect too, that it occurs at the conclusion of a dis- course, where we naturally look for most warmth and dignity. Did Bishop Sherlock's sermons, or, indeed, any English sermons what- ever, afford us many passages equal to this, we should oftener have re- course to them for instances of the beauty of composition. Hitherto we have spoken of prose ; in poetry, personifications of this kind are extremely frequent, and are, indeed, the life and soul of it. We expect to find every thing animated in the descriptions of a poet who has a lively fancy. Accordingly, Homer, the father and prince of poets, is remarkable for the use of this figure. War, peace, darts, spears, towns, rivers, every thing, in short, is alive in his writings. The same is the case with Milton and Shakspeare. No personification, in any author, is more striking, or introduced on a more proper occasion, than the following of Milton's, on occasion of Eve's eating the forbidden fruit : So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck'd, she ate ; Earth felt the wound ; and nature from her seat Sighing, through all her works, gave signs of wo That all ,\:v twJ' o r« Kfya' Alt!tx.K*to/uzi tzr-i^sri tci; iia>bi,Hving embraced your cold and breathless body, how was it in my power to draw the vital air, or continue to drag a miserable life ? When I had just beheld you raised by con- sular adoption to the prospect of all your father's honours, destined to be son-in-law to vonr uncle the Prsetor, pointed out by general expectation as the successful candidate for the prize of Attic eloquence, in this moment of your opening honours must 1 lose you for ever, and remain an unhappy parent, surviving only to suffer wo !' JJ J(?r xlvii. 6, 7. LECT. XVI. APOSTROPHE. 1S1 city ceased ! The Lord hath broken the staff of the wicked, and the sceptre of the rulers. He who smote the people in wrath with a continual stroke ; he that ruled the nations in anger, is persecuted, and none hindereth. The whole earth is at rest, and is quiet : thej break forth into singing. Yea, the fir-trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Lebanon, saying, since thou art laid down, no feller is come up against us. Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming : it stirreth up the dead for thee, even all the chief ones of the earth : it hath raised up from their thrones all the kings of the nations. All they shall speak, and say unto thee, art thou also become weak as we ? art thou become like unto us 1 Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols ; the worm is spread under thee, and the worms cover thee. How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning ! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations ! For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into Heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God : I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north. I will ascend above the heights of the clouds, I will be like the Most High. Yet thou shalt be brought down to hell, to the sides of the pit. They that see thee shall narrowly look upon thee, and consider thee, saying, is this the man that made the earth to tremble, that did shake kingdoms 1 That made the world as a wilderness, and destroyed the cities thereof; that opened not the house of his prisoners? All the kings of the nations, even all of them lie in glory, every one in his own house. But thou art cast out of thy grave, like an abominable branch : and as the raiment of those that are slain, thrust through with a sword, that go down to the stones of the pit, as a carcass trodden under feet.' This whole passage is full of sublimity. Every object is animated ; a variety of personages are introduced ; we hear the Jews, the fir-trees, and cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts of depart- ed kings, the king of Babylon himself, and those who look upon his body, all speaking in their order and acting their different parts, without confusion. aUESTIOXS. What is the next figure of which orar author is to treat called; and in what does it consist? How nriy it be considered ; and what remark follows? Whether we call it trope or figure, what is plain ; and why ? How is this illustrated? In what manner has the imacinalion a tendency to gratify it- self? According to what will more or less of this hyperbolical turn prevail ? Hence, what consequences follow ? What is the effect of greater experi- 2D ence, and more cultivated society? What scarcely strike us as hyperboles and why? When does it rise into figure of speech which draws our at- tention ? What is it necessai^ here to observe ; and why? Hence, what fol- lows? Why is it on some occasions proper? When they are unseasonable, Avhat is their effect ? Of what authors are they the resource? Of what two kinds are hyperboles? Which are the best; and why? Of all the passions, 181 u QUESTIONS. L LECT. XVI what is observed? Hence, of the fol- lowing sentiments of Satan, in Milton, what is observed ? Repeat the passage. In simple description how must hyper- boles be used ; what do they require ; and why ? When can we bear strong hyperboles without displeasure? But, when is it impossible not to be disgust- ed 1 What example is given ; and of it what is observed ? Who might, and who might not be permitted to hyper- bolize thus strongly; and for what reason? What cannot be ascertained by any precise rule ? What must de- termine the point ; and what follows ? Of Lucan, what is observed ? Among the compliments paid by the Roman poets to their Emperors, what had be- come common? What illustration of this remark have Ave from Virgil ? Re- solved to outdo all his predecessors, what does Lucan very gravely request of Nero ? Repeat the passage. What do the French call such thoughts ; and from what do they always proceed? What writers are remarkable for being fond of them ; and what is sometimes their effect ? On what do epigrammatic writers frequently rest the whole merit of their epigrams? What example is given? To \vhat figures do we now proceed ? Among these, to what is the first place due ? Why is personification used instead of prosopopoeia ? Of the use of this figure, what is observed; and where is its foundation laid? At first view, and when considered ab- stractly, how would it appear; and why ? What might one imagine this to be ; but, on the contrary, what is re- marked of it ? What abounds with it ; and from what is it far from being ex- cluded? What instances of its use in com- mon conversation are mentioned, and what do such expressions show ? Indeed, what is very remarkable? What remark follows? How is this remark illustrated ? What further illustrations are given? With what do they seem endowed ; of what do they become objects ; and in the moment of parting, what scarcely seems absurd ? Of what is it probable, that this strong impression of life was one cause ? In the early ages of the world, what easily arose from this turn of mind ? How is this . illustrated ? By thus paining what, was the imagina- tion hiyhly gratified; and what follow- ed ? From this deduction, what may easily be seen ? On innumerable occa- sions, what is it ; and therefore, what does it deserve? How many degrees of this figure are there; and why is it necessary to distinguish them ? Repeat them. Where the lowest degree of this figure is used, in what is it most com- monly done ; what examples are given ; and what is its effect ? Of this degree of personification, what is observed ? When happily, however, what is its effect ? What example is given ; and what is said of it? What is the next degree of this figure ; and what is said of it? According to what, is the strength of this figure ? When pursued to any length, to what only does it belong ; and when slightly touched, into what may it be admitted ? To illustrate this remark, what instance is given from Cicero? Where may such short per- sonifications be admitted ; and under what circumstances do they have a good effect upon style ? Why does the genius of our language give us an advantage in the use of this figure? In what discourse may this often be done to good purpose? To illus- trate this remark, what example is given, and what do we see in it ? At the same time, what must be noticed ? Whom is the author comparing toge- ther ? Repeat the passage. Of it, what is observed ? What circumstance, also, contributes to its effect ? Did any Eng fish sermons affoid us many passage* equal to this, what would be the conse- quence ? Where are personifications of this kind extremely frequent ; and what are they ? In the descriptions of a poet who has a lively fancy, what do we expect; accordingly, what follows? What are alive in his writings; and with whom is the case the same? What is said of Milton's personification of Eve's eating the forbidden fniit ? Repeat the passage. "What are capa ble of being personified in poetry, with great propriety ? Of this, where do we meet with frequent examples? What is one of the greatest pleasures we receive from poetry ? What is perhape the principal charm of this kind of figu- rative style ? Where is this exempli- fied ? Repeat the passage. In wha passajre of Milton, is the same effect remarkable ? What is the third an^ hicrhest decree of this figure ? Of this what is observed ; and why ? Wher LECT. XVII.] QUESTIONS. 18I A can a slight personification of some in- animate thing, be relished? But, Avhat follows? "What, however, have a ten- dency to use this figure; what exam- ples are given; and why? Hence, what follows? In what does Milton afford an extremely fine example of this ? Repeat the passage ; and of it what is observed? What is here ob- servable? What affords a very fine ex- ample? Repeat it. Of what are there frequent examples in real life ? Of the two great rules for the management of this figure, what is the first; and why? What is the second ? Where is the ob- servation of this rule required ? How is this illustrated ? For this reason, what passage does our author con- demn ? What remarks are made upon it ? How does this figure require to be used in prose composition? What there is not allowed; and what cannot be ascertained? However, what follows; and how is this illustrated? But what must we remember; and why? Of all frigid things, what are the most frigid ? In what situation do we see the writer or speaker; and in what situation do we find ourselves ? How have some of the French writers executed this figure? For what are their works exceedingly worthy of being consulted ; and for what reason ? Of the apostrophe, what is observed ? What is it? To what is it much allied? However, what is the proper apostrophe; and why? To what rule are both figures subject? What example is given? Among the poets, what are frequent ; and what example is given ? Of the poems of Ossian, what is observed ; and what example is given? Under what circumstances does Quin- tilian make a very moving apostrophe? Repeat the passage; and in it, what does he show? For such bold figures of discourse as strong personification, what was particularly fitted ? Hence, where do we find some very remarka- ble instances? Repeat the following passage? Why must our author not omit to mention the passage in the four- teenth chapter of Isaiah? Repeat it. Of what is this whole passage full ; and what further remarks are made upon it? ANALYSIS. 1. Hyperbole. A. Hyperboles employed in descrip- tion. B. Hyperboles suggested by the warmth of passion. Figures of thought. 2. Personification. A. Living properties ascribed to 'n- animate objects. b. Inammate objects acting like those that have life. c. Inanimate objects mtroduced as speaking to us. a. To be employed only when prompted by strong passion. b. Objects of dignity only should be personified. 3. Apostrophe. LECTURE XVII. COMPARISON, ANTITHESIS, INTERROGATION, EXCLAMATION, AND OTHER FIGURES OF SPEECH. We are still engaged in the consideration of figures of speec h ; wlich, as they add much to the beauty of style when properly em- ployed, and are, at the same time, liable to be greatly abused, require a careful discussion. As it would be tedious to dwell on all the va- riety of figurative expressions which rhetoricians have enumerated, I choose to select the capkal figures, such as occur most frequently, and 182 COMPARISON. lect. xvn *nd make my remarks on these; the principles and rules laid down concerning them, will sufficiently direct us to the use of the rest, either in prose or poetry. Of metaphor, which is the most common o/ them all, I treated fully, and in the last lecture I discoursed of hy perbole, personification, and apostrophe. This lecture will nearl) finish what remains on the head of figures. Comparison, or simile, is what I am to treat of first; a figure fre- quently employed both by poets and prose writers, for the ornament of composition. In a former lecture, I explained fully the difference betwixt this and metaphor. A metaphor is a comparison, implied, but not expressed as such ; as when I say, < Achilles is a lion,' mean- ing, that he resembles one in courage or strength. A compa- rison is, when the resemblance between two objects is expressed in form, and generally pursued more fully than the nature of a meta- phor admits ; as when I say, ' the actions of princes are like those great rivers, the course of which every one beholds, but their springs have been seen by few.' This slight instance will show, that a happy comparison is a kind of sparkling ornament, which adds not a little lustre and beauty to discourse ; and hence such figures are termed by Cicero, ' Orationis lumina.' The pleasure we take in comparisons is just and natural. We may remark three different sources whence it arises. First, from the pleasure which nature has annexed to that act of the mind by which we compare any two objects together, trace resemblances among those that are different, and differences among those that resemble each other ; a pleasure, the final cause of which is, to prompt us to remark and observe, and thereby to make us advance in useful know- ledge. This operation of the mind is naturally and universally agreeable; as appears from the delight which even children have in comparing things together, as soon as they are capable of attending to the objects that surround them. Secondly, the pleasure of comparison arises from the illustration which the simile employed gives to the principal object; from the clearer view of it which it presents ; or the more strong impression of it which it stamps upon the mind : and, thirdly, it arises from the introduction of a new. and commonly a splendid object, associated to the principal one of which we treat; and from the agreeable picture which that object presents to the fancy ; new scenes being thereby brought into view, which, without the assistance of this figure, we could not have en- joyed. All comparisons whatever may be reduced under two heads, ex- plaining and embellishing comparisons. For when a writer likens the object of which he treats to any other thing, it always is, or at least always should be, with a view either to make us understand that object more distinctly, or to dress it up and adorn it. All manner of subjects admit of explaining comparisons. Let an author be rea- soning ever so strictly, or treating the most abstruse point in philo- sophy, he may very properly introduce a comparison, merely with a view to make his subject better understood. Of this nature, is the following in Mr. Hanis's Hermes, employed to explain a very ab lect. xvii.] COMPARISON. 183 slract point, the distinction between the powers of sense and imagi- nation in the human mind. 'As wax,' says he, 'would not be ade- quate 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 pow er; imagination its retentive. Had it sense without imagination, it would not be as wax, but as water, where,though all impressions be instantly made, yet as soon as they are made, they are instantly lost.' In comparisons of this nature, the understanding is concerned much more than the fancy; and therefore the only rules to be observed, with respect to them, are, that they be clear and that they be useful ; that they tend to render our conception of the principal object more distinct; and that they do not lead our view aside, and bewilder it with any false light. But embellishing comparisons, introduced not so much with a view to inform and instruct, as to adorn the subject of which we treat, are those with which we are chiefly concerned at present, as figures of speech; and those, indeed, which most frequently oc- cur. Resemblance, as I before mentioned, is the foundation of this figure. We must not, however, take resemblance, in too strict a sense, for actual similitude and likeness of appearance. Two objects may sometimes be very happily compared to one another, though they resemble each other, strictly speaking, in nothing; only because they agree in the effects which they produce upon the mind ; because they raise a train of similar, or what may be called, concordant ideas; so that the remembrance of the one, when recalled, serves to strengthen the impression made by the other. For example, to describe the nature of soft and melancho- ly music, Ossian says, ' The music of Carryl was, like the memo- ry of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul.' This is happy and delicate. Yet, surely, no kind of music has any re- semblance 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 some, ordinary poet, the likeness would have been more strict: but, by founding his simile upon the effect which Carryl's music produced, the poet, while he conveys a very tender image, gives us, at the same time, a much stronger impression of the nature and strain of that music: 'Like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul.' In general, whether comparisons be founded on the similitude of the two objects compared, or on some analogy and agreement in their effects, the fundamental requisite of a comparison is, thai, it shall serve to illustrate the object, for the sake of which it is intiO- duced, and to give us a stronger conception of it. Some little ex- cursions of fancy may be permitted, in pursuing the simile; but they must never deviate far from the principal object. If it be a great and noble one, every circumstance in the comparison must tend to aggrandize it; if it be a beautiful one, to render it more amiable; if terrible, to fill us with more awe. But to be a little more 84 COMPARISON. [lect. xvii particular: The rules to be given concerning comparisons, respect chiefly two articles; the propriety of their introduction, and the nature of the objects whence they are taken. First, the propriety of their introduction. From what has been already said of com- parisons, it appears, that they are not, like the figures of which 1 treated in the last lecture, the language of strong passion. No; they are the language of imagination rather than of passion; of an imagination, sprightly indeed, and warmed; but undisturbed by any violent or agitating emotion. Strong passion is too severe to admit this play of fancy. It has no leisure to cast about for resem- bling objects; it dwells on that object which has seized and taken possession of the soul. It is too much occupied and filled by it, to turn its view aside, or to fix its attention on any other thing. An author, therefore, can scarcely commit a greater fault, than in the midst of passion, to introduce a simile. Metaphorical expression may be allowable in such a situation ; though even this may be car- ried too far; but the pomp and solemnity of a formal comparison is altogether a stranger to passion. It changes the key in a moment ; relaxes and brings down the mind ; and shows us a writer perfectly at his ease, while he is personating some other, who is supposed to tie under the torment of agitation. Our writers of tragedies are very lot to err here. In some of Mr. Rowe's plays, these flowers of sjuiwCs have been strewed unseasonably. Mr. Addison's Cato, too, /s justly censurable in this respect; as when Portius, just after Lucia had bid him farewell for ever, and when he should naturally have been represented as in the most violent anguish, makes his reply in a studied and affected comparison : Thus o'er the dying lamp th' unsteady flame Hangs quiv'ring on a point, leaps off by fits, And falls again, as loth to quit its hold. Thou must not go ; my soul still hovers o'er thee, And can't get loose. Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote from the lan- guage of nature on such occasions. However, as comparison is not the style of strong passion, so neither, when employed for embellishment, is it the language of a mind wholly unmoved. It is a figure of dignity, and always requires some elevation in the subject, in order to make it proper: for it supposes the imagination to be uncommonly enlivened, though the heart be not agitated by passion. In a word, the proper place of compari- sons lies in the middle region, between the highly pathetic, and the very humble style. This is a wide field, and gives ample range to the figure. But even this field we must take care not to overstock with it. For, as we before said, it is a sparkling ornament; and all things that sparkle, dazzle and fatigue, if they recur too often. Similes should, even in poetry, be used with moderation ; but in prose writings, much more; otherwise the style will become dis- agreeably florid, and the ornament lose its virtue and effect. I proceed, next, to the rules that relate to objects, whence com- parisons should be drawn; supposing them introduced in their pro l»er place. eect. xvii.] COMPARISON. 185 In the first place, they must not be drawn from things, which have too near and obvious a resemblance to the object with which we compare them. The great pleasure of the act of comparing lies, in discovering likenesses among things of different specie?, where we would not, at the first glance, expect a resemblance. There is little art or ingenuity in pointing out the resem blance of two objects, that are so much akin, or lie so near to one another in nature, ;hateveryone sees they must be alike. When Milton compares Satan's appearance, after his fall, to that of the sun sufferingan eclipse, and af- frighting the nations with portentous darkness, we are struck \\ ith the happiness and the dignity of the similitude. But when he compares Eve's bower in Paradise, to the arbour of Pomona ; or Eve herself, to a driad, or wood-nymph, we receive little entertainment ; as every one sees, that one arbour must, of course, in several respects, resemble another arbour, and one beautiful woman another beautiful woman. Among similes, faulty through too great obviousness of the like- ness, we must likewise rank those which are taken from objects become trite and familiar in poetical language. Such are the simi- les of a hero to a lion, of a person in sorrow to a flower drooping its head, of violent passion to a tempest, of chastity to snow, o£ virtue to the sun or the stars, and many more of this kind, with which we are sure to find modern writers, of second rate genius, abounding plentifully ; handed down from one writer of ver ses to another, as by hereditary right These comparisons were, at first, perhaps, very proper for the purposes to which they are applied. In the ancient original poets, who took them directly from nature, not from their predecessors, they had beauty. But thev are now beaten; our ears are so accustomed to them, that they give no amusement to the fancy. There is, indeed, no mark by which we can more readily distinguish a poet of true genius, from one ot a barren imagination, than by the strain of their comparisons. All who call themselves poets, affect them : but, whereas, a mere versi- fier eopies no new image from nature, which appears, to his uninventive genius, exhausted by those who have gone before him, and, therefore, contents himself with humbly following their track; to an author of real fancy, nature seems to unlock, spontaneously, her hidden stores; and the eye, 'quick glancing from earth to Heaven,' discovers new shapes and forms, new like- nesses between objects unobserved before, which render his similes original, expressive, and lively. But in the second place, as comparisons ought not to be founded on i'^enesses too obvious, still less ought they to be founded on those which are too faint and remote. For these, in place of assisting, strain the fancy to comprehend them, and throw no light upon the subject. It is also to be observed, that a comparison, which, in the principal circumstances, carries a sufficiently near resemblance, may become unnatural and obscure, if pushed too far. Nothing is more opposite to the design of this figure, than to hunt after a °reat number of coincidences in minute points, merely to show 24 »»o COMPARISON. [lect. xvii. how far the poet's wit can stretch the resemblance. This is Mi Cowley's common fault; whose comparisons generally run out so far, as to become rather a studied exercise of wit, than an illustra- tion of the principal object. We need only open his works, his odes especially, to find instances every where. In the third place, the object from which a comparison is drawn, should never be an unknown object, or one of which few people can form clear ideas: ' Ad inferendam rebus lucem,' says Quintilian. i repertae sunt similitudines. Praecipue, igitur, est custodiendum ne id quod similitudinis gratia ascivimus, autobscurum sit,aut ignotum. Debet enim id quod illustrandae alterius rei gratia assumitur, ipsum esse clarius eo quod illuminatur.'* Comparisons, therefore, founded on philosophical discoveries, or on any thing with which persons of a certain trade only, or a certain profession, are conversant, attain not their proper effect. They should be taken from those illustrious, noted objects, which most of the readers either have seen, or can strongly conceive. This leads me to remark a fault of which mo- dern poets are very apt to be guilty. The ancients took their simi- les from that face of nature, and that class of objects, with which they and their readers were acquainted. Hence,lions, and wolves, and serpents, were fruitful, and very proper sources of similes amongst them ; and these having become a sort of consecrated, classical images, are very commonly adopted by the moderns; injudiciously, how- ever, for the propriety of them is now in a great measure lost. It is only at second hand, and by description, that we are acquainted with many of those objects ; and, to most readers of poetry, it were more to the purpose, to describe lions or serpents, by similes taken from men, than to describe men by lions. No w-a-days, we can more ea- sily form the conception of a fierce combat between two men, than be- tween a bull and a tiger. Every country has a scenery peculiar to it- self, and the imagery of every good poet will exhibit it. The i n traduc- tion of unknown objects,or of a foreign scenery, betrays a poet copying not after nature, but from other writers. I have only to observe further, In the fourth place, that, in compositions of a serious or elevated kind, similes should never be taken from low or mean objects. These are degrading: whereas, similes are commonly intended to embel- lish, and to dignify: and therefore, unless in burlesque writings, or where similes are introduced purposely to vilify and diminish an object, mean ideas should never be presented to us. Some of Ho- mer's comparisons have been taxed, without reason, on this account. For it is to be remembered, that the meanness or dignity of objects depends, in a great degree, on the ideas and manners of the age wherein we live. Many similes, therefore, drawn from the inci- dents of rural life, which appear low to us, had abundance of digni- ty in trose simpler ages of antiquity. * 'Comparisons have lieen introduced into discourse, for the sake of throwing light on the subject. We must, therefore, be much on our guard, not to employ, as the ground of our simile, any object which is either obscure or unknown. That, surety, which i used for the purpose of illustrating some other tiling, ought to \te more obvious and plain, than the thing intended to be illustrated. ' lect. xvn.] ANTITHESIS. 187 I have now considered such of the figures of speech as seemed most to merit a full andparticular discussion: metaphor, hyperbole, personification, apostrophe, and companso •, A few more yet re main to be mentioned ; the proper use and conduct of which will be easily understood from the principles already laid down. As comparison is founded on the resemblance, so antithesis on the contrast or opposition of two objects. Contrast has always this effect, to make each of the contrasted objects appear in the stronger light. White, for instance, never appears so bright, as when it is op] osed to black; and when both are viewed together. Antithe- sis, therefore, may, on many occasions, be employed to advantage, in order to strengthen the impression which we intend that any ob- ject should make. Thus Cicero,in his oration for Milo, represent- ing the improbability of Milo's forming a design to take away the life of Clodius, at a time when all circumstances were unfavourable to such a design, and after he had let other opportunities slip when he could have executed the same design, if he had formed it, with much more ease and safety, heightens our conviction of this impro- bability by a skilful use of this figure : 'Quern igitur cum omnium gratia interficere noluit, hunc voluit cum aliquorum querela ? Quern jure, quern loco, quern tempore, quem impune, non est ausus, hunc injurio, iniquoloco, alieno tempore, periculo capitis, non dubitavit occidere ?'* In order to render an antithesis more complete, it is always of advantage, that the words and members of the sentence, expressing the contrasted objects, be, as in this instance of Cicero's, similarly constructed, and made to correspond to each other. This leads us to remark the contrast more, by setting the things which we oppose more clearly over against each other; in the same man- ner as when we contrast a black and a white object, in order tc perceive the full difference of their colour, we would choose to have both objects of the same bulk, and placed in the same light. Their resemblance to each other, in certain circumstances, makes their disagreement in others more palpable. At the same time, I must observe, that the frequent use of anh thesis, especially where the opposition in the words is nice and quaint, is apt to render style disagreeable. Such a sentence as the following, from Seneca, does very well, where it stands alone : 'Si quem volueris esse divitem, non est quod augens divitias, sed minu- as cupiditates.'t Or this: ' Si ad naturam vives, nunquam eris pau- per ; si ad opinionem, nunquam dives.' J A maxim or moral say - ing, properly enough receives this form ; both because it is suppose J * 'Is it credible that, when he declined putting Clodius to death with the consent of all, he would ".hoose to do it with the disapprobation of many ? Can you believe that the person whom he scrupled to slay, when he might have done so with full justice, in a convenient place, at a proper time, with secure impunity, he made no scruple to mur- der against justice, in an unfavourable place, at an unseasonable time, and at the risk of capital condemnation ?' f ' If you seek to make one rich, study not to increase his stores, but to diminish his desires.' { 'If you regulate your desires according to the standard of nature, you will never be poor ; K according to the standard o' opinion, you will never be rich.' ■2E 188 INTERROGATION AND [lect. xvii. to be the fruit of medication, and because it is designed to be engra- ven on the memory, which recalls it more easily by the help of such contrasted expressions. But where a string of such sentences suc- ceed each other; where this becomes an author's favourite and pre- vailing manner of expressing himself, his style is faulty; and it is upon this account Seneca has been often, and justly, censured. Such a style appears too studied and laboured ; it gives us the im«» pression of an author attending more to his manner of saying things, than to the things themselves which he says. Dr. Young, though a writer of real genius, was too fond of antithesis. In his Estimate of Human Life, we find whole passages that run in such a strain as this: ' The peasant complains aloud ; the courtier in secret repines. In want, what distress ? in affluence, what satiety ? The great are un- der as much difficulty to expend with pleasure, as the mean to la- bour with success. The ignorant, through ill-grounded hope, are disappointed ; the knowing, through knowledge, despond. Igno- rance occasions mistake; mistake disappointment; and disappoint- ment is misery. Knowledge, on the other hand, gives true judg- ment; and true judgment of human things, gives a demonstration of their insufficiency to our peace.' There is too much glitter in such a style as this, to please long. We are fatigued, by attending to such quaint and artificial sentences often repeated. There is anothei sort of antithesis, the beauty of which consists in surprising us by tne unexpected contrast of things which it brings together. Much wit may be shown in this : but it belongs wholly to pieces of professed wit and humour, and can find no place in grave compositions. Mr. Pope, who is remarkably fond of antithe- sis, is often happy in this use of the figure. So, in his Rape of the Lock : Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; Or stain her honour, or her new brocade ; Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball, Or wheiher Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. What is called the point of an epigram, consists, for the most part, in some antithesis of this kind ; surprising us with the smart and unex- pected turn which it gives to the thought; and in the fewer words it is brought out, it is always the happier. Comparisons and antitheses are figures of a cool nature; produc- tions of imagination, not of passion. Interrogations and exclama- tions, of which lam nextto speak, are passionate figures. They are, indeed, on so many occasions, the native language of passion, that their use is extremely frequent; and in ordinary conversation, when men are heated, they prevail as much as in the most sublime oia- tory. The unfigured 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 vehemence, they naturally put in the form /fa question; expressing thereby the strongest confidence of the truth of their own sentiment, and appealing to their hearers for the impossibility of the contrary. Thus in scripture: 'God is not a lect. xvn. J EXCLAMATION. 189 man that he should lie, neither the son of man, that he should re- cent. Hath he said it, and shall he not do it? Hath he spoken it, and shall he not make it good?'* So Demosthenes, addressing himself to the Athenians: plied with propriety ? But to what only do exclamations belong? By means of what do all passionate figures of speech operate upon us ; and of it, what ia observed ? Hence, by a single person, what effect may be produced ; and what effect does it also produce on a great crowd? When interrogations and exclamations are properly used, to what do they dispose us; and why? From this, what follows ? With inter- rogations, what may he use ; and why? Bat with respect to exclamations, why must he be more reserved ? What dc juvenile writers imagine ? But what is their effect? How is this illustrated; and hence, what is our author inclined to think? What remark follows? Why is this the case ? Whs^l other contrj* 192 o QUESTIONS. [lect. XVII vn.nce, wh'.cn is mucn akin to this, is practised by some writers ? What may this be culled ? What other custom, which prevailed some time ago, is un- worthy of imitation ? Though on some occasions they may be very proper, yet, to what danger are we exposed by carrying them too far 1 If the sense point not out the most emphatical ex- pressions, what will give but little as- sistance ; and accordingly, what course have the most masterly writers latterly pursued? What is the next figure of speech mentioned ; what is meant by it ; and when only should it be used ? What example is given from Cicero ? What does this manner of description suppose ; and when well executed, what is its effect ? But, in order to a successful examination of it, what does it require ? Otherwise, what fate will it share? To what other figures of epeech are the same observations applicable; and in what proportion are they beautiful ? What remark fol- lows ? What is the last figure of speech mentioned ; and m what does it con- sist ? Of it, what is observed ; and how may it be carried on ? What is the prin- cipal instrument by which it works ? What is the effect of climax in sense, when well carried on? What example is given from Cicero ? What one from a pleading of Sir George M'Kenzie ? Of what must our author take notice, relative to such regular climaxes ; and why? ANALYSIS. 1. Comparison. a. Explaining comparisons. B. Embellishing comparisons. Rules concerning comparisons. A. Obviousness of resemblance should be avoided. b. The likeness should not be too re mote. c. They should not be drawn from unknown objects. D. They should not be taken from low or mean objects. 2. Antithesis. 3. Interrogation. 4. Exclamation. 5. Vision. 6. Amplification. LECTURE XVIII. FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE.— GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE.— DIFFUSE, CONCISE, FEEBLE, NER- VOUS— DRY, PLAIN, NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY. Having treated at considerable length of the figures of speech, of their origin, of their nature, and of the management of such oi them as are important enough to require a particular discussion, be- fore finally dismissing this subject, I think it incumbent on me to make some observations concerning the proper use of figurative lan- guage in general. These, indeed, I have, in part, already antici- pated. But as great errors are often committed in this part of style, especially by young writers, it may be of use that I bring together, under one view, the most material directions on thjs head. I begin with repeating an observation, formerly made, that neither all the beauties, nor even the chief beauties of composition, depend upon tropes and figures. Some of the most sublime and most pathe- tic passages of the most admired authors, both in prose and poetry, are expressed in the most simple style, without any figure at all ; in- stances of which I have before given. On the other hand, a compo- sition may abound with these studied ornaments ; the language may be artful, splendid, and highly figured, and yet the composition be on the whole frigid and unaffecting. Not to speak of sentiment and thought, which constitute the real and lasting merit of any work, it *he style be stiff and affected, if it be deficient in perspicuity or pre lect. xviii.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. J. 93 cision, or in ease a-nd neatness, all the figures that can be employed will never render it agreeable: they may dazzle a vulgar, but will never please a judicious eye. In the second place, figures, in order to be beautiful, must always rise naturally from the subject. I have shown that all of them aie the language either of imagination, or of passion; some of them suggested by imagination, when it is awakened and sprightly, such as metaphors and comparisons; others by passion or more heated emotion, such as personifications and apostrophes. Of course, they are beautiful then only, when they are prompted by fancy, or by passion. They must rise of their own accord; they must flow from a mind warmed by the object which it seeks to describe; we should never interrupt the course of thought to cast about for figures, ff they be sought after coolly, and fastened on as designed ornaments, they will have a miserable effect. It is a very erroneous idea, which many have of the ornaments of style, as if they were things detached from the subject, and that could be stuck to it, like lace upon a coat: this is indeed, Purpureus late qui splendeat unus aut alter Assuitur pannus.* Ars Pokt. And it is this false idea which has often brought attention to the beauties of writing into disrepute. Whereas, the real and proper ornaments of style arise from sentiment. They flow in the same stream with the current of thought. A writer of genius conceives his subject strongly ; his imagination is filled and im- pressed with it; and pours itself forth in that figurative language which imagination naturally speaks. He puts on no emotion which his subject does not raise in him; he speaks as he feels; but his style will be beautiful, because his feelings are lively. On occasions, when fancy is languid, or finds nothing to rouse it, we should never attempt to hunt for figures. We then work, as it is said, ' invita Minerva ;' supposing figures invented, they will have the appearance of being forced : and in this case, they had much better be omit- ted. In the third place, even when imagination prompts, and the sub- ject naturally gives rise to figures, they must, however, not be em ployed too frequently. In all beauty," 'simplex munditiis,' is a capi- tal quality. Nothing derogates more from the weight and dig- nity of any composition, than too great attention to ornament. When the ornaments cost labour, that labour always appears ; though they should cost us none, still the reader or hearer may be surfeited with them ; and when they come too thick, they give the impression of a light and frothy genius, that evaporates in show, rather than brings forth what is solid. The directions of the ancient critics, on this head, are full of good sense, and deserve careful attention ; Voluptatibus maximis/ says Cicero, de Orat. 1. iii. 'fastidium fin- i f .imum est in rebus omnibus; quo hoc minus in oratione miremui * ' Shreds of purple with broad lustre shine, 1 Sew'd on vour poem.' Francis 2F 25 V94 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. , [lect. xvin. In quavel ex poetis, vel oratoribus possumus judicare, concinnam, ornatam, festivam, sine intermissione quamvis claris sit coloribus picta, vel poesis, vel oratio, non posse in delectatione esse diutur- .)i. Quare, bene et prseclare, quamvis nobis ssepe dicatur, belle et festive nimium ssepe nolo.'* To the same purpose are the excel- lent directions with which Quintilian concludeshis discourse concern- ing figures, 1. ix. c. 3. 'Ego illud de iis figuris quae vere fiunt, adjiciam breviter, sicutornant orationem opportunae positae, ita inep- tissimas esse cum immodice petuntur. Sunt, qui neglecto rerum pondere et viribus sententiarum, si vel inania verba in hos modos de pravarunt, summos se judicant artifices: ideoque non desinunt eas nectere; quas sine sententia sectare, tarn est ridiculum quam quaerere habitum gestumque sine corpore. Ne hae quidem quae rec tae fiunt, densandae sunt nimis. Sciendum imprimis quid quisque postulet locus, quid persona, quir, tempus. Major enim pars harum figurarum posita est in delectatione. Ubi vero, atrocitate, invidia, miseratione pugnandum est; quis ferat verbis contrapositis, et con- similibus et pariter cadentibus, irascer.tem, flentem, rogantem? Cum in his rebus, cura verborum deroget affectibus fidem; et ubicunque ars ostentatur, Veritas abcsse videatur.'t After these ju- dicious and useful observations, I have no more to add, on this subject, except this admonition : In the fourth place, that, without a genius for figurative language, none should attempt it. Imagination is a power not to be acquired ; it must be derived from nature. Its redundancies we may prune, its deviations we may correct, its sphere we may enlarge; but the fa- culty itself we cannot create : but all efforts towards a metaphorical ornamented style, if we are destitute of the proper genius for it, will prove awkward and disgusting. Let us satisfy ourselves, however, by considering, that without this talent, or at least with a very small measure of it, we may both write and speak to advantage. Good *«In all human things, disgust borders so nearly on the most lively pleasures that we need not be surprised to find this hold in eloquence. From reading eithei poets or orators we may easily satisfy ourselves, that neither a poem nor an ora- tion, which, without intermission, is showy and sparkling, can please us long Wherefore, though we may wish for the frequent praise of having expressed our- selves well' and properly, we should not covet repeated applause, for being bright and splendid.' ... t ' I must add, concerning those figures which are proper in themselves, that as they beautify a composition when they are seasonably introduced, so they deform it greatly, if too frequently sought after. There are some who, neglecting strength of sentiment and weight of matter, if they can only force their empty w ords into a figurative style, imagine themselves great writers ; and therefore con- tinually string together such ornaments; which is just as ridiculous, where there is no sentiment to support them, as to contrive gestures and dresses for ivhat wants a body. Even those figures which a subject admits, must not come too thick We must 1 s-in with considering what the occasion, the time, and the person who speaks render proper. For the object aimed at by the greater part of these figures is entertainment. But when the subject becomes deeply serious, and «trong passions are to be moved, who can bear the orator, who, in affected Ian guage and balanced phrases, endeavours to express wrath, commiseration, oi earnest entreaty ? On all such occasions, a solicitous attention to words weaken! passion; and when so much art is shown, Uiere is suspected to be little sin oerity.' iect. xviii.] GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE. 19S sense, clear ideas, perspicuity of language, and proper arrangement of words and thoughts, will always command attention. These are indeed the foundations of all solid merit, both in speaking and wri- ting. Many subjects require nothing more; and those which admit of ornament, admit it only as a secondary requisite. To study and to know our own genius well ; to follow nature ; to seek to improve, but not to force it, are directions which cannot be too often given to those who desire to excel in the liberal arts. When I entered upon the consideration of style, I observed that words being the copies of our ideas, there must always be a very in- timate connexion between the manner in which every writer em- ploys words, and his manner of thinking; and that from the pecu- liarity of thought and expression which belongs to him, there is a certain character imprinted on his style, which may be denominated his manner; commonly expressed by such general terms, as strong, weak, dry, simple, affected, orthelike. These distinctions carry, in general, some reference to an author's manner of thinking, but re- fer chiefly to his mode of expression. They arise from the whole tenour of his language; and comprehend the effect produced by all those parts of style which we have already considered ; the choice which he makes of single words ; his arrangement of these in sen- tences; the degree of his precision; and his embellishment, by means of musical cadence, figures, or other arts of speech. Of such general characters of style, therefore, it remains now to speak as the result of those underparts of which I have hitherto treated. That different subjects require to be treated of in different sorts of style, is a position so obvious, that I shall not stay to illustrate it. Every one sees that treatises of philosophy, for instance, ought not to be composed in the same style with orations. Everyone sees also, that different parts of the same composition require a variation in the style and manner. In a sermon, for instance, or any harangue, the application or peroration admits more ornament and requires more warmth, than the didactic part. But what I mean at present to remark is, that amidst this variety, we still expect to find in the compositions of any one man, some degree of uniformity or consist- ency with himself in manner ; we expect to find some predominant character of style impressed on all his writings, which shall be suit- ed to, and shall mark his particular genius and turn of mind. The orations in Livy differ much in style, as they ought to do, from the rest of his history. The same is the case with those in Tacitus. Yet both in Livy's orations, and in those of Tacitus, we are able clearly to trace the distinguishing manner of each historian; the magnifi- cent fullnessof the one, and the sententious conciseness of the other. The ' Letters Persanes/ and ' L'Esprit des Loix/ are the works of the same author. They required very different compositions surely, and accordingly they differ widely; yet still we see the same hand. Wherever there is real and native genius, it giv es a determination to one kind of style rather than another. Where nothing of this ap- pears; where there is no marked nor peculiar character in the com 1ie of different authors seems to rise, in the following gradation; a dry, a plain, a neat, an elegant, a flowery manner. Of each of theo in their order : First, a dry manner. This excludes all ornament of every kind. Content with being understood, it has not the least aim to please either the fancy cr the ear. This is tolerable only in pure didactic writing ; and even there, to make us bear it, great weight and solidi- ty of matter is requisite, and entire perspicuity of language. Aris totle is the complete example of a dry style. Never, perhaps, w; s there any author who adhered so rigidly to the strictness of a dida« - tic manner, throughout all his writings, and conveyed so much in- struction without the least approach to ornament. With the mc r . profound genius, and extensive views, he writes like a pure inteh gence, who addresses himself solely to the understanding, withot making any use of the channel of the imagination. But this is manner which deserves not to be imitated. For, although the goodness of the matter may compensate the dryness or harshness ol the style, yet is that dryness a considerable defect; as it fatigues attention, and conveys our sentiments with disadvantage to the rea- der or hearer. A plain style rises one degree above a dry one. A writei of this character employs very little ornament of any kind, and rests, almost, entirely upon his sense. But, if he is at no pains to engage us by the employment of figures, musical arrangement, or any other art of writing, he studies, however, to avoid disgusting us like a dry and a harsh writer. Besides perspicuity, he pursues propriety, puri- ty, and precision, in his language ; which form one degree, and no inconsiderable one, of beauty. Liveliness, too, and force, may be consistent with a very plain style; and therefore, such an author, il his sentiments be good, may be abundantly agreeable. The differ- ence between a dry and a plain writer, is, that the former is incapa- ble of ornament, and seems not to know what it is ; the latter seeks not after it. He gives us his meaning, in good language, distinct and pure ; any further ornament, he gives himself no trouble about ; periods modelled ; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its proper place. Nothing is cold or languid ; the whole is airy, animated and vigor- ous ; what is little is gay, what is great is splendid. Though all is easy, nothing is feeble; though all seems jareless, there is nothing harsh; and though, since bis earlier works more than a century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolt-ie.' 2G 26 202 NEAT STYLE. [lect xvnr either, because he thinks it unnecessary to his subject; or, because nis genius does not lead him to delight in it; or, because it lead* him to despise it.* This last was the case with Dean Swift, who may be placed at the head of those that have employed the plain style. Few writers have discovered more capacity. He treats every subject which he handles, whether serious or ludicrous, in a masterly manner. He knew, almost beyond any man, the purity, the extent, the precision of the English language; and, therefore, to such as wish to attain a pure and correct style, he is one of the most useful models. But we must not look for much ornament and grace in his language. His haughty and morose genius, made him despise any embellish- ment of this kind as beneath his dignity. He delivers his sentiments in a plain, downright, positive manner, like one who is sure he is in the right; and is very indifferent whether you be pleased or not. His sentences are commonly negligently arranged ; distinctly enough as to the sense; but, without any regard to smoothness of sound; often without much regard to compactness, or elegance. If a me- taphor, or any other figure, chanced to render his satire more poign- ant, he would, perhaps, vouchsafe to adopt it, when it came in his way; but if it tended only to embellish and illustrate, he would rather throw it aside. Hence, in his serious pieces, his style often borders upon the dry and unpleasing; in his humorous ones, the plainness of his manner sets off his wit to the highest advantage. There is no froth nor affectation in it; it flows without any studied preparation ; and while he hardly appears to smile himself, he makes his reader laugh heartily. To a writer of such a genius as Dean Swift, the plain style was most admirably fitted. Among our phi- losophical writers, Mr. Locke comes under this class; perspicuous and pure, but almost without any ornament whatever. In works which admit or require ever so much ornament, there are parts where the plain manner ought to predominate. But we must re- member, that when this is the character which a writer affects Throughout his whole composition, great weight of matter and great force of sentiment are required, in order to keep up the reader's attention, and prevent him from becoming tired of the author. What is called a neat style comes next in order; and here we are got into the region of ornament; but that ornament, not of the high- est or most sparkling kind. A writer of this character shows, that he does not despise the beauty of language. It is an object of his attention. But his attention is shown in the choice of words, and in a graceful collocation of them, rather than in any high efforts of imagination or eloquence. His sentences are always clean, and free from the encumbrance of superfluous words; of a moderate length; rather inclining to brevity, than a swelling structure; clos- * On this head, of the general characters of style, particularly the plain and the simple, and the characters of those English authors who are classed under them, in this, and the folk wing lecture, several ideas have been taken from t manuscript treatise on rhetoric, part of which was shown to me, many years ago. bv the learned and ingenious Ruthor, Dr. Adam Smith ; and which, it is hoped, will be given by him to the public. lect. xviii.] ELEGANT STYLE. 203 mg with propriety; without any tails or adjections dragging after the proper close. His cadence is varied; but not of the studied musical kind. His figures, if he uses any, are short and correct, ra- ther than bold and glowing. Such a style as this may be attained by a writer who has no great powers of fancy or genius ; by industry merely, and careful attention to the rules of writing, and it is a style always agreeable. It imprints a character of moderate elevation on our composition, and carries a decent degree of ornament, which is not unsuitable to any subject whatever. A familiar letter, or a law paper, on the driest subject, may be written with neatness ; and a sermon, or a philosophical treatise, in a neat style, will be read with pleasure. An elegant style is a character, expressing a higher degree of or- nament than a neat one; and indeed, is the term usually applied to style, when possessing all the virtues of ornament, without any of its excesses or defects. From what has been formerly delivered, it will easily be understood, that complete elegance implies great per- spicuity and propriety; purity in the choice of words, and care and dexterity in their harmonious and happy arrangement. It implies farther, the grace and beauty of imagination spread over style, as far as the subject admits it; and all the illustration which figurative language adds, when properly employed. In a word, an elegant writer is one who pleases the fancy and the ear, while he informs the understanding: and who gives us his ideas clothed with all the beauty of expression, but not overcharged with any of its misplaced finery. In this class, therefore, we place only the first rate writers in the language; such as Addison, Dryden, Pope, Temple, Boling- broke, Atterbury, and a few more: writers who differ widely from one another in many of the attributes of style, but whom we now class together, under the denomination of elegant, as, in the scale of ornament, possessing nearly the same place. When the ornaments applied to style, are too rich and gaudy in proportion to the subject; when they return upon us too fast, and strike us either with a dazzling lustre, or a false brilliancy, this forms what is called a florid style ; a term commonly used to signify the excess of ornament. In a young composer this is very pardonable. Perhaps it is even a promising symptom in young people, that their style should incline to the florid and luxuriant; ' Volo se efferat in adolescente fsecunditas,' says Quintilian, 'multum inde decoquent mini, multum ratio limabit, aliquid velut usu ipso deteretur; sit modo unde excidi possit quid et exculpi. Audeat haec astas plura, et inveniat et inventis gaudeat; sint licet ilia non satis interim sicca et severa. Facile remedium est ubertatis: sterilia nullo labore vin- cuntur.'* But, although the florid style may be allowed to youth, * ' In youth, I wish to see luxuriancy of fancy appear. Much of it will be dimin ished by years ; much will be corrected by ripening judgment ; some of it, by the mers practice of composition, will be worn away. Let there be only sufficient matter, at first, that can bear some pruning and lopping off. At this time of life, let genius be bold and inventive, and pride itself in its efforts, though these should not, as yet,be cor rert, Luxuriancy can easily be cured; but for barrenness there is no remedy.' 804 FLORID STYLE. [lect. xvm in their first essays, it must not receive the same indulgence from writers of maturer years. It is to be expected, that judgment, as it ripens, should chasten imagination, and reject as juvenile all such ornaments as are redundant, unsuitable to the subject, or not condu- cive to illustrate it. Nothing can be more contemptible than that tinsel splendour of language, which some writers perpetually affect. It were well, if this could be ascribed to the real overflowing of a rich ima- gination. We should then have something to amujse us, at least, if we found little to instruct us. But the worst is, that with those frothy writers, it is a luxuriancy of words, not of fancy. We see a laboured attempt to rise to a splendour of composition, of which they have formed to themselves some loose idea ; but having no strength of genius for attaining it, they endeavour to supply the defect by poetical words, by cold exclamations, by common-place figures, and every thing that has the appearance of pomp and magnificence. It has escaped these writers, that sobriety in ornament is one great secret for rendering it pleasing ; and that without a foundation of good sense and solid thought, the most florid style is but a childish imposition on the pub- lic. The public, however, are but too apt to be so imposed on ; at least, the mob of readers, who are very ready to be caught, at first, with whatever is dazzling and gaudy. I cannot help thinking, that it reflects more honour on the religious turn, and good dispositions of the present age, than on the public taste, that Mr. Hervey's Meditations have had so great a currency. The pious and benevolent heart which is always displayed in them, and the lively fancy which, on some occasions, appears, justly merits ap- plause : but the perpetual glitter of expression, the swoln imagery, and strained description which abound in them, are ornaments of a false kind. I would, therefore, advise students of oratory to imitate Mr. Hervey's piety rather than his style : and, in all compositions of a serious kind, to turn their attention, as Mr. Pope says, ' from sounds to things, from fancy to the heart.' Admonitions of this kind, I have already had occasion to give, and may hereafter repeat them ; as I conceive nothing more incumbent on me in this course of lectures, than to take every opportunity of cautioning my readers against the affected and frivolous use of ornament : and instead of that slight and superficial taste in writing, which I apprehend to be at present too fashionable, to introduce, as far as my endeavours can avail, a taste for more solid thought, and more manly simplicity in style. QUESTIONS. Having treated at considerable length of the figures of speech, before finally dismissing this subject, what does our author think incumbent on him ? Though these have, in part, been anti- cipated, yet, what may be of use ; and why? With repeating what observa- tion, does our author begin ? Instances of what, have already been given ? On the other hand, what is remarked? Flow is this illustrated ? In the second place that ficrures be beautiful, what is requi site? What has been shown? When only, therefore, are they beautiful; and what remark follows? When will thev have a miserable effect ; and what is a very erroneous idea? This i- indeed, what ? What has often been the eriecl LEtrT XV in ] QUESTIONS. 204 a of this false idea ? From what does the ~eal and proper ornaments of style arise ; and how do they flow ? Of a writer of genius, what is remarked ? On what oc- casions should we never attempt to hunt for figures ; and why ? What is the third direction given concerning the use of figures ; and why ? What is the effect on composition of too great attention to ornament ; and what remark follows ? What is said of the direction of the an- cient critics on this head ? What says Cicero? With what direction doesQuin- tilian conclude his discourse concerning them ? On the uce of figurative lan- guage, what is the fourth direction ? Of imagination, what is observed ? What improvement may it derive from culti- vation ; but what will prove disgusting? With what consideration should we sa- tisfy ourselves? What will always com- mand attention ; and of what are they the foundation ? What remark follows? What directions cannot be too often given to. those who wish to excel in the liberal arts? When our author entered upon the consideration of style, what did he observe ? To what do these dis- tinctions, in genera], carry some refe- rence ; but refer chiefly to what? From what do they arise ; and what do they comprehend ? Of what does it remain now to speak ? Of the style necessary for different subjects, what is observed? How is this illustrated from philosophi- cal writings, from orations, and from the different parts of a sermon? But what does our author at present mean to remark ? How is this remark illus- trated from the writings of Livy, and of" Tacitus? How is this further illus- trated ? Wherever there is real and na- tive genius, what is its effect ? Where nothing of this appears, what are we apt to infer ? How is this illustrated ? Among the ancients, how did Dionysi- nsof Halicarnassus, divide these gene- ral characters of style? By the austere, what does he mean ; and what exam- pi 3s are given? AVhat does he mean by the florid ? Whom does he instance as writers of this character ? What is the middle kind ; what does it comprehend; and in this class who are placed? Of this last class, what is observed ; and why ? Of Cicero, and Quintilian's di- vision of style, what does our author remark ; and why does he not dwell on k 7 From what does one of the most obvious distinctions of the different kinds of style arise, and what does form ? Of a concise writer, what is ob- served ? How does he regard ornament? In what light does he place his thoughts* How are his sentences arranged ; what is studied in them; and for what are they commonly designed ? Of a diffuse writer, what is remarked ? Why does he place his thought in a variety of lights; and why is he not careful to ex- press it in its full strength at first? What do writers of this character generally love; and of their periods, what is observed ? Of each of these manners, what is observed ? What re- mark follows ? For illustrations of these general characters, to whom does our author refer? How are we to collect the idea of a formed manner of writing? Who are the two most remarkable ex- amples known by our author ? Of Aris- totle, and of his frugality, what is ob- served ? Of a beautiful and magnificent diffuseness, who is the most illustrious instance that can be given ; and what other writers fall in some degree under this class ? In judging when it is proper to lean to the concise, and when to the diffuse manner, by what must we be directed ? Why do discourses that are to be spoken, require a more copious style, than books that are to be read ? On what should we never presume? What style, therefore, is required in all public speeches ; guarding, at the same time, against what? In written compo- sitions, why does a certain degree of conciseness, possess great advantages ? How is this illustrated? When should description be in a concise strain ? How does it appear that this is different from the common opinion? W'hat does our author, on the contrary, apprehend and why? Accordingly, of the most masterly describers, what is observed ? At one glance, what do they chow us? Upon what, does the strength and vi- vacity of description much depend? In what style should addresses to the passions be made ? In these, why is it dangerous to be diffuse? What hazard attends becoming prolix? Of the heart, and the fancy, what is observed? In ad- dresses to what, is the case quite differ- ent ; and there, what manner is prefer- red ? When should you be concise, and when is it better to be full ? Of historical narration, what is observed ; and how 204 6 QUESTIONS. [lect. xviij. is tt'.3 illustrated? Of a diffuse writer, what was observed; and oi a concise writer, what, therefore, is certain? What, however, is not to be inferred from this ; and why not ? Who is a remarkable example of this; and of his sentences, what is observed? Of the style of most of the French wri- ters, what is observed ? What does a French author do; and what is the direct eli'ect of these short sentences? What is the effect of the quick, succes- sive impulses, which they make on the mind? Of long periods, what is ob- served ? When is an intermixture of long and short sentences requisite ? But of them, what is said? How are the nervous and the feeble generally held ? How does it appear that they do very often coincide ? As this does not always hold, of what are there instances? Who are examples ; and of the latter etyle, what is observed ? Where is the foundation of a nervous or weak style laid ? How is this illustrated? Of his words and expressions, what is obser- ved? What impression does a ner- vous writer give us of his subject ; and why ? What was before observed ? How should every author study to ex- press himself? What remark follows ; and when should strength predominate in style ? Hence, where i3 it expected most ; and who is one of the most per- fect examples? What holds of the ner- vous style as well as others ? What is the effect of too great a study of strength ; and from what does harsnness arise ? Of whom is this reckoned the fault? Of these writers, and of the language in their hands, what is observed ? W T hat illustration of this remark is given? What advantages attend this sort of style ? To what has the present form of our lancuaire sacrificed the study of strength ? Of our arrangement of words, what is remarked ? What was the area of the formation of our present style ? Who was the first who laid aside those frequent inversions? Who polished the language still more? But to whom are we most indebted for the present state of our language ; and of liim, what is observed ? Since his time, to what has considerable attention been paid ; but what follows? How do we now com- Sare with the ancients ? Hitherto, how ave we considered style ? How do we now proceed to consider it ? Here, how does the style of different authors seem to rise ? Of a dry manner, what is ob- served? Where, only, is it tolerable and what, even there, is requisite ? Of Aristotle, what is here observed ? Why does not this manner deserve to be imi- tated? W r hat is remarked of a plain style ? Of a writer of this character, what is observed ? What does he pur- sue in liis language 1 What, also, may be consistent with a very plain style : and therefore, what follows ? What is the difference between a dry and a plain writer? Repeat the remarks here made on the style of Dean Swift. What, also, is remarked of Mr. Locke ? In a neat style, what have we reached ; and of a writer of this character, what is observed ? By whom may such a style as this be attained; and how? Of it, what is remarked, and how ex- tensively may it be used ? Of an ele- gant style, what is observed ? From what has been formerly delivered, what will be easily understood ? What far- ther does it imply; and of an elegant writer, what is observed ? Whom may we place in this class; and of them what is observed ? What forms a florid style? Of it, in a young composer, what is remarked ; and what says Quintilian? Why must not this style receive the same indulgence from writers of ma- ture years? Of these frothy writers, what is observed ; and in them, what do we see? What has escaped them ? Of Mr. Hervey's Meditations, what is observed ? In them, what justly merits applause ; but what a r e of a false kind ? What advice, to students of oratory, is therefore given? Why are admonitions of this kind repeated ? ANALYSIS. 1. Directions about the use of figures. a. The chief beauties of composition do not depend upon them. b. They must rise naturally from thj subject. c. They should not be employed too fre- quently. d. Without a srenius for them, they should not be attempted. 2. Style, with respect to its express: in. a. The diffuse and the concise style. b. The nervous and the feeble style. 3. Style, with respect to ornament. a. A dry style. b. A plain style. c. A neat style. d. An elegant style. B. A florid style. (205) LECTURE XIX. GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE.— SIMPLE, AF FECTED, VEHEMENT.— DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING A PROPER STYLE. Having entered, in the last lecture, on the consideration of the general characters of style, I treated of the concise and diffuse, the nervous and feehle manner. I considered style also, ^ith relation to the different degrees of ornament employed to beautify it, in which view, the manner of different authors rises according to the following gradation : dry, plain, neat, elegant, flowery. I am next to treat of style under another character, one of great importance in writing, and which requires to be accurately examin- ed, that of simplicity, or a natural style, as distinguished from affec- tation. Simplicity, applied to writing, is a term very frequently used; but, like other critical terms, often used loosely and without precision. This has been owing chiefly to the different meanings given to the word simplicity, which, therefore, it will be necessary here to distinguish ; and to show in what sense it is a proper attri- bute of style. We may remark four different acceptations in which it is taken. The first is, simplicity of composition, as opposed to too great a variety of parts. Horace's precept refers to this : Denique sit quod vis simplex duntaxat et unum.* This is the simplicity of plan in a tragedy, as distinguished from double plots, and crowded incidents; the simplicity of the Iliad, or iEneid, in opposition to the digressions of Lucan, and the scattered tales of Ariosto ; the simplicity of Grecian architecture, in opposition to the irregular variety of the Gothic. In this sense, simplicity is the same with unity. The second sense is simplicity of thought, as opposed to refine- ment. Simple thoughts are what arise naturally ; what the occasion or the subject suggest unsought; and what, when once suggested, are easily apprehended by all. Refinement in writing, expresses a less natural and obvious train of thought, and which it required a peculiar turn of genius to pursue; within certain bounds very beau- tiful ; but when carried too far, approaching to intricacy, and hurting us by the appearance of being recherche, or far sought. Thus, we would naturally say, that Mr. Parnell is a poet of far greater simpli- city, in his turn of thought, than Mr. Cowley; Cicero's thoughts on moral subjects are natural; Seneca's too refined and laboured. In these two senses of simplicity, when it is opposed, either to variety of parts, or to refinement of thought, it has no proper relation to style * ' Then learn the wandering humour to control, And keep one equal tenour through the whole' Francis 206 SIMPLICITY AND [lect. xix. There, is a third sense of simplicity, in which it has respect to style; and stands opposed to too much ornament or pomp of lan- guage ; as when we say, Mr. Locke is a simple, Mr. Hervey a florid writer; and it is in this sense, that the 'simplex,' the ' tenue,' oi ' subtile genus dicendi' is understood hy Cicero and Quintilian. Th* simple style, in this sense, coincides with the plain or the neat style, which I before mentioned; and, therefore, requires no farther illus- tration. But there is a fourth sense of simplicity, also, respecting style; but not respecting the degree of ornament employed, so much as the easy and natural manner in which our language expresses our thoughts. This is quite different from the former sense of the word just now mentioned, in which simplicity was equivalentto plainness : whereas, in this sense, it is compatible with the highest ornament. Homer, for instance, possesses this simplicity in the greatest perfec- tion ; and yet no writer has more ornament and beauty. This sim- plicity, which is what we are now to consider, stands opposed, not to ornament, but to affectation of ornament, or appearance of labour about our style ; and it is a distinguishing excellency in writing. A writer of simplicity expresses himself in such a manner, that every one thinks he could have written in the same way; Horace describes it, . ut sibi quivis Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret Ausus idem.* There are no marks of art in his expression: it seems the very lan- guage of nature ; you see in the style, not the writer and his labour, but the man in his own natural character. He may be rich in his expression; he may be full of figures, and of fancy; but these flow from him without effort; and he appears to write in this manner, not because he has studied it, but because it is the manner of expression most natural to him. A certain degree of negligence, also, is not inconsistent with this character of style, and even not ungraceful in it; for too minute an attention to words is foreign to it : ' Habeat ille,' says Cicero, (Orat. No. 77 ) 'molle quiddam, et quod indicet non ingratam negligentiam hominis, de re magis quam de verbo la- borantis.'t This is the great advantage of simplicity of style, that, like simplicity of manners, it shows us a man's sentiments and turn of mind laid open without disguise. More studied and artificial manrers of writing, however beautiful, have always this disadvan- tage, that they exhibit an author in form, like a man at court, where the splendour of dress,and the ceremonial of behaviour, conceal those peculiarities which distinguish one man from another. But reading an author of simplicity, is like conversing with a person of distinction * « From well-known tales such fictions would I raise, As all might hope to imitate with ease; Yet while they strive the same success to gain, Should find their labours, and their hopes in vain.' Francis. t ' Let this style have a certain softness and ease, which shall characterize a neg ligence, not unpleasing in an author, who appears to be more solicitous about the thought than the expression. iect xrx.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 207 at home, and with ease, where we find natural manners, and a mark- ed character. The highest degree of this simplicity, is expressed by a French term, to which we have none that fully answers in our language, naivete. It is not easy to give a precise idea of the import of this word. It always expresses a discovery of character. I believe the best account of it is given by a French critic, M. Marmontel, who explains it thus : That sortof amiable ingenuity, or undisguised open- ness, which seems to give us some degree of superiority over the person who shows it; a certain infantine simplicity, which we love in our hearts, but which displays some features of the character that we think we could have art enough to hide ; and which, therefore, always leads us to smile at the person who discovers this character. La Fontaine, in his Fables, is given as the great example of such naivete. This, however, is to be understood, as descriptive of a par- ticular species only of simplicity. With respect to simplicity in general, we may remark, that the an- cient original writers are always the most eminent for it. This hap- pens from a plain reason, that they wrote from the dictates of natu- ral genius, and were not formed upon the labours and writings of others, which is always in hazard of producing affectation. Hence, among the Greek writers, we have more models of a beautiful sim- plicity than among the Roman. Homer, Hesiod, Anacroon, Theo- critus, Herodotus, and Xenophon, are all distinguished for it. Among the Romans also, we have some writers of this character, particular- ly Terence, Lucretius, Phaedrus, and Julius Caesar. The following passage of Terence's Andria, is a beautiful instance of simplicity of manner in description. Funus interim Procedit ; sequimur ; ad sepulchrum venimus ; In ignem imposita est; fletur. Interea haec soror, Quam dixi, ad flammam accessit iraprudentius Satis cum periculo. lbi turn esanimatus Pamphilus, Bene dissimulatum amorem,et celatum indicat; Occurrit pra3ceps,mulierem ab igne retr&hit, Mea Glycerium, inquit, quid agis? Cur tu is perditum ? Turn ilia, ut consuetum facile auoorem cerneres, Rejecit se in eum, flens quam familiariter* AH the words here are remarkably happy and elegant; and convoy & most lively picture of the scene described ; while, at the sa me time, * ' Meanwhile the funeral proceeds ; we follow ; Come to the sepulchre: the body's placed Upon the pile ; lamented ; whereupon This sister I was speaking of, all wild, Ran to the flames with peril of her life. There! there! the fright ^d Pamphilus betrays His well-dissembled and long hidden love; Runs up and takes her round the waist, and cries, Oh! my Glycerium! what is it you do? Why, why endeavour to destroy yourself ? Then she, in such a manner, that you thence Might easily perceive their long, long love, Threw herself back into his a: ms, and wept, Oh! how familiarly " Cot*A». 208 SIMPLICITY AND [lect. xix the style appears wholly artless and unlaboured. Let us, next, con- sider some English writers who come under this class. Simplicity is the great beauty of Archbishop Tillotson's manner. Tillotson has long been admired as an eloquent writer, and a model for preaching. But his eloquence, if we can call it such, has been often misunderstood. For, if we include in the idea of eloquence, vehemence and strength, picturesque description, glowing figures, or correct arrangement of sentences, in all these parts of oratory the Archbishop is exceedingly deficient. His style is always pure, in- deed, and perspicuous, but careless and rem'\ss;too often feeble and languid ; little beauty in the construction of his sentences, which are frequently suffered to drag unharmoniously; seldom any attempt to- wards strength or sublimity. But, notwithstanding these defects, such a constant vein of good sense and piety runs through his works, such an earnest and serious manner, and so much useful instruction conveyed in a style so pure, natural, and unaffected, as will justly re- commend him to high regard, as long as the English language re- mains; not, indeed, as a model of the highest eloquence, but as a simple and amiable writer, whose manner is strongly expressive of great goodness and worth. I observed before, that simplicity of manner may be consistent with some degree of negligence in style, and it is only the beauty of that simplicity which makes the negli- gence of such writers seem graceful. But, as appears in the Arch- bishop, negligence may sometimes be carried so far as to impair the beauty of simplicity, and make it border on a flat and languid manner. Sir William Temple is another remarkable writer in the style of simplicity. In point of ornament and correctness, he rises a degree above Tillotson; though, for correctness, he is not in the highest rank. All is easy and flowing in him; he is exceedingly harmoni- ous ; smoothness, and what may be called amenity, are the distinguish- ing characters of his manner; relaxing, sometimes, as such a man- ner will naturally do, in to a prolix and remiss style. No writer what- ever has stamped upon his style a more lively impression of his own character. In reading his works, we seem engaged in conversation with him ; we become thoroughly acquainted with him, not merely as an author, but as a man ; and contract a friendship for him. He may be classed as standing in the middle, between a negligent simplicity, and the highest degree of ornament, which this character of style admits. Of the latter of these, the highest, most correct, and ornamented degree of the simple manner, Mr. Addison, is, beyond doubt, in the English language, the most perfect example: and, therefore, though not without some faults, he is, on the whole, the safest model for imitation, and the freest from considerable defects, which the lan- guage affords. Perspicuous and pure, he is in the highest degree : his precision, indeed, not very great, yet nearly as great as the sub- jects which he treats of require; the construction of his sentences easy, agreeable, and commonly very musical; carrying a character of smoothness more than of strength. In figurative language, he is rich particularly in similes and metaphors; which are so employ ESCT. xix.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 20«> ed, as to render his style splendid, without being gaudy. There Is not the least affectation in his manner; we see no marks of labour; nothing forced or constrained; but great elegancejoined with great ease and simplicity. He is, in particular, distinguished by a charac ter of modesty, and of politeness, which appears in all his writings. No author hasamore popular and insinuatingmanner; and the great regard which he every where shows for virtue and religion, recom- mends him highly. If he fails in any thing, it is in want of strength and precision, which renders his manner, though perfectly suited to such essays as he writes in the Spectator, not altogether a proper mo- del for any of the higher and more elaborate kinds of composition. Though the public have ever done much justice to his merit, yet the nature of his merit has not always been seen in its true light; for, though his poetry be elegant, he certainly bears a higher rank among the prose writers, than he is entitled to among the poets; and, in prose, his humour is of a much higher, and more original strain, than his philosophy. The character of Sir Roger de Coverly discovers more genius than the critique on Milton. Such authors as those, whose characters I have been giving, one is never tired of reading. There is nothingintheir manner that strains or fatigues our thoughts ; we are pleased, without being dazzled by their lustre. So powerful is the charm of simplicity, in an author of real genius, that it atones for many defects, and reconciles us to many a careless expression. Hence, in all the most excellent au- thors, both in prose and verse, the simple and natural manner may be always remarked ; although other beauties being predominant, this forms not their peculiar and distinguishing character. Thus Mil- ton is simple in the midst of all his grandeur ; and Demosthenes in the midst of all his vehemence. To grave and solemn writings, simplicity of manner adds the more venerable air. Accord ngly, this has often been remarked as the prevailing character throughout all the sacred scriptures ; and, indeed, no other character of style was so much suited to the dignity of inspiration. Of authors who, notwithstanding many excellencies, have 'en- dered their style much less beautiful by want of simplicity, I cannot give a more remarkable example than Lord Shaftesbury. This is an author on whom I have made observations several times before, and shall now take leave of him, with giving his general character under this head. Considerable merit, doubtless, he has. His works might be read with profit for the moral philosophy which they contain, had he not filled them with so many oblique and invidious .nsinuations against the christian religion; thrown out, too, with so much spleen and satire, as do no honour to his memory, either as an author or a man. His language has many beauties. It is firm, and supported in an uncommon degree; it is rich and musical. No English author, as I formerly showed, has attended so much to the regular construction of his sentences, both with respect to propriety , and with respect to cadence. All this gives so much elegance and pomp to his language, that there is no wonder it should have been 27 210 SIMPLICITY IN STYLE. [lect. x;x. highly admired by some. It is greatly hurt, however, by perpe tual stiffness and affectation. This is its capital fault. His lordship can express nothing with simplicity. He seems to have considered it as vulgar, and beneath the dignity of a man of quality, to speak like other men. Hence he is ever in buskins; and dressed out with magnificent elegance. In every sentence, we see the marks of labour and art ; nothing of that ease which expresses a sentiment coming natural and warm from the heart. Of figures and orna ment of every kind, he is exceedingly fond, sometimes happy in them ; but his fondness for them is too visible ; and having once laid hold of some metaphor or allusion that pleased him, he knows not how to part with it. What is most wonderful, he was a professed admirer of simplicity; is always extolling it in the ancients, and censuring the moderns for the want of it; though he departs from it himself as far as any one modern whatever. Lord Shaftesbury possessed delicacy and refinement of taste, to a degree that we may call excessive and sickly; but he had little warmth of passion; few strong or vigorous feelings, and the coldness of his character, led him to that artificial and stately manner which appears in his writings. He was fonder of nothing than of wit and raillery ; but he is far from being happy in it. He attempts it often, but always awkwardly; he is stiff, even in his pleasantry ; and laughs in form, like an author, and not like a man.* From the account which I have given of Lord Shaftesbury's man- ner, it may easily be imagined, that he would mislead many who blindly admired him. Nothing is more dangerous to the tribe of imitators, than an author, who, with many imposing beauties, has also some very considerable blemishes. This is fully exemplified in Mr. Blackwall, of Aberdeen, the author of the Life of Homer, the Letters on Mythology, and the Court of Augustus; a writer of considerable learning, and of ingenuity also; but infected with an extravagant love of an artificial style, and of that parade of lan- guage which distinguishes the Shaftesburean manner. Having now said so much to recommend simplicity, or the easy and natural manner of writing, and having pointed out the defects of an opposite manner ; in order to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is necessary for me to observe, that it is very possible for an au- thor to write simply, and yet not beautifully. One may be free from affectation, and not have merit. The beautiful simplicity sup- poses an author to possess real genius; to write with solidity, purity, and liveliness of imagination. In this case, the simplicity or unaf- fected ness of his manner, is the crowning ornament; it heightens every other beauty; it is the dress of nature, without which, al' beauties are imperfect. But if mere unaffected ness were sufficient * It may perhaps be not unworthy of being mentioned, that the first edition o/ bis Inquiry into Virtue, was published, surreptitiously, I believe, in a separat* form, in the year 1699 ; and is sometimes to be met with : by comparing which, with the corrected edition of the same treatise, as it now stands among his works, we see one of the most curious ar.d useful examples that I know, of what is cal- led Limte labor: the art of polishing language, breaking long sentences, and workirg »p an imperfect draught into a highly finished performance. LEC7 Jtix.] VEHEMENT STYLE. 211 to constitute the beauty of style, weak, trifling, and dull writers might often lay claim to this beauty. And accordingly we fre- quently meet with pretended critics, who extol the dullest wri- ters on account of what they call the 'chaste simplicity of their manner;' which, in truth, is no other than the absence of every ornament, through the mere want of genius and imagination. We must distinguish, therefore, between that simplicity which accom- panies true genius, and which is perfectly compatible with every proper ornament of style, and that which is no other than a careless and a slovenly manner. Indeed, the distinction is easily made from the effect produced. The one never fails to interest the rea- der; the other is insipid and tiresome. I proceed to mention one other manner or character of style, different from any that I have yet spoken of; which may be dis- tinguished by the name of the vehement. This always implies strength, and is not, by any means, inconsistent with simplicity ; but, in its predominant character, is distinguishable from either the strong or the simple manner. It has a peculiar ardour; it is a glow- ing style; the language of a man, whose imagination and passions are heated, and strongly affected by what he writes ; who is there- fore 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 expected from a man who is speaking, than from one who is writing in his closet. The orations of De- mosthenes furnish the full and perfect example of this species of style. Among English writers, the one who has most of this character, though mixed, indeed, with several defects, is Lord Bolingbroke. Bolingbroke was formed by nature to be a factious leader; the de- magogue of a popular assembly. Accordingly, the style that runs through all his political writings, is that of one declaiming with heat, rather than writing with deliberation. He abounds in rheto- rical figures; and pours himself forth with great impetuosity. He is copious to a fault; places the same thought before us in many different views ; but generally with life and ardour. He is bold rather than, correct; a torrent that flows strong, but often muddy. His sentences are varied as to length and shortness ; inclining, how ever, most to long periods ; sometimes including parentheses, an. I frequently crowding and heaping a multitude of things upon one an- other, as naturally happens in the warmth of speaking. In the choice of his words, there is great felicity and precision. In exact construction of sentences, he is much inferior to Lord Shaftesbury; but greatly superior to him in life and ease. Upon the whole, his merit as a writer would have been very considerable, if his matter had equalled his style. But while we find much to' commend in the latter, in the former, as I before remarked, we can hardly find anything to commend. In his reasonings, for the most part, he is flimsy and false; in his political writings, factious; in what he calls his philosophical ones, irreligious and sophistical in the higher ie sree. 212 GENERAL CHARACTERS [lect. xix T shall insist no longer on the different manners of writers, or the general characters of style. Some others, beside those which I have mentioned, might be pointed out; but I am sensible that it is very difficult to separate such general considerations of the style of au- thors from their peculiar turn of sentiment, which it is not mv business, at present, to criticise. Conceited writers, for instance discover their spirit so much in their composition, that it imprints on their style a character of pertness; though I confess it is diffi- cult to say, whether this can be classed among the attributes of style, or rather is to be ascribed entirely to the thought. In what- ever class we rank it, all appearances of it ought to be avoided with care, as a most disgusting blemish in writing. Under the gen- eral heads which I have considered, I have taken an opportunity of giving the character of many of the eminent classics in the English language. From what I have said on this subject, it may be inferred, that to determine among all these different manners of writing, what is precisely the best, is neither easy, nor necessary. Style is a field that admits great latitude. Its qualities in different authors may be very different; and yet in them all beautiful. Room must be left here for genius; for that particular determination which every one receives from nature to one manner of expressipn more than another. Some general qualities, indeed, there are,of such importance, as should always, in every kind of composition, be kept in view; and some defects we should always study to avoid.. An ostentatious, a feeble, a harsh, or an obscure style, for instance, are always faults; and perspicuity, strength, neatness, and sim- plicity, are beauties to be always aimed at. But as to the mixture of all, or the degree of predominancy of any one of these good qualities, for forming our peculiar distinguishing manner, no precise rules can be given ; nor will I venture to point out anyone model as absolutely perfect. It will be more to the purpose, that I conclude these dissertations upon style, with a k\v directions concerning the proper method of attaining a good style, in general ; leaving the particular character of that style to be either formed by the subject on which we write, or prompted by the bent of genius. The first direction which I give for this purpose,is, to study clear ideas on the subject concerning which we are to write or speak. This is a direction which may at first appear to have small relation to style. Its relation to it, however, is extremely close. The founda- tion of all good style, is good sense, accompanied with a lively ima- gination. The style and thoughts of a writer are so intimately con- nected, that, as I have several times hinted, it is frequently hard to distinguish them. Wherever the impressions of things upon our minds are faint and indistinct, or perplexed and confused, our style in treating of such things will infallibly be so too. Whereas, what we conceive clearly and feel strongly, we shall naturally express with clearness and with strength. This, then, we may be assured, is a capital rule as to style, to think closely of the subject, till w© lect. xix.] OF STYLE. 213 have attained a full and distinct view of the matter which we are to clothe in words, till we become warm and interested in it; then and not till then, shall we find expression begin to flow. Generally speaking, the best and most proper expressions, are those which a clear view of the subject suggests, without much labour or inquiry after them. This is Quintilian's observation, lib. viii. c. 1. 'Ple- rumque optima verba rebus coherent, et cernuntur suo luinine. At nos quserimus ilia, tanquam lateant, seque subducant. Ita nun- quam putamus verba esse circa id de quo dicendum est; sed ex aliis loeis petimus, et inventis vim afferimus.'* In the second place, in order to form a good style, the frequent practice of composing is indispensably necessary. Many rules con- cerning style I have delivered, but no rules will answer the end. without exercise and habit. At the same time, it is not every sort of composing that will improve style. This is so far from being the case, that by frequent, careless, and hasty composition, we shall ac- quire certainly a very bad style; we shall have more trouble after- wards in unlearning faults, and correcting negligences, than if we had not been accustomed to composition at all. In the beginning, therefore, we ought to write slowly and with much care. Let the facility and speed of writing, be the fruit of longer practice. 'Mo- ram et solicitudinem,' says Quintilian,with the greatest reason, 1. x. c. 3. 'initiis impero. Nam primum hoc constituendum acobtinen- dum est, ut quam optime scribamus; celeritatem dabit consuetudo. Paulatim res facilius se ostendent, verba respondebunt, compositio prosequetur. Cuncta denique ut in familia bene instituta in officio •erunt. Summa haec est rei ; cito scribendo non fit ut bene scribatur ; bene scribendo, fit ut cito.'"*" We must observe, however, that there may be an extreme, in too great and anxious care about words. We must not retard the course of thought, nor eool the heat of imagination, by pausing too long on every word we employ. There is, on certain occasions, a glow of composition which should be kept up, if we hope to ex- press ourselves happily, though at the expense of allowing some inadvertencies to pass. A more severe examination of these must be left to be the work of correction. For, if the practice of compo- sition be useful, the laborious work of correcting is no less so: it is indeed absolutely necessary to our reaping any benefit from the habit of composition. What we have written, should be laid by * ' The most proper words for the most part adhere to the thoughts which arc 'jo be expressed by them, and may be discovered as by their own light. But wi> "lUQt after them, as if they were hidden, and only to be fou. d in a corner. Hence •ostead of conceiving the words to lie near the subject, we go in quest of them to some other quarter, and endeavour to give force to the expressions we ha*e found out/ t 'I enjoin, that such as are beginning the practice of composition, write slowly and with anxious deliberation. Their great object at first should be, to write as well as possible ; practice will enable them to write speedily. By degrees, matter will offer itself still more readily ; words will be at hand ; composition will don ; every thing as in the arrangement of a well-ordered family, will present itself in i 3 proper place. The sum of the whole is this; by hasty composition, we shall never acquire the art of composing well ; by writing well, we shall come to write speedily 214 DIRECTIONS FOR [lect. xij foi some little time, till the ardour of composition be past, till the fondness for the expressions we have used be worn off, and the ex- piessions themselves be forgotten; and then, reviewing our work with a coo? and critical eye, as if it were the performance of another, we shall discern many imperfections which at first escaped us. Then is the season for pruning redundances; for weighing the arrange- ment of sentences; for attending to the juncture and connecting pai tides; and bringing style into a regular, correct, and supported form. This ' Limas Labor/ must be submitted to by all who would communicate their thoughts with proper advantage to others; and some practice in it will soon sharpen their eye to the most necessary objects of attention, and render it a much more easy and practicable work than might at first be imagined. In the third place, with respect to the assistance that is to be gain- ed from the writings of others, it is obvious, that we ought to render ourselves well acquainted with the style of the best authors. This is requisite both in order to form a just taste in style, and to supply us with a full stock of words on every subject. In reading authors with a view to style, attention should be given to the peculiarities of their different manners ; and in this, and former lectures, I have en- deavoured to suggest several things that may be useful in this view. I know no exercise that will be found more useful for acquiring a proper style, than to translate some passages from an eminent En- glish author, into our own words. What 1 mean is. to take, for in- stance, some page of one of Mr. Addison's Spectators, and read il carefully over two or three times, till we have got a firm hold of the thoughts contained in it ; then to lay aside the book ; to attempt to write out the passage from memory, in the best way we can; and having done so, next to open the book, and compare what we have written with the style of the author. Such an exercise will, by com- parison, show us where the defects of our style lie; will lead us to the proper attentions for rectifying them; and, among the different ways in which the same thought may be expressed, w ; U make us perceive that which is the most beautiful. But, In the fourth place, I must caution, at the same time, against a ser- vile imitation of any author whatever. This is always dangerous. It hampers genius ; it is likely to produce a stiff manner; and those who are given to close imitation, generally imitate an author's faults as well as his beauties. No man will ever become a good writer or speaker, who has not some degree of confidence to follow his own genius. We ought to beware, in particular, of adopting any author's noted phrases, or transcribing passages from him. Such a habit will prove fatal to all genuine composition. Infinitely better it is to have something that is our own, though of moderate beauty, than to affect to shine in borrowed ornaments, which will, at last, betray the utter poverty of our genius. On these heads of composing, correcting, reading, and imitating, I advise every student of oratory to consult what Quintilian has delivered in the tenth book of his Institutions, where he will find a variety of excellent observations and directions, that well deserve attention. lect. xix.] FORMING STYLE. 215 In the fifth place, it is an obvious, but material rule, with respect to style, that we always study to adapt it to the subject, and also to the e?.pacity of our hearers, if we are to speak : ~ public. Nothing me- rits the name of eloquent or beautiful, which is not suited to the oc- casion, and to the persons to whom it is addressed. It is to the last degree awkward and absurd, to attempt a poetical florid style, on occasions when it should be our business only to argue and reason ; or to speak with elaborate pomp of expression, before persons who comprehend nothing of it, and who can only stare at our unseasona- ble magnificence. These are defects not so much in point of style, as, what is much worse, in point of common sense. When we begin to write or speak, we ought previously to fix in our minds a clear con- ception of the end to be aimed at; to keep this steadily in our view, and to suit our style to it. If we do not sacrifice to this great object every ill-timed ornament that may occur to our fancy, we are unpar- donable; and though children and fools may admire, men of sense will laugh at us and our style. In the last place, I cannot conclude the subject without this admo- nition, that in any case, and on any occasion, attention to style must not engross us so much, as to detract from a higher degree of atten- tion to the thoughts. 'Curam verborum/ says the great Roman cri- tic, 'rerum volo esse solicitudinem.'* A direction the more neces- sary, as the present taste of the age in writing, seems to lean more to style than to thought. It is much easier to dress up trivial and com- mon sentiments with some beauty of expression, than to afford a fund of vigorous, ingenious, and useful thoughts. The latter, requires true genius ; the former may be attained by industry, with the help of very superficial parts. Hence, we find so many writers frivolously rich in style, but wretchedly poor in sentiment. The public ear is now so much accustomed to a correct and ornamented style, that no writer can, with safety, neglect the study of it. But he is a contemptible one who does not look to something beyond it: who does not lay the chief stress upon his matter, and employ such ornaments of style to recommend it, as are manly, not foppish : 'Majore animo,' says the writer whom I have so often quoted, 'ag- gredienda est eloquentia ; quae si toto corpore valet, ungues polire, et capillum componere, non existimabitad curam suam pertinere. Or- natus et virilis et fortis et sanctus sit; nee effeminatam levitatem, et fuco ementitum colorem amet; sanguine et viribus niteat.'t * ' To your expressions be attentive : but about your matter be solicitous.' t ' A higher spirit ought to animate those who study eloquence. They ought to consult the health and soundness of the whole body, rather than bend their atten- tion to such trifling objects as paring the nails, and dressing the hair. Let orna- ment be manly and chaste, without effeminate gayety, or artificial colouring ; lot «t shine with the glow of health and strength.' 21 (215 a ) Q,UESTIOIVS. Of what kinds of style did our au- thor treat in the last lecture? With relation to what, was style also consi- dered? Under what other character is he next to consider style ? Of simpli- city, when applied to writing, what is boserved ? To what, chielly, has this oeen owing ; and what is, consequent- y, necessary? How many different ac- ceptations of it may we remark ; and what is the first ? Repeat the precept of Horace, in reference to this. By what examples is the nature of this simplicity illustrated ? In this sense, it is the same with what ? What is the second acceptation in which simplicity is taken ? What are simple thoughts ? Of refinement in writing, what is ob- served ? Thus, what should we natu- rally say ? In these two senses, to what has simplicity no proper relt- tion ? To what does simplicity, in the cnird sense, stand opposed? What illustration of this is given? With what does simple style, in this sense, coincide ; and what follows? What does simplicity, in the fourth sense, particularly respect? From what is simplicity, in this, quite different ; and with what is it compati- ble ? How is this remark illustrated ? To what does this simplicity stand op- posed ; and what is it considered ? How does a writer of simplicity express him- self? How does Horace describe it ? Of his expression, what is observed; and in his style, what do you see ? Of his expression, figures, and fancy, what is remarked ? What, also, is not incon- sistent with this character of style; and why ? What says Cicero ? What is the great advantage of simplicity of style ? What disadvantages have more studied and artificial manners of wri- ting ? But reading an author of simpli- city, is like what ? By what French term is the highest degree of this sim- plicity expressed ? What does it always express? What is the best account that can be ijiven of it ? Where are many examples of it to be found; and how is this to be understood ? With re- spect to simplicity m general, what n ay we remark ? How does this hap- pen? Hence, what follows? Among the Greek's, and also among the Ro- mans, what individuals were distin- guished for it? Repeat the passage here introduced from Terence's Andria ? Of this passage, what is observed ? What shall we next consider ? What is the ffreat beauty o r Tillotson's man- ner; and how has he long been ad- mired ? Of his eloquence, what is ob- served ; and why ? What is said of his style ? But notwithstanding these de- fects, what will ever recommend him to high regard; and as what? What was before observed on simplicity of manner ? But how far may this sim plicity sometimes be carried ? In sim- plicity, how does Sir William Temple compare with Tillotson ? Of his style and manner, what is observed ; and on his style, what is stamped ? What ef- fect is produced in reading his works ? How may he be classed ? Of Mr. Ad- dison's style, what is observed; and, therefore, what follows ? Of Iris perspi- cuity, purity, and precision, and also ol the construction of his sentences, what is remarked ? How is he in figura- tive language ; and what is said of his manner ? By what is he particu- larly distinguished? Of his manner, what is observed; and what recom- mends him highly? If in any thing, in what does he fail; and what is the consequence? From what does it ap- pear that his merit has not always been seen in its true Iis;ht; and what illustration is given? Why is one never tired of reading such authors as those whose characters our author has been giving ? Of the charm of simplicity in an author of real genius, what is ob- served? Hence, what follows? What examples are given ? What is the ef- fect of simplicity in grave and solemn writings? Accordingly, of what wri- tings has this often been remarked to be the prevailing character ; and why ? Of what is Lord Shaftesbury a re- markable example? Were it not for what, might his works be read with profit, for the moral philosophy which they contain ? Of his language, and ot his sentences, what is observed ? AVhat is the effect of all this ? What is hie capital fault? How is this remark il- lustrated? Of his figures and orna- ments of every land, what is observed ? Of him, what is most wonderful ? To what degree did he possess delicacy and refinement of taste ? But what re- mark follows ? Of his wit and raiilery, what is observed ? From the account given of Lord Shaftesbury's manner, what may ea- sily be imagined? What remark fol- lows ? In whom is this fully exemplifi ed ; and what is said of him ? After ali thai has been said, what is it necessa LECT. XIX.] QUESTIONS. 215 b ry to observe ? From what may one be free, and not have merit? What does the beautiful simplicity suppose? In this case, what is the crowning orna- ment ; and what is its effect ? But if mere unaffectedness were sufficient to constitute the beauty of style, what consequence would follow? And ac- cordingly, with what do we frequently meet? Between what, therefore, must we distinguish ? What different effects do they produce? To mention what, does our author now proceed ? What does this always imply ; and with what is it not inconsistent? But from what, in its predominant character, is it dis- finguishable? Describe it. To what does it belong; and from whom is it expected ? W T here do we find a perfect example of it ? Who, among English writers, has the most of this character? For what was he, by nature, formed ; and accordingly, what follows? With what does he abound ; and of his copi- ousness, what is observed? What re- mark follows ? Of his sentences, what is observed ? In the choice of his words, and in the exact construction of his sentences, what is observed? Under what circumstances would his merit, as a writer, be very considerable? But, what follows ? Why will our au- thor no longer insist on the different manners of writers, or the general cha- racters of style ? How is this illustrated from conceited writers? In whatever class we rank it, what is said of it ? Under the general heads, which has been considered, what has been done ? From what has been said on this sub- ject, what may be inferred ; and why ? Here, for what must room be left? What, remark follows ; and how is it illustrated ? But for what can no pre- cise rule be given ? To conclude these dissertations upon style in what man- ner, will be more to our purpose ? What is the first direction given for this pur- pose? How is the necessity of this di- rection illustrated? On the intimate r onnexion between the style and thoughts of a good writer, what has several times been hinted ? How is this illustrated ? What, then, may we be assured, is a capital rule, as to style ? Generally speaking, what are the best ±nd most proper expressions? Repeat what Quintilian says on this subject. In the second place, in ©rder to form a trood style, what is indispensably ne- cessary? What remark follows? At the same time, what is observed ? What will be the effect of writing fre- quently, carelessly and hastily J and what remarks follow? What says Quintilian, with the greatest reason ? What must we, however, observe ; and why ? Why must a more severe ex- amination of these be left to correction? What disposition should we, for a short time, make of what we have written ? Then is the season for what ? Of the LimcB Labor, what is observed? In the third place, with respect to the as- sistance that is to be gained from the writings of others, what is obvious ? Why is this requisite ? In reading au. thors with a view to style, to what should attention be given ? In acquir- ing a proper style, what exercise is very useful ? By that, what does our author mean ? What will be the effect of such an exercise ? But, in the fourth place, what caution is given ? Of this, what is observed? What man will never become a good writer or speak- er ? What should we particularly avoid ? What is the effect of such a habit ; and what is infinitely better ? On these heads, to do what is every student of oratory advised ? In the fifth place, what is an obvious, but material rule, with respect to style ? How is the necessity of this rule fully illustrated ? When we begin to write or speak, what ought we previously to fix in our minds? What must we sacrifice to this ? In the last place, what admonition is given ? What says the Roman critic on this subject ? Why is this direction, at pre- sent, particularly necessary ? How is this remark fully illustrated ? To what is the public now much accustomed? What remark follows ? WTiat says the writer whom our author has so often quoted ? ANALYSIS. 1. Simplicity of style. a. Simplicity of composition. e. Simplicity of thought. c. Simplicity in opposition to too much ornament. d. Simplicity in the expression. a. Instances among the ancients and the moderns. 2 The vehement style. 3. Directions for attaining a good style. a. We should study clear ideas on tho subject. b. We should compose frequently. c. We should be familiar with the best authors. d. We should avoid servile imitation. e. We should adapt our style to the sub- ject. f. We should attend less to our style than to our thoughts (216 ) LECTURE XX. CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE OF MR. ADDISON, IN No. 411 OF THE SPECTATOR. I have insisted fully on the subject of language and style, both because it is, in itself, of great importance, and because it is more capable of being ascertained by precise rule, than several other parts of composition. A critical analysis of the style of some good au- thor will tend further to illustrate the subject; as it will suggest ob- servations which I have not had occasion to make, and will show, in the most practical light, the use of those which I have made. Mr. Addison is the author whom I have chosen for this purpose. The Spectator, of which his papers are the chief ornament, is a book which is in the hands of every one, and which cannot be praised too highly. The good sense, and good writing, the useful morality, and the admirable vein of humour which abound in it, render it one of those standard books which have done the greatest honour to the English nation. I have formerly given the general character of Mr. Addison's style and manner, as natural and unaffected, easy and polite, and full of those graces which a flowery imagination diffuses overwri- ting. At the same time, though one of the most beautiful writers in the language, he is not the most correct; a circumstance which ren- ders his composition the more proper to be the subject of our pre- sent criticism. The free and flowing manner of this amiable writer sometimes led him into inaccuracies, which the more studied cir- cumspection and care of far inferior writers have taught them to avoid. Remarking his beauties, therefore, which I shall have fre- quent occasion to do, as I proceed, I must also point out his negli- gences and defects. Without a free, impartial discussion,of both the faults and beauties which occur in his composition, it is evident, this piece of criticism would be of no service; and, from the freedom which I use in criticising Mr. Addison's style, none can imagine that I mean to depreciate his writings, after having repeatedly declared the high opinion which I entertain of them. The beauties of this author are so many, and the general character of his style is so ele- gant and estimable, that the minute imperfections I shall have occa- sion to point out, are but like those spots in the sun, which may be discovered by the assistance of art, but which have no effect in ob- scuring its lustre. It is, indeed, my judgment, that what Quintilian applies to Cicero, ' Ille se profecisse sciat, cui Cicero valde place- bit,' may, with justice, be applied to Mr. Addison; that to be high ly pleased with his manner of writing, is the criterion of one's having acquired a good taste in English style. The paper on which we are now to enter, is No. 411, the first of his celebrated Essays on the Pleasures of the Imagination, in the sixth volume of the Spectator. It begins thus: user, xx.] CRITICAL EXAMINATION, &c 217 ' 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 propo- • sition which he is going to illustrate throughout the rest of the para- graph. In this manner, we should always set out. A first sentence should seldom be a long, and never an intricate one. He might have said, ' Our sight is the most perfect, and the mostde light/id.' But he has judged better, in omitting to repeat the article the. For the repetition of it is proper, chiefly when we intend to point out the objects of which we speak, as distinguished from, or contrasted with, each other; and when we want that the reader's at- tention should rest on that distinction. For instance; had Mr. Ad- dison intended to say, that our sight is at once the most delightful, and the most useful, of all our senses, the article might then have been repeated with propriety, as a clear and strong distinction would have been conveyed. But.as hetween perfect and delightful there is less contrast, there was no occasion for such repetition. It would have had no other effect, but to add a word unnecessarily to the sen- tence. He proceeds: ' It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in action, without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments.' This sentence deserves attention, as remarkably harmonious, and well constructed. It possesses, indeed, almost all the properties of a perfect sentence. It is entirely perspicuous. It is loaded with no superfluous or unnecessary words. For, tired or satiated, towards the end of the sentence, are not used for synonymous terms. They con- vey distinct ideas, and refer to different members of the period; that this sense continues the longest in action without being tired, that is, without being fatigued with its action ; and also, without being satiatedwith its proper enjoyments. Thatquality of agood sentence, which I termed its unity, is here perfectly preserved. It is our sighl'ot which he speaks. This is the object carried through the sentence, and presented to us, in every member of it, by those verbs, fills, converses, continues, to each of which it is clearly the nomina- tive. Those capital words are disposed of in the most proper places ; and that uniformity is maintained in the construction of the sentence, which suits the unity of the object. Observe, too, the music of the period ; consisting of three mem- bers, each of which, agreeable to a rule I formerly mentioned, grows and rises above the other in sound, till the sentence is conducted, at last, to one of the most melodious closes which our language admits; without being tired or satiated ivith its proper enjoyments. Enjoy- ments is a word of length and dignity, exceedingly proper for a close which is designed to be a musical one. The harmony is the more hap- py, as this disposition of the members of the period which suits the sound so well, is no less just and proper with xespect to the sense. It follows the order of nature. First, we have the variety of objects 28 218 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xx. mentioned, which sight furnishes to the mind ; next, we have the iction of sight on those objects ; and lastly, we have the time and continuance cf its action. No order could be more natural and happy. This sentence has still another beauty. It is figurative, without being too much sc for the subject. A metaphor runs through it. The sense of sight is, in some degree, personified. We are told of its conversing with its objects; and of its not being tired or satiated with its enjoyments ; all which expressions are plain allusions to the actions and feelings of men. This is that slight sort of personifica- tion which, without any appearance of boldness, and without elevat- ing the fancy much above its ordinary state, renders discourse picturesque, and leads us to conceive the author's meaning more distinctly, by clothing abstract ideas, in some degree, with sensible colours. Mr. Addison abounds with this beauty of style beyond most authors; and the sentence which we have been considering, is very expressive of his manner of writing. There is no blemish in it whatever, unless that a strict critic might perhaps object, that the epithet large, which he applies to variety — the largest variety of ideas, is an epithet more commonly applied to extent than to num- ber. It is plain, that he here employed 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 colours ; but, at the same time, it is very much straitened and confined in its operations, to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular objects.' This sentence is by no means so happy as the former. It is, in- deed, neither clear nor elegant. Extension and shape can, with no propriety, be called ideas ; they are properties of matter. Nei- ther is it accurate, even according to Mr. Locke's philosoph)*, (with which our author seems here to have puzzled himself,) to speak of any sense giving its a notion of ideas ; our senses give us the ideas themselves. The meaning would have been much more clear, if the author had expressed himself thus : 'The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us the idea of extension, figure, and all the other properties of matter which are perceived by the eye, except co- lours.' The latter part of the sentence is still more embarrassed. For what meaning can we make of the sense of feeling, being confined in its operation, to the number, bulk, and distance, of its particular objects? Surely, every sense is confined, as much as the sense of feeling, to the number, bulk, and distance of its own objects. Sight and feeling are, in this respect, perfectly on a level ; neither of them can extend beyond its own objects. The turn of expres- sion is so inaccurate here, that one would be apt to suspect two words to have been omitted in the printing, which were originally in Mr. Addison's manuscript ; because the insertion of them would render the sense much more intelligible and clear. These two words are, with regard : — it is very much straitened and confined in its operations, lect. xx.l THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 219 with regard to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular ob- jects. The meaning then would be, that feeling is more limited than sight in this respect ; that it is confined to a narrower circle, to a smaller number of objects. The epithetparticular, applied to objects, in the conclusion of the sentence, is redundant, and conveys no meaning whatever. Mr. Addison seems to have used it in place of peculiar, as indeed he does often in other passages of his writings. But particular and pe- culiar, though they are too often confounded, are words of dif- ferent import from each other. Particular stands opposed to gene- ral; peculiar stands opposed to what is possessed in ctmmon toith others. Particular, expresses what, in the logical style, is called species ; peculiar, what is called differentia. Its peculiar objtcts, would have signified, in this place, the objects of the sense of ftel- ing, as distinguished from the objects of any other sense; and would have had more meaning than its particular objects ; though, in truth, neither the one nor the other epithet was requisite. It was sufficient to have said simply, its objects. '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 multitude of bodies, comprehends the largest figures, and brings into our reach some of the most re- mote parts of the universe.' Here again the author's style returns upon us in all its beaut) . This is a sentence distinct, graceful, well arranged, and highly mu- sical. In the latter part of it, it is constructed with three members, which are formed much in the same manner with those of the second sentence, on which I bestowed so much praise. The construction is so similar, that if it had followed immediately after it, we should have been sensible of a faulty monotony. But the interposition of another sentence between them, prevents this effect. 'It is this sense which furnishes the imagination wiia 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 which furnishes, the author might have said more shortly, This sense furnishes. But the mode of expres- sion which he has used, is here more proper. This sort of full and ample assertion, it is this ivhich, is fit to be used when a proposition of importance is laid down, to which we seek to call the reader's attention. It is like pointing with the hand at the object of which we speak. The parenthesis in the middle of the sentence, which I shall use promiscuously, is not clear. He ought to have said, terms which I shall use promiscuously ; as the verb use relates not to the pleasures of the imagination, but to the terms of fancy and imagination, which he was to employ as synonymous. Any the Hke occasion. To call a painting or a statue an occasion, is not. a hap- py expression, nor is it very proper to speak oicalliyig up ideas by 220 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xx occasions. The common phrase, any such means, would have been more natural. 'We cannot indeed have a single image in the fancy, that did not make its first entrance through the sight; but we have the power of retaining, altering, and compounding those images which we have once received, into all the varieties of picture and vision that are most 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 wnole compass of nature/ It may be of use to remark, that 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 varieties of picture and vision. But we can with no propriety say, retaining them into all the varieties; and yet, according to the man- ner in which the words are ranged, this construction is unavoidable For retaining, altering, and compounding, are participles, each of which equally refers to, and governs, the subsequent noun, those images ; and that noun again is necessarily connected with the fol- lowing preposition, into. This instance shows the importance of carefully attending to the rules of grammar and syntax; when so pure a writer as Mr. Addison could, through inadvertence, be guilty of such an error. The construction might easily have been recti- fied, by disjoining the participle retaining from the other two parti- ciples, in this way: '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.' Thelat ter part of the sentence is clear and elegant. 1 There are few words in the English language which are employ ed in a more loose and uncircumseribed sense, than those of the fancy and the imagination.' There a? 'few words — which are employed. It had been better, if our author here had said more simply, few ivords in the English language are employed. Mr. Addison, whose style is of the free and full, rather than the nervous kind, deals, on all occasions, in this extended sort of phraseology. But it is proper only when some as- sertion of consequence is advanced, and which can bear an empha- sis; such as that in the first sentence of the former paragraph. On other occasions, these little words, it is, and there are, ought to be avoided as redundant and enfeebling. Those of the fancy and the imagination. The article ought to have been omitted here. As he does not mean the powers of the fancy and the imagination, but the words only, the article certainly had no proper place; neither, in- deed, was there any occasion for the other two words, those of Better if the sentence had run thus: 'Few words in the Englisn. language are employed in a more loose and uncircumseribed 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 lect. xx.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No 411. 221 my following speculations, that the reader may conceive righthy what is the subject which I proceed upon.' Though^? and determine may appear synonymous words, yet a difference between them may be remarked, and they may be view- ed, as applied here, with peculiar delicacy. The author had just said, that the words of which he is speaking were loose and uncir- rumscribed. Fix relates to the first of these, determine to the last. We fix what is loose; that is, we confine the word to its proper place, that it may not fluctuate in our imagination, and pass from one idea to another ; and we determine what is uncircumscribed, that is, we as- certain its termini or limits, we draw the circle round it, that we may see its boundaries. For we cannot conceive the meaning of a word, or indeed of any other thing clearly, till we see its limits, and know how far it extends. These two words, therefore, have grace and beauty as they are here applied; though a writer, more frugal of words than Mr. Addison, would have preferred the single word ascertain, which conveys, without any metaphor, the import of them ^oth. The notion of these words, is somewhat of a harsh phrase, at least tiotso commonly used, as the meaning of these tvords;—as I intend to make useofthemin the threadofmy speculations; this is plainly faulty. A sort of metaphor is improperly mixed with words in the /iteral sense. He might very well have said, as /intend to make ttse of them in my following speculations. This was plain language ; but if he chose to borrow an allusion from thread, that allusion ought to have been supported ; for there is no consistency in making use of them in the thread of speculations; and indeed, in expressing any thing so simple and familiar as this is, plain language is always to be preferred to metaphorical — the subject which 1 proceed upon, is an ungi iceful close of a sentence ; better the subject upon which [pro- ceed. ' I must therefore desire him to remember, that, by the plea- sures of the imagination, I mean only such pleasures as arise origi- nally from sight, and that I divide these pleasures into two kinds.' As the last sentence began with, I therefore thought it necessary to fix, it is careless to begin this sentence in a manner so very similar, I must therefore desire him to rem ember; especially, as the small va- riation of using, on this account, or, for thisreason, in place of there- fore, would have amended the style. When he says, / mean only such pleasures, it may be remarked, that the adverb only is not in its proper place. It is not intended here to qualify the word mean, but such pleasures; and therefore should have been placed in as close a connexion as possible with the word which it limits or qualifies. The style becomes more clear and neat, when the words are arrang- ed thus; 'By the pleasures of the imagination, I mean such plea- sures only as arise from sight.' 'My design, being first of all, to discourse of those primary plea- sures 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 imagination, which flow from the ideas 2K 223 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. a. Df visible objects, when the objects are not actually before the eye. out are called up into our memories, or formed into agreeable visions of things, that are either absent or fictitious.' It is a great rule in laying; down the division of a subject, to study neatness and brevity as much as possible. The divisions are then more distinctly apprehended, and more easily remembered. This sentence is not perfectly happy in that respect. It is somewhat clogged by a tedious phraseology. My design being first of all, to discourse— in the next place to speak of— such objects as are before our eyes-things that are either absent or fictitious. Several words might have been spared here; and the style made more neat and compact 'The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the under- standing.' This sentence is distinct and elegant. ' The last are indeed more preferable, because they are founded on some new knowledge or improvement in the mind of man : yet it must be confessed, that those of the imagination are as great and as transporting as the other.' In the beginning of this sentence,.the phrase more preferable, is such a plain inaccuracy, that one wonders how Mr. Addison should have fallen into it ; seeing preferable, of itself, expresses the compara- tive degree, and is a the same with more eligible, or more excellent. I must observe farther, 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 imagination are as great and as transporting as the other. In the former sentence, he had compared three things together ; the pleasures of the imagination, those of sense, and those of the understanding. In the beginning of this sentence, he had called the pleasures of the understanding the last ; and he ends the sentence, with observing, that those of the imagination are as great and transporting as the other. Now, besides that the other makes not a proper contrast with the last, he leaves it ambiguous, whether, by the other, he meant the pleasures of the understanding, or the pleasures of the sense; for it may refer to either, by the con- struction; though, undoubtedly, he intended that it should refer to the pleasures of the understanding only. The proposition reduced to perspicuous language, runs thus: 'Yet it must be confessed, that the pleasures of the imagination, when compared with those of the understanding, are no less great and transporting.' ' A beautiful prospect delights the soul as much as ademonstration and a description in Homer has charmed more readers than a chap ter in Aristotle.' This is a good illustration of what he had been asserting, and Is expressed with that happy and elegant turn, for which our author is very remarkable. * Besides, the pleasures of the imagination have this advantage above those of the understanding, that they are more obvious, and more easy to be aco x uired.' This is also an unexceptionable sentence iect.xx.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 223 'It is but opening the eye, and the scene enters.' This sentence is lively and picturesque. By the gayety and brisk- ness which it gives the style, it shows the advantage of intermixing such a short sentence as this amidst a run of longer ones, which never fails to have a happy effect. I must remark, however, a small inac- curacy. A scene cannot be said to enter : an actor enters ; but a scene appears or presents itself. ' The colours paint themselves on the fancy, with very little attec tion of thought or application of mind in the beholder.' This is still beautiful illustration; carried on with that agreeable floweriness of fancy and style, which is so well suited to those plea- sures of the imagination, of which the author is treating. ( We are struck, we know not how, with the symmetry of any thing we see, and immediately assent to the beauty of an object, without inquiring into the particular causes and occasions of it.' There is a falling off here from the elegance of the former sen- tences. We assent to the truth of a proposition ; but cannot so well be said/o assent to thebeauty of 'an object. Jlcknoivledge would have expressed the sense with more propriety. The close of the sentence too is heavy and ungraceful — the particular causes and occasions of it; both particular and occasions, are words quite superfluous ; and the pronoun it, is in some measure ambiguous, whether it refers to beau ty or to object. It would have been some amendment to tht style to have run thus : ' We immediately acknowledge the beauty of an object, without inquiring into the cause of that beauty.' 'A man of a polite imagination is let into a great many pleasures that the vulgar are not capable of receiving.' Polite is a term more commonly applied to manners or behaviour, than to the mind or imagination. There is nothing farther to be ob- served on this sentence, unless the use of that for a relative pro- noun, instead of which ; an usage which is too frequent with Mr. Addi- son. Which is a much more definitive word than that, being never employed in any other way than as a relative ; whereas that is a word of many senses ; sometimes a demonstrative pronoun, often a con- junction. In some cases we are indeed obliged to use that for a re- lative, in order to avoid the ungraceful repetition of which in the same sentence. But when we are laid under no necessity of this kind, which is always the preferable word, and certainly was so in this sen- tence. Pleasures which the vulgar are not capable of receiving, is much better than pleasures that the vulgar, fyc. ' He can converse with a picture, and find an agreeable companion in a statue. He meets with a secret refreshment in a description ; and often feels a greater satisfaction in the prospect of fields and meadows, than another does in the possession. It gives him, indeed, a kind of property in every thing he sees ; and makes the most rude, uncultivated parts of nature, administer to his pleasures: so that he looks upon the world, as it were, in another light, and discovers in it « multitude of charms that conceal themselves from the generality of mankind '* 824 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xx All this is very beautiful. The illustration is happy; and the style «uns with the greatest ease and harmony. We see no labour, no stiffness or affectation; but an author writing from the native flow of a gay and pleasing imagination. This predominant character of Mr. Addison's manner, far more than compensates all those little negligences which we are now remarking. Two of these occur in this paragraph. The first, in the sentence which begins with, it gives him indeed a kind of property. To this it, there is no proper antece- dent in the whole paragraph. In order to gather the meaning, we must look back as far as to the third sentence before, the first of the paragraph, which begins with, a man of a polite imagination. This phrase, polite imagination, is the only antecedent to which this it can refer; and even that is an improper antecedent, as it stands in the genitive case, as the qualification only of a man. The other instance of negligence, is towards the end of the para- graph, so that he looks iipo?i theioorld, as it ivere,in another light. By another light, Mr. Addison means, a light different from that in which other men view the world. But though this expression clear- ly conveyed this meaning to himself when writing, it conveys it very indistinctly to others; and is an instance of that sort of in- accuracy, into which, in the warmth of composition, every writer of a lively imagination is apt to fall ; and which can only be remedied by a cool, subsequent review. »fls it were, is upon most occasions no more than an ungraceful palliative; and here there was not the least occasion for it, as he was not about to say any thing which required a softening of this kind. To say the truth, this last sentence, so that he looks upon thetvorld, and what follows, had better been wanting alto- gether. It is no more than an unnecessary recapitulation of what had gone before ; a feeble adjection to the lively picture he had given of the pleasures of the imagination. The paragraph would have ended with more spirit at the words immediately preceding ; the uncul- tivated parts of nature ad?ninister to his pleasures. 'There are, indeed, but very few who know how to be idle and innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are not criminal ; every diversion they take, is at the expense of some one virtue or another, and their very first step out of business is into vice or folly.' Nothing can be more elegant, or more finely turned, than this sen- tence. It is neat, clear, and musical. We could hardly alter one wori, or disarrange one member, without spoiling it. Fewsentences are to be found more finished, or more happy. ' A man should endeavour, therefore, to make the sphere of his innocent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may retire into them with safety, and find in them such a satisfaction as a wise man would not blush to take/ This also is a good sentence, and gives occasion to no material re- mark. ' Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do not require such a bent of thought as is necessary to our more serious employ ments. nor at the same time, suffer the mind to sink into that indo t.ect. xx.] THE STTLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 225 lence and remissness, which are apt to accompany our more sensua. delights; but like a gentle exercise to the faculties, awaken them from sloth and idleness, without putting them upon any labour or dif- ficulty.' The beginning of this sentence is not correct, and affords an in- stance of a period too loosely connected with the preceding one. Of this nature, says he, are those of the imagination. We might ask, of what nature? For it had not been the scope of the preceding sen- tence to describe the nature of any set of pleasures. He had said, that it was every man's duty to make the sphere of his innocent plea- sures as wide as possible, in order that, within that sphere, he might find a safe retreat, and a laudable satisfaction. The transition is loosely made, by beginning the next sentence with saying, of this na- tureare those of the imagination. It had been better, if, keeping in view the governing object of. the preceding sentence, he hud said, 'This advantage we gain,' or, 'This satisfaction we enjoy, by means of the pleasures of imagination.' The rest of the sentence is abun- dantly correct. 'We might here add, that the pleasures of the fancy are more con- ducive to health than those of the understanding, which are worked out by dint of thinking, and attended with too violent a labour of the brain.' On this sentence, nothing occurs deserving of remark, except that worked out by dint ofthinking,\s a phrase which borders too much on vulgar and colloquial language, to be proper for being employed in a polished composition ' Delightful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or poetry, have a kindly influence on the body, as well as the mind, and not only sei ve to clear and brighten the imagination, but are able to disperse grief and melancholy, and to set tbe animal spirits in pleasing and agree- able motions. Fo. this reason, Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay up- on Health, has not thought it improper to prescribe to his reader a poem, or a prospect, where he particularly dissuades him from knot- ty and subtile disquisitions, and advises him to pursue studies that fill the mind with splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and contemplations of nature.' In the latter of these two sentences, a member of the period is altogether out of its place ; which gives the whole sentence a harsh and disjointed cast, and serves to illustrate the rules I formerly gave concerning arrangement. The wrong-placed member which I point at, is this: where he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtile disquisitions; these words should undoubtedly have been placed not where the)* - stand, but thus : Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, where he particularly dissuades the reader from knot- ty and subtile speculations, has not thought it improper to prescribe to him, 6,-c. This arrangement reduces every thing into proper order. ' I have in this paper, by way of introduction, settled the notion of those pleasures of the imagination, which are the subject of my pre- sent undertaking, and endeavoured, by several considerations, to re- 29 226 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxi commend to my readers the pursuit of those pleasures; I shall, m my next paper, examine the several sources from whence these plea- sures are derived.' These two concluding sentences afford examples of the pro],er collocation of circumstances in a period. I formerly showed, that it is often a matter of difficulty to dispose of them in such a manner, as that they shall not embarrass the principal subject of the sentence. In the sentences before us, several of these incidental circumstances necessarily come in — By ivay of introduction — by several consider- ations — in this paper — in the next paper. All which are with great propriety managed by our author. It will be found, upon trial, that there were no other parts of the sentence, in which they could have been placed to equal advantage. Had he said, for instance, 'I have settled the notion, (rather, the meaning) of those pleasures of the imagination, which are the subject of my present undertaking, by way of introduction, in this paper, and endeavoured to recommend the pursuit of those pleasures to my readers, by several consider- ations/ we must be sensible, that the sentence, thus clogged with cir- cumstances in the wrong place, 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 oi Mr. Addison's which was the subject of the last lecture, sufficiently show, that in the writings of an author, of the most happy genius, and distinguished talents, inaccuracies may sometimes be found. Though such inaccuracies may be overbalanced by so many beau- ties, as render style highly pleasing and agreeable upon the whole, yet it must be desirable to every writer to avoid, as far as he can, in- accuracy of any kind. As t': a subject, therefore, is of importance, I have thought it might be useful to carry on this criticism throughout two or three subsequent papers of the Spectator. At the same time. I must intimate, that the lectures on these papers are solely intended lor such as are applying themselves to the study of English style. I pretend not to give instruction to those who are already well ac- quainted with the powers of language. To them my remarks may prove unedifying; to some they may seem tedious and minute: but to such as have not yet made all the proficiency which they desire in elegance of style, strict attention to the composition and structure of sentences cannot fail to prove of considerable benefit; and though my remarks on Mr. Addison should, in any instance, be thought lll- f ounded, they will at least, serve the purpose of leading them into i.ect. xxi.] THE STYJ I i« SPECTATOR, No. 41 2. 227 *he train of makiug j,.-oper remarks for themselves. I proceed, therefore, to the examination of the subsequent paper, No. 412. '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. 7 This sentence gives occasion for no material remark. It is simple and distinct. The two words which he here uses, vieio and survey, are not altogether synonymous ; as the former may be supposed to import mere inspection ; the latter, more deliberate examination. Yet they lie so near to one another in meaning, that, in the present case, any one of them, perhaps, would have been sufficient. The epithet actual, is introduced, in order to mark more strongly the distinction between what our author calls the primary pleasures of imagination, which arise from immediate view, and the secondary, which arise from remembrance or description. 'There may, indeed, be something so terrible or offensive, that the horror, or loathsomeness of an object, may overbear the pleasure which results from its novelty, greatness, or beauty ; but still there will be such a mixture of delight in the very disgust it gives us, as any of these three qualifications are most conspicuous and prevailing.' This sentence must be acknowledged to be an unfortunate one. The sense is obscure and embarrassed, and the expression loose and irregular. The beginning of it is perplexed by the wrong position of the words something and object. 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 overbear. These two epithets, horror or loathsomeness, are awkwardly joined toge- ther. Loathsomeness, is indeed a quality which may be ascribed to an object ; but horror is not ; 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. The first two epithets, terrible or offensive, would then have expressed the qualities of an object; the latter, horror or disgust, the correspond- ing sentiments which these qualities produce in us. Loathsomeness was the most unhappy word he could have chosen : for to be loath- some, is to be odious, and seems totally to exclude any mixture oj delight, which he afterwards supposes may be found in the object. * If there be readers who think any farther apology requisite for my adventuring to criticise the sentences of so eminent an author as Mr. Addison, I must take no- tice, that I was naturally led to it by the circumstances of that part of the king- dom where these lectures were read ; where the ordinary spoken language often differs much from what is used by good English authors. Hence it occurred to me, as a proper method of correcting any peculiarities of dialect, to direct stu- dents of eloquence to analyze and examine, with particular attention, the struc- ture of Mr. Addison's sentences. Those papers of the Spectator, which are the subject of the following lectures, were accordingly given out in exercise to stu dents, to be thus examined and analyzed ; and several of the observations which follow, both on the beauties and blemishes of this author, were suggested by the obser rations given te nae in consequence of the exercises prescribed. 223 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxi In the latter part of the sentence there are several inaccuracies. When he says, there will be such a mixture of delight in the very disgust it gives its, as any of these three qualifications are most conspicuous. The construction is defective, and seems haidly grammatical. He meant assuredly to say, such a mixture of de- light as is proportioned to the degree in which any of these three qualifications are conspicuous. We know that there may be a mixture of pleasant and of disagreeable feelings excited by the same object; yet it appears inaccurate to say, that there is any delight in the very disgust. The plural verb, are, is improperly joined to any of these three qualifications ; for as any is here used distribu- tively, and means any one of these three qualifications, the cor- responding verb ought to have been singular. The order in which the two last words are placed, should have been reversed, and made to stand prevailing and conspicuous. They are conspicuous, be- cause they prevail. 'By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single object, but the largeness of a whole view, considered as one entire piece.' In a former lecture, when treatingof the structure of sentences, i quoted this sentence as an instance of the careless manner in which adverbs are sometimes interjected in the midst of a period. Only, as it is here placed, appears to be a limitation of the following verb, mean. The question might be put, what more does he than only mean? As the author undoubtedly intended it to refer to the bulk of a single object, it would have been placed with more propriety aftei these words: Idonotmean thebulk of any single object only , but the largeness of a whole view. As the following phrase, considered as one entire piece, seems to be somewhat deficient, both in dignity and propriety, perhaps this adjection might have been altogether omit- ted, and the sentence have closed with fully as much advantage at the word view. i Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, a vast un- cultivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high rocks and preci- pices, 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 magnifi- cence which appears in many of these stupendous works of nature/ This sentence, in the main, is beautiful. The objects presented are all of them noble, selected with judgment, arranged with pro- priety, and accompanied with proper epithets. We must, however, observe, that the sentence is too loosely, and not very grammatically connected with the preceding one. He says, such are the pros- vects ; such, signifies of that nature or quality; which necessarily presupposes some adjective, or word descriptive of a quality going before, to which it refers. But, in the foregoing sentence, there is no such adjective. He had spoken 'o£ greatness in the abstract only ; and therefore, such has no distinct antecedent to which we can refer it. The sentence would have been introduced with more gramma- tical propriety, by saying, to this class belong, or, under this head are ranged the prospects, 4*c. The of which is prefixed to huge heap, ofmottntains, is misplaced, und has, perhaps, Seen an error in the lect. xxi.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, i\o. 4t2. 22& printing; as either all the particulars here enumerated should have had this mark of the genitive,' or it should have been prefixed to none but the first. When, in the close of f he sentence, the author speaks of that rude magnificence, which appears in many of these stupendous ivorks of nature, he had better have omitted the word many, which seems to except some of them. Whereas, in his gene • ril proposition, he undoubtedly meant to include all the stupendous works he had enumerated; and there is no question that, in all of them, a rude magnificence appears. 'Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp at any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are flung into i pleas- ing astonishment at such unbounded views; and feel a delightful still- ness and amazement in the soul, at the apprehension of them.' The language here is elegant, and several of the expressions re- markably happy. There is nothing which requires any animadver- sion except the close, at thp apprehension of them. Not only is this a languid, enfeebling concision of a sentence, otherwise beautiful, but the apprehension of views, is a phrase destitute of all propriety, and, indeed, scarcely intelligible. Had this adjection been entirely omitted, and die sentence been allowed to close with stillness and amazement in the soul, it would have been a great improvement. Nothing is frequently more hurtful to the grace or vivacity of a pe- riod, than superfluous dragging words at the conclusion. 'The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks like a restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itself under a sort of confine- ment, when the sight is pent up in a narrow compass, and shortened on every side by the neighbourhood of walls or mountains. On the contrary 3 a spacious horizon is an image of liberty, where the eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large on the immensity of its views, and to lose its^f amidst the variety of objects that oflei themselves to its observation. Such wide and undetermined pros- pects 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 .vith a graceful harmony. The words which he has chosen, carry a certain amplitude and fulness, well suited to the nature of the subject ; and the members of the periods rise in a gradation accom- modated to the rise of the thought. The eye first ranges abroad ; then expatiates at large on the immensity of its views ; and, at last, loses itself amidst the variety of objects that offer themselves to its cbservation. The fancy is elegantly contrasted with the understand- ing, prospects with specidations, and wide and undetermined pros- pects, with speculations of eternity and infinitude. * But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with this grandeur, as in 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.' The article prefixed to beauty, in the beginning of this sentence, 2L 230 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxi might have been omitted, and the style have run, perhaps, to more advantage thus : but if beauty, or uncommonness, be joined to this grandeur — a landscape cut out into rivers, ivoods, &c. seems un- seasonably to imply an artificial formation, and would have been better expressed by, diversified with rivers, woods, &c. 1 Every thing that is new or uncommon, raises a pleasure-, ia 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 conversant with one set of objects, and tired out with so many repeated shows of the same things, that whatever is new or uncommon contributes a little to vary human life, and to divert our minds, for a while, with the strangeness of its appearance. It serves us for a kind of refresh- ment, and takes off from that satiety we are apt to complain of in our usual and ordinary entertainments.' The style in these sentences flows in an easy and agreeable man- ner. A severe critic might point out some expressions that would bear being retrenched. But this would alter the genius and cha- racter of Mr. Addison's style. We must always remember, that good composition admits of being carried on under many different forms. Style must not be reduced to one precise standard. One writer may be as agreeable, by a pleasing diffuseness, when the subject bears, and his genius prompts it, as another by a concise and forcible manner. It is fit, however, to observe, that in the beginning of those sentences which we have at present before us, the phrase, arises a pleasure in the imagination, is unquestionably too flat and feeble, and might easily be amended, by saying, affords pleasure to the imagination ; and towards tbe end, there are two ofs, which grate harshly on the ear, in that phrase, takes off from that satiety we are apt to complain of; where the correction is as easily made as in the other case, by substituting, diminishes that satiety ofivhich ive are apt to complain. Such instances show the advantage of frequent reviews of what we have written, in order to give proper correctness and polish to our language. ' It is this which bestows charms on a monster, and makes even the imperfections of nature please us. It is this that recommends vari- ety, where the mind is every instant called off to something new, and the attention not suffered to dwell too long, and waste itself on any particular object. It is this, likewise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a double entertainment.' Still the style proceeds with perspicuity, grace, and harmony. The full and ample assertion, with which each of these sentences is intro- duced, frequent on many occasions with our author, is here proper and seasonable; as it was his intention to magnify, as much as pos- sible, the effects of novelty and variety, and to draw our attention to them. His frequent use oithat, instead of ivhich, is another pecu- liarity of his style; but, on this occasion in particular, cannot be much commen; ^ed; as, it is this which,se,ems, in every view, to be better than, •// is this that, three times repeated. I must, likewise, ake notice, that the antecedent to, it is this, when critically consi lect.xxi.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 231 dered, is not altogether proper. It refers, as we discover by the sense, to whatever is new or uncommon. But as it is not good language to say, whatever is new bestows charms on a monster, one cannot avoid thinking that our author had done better to have begun the first of these three sentences, with saying,e7 is novelty which bestows charms on a monster, &c. ' Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any season of the year plea- sant to look upon; but never so much as in the opening of the spring, when they are all new and fresh, with their first gloss upon them, and not yet too much accustomed and familiar to the eye.' In this expression, never so much as in the opening of the spring, there appears to be a small error in grammar ; for when the con struction is filled up, it must be reani,never so much pleasant. Had he, to avoid this, said, never so much so, the grammatical error would have been prevented, but the language would have been awkward. Better to have said, but never so agreeable as in the opening of the spring. We readily say, the eye is accustomed to objects, but to say, as our author has done at the close of the sentence, that ob- jects are accustomed to the eye, can scarcely be allowed in a prose composition. i For this reason, there is nothing that more enlivens a prospect than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where the scene is perpetually shifting and entertaining the sight, every moment, with something that is new. We are quickly tired with looking at hills and vallies, where every thing continues 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 t&e 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 that 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. We know that he has been speaking of the pleasure produced by novelty and variety, and our minds naturally recur to this, as the reason here alluded to : but his language does not properly express it. It is, indeed, one of the de- fects of this amiable writer, that his sentences are often too negli- gently connected with one another. His meaning, upon the whole, we gather with ease from the tenour of his discourse. Yet his negli- gence prevents his sense from strikingus with that force and evidence, which a more accurate juncture of parts would have produced. Ba- ting this inaccuracy, these two sentences, especially the latter, are remarkably elegant and beautiful. The close, in particular, is un- commonly 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 slid- ing away from beneath the eye of the beholder. Indeed, notwith- standing those small errors, which the strictness of critical examina tion obliges me to point out, it may be safely pronounced, that the 232 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxi. two paragraphs which we have now considered in this paper, the one concerninggreatness, and the other concerning novelty, are extreme- ly worthy of Mr. Addison, and exhibit a style, which they who can successfully imitate, may esteem themselves happy. 'But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to the soul than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret satisfaction and com- placency through the imagination, and gives a finishing to any thing that is great or uncommon. The very first discovery of it strikes the mind with an inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight .hrough all its faculties.' * Some degree of verbosity may be here d isco vered, as phrases are re- peated, which are little more than the echo of one another; such as, diffusing satisfaction and complacency through the imagination — striking the mind ivith inward joy — spreading cheerfulness and delight through all its faculties. At the same time, I readily admit that this full and flowing style, even though it carry some redundan- cy, is not unsuitable to the gayety of the subject on which the author is entering, and is more allowable here than it would have been on some other occasions. 'There is not,perhaps, any real beauty or deformity more in one piece of matter than another; because we might have been so made, that whatever now appears loathsome to us, might have shown itself agreeable; but we find, by experience, that there are several modi- fications of matter, which the mind, without any previous consider- ation, pronounces at first sight beautiful or deformed. ' In this sentence there is nothing remarkable, in any view, to draw our attention. We may observe only, 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 inonepiece 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 af- fected with the beauties of its own kind. This is no where more re- markable, than in birds of the same shape and proportion, when we often see the male determined in his courtship by the single grain or tincture of a feather, and never discovering any charms but in the colour of its species.' Neither is there here any particular elegance or felicity of language. Different sense of beauty would have been a more proper expression to have been applied to irrational creatures, than as it stands, different notions of beauty. In the close of the second sentence, when the author says, colour of its species, he is guilty of considerable inaccu- racy in changing the gender, as he had said in the same sentence, that the male ivas determined in his courtship. 'There is a second kind of beauty, that we find in the several pro- ducts of art and nature, which does not work in the imagination with that warmth and violence, as the beauty that appears in our proper species, but is apt, however, to raise in us a secret delight, and kind of fondness for the places or objects in which we discover U.' lect. xxi.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 233 Still, I am sorry to say, we find little to praise. As in his enuncia don of the subject, when beginning the former paragraph, he appeared to have been treatingof beautyin general, in distinction from greatness or novelty ; this second kind of beauty of which he here speaks, comes upon us in a sort of surprise, and it is only by degrees we learn, that formerly he had no more in view than the beauty which the different species of sensible creatures find in one another. This second Jeina of beauty, he says, we find in the several products of art and nature. He undoubtedly means, not in all, but in several of the products Oj art and nature, and ought so to have expressed himself; and in the place oiproducts, to have used also the more proper wov&productions. When he adds, that this kind of beauty does not work in the imagina- tion with that warmth and violence as the beauty that appears in our ■proper species ; the language would certainly have been more pure and elegant, if he had said, that it does not work upon the imagina- tion with such warmth and violence, as the beauty that appears in our own species. 'This consists either in the gayety or variety of colours, in the symmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and disposi- tion of bodies, or in a just mixture and concurrence of all together. Among these several kinds of beauty, the eye takes most delight in colours.' • To the language, here, I see no objection that can be made. ' We no where meet with a more glorious or pleasing show in na- ture, than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, which is wholly made up of those different stains of light, that show themselves in clouds of a different situation.' The chief ground of criticism, on this sentence, is the disjointed situation of the relative luhich ; grammatically, it refers to the rising and setting of the sun. But the author meant, that it should refer to the show which appears in the heavens at that time. It is too com- mon 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 tenour of some phrase, or perhaps the scope of some whole sentence, which has gone before. This prac- tice saves them trouble in marshalling their words, and arranging a period; but, though it may leave their meaning intelligible, yet it renders that meaning much, less perspicuous, determined, and pre- cise, than it might otherwise have been. The error I have pointed out, might have been avoided by a small alteration in the construc- tion of the sentence, after some such manner as this: We no lohere meet ivit ha more glorious and pleasing show in nut are, than what is formed in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, by the dif- ferent $ fains of light which show themselves in clouds of different situations. Our author writes, in clouds of a different situation, by which he means, clouds that differ in situation from each other. But, a:* this is neither the obvious nor grammatical meaning of his words, it was necessary to change the expression, as I have done, into the plu- ral number. 30 234 CRITICAL EXAMINATION. [lect. xh 1 For this reason, we find the poets, who are always addressing themselves to the imagination, borrowing more of their epithets from colours than from any other topic.' On this sentence nothing occurs, except a remark similar to what was made before, of loose connexion with the sentence which pre- cedes. For though he begins with saying,ybr this reason, the fore- going sentence, which was employed about the clouds and the sun, gives no reason for the general proposition he now lays down. The reason to which he refers, was given two sentences before, when he observed, that the eye takes more delight in colours than in any other beauty; and it was with that sentence that the present one should have stood immediately connected. ' As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, or beautiful, and is still more pleased, the more it finds of these per- fections in the same object, so it is capable of receiving a new sa- tisfaction by the assistance of another sense.' Another sense, here means, grammatically, another sense than fan- cy. For there is no other thing in the period to which this expres- sion, another sense, can at all be opposed. He had not, for some time, made mention of any sense whatever. He forgot to add, what was undoubtedly in his thoughts, another sense than that of sight. 'Thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of water, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and makes nim more attentive to the several beauties of the place which lie Defore him. Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasures of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together than when they enter the mind separately; as the different colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of their situa- tion.' Whether Mr. Addison's theory here be just:or not, may be ques- tioned. A continued sound, such as that of a fall of water, is so far from awakening every moment the mind of the beholder, that no- thing is more likely to lull him asleep. It may, indeed, please the imagination, and heighten the beauties of the scene; but it produces this effect, by a soothing, not by an awakening influence. With re- gard to the style, nothing appears exceptionable. 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 compar- "ng together different degrees of beauty. ( 235 ) 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 impossible for us to assign the ne- cessary cause of this pleasure, because we know neith' ff the nature of an idea, nor the substance 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 ac- knowledged to be very faulty. An introductory sentence should never contain any thing that can in any degree fatigue or puzzle the reader. When an author is entering on a new branch of his subject, informing us of what he has done, and what he proposes further to do, we naturally expect, that he should express himself in the simplest and most perspicuous manner possible. But the sentence now before us is crowded and indistinct: containing three separate propositions, which, as I shall afterwards show, required separate sentences to have unfolded them. Mr. Addison's chief excellence as a writer, lay in describing and painting. There he is great; but in methodising and reasoning, he is not so eminent. As, besides the general fault of prolixity and indistinctness, this sentence con- tains several inaccuracies, I shall be obliged to enter into a minute discussion of its structure and parts; a discussion which to many readers will appear tedious, and which therefore they will naturally pass over; but which, to those who are studying composition, I hope may prove of some benefit. Though in yesterday's paper we considered. The import of though is, notwithstanding that. When it appears in the beginning of a sentence, its relative, generally, is yet; and it is employed to warn us, after we have been informed of some truth, that we are not to infer from it some other thing which we might perhaps have ex- pected to follow : as, ' Though virtue be the only road to happiness, yet it does not permit the unlimited gratification of our desires.' Now it is plain, that there was no such opposition between the sub- ject of yesterday's paper, and what the author is now going to say, between his asserting a fact, and his not being able to assign the cause of that fact, as rendered the use of this adversative particle, though, either necessary or proper in the introduction. We const- 236 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF ^ect. xxii dered how every thing that is great, new or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with pleasure. The adverb how signifies, either the means by which, or the manner in which, something is done. But in truth, neither one nor the other of these had been considered by our author. He had illustrated the fact alone, that they do affect the imagination with pleasure; and, with respect to the quomodo or the how, he is so far from having considered it, that he is just now going to show that it cannot be explained, and that we must res*, contented with the knowledge of the fact alone, and of its purpose or final cause. We must own, that it is impossible for us to assign the necessary cause (he means, what is more commonly called the ef- ficient cause) of this pleasure, because we know neither the nature of an idea, nor the substance of a human soul. The substance of a human soul is certainly a very uncouth expression, and there ap- pears no reason why he should have varied from the word nature, which would have been applicable equally to idea and to soul. Which might help us, our author proceeds, to discover the confor- mity or disagreeableness of the one to the other. The which, at the beginning of this member of the period, is surely ungrammatical, as it is a relative, without any antecedent in all the sentence. It refers, by the construction, to the nature of an idea,or thesubstance of a human soul; but this is by no means the reference wnich the author intended. His meaning is, that our knowing the nature of an idea, and the substance of a human soul, might help us to dis- cover the conformity or disagreeableness of the one to the other; and therefore the syntax absolutely required the word knowledge to have been inserted as the antecedent to loJiich. I have before remarked, and the remark deserves to be repeated, that nothing is a more certain sign of careless composition, than to make such rela- tives asfohich, not refer to any precise expression, but carry a loose and vague relation to the general strain of what had gone before. When our sentences run into this form, we may be assured thcie is something in the construction of them that requires alteration. The phrase of discovering the conformity or disagreeableness of the one to the other is likewise exceptionable ; for disagreeableness nei- ther forms a proper contrast to the other word, conformity, nor ex presses what the author meant here,(as far as any meaning can be gath- ered from his words) that is, a certain unsuitableness or want of con- formity to the nature of the soul. To say the truth, this member of the sentence had much better have been omitted altogether. The conformity or disagreeableness of an idea to the substance of a hu- mansoul, is a phrase which conveys to the mind no distinct nor intel- ligible conception whatever. The author had before given a suffi- cient reason for his not assigning the efficient cause of those pleasures of the imagination, because we neither know the nature of our own ideas nor of the soul; and this farther discussion about the confor- mity or disagreeableness of the nature of the one, to the substance of the other, affords no clear nor useful illustration. ^Snd therefore, the sentence goes on, for want of such a light, all *hat we can do in speculations of this kind, is, to reflect on those opera- lect. xxii.] THE ST\LE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 237 tions of the soul that are most agreeable and to range u nder their pro per heads what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind. The two ex- pressions in the beginning of this member,therefore, and for want of such a light, evidently refer to the same thing, and are quite synony- mous. One or other of them, therefore, had better have been omit- ted. Instead of to range.under their proper heads, thelanguage would have been smoother, xitheir had been left out. Without being able to trace out the several necessary and efficient causes from whence the pleasure or displeasure arises. The expression,/rom whence, though seemingly justified by very frequent usage, is taxed by Dr. Johnson as a vicious mode of speech ; seeing whence jAoxve, has all the power of from whence, which therefore appears an unnecessary reduplication. I am inclined to think, that the whole of this last member of the sentence had better have been dropped. The period might have closed with full propriety, at the words, pleasing or displeasing to the mind. All that follows, suggests no idea that had not been fully con- veyed in the preceding part of the sentence. It is a mere expletive adjection,which might be omitted not only without injury to the mean- ing, but to the great relief of a sentence already labouring under the multitude of words. Having now finished the analysis of this long sentence, I am inclin- ed to be of opinion, that if, on any occasion, we can adventure to al- ter Mr. Addison's style, it may be done to advantage here, by break- ing down this period in the following manner : ' In yesterday's paper we have shown that every thing whi ch is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with pleasure. We must own, that it is im possible for us to assign the efficient cause of this pleasure, because we know not the nature either of an idea, or of the human soul. All that we can do, therefore, in speculations of this kind, is to reflect on the operations of the soul which are most agreeable, and to range under proper heads, what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind.' We proceed now to the examination of the following sentences. ' Final causes lie more bare and open to our observation, as there are often a great variety that belong to the same effect; and these, though they are not altogether so satisfactory, are generally more use- ful than the other, as they give us greater occasion of admiring the goodness and wisdom of the first contriver.' Though some difference might be traced between the sense of bare and open, yet, as they are here employed, they are so nearly synonymous, that one of them was sufficient. It would have been enough to have said, Final causes lie more open to ob- servation. One can scarcely help observing here, that the obviors- ness of final causes does not proceed, as Mr. Addison supposes, frcm a variety of them concurring in the same effect, which is often not the cas£ ; but from our being able to ascertain more clearly, from our own experience, the congruity of a final cause with the circumstances of our condition ; whereas the constituent parts of subjects, whence efficient causes proceed, lie for the most part beyond the reach of our faculties. But as this remark respects the thought more than the style, it is sufficient for ustoobserve,that when he sa-* r s, a great variety that 2M 238 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxii btlong to the same effect, the expression, strictly considered, is no( altogether proper. The accessory is properly said to belong to the principal ; not the principal to the accessory. Now, an effe/jt is con- sidered as the accessory or consequence of its cause; and therefore, though we might well say a variety of effects belong to the same cause, it seems not so proper to say, that a variety of causes belong to the same effect. 'One of the final causes of our delight in any thing that is great, may be this: The Supreme Author of our being has so formed the soul of man, that nothing but himself can be its last, adequate, and proper happiness. Because, therefore, a great part of our happiness must arise from the contemplation of his being, that he might give our souls a just relish of such contemplation, he has made them na- turally delight in the apprehension of" what is great or unlimited.' The concurrence of two conjunctions, because therefore, forms rather a harsh and unpleasing beginning of the last of these senten- ces ; and, in tho close, one would think, that the author might have devised a happier word than apprehension, to be applied to what is unlimited. But that I may not be thought hypercritical, I shall make no farther observation on these sentences. ' Our admiration, which is a very pleasing motion of the mind, immediately rises at the consideration of any object that takes up a good deal of room in the fancy, and, by consequence, will improve into the highest pitch of astonishment and devotion, when we con- template his nature, that is neither circumscribed by time nor place, nor to be comprehended by the largest capacity of a created being.' Here our author's style rises beautifully along with the thought. However inaccurate he may sometimes be, when coolly philosophi- sing, yet, whenever his fancy is awakened by description, or his mind, as here, warmed with some glowing sentiment, he presently becomes great, and discovers, in his language, the hand of a master. Every one must observe, with what felicity this period is constructed The words are long and majestic. The members rise one above an- other, and conduct the sentence, at last, to that full and harmonious close, which leaves upon the mind such an impression, as the author intended to leave, of something uncommonly great, awful, and mag- nificent ' He has annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of any thing that is new or uncommon, that he might encourage us in the pursuit of knowledge, and engage us to search into the wonders of creation ; for every new idea brings such a pleasure along with it, as rewards the pains we have taken in its acquisition, and consequently, serves as a motive to put us upon fresh discoveries.' The language, in this sentence, is clear and precise : only, we cannot but observe, in this, and the two following sentences, which are constructed in the same manner, a strong proof of Mr. Addison's unreasonable partiality to the particle that, in preference to ivhich Annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of any thing that is new or un- common, that he might encourage its. Here, the first that stands for a relative pronoun, and the next that, at the distance only of four lect. xxii.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 239 words, is a conjunction. This confusion of sounds serves to embar- lass style. Much better, sure, to have said, the idea of any thing which is new or uncommon that he might encourage. The expression with which the sentence concludes, a motive to put us upon fresh discoveries, is flat, and, in some degree, improper. He should have said,/w/ us upon making fresh discoveries; or rather, serves as a motive inciting us to make fresh discoveries. 1 He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own species, pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to multiply their kind, and fill the world with inhabitants; for, 'tis very remarkable, that, wherever nature is crost in the production of a monster, (the result of any unnatural mixture) the breed is incapable of propagating its likeness, and of founding a new order of creatures; so that, unless all animals were allured by the beauty of their own species, genera- tion would be at an end, and the earth unpeopled.' Here we must, however reluctantly, return to the employment of censure: for this is among the worst sentences our author ever wrote; and contains a variety of blemishes. Taken as a whole, it is extremely deficient in unity. Instead of a complete proposition, it contains a sort of chain of reasoning, the links of which are so ill put together, that it is with difficulty we can trace the connexion ; and, unless we take the trouble of perusing it several times, it will leave nothing on the mind but an indistinct and obscure impression. Besides this general fault, respecting the meaning, it contains some great inaccuracies in language. First, God's having made every thing which is beautiful in our species, (that is, in the hu- man species) pleasant, is certainly no motive for all creatures, for beasts,and birds, and fishes, to multiply their kind. What the author meant to say, though he has expressed himself in so erroneous a manner, undoubtedly was, ' In all the different orders of creatures, he has made every thing, which is beautiful in their own species, pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to multiply their kind.' The second member of the sentence is still worse. Ft r it is very remarkable, that wherever nature is crost in theprodh "Hon of a monster, fyc. The reason which he here gives, for the prece lingasser- tion, intimated by the casual particle/or, is far from being obvious. The connexion of thought is not readily apparent, and would have re quired an intermediate step, to render it distinct. But what does he mean, by nature being crost in theproduction of a monster? One might understand him to mean, 'disappointed in its intention of producing a monster,' as when we say, one is crost in his pursuits, we mean, that he is disappointed in accomplishing the end whim he intended. Had he said, crost by theproduction of 'a monster, the sense would have been more intelligible. But the proper rectification oi the expression would be to insert the adverb as, before the preposi- tion in, after this manner ; wherever nature is crost, as in theproduc- tion of a monster. The insertion of this particle as, throws so much light on the construction of this member of the sentence, that I am very much inclined to believe, it had stood thus originally, in our author's manuscript; and that the present reading is a typographi 240 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxii cal error, which, having crept into the first edition of the Spectator, ran through all the subsequent ones. 'In the last place, he has made every thing that is beautiful, in all other objects, pleasant, or rather has made so many objects appear beautiful, that he might render the whole creation more gay and delightful. He has given almost every thing about us the power of raising an agreeable idea in the imagination ; so that it is impossi- ble for us to behold his works with coldness or indifference, and to survey so many beauties without a secret satisfaction and compla- cency. ' The idea, here, is so just, and the language so clear, flowing, and agreeable, that, to remark any diffuseness which may be attributed to these sentences, would be justly esteemed hypercritical. ' Things would make but a poor appearance to the eye, if we saw them only in their proper figures and motions : and what reason can we assign for their exciting in us, many of those ideas which are different from any thing that exists in the objects themselves, (for such are light and colours,) were it not to add supernumerary orna ments to the universe, and make it more agreeable to the imagina- tion?' Our author is now entering on a theory, which he is about to illus- trate, if not with much philosophical accuracy, yet, with great beauty of fancy, and glow of expression A strong instance of his want of accuracy, appears in the manner in vvluci. lie opens the subject. For what meaning is there in things exciting •*• us many of those ideas which are different from any t lini* that exists in the objects ? No one, sure, ever imagined that our ideas exist in the objects. Ideas, it is agreed on all hands, can exist no where but in the mind. What Mr. Locke's philosophy teaches,and what our author should have said, is,exciting i?ius many ideas of qualities which are different from any thin g- that exists in the objects. The ungraceful parenthesis which f< A\ jws, for siich are light and colors, had far better have been avoid f 1 , and incorporated with the rest of the sentence, in this rr.anv.'r 'exciting in us many ideas of qualities, such as light and f.olorv s, which are different from anything that exists in the objects.' ' Wo are every where entertained with pleasing shows and ap- pari'i/ns. We discover imaginary glories in the heavens and in thj e, rth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured out upon thfj whole creation; but what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should we be entertained with, did all her colouring disappear, and the several distinctions of light and shade vanish ? In short, our souls are delightfully lost and bewildered in a pleasing delusion ; and we walk about like the enchanted hero of a romance, who sees Deautiful castles, woods, and meadows; and, at the same time, hears the warbling of birds, and the purling of streams ; but, upon the finishing of some secret spell, the fantastic scene breaks up, and the disconsolate knight finds himself on a barren heath, or in a soli- tary desert.' * After having been obliged to point out several inaccuracies, 1 return with much more pleasure to the aisplay of beauties, fo. lect. xxn. J THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 241 which we have now full scope; for these two sentences are such as do the highest honour to Mr. Addison's talents as a writer. Warm- ed with the idea he had laid hold of, his delicate sensibility to the beauty of nature, is finely displayed in the illustration of it. The style is flowing and full, without being too diffuse. It is flowery? but not gaudy; elevated, but not ostentatious. Amidst this blazQ of beauties, it is necessary for us to remark one or two inaccuracies. When it is said, towards the close of the first of those sentences, what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should we be entertainedwith, the preposition with should have been placed at the beginning, rather than at the end of this member; and the word entertained, is both improperly applied here, and carelessly repeated from the former part of the sentence. It was there em- ployed according to its more common use, as relating to agreeable objects. We are every where entertained withpleasing shows. Here it would have been more proper to have changed the phrase, and said, with what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should we be pre- sented. At the close of the second sentence, where it is said, the fantastic scene breaks up, the expression is lively, but not altogether justifiable. An assembly breaks up ; a scene closes or disappears. Excepting these two slight inaccuracies, the style, here, is not only correct, but perfectly elegant. The most striking beauty of the passage arises from the happy simile which the author employs, and the fine illustration which it gives to the thought. The enchant- ed hero, the beautiful castles, the fantastic scene, the secret spell, the disconsolate knight, are terms chosen with the utmost felicity, and strongly recall all those romantic ideas with which he intended to amuse our imagination. Few authors are more successful in their imagery than Mr. Addison; and few passages in his works, or in those of any author, are more beautiful and picturesque than that on which we have been commenting. ' It is not improbable, that something like this may be the state of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the images it will receive from matter ; though, indeed, the ideas of colours are so pleasing and beautiful in the imagination, that it is possible the soul will not be deprived of them, but, perhaps, find them excited by some other occasional cause, as they are at present, by the dif> ferent impressions of the subtile matter on the organ of the sight.' As all human things, after having attained the summit, begin to decline, we must acknowledge that, in this sentence, there is a sensible falling off from the beauty of what went before. It is bro- ken and deficient in unity. Its parts are not sufficiently compacted. It contains, besides, some faulty expressions. When it is said, something like this may be the state of the soul, to the pronoun inis, there is no determined antecedent; it refers to the general import of the preceding description, which, as I have several times remark- ed, always rendered style clumsy and inelegant, if not obscure- the state of the soul after its first separation, appears to be an incom- plete phrase, and first, seems an useless, ,and even an improper 31 842 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [lect. xxm word. More distinct if he had said,state of the soul immediately on its separation from the body. The adverbperhaps, is redundant,after having just before said, it is possible. ' I have here supposed, that my reader is acquainted with that great modern discovery, which is at present universally acknow- ledged by all the inquirers into natural philosophy : namely, that light and colours, as apprehended by the imagination, are only ideas in the mind, and not qualities that have any existence in matter. As this is a truth which has been proved incontestably by many mo- dern philosophers, and is, indeed, one of the finest speculations in that science, if the English reader would see the notion explained at large, he may find it in the eighth chapter of the second book of Mr. Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding.' In these two concluding sentences, the author, hastening to finish, appears to write rather carelessly. In the first of them, a manifest tautology occurs, when he speaks of what is universally acknowledg- ed by all inquirers. In the second, when he calls a truth which has been incontestably proved; first, a speculation, and afterwards a no tion, the language surely is not very accurate. When he adds, one of the finest speculations in that science, it does not,at first, appear what sci- ence he means. One would imagine, he meant to refer to modern phi- losophers ; for natural philosophy (to which, doubtless, he refers) stands at much too great a distance to be the proper or obvious an tecedent to the pronoun that. The circumstance towards the close, if the English reader would seethe notion explained at large, he may find it, is properly taken notice of by the author of the Elements of Criticism, as wrongly arranged, and is rectified thus: the English rea- der, if he would see the notion explained at large, may find it, fyc. In concluding the examination of this paper, we may observe, that though not a very long one, it exhibits a striking view both of the beauties, and the defects, of Mr. Addison's style. It contains some of the best, and some of the worst, sentences, that are to be found in his works. But upon the whole, it is an agreeable and elegant essay. LECTURE XXIII. CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No. 414 OF THE SPECTATOR. ect be, there is room for eloquence; in history or even in philoso 2P 262 ELOQUENCE, OR [>ect. xxt phy, as well as in orations. The definition which I have given of eloquence, comprehends all the different kinds of it; whether calcu- lated to instruct, to persuade, or to please. But, as the most impor- tantsubject of discourse is action, or conduct, the power of eloquence chiefly appears when it is employed to influence conduct, and per- suade to action. As it is principally with reference to this end, that it becomes the object of art, eloquence may, under this view of it, be defined, the art of persuasion. This being once established, certain consequences immediately follow, which point out the fundamental maxims of the art. It fol- lows clearly, that in order to persuade, the most essential requisites are, solid argument, clear method, a character of probity appear- ing in the speaker, joined with such graces of style and utterance, as shall draw our attention to what he says. Good sense is the foun- dation of all. No man can be truly eloquent without it; for fools can persuade none but fools. In order to persuade a man of sense you must first convince him; which is only to be done, by satis- fying his understanding of the reasonableness of what you propose to him. This leads me to observe, that . convincing and persuading, though they are sometimes confounded, import, notwithstanding, different things, which it is necessary for us, at present, to distin- guish from each other. Conviction affects the understanding only ; persuasion, the will and the practice. It is the business of the philosopher to convince me of truth; it is the business of the orator to persuade me to act agreeably to it, by engaging my affections on its side. Conviction and persuasion do not always go together. They ought, indeed, to go together; and would do so, if our incli- nation regularly followed the dictates of our understanding. But as our nature is constituted, I may be convinced, that virtue, justice, or public spirit, are laudable, while at the same time, I am not persuad- ed to act according to them. The inclination may revolt, though the understanding be satisfied : the passions may prevail against the judgment. Conviction is, however, always one avenue to the in- clination or heart; and it is that which an orator must first bend his strength to gain ; for no persuasion is likely to be stable, which is not founded on conviction. But, in order to persuade, the orator must go farther than merely producing conviction ; he must consider man as a creature moved by many different springs, and must act upon them all. He must address himself to the passions ; he must . paint to the fancy, and touch the heart ; and, hence, besides solid argument, and clear method, all the conciliating and interesting arts, both of composition and pronunciation, enter into the idea of eloquence. An objection may, perhaps, hence be formed against eloquence, as an art which may be employed for persuading to ill, as well as to good. There is no doubt that it may ; and so reasoning may also be, and too often is employed for leading men into error. But who would think of forming an argument from this against the cultiva- tion of our reasoning powers? reason, eloquence, and every art lect. xxv.] PUBLIC SPEAKING. 263 which ever has been studied among mankind, may be abused, and way prove dangerous in the hands of bad men ; but it were perfect- ly childish to contend, that, upon this account, they ought to be abolished. Give truth and virtue the same arms which you give vice and falsehood, and the former are likely to prevail. Eloquence is no invention of the schools. Nature teaches every man to be eloquent, when he is much in earnest. Place him in some critical situation ; let him have some great interest at stake, and you will see him lay hold of the most effectual means of persuasion. The art of oratory proposes nothing more than to follow out the track which nature has first pointed out. And the more exactly that this track is pursued, the more that eloquence is properly studied, the more shall we be guarded against the abuse which bad men make of it, and enabled the better to distinguish between true elo- quence and the tricks of sophistry. We may distinguish three kinds, or degrees of eloquence. The first, and lowest, is that which aims only at pleasing the hearers. Such, generally, is the eloquence of panegyrics, inaugural orations, addresses to great men, and other harangues of this sort. This or- namental sort of composition is not altogether to be rejected. It may innocently amuse and entertain the mind : and it may be mix- ed, at the same time, with very useful sentiments. But it must be confessed, that where the speaker has no farther aim than merely to shine and to please, there is great danger of art being strained into ostentation, and of the composition being tiresome and lan- guid. A second and a higher degree of eloquence, is, when the speaker aims not merely to please, but also to inform, to instruct, to con vince : when his art is exerted, in removing prejudices against him self and his cause; in choosing the most proper arguments, stating them with the greatest force, arranging them in the best order, ex- pressing and delivering them with propriety and beauty ; and there- by disposing us to pass that judgment, or embrace that side of the cause, to which he seeks to bring us. Within this compass, chiefly, is employed the eloquence of the bar. But there is a third, and still higher degree of eloquence, wherein a greater power is exerted over the human mind ; by which we are not only convinced, but are interested, agitated, and carried along with the speaker ; our passions are made to rise together with his ; we enter into all his emotions; we love, we detest, we resent, according as he inspires us, and are prompted to resolve, or to act, with vigour and warmth. Debate, in popular assemblies, opens the most illustrious field to this species of eloquence ; and the pulpi also admits it. I am here to observe, and the observation is of consequence, that the high eloquence which I have last mentioned, is always the off- spring of passion. By passion, I 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 admira- 264 ELOQUENCE, OR [lect. xxv. tion of mankind, and properly denominates one an orator, is never found without warmth or passion. Passion, when in such a degree as to rouse and kindle the mind, without throwing it out of the pos- session of itself, is universally found to exalt all the human powers. It renders the mind infinitely more enlightened, more penetrating, more vigorous and masterly, than it is in its calm 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 ut- ters greater sentiments, conceives higher designs, and executes them with a boldness and a felicity, of which, on other occasions, he could not think himself capable. But chiefly, with respect to persuasion, is the power of passion felt. Almost every man, in passion, is elo- quent. Then he is at no loss for words and arguments. He trans- mits to others, by a sort of contagious sympathy, the w r arm senti- ments which he feels; his looks and gestures are all persuasive; and nature here shows herself infinitely more powerful than art. This is the foundation of that just and noted rule : ' Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi.' This principle being once admitted, that all high eloquence flows from passion, several consequences follow, which deserve to be at- tended to; and the mention of which will serve to confirm the prin- ciple itself. For hence the universally acknowledged effect of en thusiasm, or warmth of any kind, in public speakers, for affecting their audience. Hence all laboured declamation, and affected or- naments of style, which show the mind to be cool and unmoved, are so inconsistent with persuasive eloquence. Hence all studied prettinesses, in gesture or pronunciation, detract so greatly from the weight of a speaker. Hence a discourse that is read, moves us less than one that is spoken, as having less the appearance of coining warm from the heart. Hence, to call a man cold, is the same thing as to say, that he is not eloquent. Hence, a skeptical man, who is always in suspense, and feels nothing strongly ; or a cunning merce- nary man, who is suspected rather to assume the appearance of pas- sion than to feel it; have so little power over men in public speak- ing. Hence, in fine, the necessity of being, and being believed to be, disinterested, and in earnest, in order to persuade. Those are some of the capital ideas which have occurred to me, concerning eloquence in general ; and with which I have thought pro- per to begin, as the foundation of much of what I am afterwards to suggest. From what I have already said, it is evident that eloquence is a high talent and of great importance in society: and that it re- quires both natural genius, and much improvement from art. View- ed as the art of persuasion, it requires, in its lowest state, soundness of understanding, and considerable acquaintance with human na- ture; and, in its higher degrees, it requires, moreover, strong sensi- bility of mind, a warm and lively imagination, joined with correctness of judgment, and an extensive command of the power of language ; to which must also be added, the graces of pronunciation and deli- very. Let us next proceed, to consider in what state eloquence rias subsisted in different ages and nations lect.xxv.] PUBLIC SPEAKING. 265 It is an observation made by several writers, that eloquence is to be looked for only in free states. Longinus, in particular, at the end of his treatise ori*the sublime, when assigning the reason why so lit- tle sublimity of genius appeared in the age wherein he lived, illus trates this observation with a great deal of beauty, liberty, he re- marks, is the nurse of true genius; it animates the spnit, and invigo rates the hopes of men ; excites honourable emulation, and a desire of excelling in every art. All other qualifications, he say r, you may find among those who are deprived of liberty ; but never did a slave become an orator; he can only be a pompous flatterer. Now, though this reasoning be, in the main, true ; it must, however, be un- derstood with some limitations. For, under arbitrary governments, if they be of the civilized kind, and give encouragement to the arts, ornamented eloquence may flourish remarkably. Witness France at this day, where, ever since the reign of Louis XIV. more of what may be justly called eloquence, within a certain sphere, is to be found, than, perhaps, in any other nation in Europe ; though freedom be enjoyed by some nations in a much greater degree. The French sermons, and orations pronounced on public occasions, are not only polite and elegant harangues, but several of them are un- commonly spirited, are animated with bold figures, and rise to a degree of the sublime. Their eloquence, however, in general,must be con- fessed to be of the flowery rather than the vigorous kind; calculated more to please and sooth, than to convince and persuade. High, manly, and forcible eloquence,is, indeed, to be looked for only, or chiefly, in the regions of freedom. Under arbitrary governments, be- sides the general turn of softness and effeminacy which such govern- ments may be justly supposed to give to the spirit of a nation, the art of speaking cannot be such an instrument of ambition, business, and power, as it is in democratic&l states. It is confined within a nar- rower range; it can be employed only in the pulpit, or at the bar; but is excluded from those great scenes of public business, where the spi- rits of men have the freest exertion ; where important affairs are trans- acted, and persuasion, of course^ is more seriously studied. Wher- ever man can acquire most power over man by means of reason and discourse, which certainly is under a free state of government, there we may naturally expect that true eloquence will be best understood, and carried to the greatest height. Hence, in tracing the rise of oratory, we need not attempt to go far back into the early ages of the world, or search for it among the monuments of eastern or Egyptian antiqtfity. In those ages, there was, indeed, an eloquence of a certain kind ; but it approached near- er to poetry than to what we properly call oratory. There is reason to believe, as I formerly showed, that the language of the first ages was passionate and metaphorical ; owing partly to the scanty stock of words, of which speech then consisted; and partly to the tincture which language naturally takes from the savage and uncultivated state of men, agitated by unrestrained passions, and struck by events which to them are strange and surprising. In this state, rapture and enthu- 34 266 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [lect xxv siasm. the parents of poetry, had an ample field. But wlule the in- tercourse of men was as yet unfrequent, and force and strength were the chief means employed in deciding controversres, the arts of ora- tory and persuasion, of reasoning and debate, could be but little known. The first empires that arose, the Assyrian and Egyptian, were of the despotic kind. The whole power was in the hands of one, or at most of a few. The multitude were accustomed to a blind reverence; they were led, not persuaded; and none of those re- finements of society, which make public speaking an object of im- portance, were as yet introduced. It is not till the rise of the Grecian republics, that we find any re- markable appearances of eloquence as the art of persuasion ; and these gave it such a field as it never had before, and, perhaps has never had again since that time. And, therefore, as the Gre- cian eloquence has ever been the object of admiration to those who have studied the powers of speech, it is necessary that we fix our attention, for a little, on this period. Greece was divided into a multitude of petty states. These were governed, at first, by kings who were called tyrants, on whose ex- pulsion from all these states, there sprung up a great number of demo- cratical governments, founded nearly on the same plan, animated by the same high spirit of freedom, mutually jealous, and rivals of one an- other. We may compute the flourishing period of those Grecian 3tates to have lasted from the battle of Marathon, till the time of Alex- ander the Great, who subdued the liberties of Greece ; a period which comprehends about 150 years, and within which are to be found most of their celebrated poets and philosophers, but chiefly their orators: for though poetry and philosophy were not extinct among them after that period, yet eloquence hardly made any figure. Of these Grecian republics, the most noted, by far, for eloquence, and, indeed, for arts of every kind, was that of Athens. The Athenians were an ingenious, quick, sprightly people; practised in business, and sharpened by frequent and sudden revolutions, which happen- ed in their government. The geniusof their government was alto- gether democratical ; their legislature consisted of the whole body of the people. They had, indeed, a senate of five hundred; but in the general convention of the citizens was placed the last resort ; and affairs were conducted there, entirely, by reasoning, speaking, and a skilful application to the passions and interests of a popular assembly. There, laws were made, peace and war decreed, and thence the magistrates were chosen. For the highest honours ot the state were alike open to all ; nor was the meanest tradesman excluded from a seat in their supreme courts. In such a state, eloquence, it is obvious, would be much studied, as the surest means of rising to influence and power; and what sort of eloquence? Not that which was brilliant merely, and showy; 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 lect. xxv.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 367 for that public leading which was the great object both of the men of ambition, and the men of virtue. In so enlightened and acute a nation, where the highest attention was paid to every thing elegant in the arts, we may naturally expect to find the public taste refined and judicious. Accordingly, it was improved to such a degree, that the Attic taste and Attic manner have passed into a proverb. It is true, that ambitious demagogues, and corrupt orators, did sometimes dazzle and mislead the people, by a showy but false eloquence : for the Athenians, with all their acuteness, were factious and giddy, and great admirers of every no- velty. But when some important interest drew the"? attention, when any great danger roused them, and put their judgment to a serious trial, they commonly distinguished very justly between genuine and spurious eloquence; and hence Demosthenes triumphed over all his opponents ; because he spoke always to the purpose, affected no insignificant parade of words, used weighty arguments, and showed them clearly where their interest lay. In critical con- junctures of the state, when the public was alarmed with some pressing danger, when the people were assembled, and procla- mation was made by the crier, for any one to rise and deliver his opinion upon the present situation of affairs, empty declamation and sophistical reasoning would not only have been hissed, but re- sented and punished by an assembly so intelligent and accustomed to business. Their greatest orators trembled on such occasions, when they rose to address the people, as they knew they were to be held answerable for the issue of the counsel which they gave. The most liberal endowments of the greatest princes never could found such a school for true oratory, as was formed by the nature of the Athenian republic. Eloquence there sprung, native and vigorous, from amidst the contentions of faction and freedom, of public busi- ness, and of active life ; and not from that retirement and specula- tion, which we are apt sometimes to fancy more favourable to elo- quence than they are found to be. Pisistratus, who was contemporary with Solon, and subverted his plan of government, is mentioned by Plutarch, as the first who distinguished himself among the Athenians by application to the arts of speech. His ability in these arts he employed for raising himself to the sovereign power; which, however, when he had attained it,, he exercised with moderation. Of the ora- tors who flourished between his time and the Peloponnesian war, no particular mention is made in history. Pericles, who died about the beginning of that war, was properly the first who carried eloquence to a great height; to such a height, indeed, that it does not appear he was ever afterwards surpassed. He was more than an orator; he was also a statesman and a general; expert in business, and of consummate address. Forty years he governed Athens with absolute sway ; and historians ascribe his influence, not more to his political talents than to his eloquence, which was of that forcible and vehement kind, that bore every thing before it, and triumphed over the passions and affections of the people. Henee 268 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [lect. xxt he had the surname of Olympias given him; and it was said, that, like Jupiter, he thundered when he spoke. Though his ambition be liable to censure, yet he was distinguished for several virtues, and it was the confidence which the people reposed in his integrity, that gave such power to his eloquence. He appears to have been gene- »ous, magnanimous, and public spirited ; he raised no fortune to him- self; he expended indeed greatsums of the public money, but chiefly on public works; and at his death is said to have valued himseli piincipally on having never obliged any citizen to wear mourning on his account, during his long administration. It is a remarkable particular recorded of Pericles by Suidas, that he was the first Athenian who composed, and put into writing, a discourse designed for the public. Posterior to Pericles, in the cojrse of the Peloponnesian war, arose Cleon, Alcibiades, Critias, and Theramenes, eminent citi- zens of Athens, who were all distinguished for their eloquence. They were not orators by profession ; they were not formed by schools, but by a much more powerful education, that of business and debate ; where man sharpened man, and civil affairs carried on by public speaking brought every power of the mind into action. The manner or style of oratory which then prevailed, we learn from the orations in the history of Thucydides, who also flourished in the same age. It was manly, vehement, and concise, even to some de- gree of obscurity. 'Grandes erant verbis,' says Cicero, ' crebri sententiis, compressione rerum breves, et, ob earn ipsam causam, interdum subobscuri. '* A manner very different from what, in mo- dern times, we would conceive to be the style of popular oratory ; and which tends to give a high idea of the acuteness of those audi- ences to which they spoke. The power of eloquence having, after the days of Pericles, become an object of greater consequence than ever, this gave birth to a set of men till then unknown, called rhetoricians, and sometimes sophists, who arose in multitudes during the Peloponne- sian war; such as Protagoras, Prodicas, Thrasymus, and one who was more eminent than all the rest, Gorgias of Leontium. These sophists joined to their art of rhetoric a subtile logic, and were generally a sort of metaphysical skeptics. Gorgias, however, was a professed master of eloquence only. His reputation was prodigious. He was highly venerated in Leontium of Sicily, his native city ; and money was coined with his name upon it. In the latter part of his Jife, he established himself at Athens, and lived till he had attained the age of 105 years. Hermogenes (de Ideis, 1. ii. cap. 9.) has preserved a fragment of his, from which we see his style and manner. It is extremely quaint and artificial : full of antithesis and pointed expression ; and shows how far the Gre- * ' They were magnificent in their expressions ; they abounded in thought ; they 'cmpressed their matter into few words, and by their brevity, were sometimes obscure lect.xxv.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. cian subtility had already carried the study of language. These rhetoricians did not content themselves with delivering general in- structions concerning eloquence to their pupils, and endeavouring to form their taste ; but they professed the art of giving thern receipts for making all sorts of orations; and of teaching them how to speak for, and against, every cause whatever. Upon this plan, they were the first who treated of common places, and the artificial in- vention of arguments and topics for every subject. In the hands of such men, we may easily believe that oratory would degenerate from the masculine strain it had hitherto held, and become a tri- fling and sophistical art ; and we may justly deem them the first cor- rupters of true eloquence. To them, the great Socrates opposed himself. By a profound, but simple reasoning peculiar to himself, he exploded their sophistry ; and endeavoured to recall men's atten- tion from that abuse of reasoning 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 philosopher above mentioned, flourished Isocrates, whose writings are still ex- tant. He was a professed rhetorician, and by teaching eloquence, he acquired both a great fortune, and higher fame than any of his rivals in that profession. No contemptible orator was he. His orations are full of morality and good sentiments ; they are flowing and smooth ; but too destitute of vigour. He never engaged in public affairs, nor pleaded causes; and accordingly his orations are calculated only for the shade: f Pompas,' Cicero allows, 'magis quam pugnae aptior; ad voluptatem aurium accommodatus potius quamad judiciorum certamen.'* The style of Gorgias of Leontium was formed into short sentences, composed generally of two mem- bers balanced against each other. The style of Isocrates, on the contrary, is swelling and full; and he is said to be the first who in- troduced the method of composing in regular periods, which had a studied music and harmonious cadence; a manner which he has carried to a vicious excess. What shall we think of an orator, who employed ten years in composing one discourse, still extant, entitled the Paneg) T ric? How much frivolous care must have been bestow- ed on all the minute elegance of words and sentences? Dionysius of Halicarnassus has given us upon the orations of Isocrates, as also upon those of some other Greek orators, a full and regular treatise, which is, in my opinion, one of the most judicious pieces of ancient criticism extant, and very worthy of being consulted. He commends the splendour of Isocrates's style, and the morality of his sentiments; but severely censures his affectation, and the uniform regular ca dence of all his sentences. He holds him to be a florid declaimer; not a natural persuasive speaker. Cicero, in his critical works, though he admits his failings, yet discovers a propensity to be very favourable to that * plena ac numerosa oratio,' that swelling and musical style which Isocrates introduced, and with the love of which, Cieero himself was perhaps somewhat infected. In one of his trea- * ' More fitted for show than for debate ; better calculated for the amusement of an fodif.nce, than for judicial contests.' 2 a 270 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [lect. xxv tises (Orat. ad. M. Brut.) he informs us, that his friend Brutus and he differed in this particular, and that Brutus found fault with his partiality to Isocrates. The manner of Isocrates generally catches young people, when they begin to attend to composition; and it is very natural that it should do so. It gives them an idea of that regularity, cadence,and magnificence of style, which fills the ear: but when they come to write or speak for the world, they will find this ostentatious manner unfit, either for carrying on business, or commanding attention. It is said, that the high reputation of Iso- crates, prompted Aristotle, who was nearly his contemporary, or liv- ed but a little after him, to write his institutions of rhetoric; which are indeed formed upon a plan of eloquence very different from that of Isocrates, and the rhetoricians of that time. He seems to have had it in view to direct the attention of orators much more towards convincing and affecting their hearers, than towards the musical cadence of periods. Isseus and Lysias, some of whose orations are preserved, belong al- so to this period. Lysias was somewhat earlier than Isocrates, and is the model of that manner which the ancients call the 'Tenuis vel Subtilis.' He has none of Isocrates's pomp. He is every where pure and attic in the highest degree; simple and unaffected; but wants force, and is sometimes frigid in his compositions.* Isaeus is chiefly remarkable for being the master of the great Demosthenes, * In the judicious comparison, which Dio^vsius of Halicarnassus makes of the merits of Lysias and Isocrates, he ascribes to Lysias, as the distinguishing charac- fer of his manner, a certain grace or elegance arising from simplicity: "Tlf?ox.i yap ri Awn m|/c e^i/v to Xotg/ev h ,c{-sct>; to [*itg t *Kiu>S , K > *«. ifox-lfxttov SxXVJtl >*g » tlt-itta. tfO\KAx.l( Toe pvfifAm thc Xs^socc, km t« koiu-^x Kwnmeu iJV/|U4 «v »:dtKtKTa> nroKntx.» . ».& /» in e* tc give p lblic counsel concerning war and peace, or takes the charge of a puvac? . >aa, who is standing at the bar to be tried for his life, those studied decorations, v>Os\ s theatrical graces and juvenile flowers,are out of place. Instead of being of service, the/ ar? detrimental o the cause we espouse. When the contest is of a serious kind, ornamenw vhich at an- ther time would have beauty, then lose their effect, and prove hostile to dw affections nich we wish to raise in our Hearers.' lect. xxv.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 871 in whom, it must be acknowledged, eloquence shone forth with higher splendour, than perhaps in any that ever bore the name of an orator, and whose manner and character, therefore, must deserve our particular attention. I shall not spend any time upon the circumstances of Demos- thenes's life; they are well known. The strong ambition which he discovered to excel in the art of speaking; the unsuccessfulness of his first attempts ; his unwearied perseverance in surmounting all the disadvantages that arose from his person and address; his shutting himself up in a cave, that he might study with less distraction; his declaiming by the sea shore, that he might accustom himself to the noise of a tumultuous assembly, and with pebbles in his mouth, that he might correct a defect in his speech ; his practising at home with a naked sword hanging over his shoulder, that he might check an ungraceful motion, to which he was subject; all those circum- stances, which we learn from Plutarch, are very encouraging to such as study eloquence, as they show how far art and application may avail, for acquiring an excellence which nature seemed unwil- ling to grant us. 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 Philippics, which are his capital orations; and, no doubt, to the nobleness of the subject, and to that integrity and public spirit which eminently breathe in them, they are indebted for much of their merit. The subject is to rouse the indignation of his countrymen against Philip of Macedon, the public enemy of the liberties of Greece; and to guard them against the insidious measures, by which that crafty prince endea- voured to lay them asleep to danger. In the prosecution of this end, we see him taking every proper method to animate a people, renowned for justice, humanity, and valour, but in many instances become corrupt and degenerate. He boldly taxes them with their venality, their indolence, and indifference to the public cause; while at the same time, with all the art of an orator, he recalls the glory of their ancestors to their thoughts, shows them that they are still a flourishing and a powerful people, the natural protectors of the liber- ty of Greece, and who wanted only the inclination to exert them selves, in order to make Philip tremble. With his contemporary orators, who were in Philip's interest, and who persuaded the peo- ple to peace, he keeps no measures, but plainly reproaches them as the betrayers of their country. He not only prompts to vigorous conduct, but he lays down the plan of that conduct: he enters into particulars ; and points out, with great exactness, the measures of execution. This is the strain of these orations. They are strongly animated, and full of the impetuosity and fire of public spirit. They proceed in a continued train of inductions, consequences, and de- monstrations, founded on sound reason. The figures which he uses, are never sought after ; but always rise from the subject He em 272 DEMOSTHENES. [lect. xxv ploys them sparingly indeed ; for splendour and ornament are not the distinctions of this orator's composition. It is an energy of thought peculiar to himself, which forms his character, and sets him ahove all others. He appears to attend much more to things than to words. We forget the orator, and think of the business. He warms the mind, and impels to action. He has no parade and os- tentation; no methods of insinuation; no laboured introductions; but is like a man full of his subject, who, after preparing his audi- ence by a sentence or two for hearing plain truths, enters directly on business. Demosthenes appears to great advantage, when contrasted with ^Eschines in the celebrated oration ' pro Corona.' iEsehines was his rival in business, and personal enemy; and one of the most dis- tinguished orators of that age. But when we read the two orations, ^Eschines is feeble in comparison of Demosthenes, and makes much less impression on the mind. His reasonings concerning the law that was in question, are indeed very subtile ; but his invective against Demosthenes is general and ill supported. Whereas, Demosthenes is a torrent, that nothing can resist. He bears down his antagonist with violence; he draws his character in the strongest colours; and the particular merit of that oration is, that all the descriptions in it are highly picturesque. There runs through it a strain of magnani- mity and high honour; the orator speaks with that strength and con- scious dignity which great actions and public spirit alone inspire. Both orators use great liberties with one another ; and, in general, I hat unrestrained license which ancient manners permitted, and which was carried by public speakers even to the length of abusive names and downright scurrility, as appears both here and in Cicero's Philippics hurts and offends a modern ear. What those ancient orators gained by such a manner in point of freedom and boldness, is more than com- pensated by want of dignity ; which seems to give an advantage, in this respect, to the greater decency of modern speaking. The style of Demosthenes is strong and concise, though some- times, it must not be dissembled, harsh and abrupt. His words are very expressive; his arrangement is firm and manly: and though far from being unmusical, yet it seems difficult to find in him that studi- ed, but concealed number, and rythmus, which some of the ancient critics are fond of attributing to him. Negligent of these lesser graces, one would rather conceive him to have aimed at that sublime which lies in sentiment. His action and pronunciation are recorded to have been uncommonly vehement and ardent; which, from the manner of his composition, we are naturally led to believe. The character which one forms of him. from reading his works, is of the austere, rather than the gentle kind. He is on ever) 7 occasion grave, serious, passionate; takes every thing on a high tone; never lets himself down, nor attempts any thing like pleasantry. If any fault can be found with his admirable eloquence, it is, that he sometimes borders on the hard and dry. He may be thought to want smooth- ness and grace; which Dionysius of Halicarnassus attributes to his imitating too closely the manner ci Thucydides, who was his great LECT. XXV.] QUESTIONS. 273 model for style, and whose history he is said to have written eight cimes over with his own hand. But these defects are far more than compensated, by that admirable and masterly force of masculine elo- quence, which, as it overpowered all who heard it, cannot, at this day, be read without emotion. After the days of Demosthenes, Greece lost her liberty; eloquence of course languished, and relapsed again into the feeble manner in- troduced by the rhetoricians and sophists. Demetrius Phalerius, who lived in the next age to Demosthenes, attained indeed some charac- ter, but he is represented to us as a flowery, rather than a persuasive speaker, who aimed at grace rather than substance. ' Delectabat Athenienses,' says Cicero, ' magis quam inflammabat.' ■ He amused the Athenians, rather than warmed them.' And after his time, we hear of no more Grecian orators of any note. QUESTIONS. Having finished that part of the course which relates to language and style, what are we now to do ? With what do we begin ? In treating of this, what is to be considered ? Before enter- ing upon any of these heads, what may be proper ? Why does our author hope that this detail will be an useful one ? Why is it the more necessary to ascertain the proper notion of elo- quence? Hence, what has been the consequence ? Why does a plain man hear you speak of eloquence with very little attention ; and what says he 1 Under what circumstances would he be in the right? From what does it appear that, to be truly eloquent, is to speak to the purpose ? How is this illustrated ? Who, therefore, is the most eloquent man; and what remark follows ? What does the definition of eloquence, com- prehend? When does the power of eloquence chiefly appear; and why? This being once established, what con- sequence follows? How does it appear, that good sense is the foundation of all ? In order to persuade a man of sense, what must you first do ; and how, only, is this to be done? To what observation does this lead ? What are the respec- tive effects ol conviction and persua- sion? How is this illustrated? Under what circumstances should conviction and persuasion go together ? But, from the constitution of our nature, what re- sults; and what follows? Of convic- tion, however, what is observed ; and why must an orator first bend his strength to train it? But, in order to persuade, what is necessary; and hence, what follows ? What objection may hence be formed against eloquence? As there is no doubt that it may, wha. conclusion is drawn? But why should no man think of forming an argument from this, against the cultivation of our reasoning powers ? Give truth and vir- tue the same arms that you give vice and falseheod, and what will be the consequence ? Of what is eloquence not the invention? How does it appear, that nature teaches every man to be eloquent? What, only, does the art of oratory propose; and what follows? How many degrees of eloquence may we distinguish ; and what is the first 1 What examples of it are given? Why is not this ornamental sort of composi- tion to be rejected? But cf it, what must be confessed ? What is a second, and higher decree of eloquence? Within this compass, is chiefly em- ployed what species of eloquence? But what is the third, and still higher de- gree of eloquence ? What opens the most illustrious field to this species of eloquence ; and what, also, admits it ? What does our author here observe ; and by it, what is meant ? How is this illustrated ? When is passion universal- ly found to exalt all the human pow- ers ; and what is its influence on the mind ? Why does a man, actuated by a strong passion, become much greater than he is at other times? With re- spect to what, is the power of persua- sion felt; and when is almost every man eloquent? Of him, what is then observed; and what does he then do? Of what, is this the foundation ? This principle being once admitted, that all high eloquence flows from passion, what consequences follow? Of ihese ideas, what is observed ? From what has al- 273 n QUESTIONS. [lect. XXV r'xidy been said, what is evident ; and what does it require? Viewing it as the art of persuasion, in its lowest state what does it require ; and what does it also require, in its highest degrees ? To what do we next proceed? What observation is made by several critics ? Of Longinus, what is here observed ; and of liberty, what does he remark ? What does he say of all other qualifica- tions? How must this reasoning be un- ierstood ; and why ? What illustration of this remark is given ? Of French sermons and orations, what is observed? Of what kind, however, is their elo- quence? Where, only, is high, manly, and forcible eloquence, to be looked for ? How is this remark illustrated ? Where, only, can it be employed ; and from what £ it excluded ? Where may we expect that true eloquence will be best under- stood ? Hence, in tracing the rise of oratory, what need we not do ? In those ages, what existed ? Of the first ages, what is there reason to believe ; and to what was this owing? What, in this state, had an ample field ? But, what follows ? Why were more of those re- finements of society, which make pub- lic speaking an object of importance, introduced in the first empires ? When do we find the first remarkable appear- ance of eloquence as the art of persua- sion ? Of these, what is observed ; and, therefore, what follows ? How was Greece divided ; and how were these governed? During what time may we compute the flourishing period of those states to have lasted ? Of this period, what is observed? Of these republics, which was by far the most noted lor eloquence, and for arts of every kind ? Of the Athenians, what is observed? What was the genius of their government; and of what did their legislature consist ? Of the latter, what is observed ; and there, how were affairs conducted? What was there done ; and why ? In such a state, what would be much studied, as the surest means of rising to influence and power ; of what kind was it ; and why ? In so enlightened and acute a , nation, what may we expect to find ? And, accordingly, what was the re- sult ? What, notwithstanding, was sometimes effected by ambitious dema- gogues, and corrupt orators ; and why? When did they distinguish between genuine and spurious eloquence ? And hence, of Demosthenes, what is ob- served ; and why ? When would so- phistical reasoning have been resented and punished by them ? Why did their greatest orators, on such occasions, tremble; and what remark follows? In what manner was their eloquence pro- duced ? Of PisistratuSjWhat is observed ; and for what purpose did he employ his ability in these arts ? Of the ora- tors who flourished between his time and the Peleponnesian war, what is observed? What is said of Pericles? How long did he govern Athens by his eloquence ; and of it, what is remark- ed? Hence, what surname was given him ; and why ? What was it, that gave such power to his eloquence? What is further observed of him 1 What remarkable particular is record- ed of him by Suidas ? Posterior to Pe- ricles, who arose ; and what is said of them ? What says Cicero of the man- ner of oratory that then prevailed ? This manner is very different from what ? To what did the power of elo- quence give birth, after the days of Cicero ? Of these sophists, what is ob- served ? What is remarked of Gorgias ? Whence do we learn his style and manner ; and what is said of it ? With what did these rhetoricians not content themselves ; but what did they possess? Upon this plan, they were the first that treated of what ? In the hands of such men, what, may we easily believe ? To them who opposed himself? How did he explode their sophistry; and what did he endeavour to effect? In the same age, who flourished ; what was he ; and what did he acquire ? With what are his orations filled? In what did he never engage; and what fol- lows ? What does Cicero allow ? Of the style of Gorgias of Leontium, what is observed; and also of the style of Isocrates ? How much time did he em- ploy in composing his panegyric ; and of this, what is remarked ? What has Dionysius given us upon the orations of Isocrates? What does he commend ; but. what does he censure? W T hat does he hold him to be ? In Cicero's critical works, what is observed of him ? In one of his treatises, what does he tell us? Why does the manner of Isocrates Generally catch young people ? But when they come to write or speak for the world, what will they find? To what did the reputation of Isocrates prompt Aristotle ? What does he seem i to have had in view ? W T hat other two LECT XXVI.] QUESTIONS. 273 6 orators belong also to this period ? Of Lysias, what is observed ; and what is said of Isseus? What circumstances, in the case of Demosthenes, are very encouraging to th.se who study elo- quence; and why? Despising the af- fected and florid manner of that age, to what did he return? Of the field that his capital orations opened to him what is observed ? What is the subject of them? In what manner does he prosecute this end ? How does he treat his contemporary orators, who were in Philip's interest ? What does he do be- sides prompting to rigorous conduct ? What is the strain of these orations ? In what manner do they proceed ? Of his figures, what is observed ? What is it that forms his character? How is this illustrated? In contrast with whom does Demosthenes appear to great ad- vantage ; and of the latter, what is ob- served ? Describe, particularly, the manner of the two orators, in contrast with each other? How is the style of Demosthenes described ? Of his action, ana pronunciation what is observed ? From reading his works, what charac- ter would one naturally form of him, and why ? On what does he sometimes border ? To what is this want of smooth- ness and grace to be attributed ? But. by what are these defects more than com- pensated ? What was the consequence of the loss of liberty in Greece ? Of De- metrius Phalerius what is observed ? ANALYSIS. Eloquence. 1. Introductory remarks. 2. The definition of eloquence. a. Conviction and persuasion contrast- ed. e. Objections to it, considered. Degrees of Eloquence. 1. To please only. 2. To please, to inform, to instruct, &c. 3. To interest, to agitate, &c. a. The offspring' of passion. 4. Eloquence to be found in tike regions of freedom only. 5. Its origin. a. Athens. a. Pisistratus, Pericles, Isociates, &c. b. Demosthenes. LECTURE XXVI. HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE CONTINUED.— 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 Ro- mans, where we shall find one model, at least, of eloquence, in its most splendid and illustrious form. The Romans were long a mar- tial nation, altogether rude, and unskilled in arts of any kind. Arts were of a late introduction among them ; they were not known till after the conquest of Greece ; and the Romans always acknowledge the Grecians as their masters in every part of learning. Grecia capta ferum victorum cepit, et artes Intulit agresti Latio.* Hor. Epist. ad Aug. As the Romans derived their eloquence, poetry, and learning, from the Greeks, so they must be confessed to be far inferior to them in genius for all these accomplishments. They were a more grave and magnificent, but a less acute and sprightly people. They had neither the vivacity nor the sensibility of the Greeks; their passions were not so easily moved, nor their conceptions so lively ; in comparison of them, they were a phlegmatic nation. Their language resembled their character ; it was regular, firm, and stately ; but wanted that simple and expressive naivete, and, in particular, that flexibility to ' suit every different mode and species of composition, for which the Greek tongue is distinguished above that of every other country. * When conquer 1 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 tlegance to shine. Francis. 274 CICERO. [lect. xxvi Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo Musa loqui.* Ars. Poet. And hence, when we compare together the various rival produc- tions of Greece and Rome, we shall always find th .s distinction ob- tain, that in the Greek productions there is more native genius ; in the Roman, more regularity and art What the Greeks invented, tne Romans polished; the one was the original, rough sometimes, and incorrect; the other, a finished copy. As the Roman government, during the republic, was of the popu- lar kind, there is no doubt but that, in the hands of the leading men, public speaking became early an engine of government, and was em- ployed for gaining distinction and power. But in the rude unpolish- ed times of the state, their speaking was hardly of that sort that could be called eloquence. Though Cicero, in his Treatise, 'De Claris Oratoribus,' endeavours to give some reputation to the elder Cato, and those who were his contemporaries, yet he acknowledges it to have been ' Asperum et horridum genus dicendi,' a rude and harsh strain of speech. It was not till a short time preceding Cicero's age, that the Roman orators rose into any note. Crassus and Antonius, two of the speakers in the dialogue De Oratore, appear to have been the most eminent, whose different manners Cicero describes with great beauty in that dialogue, and in his other rhetorical works. But as none of their productions are extant, nor any of Hortensius's, who was Cicero's contemporary and rival at the bar, it is needless to trans- scribe from Cicero's writings the account which he gives of those great men, and of the character of their eloquence.! The object in this period, most worthy to draw our attention, is Cicero himself; whose name alone suggests every thing that is splen- did in oratory. With the history of his life, and with his character as a man and a politician, we have not at present any direct concern. We consider him only as an eloquent speaker ; and in this view, it is our business to remark both his virtues and his defects, if he has any. His virtues are, beyond controversy, eminently great. In all his ora- tions there is high art. He begins, generally, with a regular exordi- um ; and with much preparation and insinuation prepossesses the hear- ers, and studies to gain their affections. His method is clear,and his arguments are arranged with great propriety. His method is indeed more clear than that of Demosthenes; and this is one advantage which he has over him. We find every thing in its proper place j he never attempts to move, till he has endeavoured to convince : and in moving, especially the softer passions, he is very successful. No man knew the power and force of words better than Ci- cero. He rolls them alon^ with the greatest beauty and pomp; * To her lov'd Greeks the muse indulgent gave, To her lov'd Greeks with greatness to conceive ; And in sublimer tone tueir language raise: Her Greeks were only covetous of praise. Francis* + Such as are desirous of particular information on this head, bad better hare recourse to the origina., by reading Cicero's three books de Oratore, ana his other tw« treatises, entided, the one Brutus, Sive de Claris Oratoribus ; the other, Orator, ad M. Brutum ; which, on several accounts, well deserve perusal lect. xxvt.] CICERO. 275 and, in thestructure of his sentences, is curious and exact to the high- est degree. He is always full and flowing, never abrupt. He is a great amplifier of every subject; magnificent, and in his sentiments highly moral. His manner is on the whole diffuse, yet it is often hap- pily varied, and suited to the subject. In his four orations, for in- stance, against Catiline, the tone and style of each of them, parti- cularly the first and last, is very different, and accommodated with a great deal of judgment to the occasion, and the situation in which they were spoken. When a great public object roused his mind, and demanded indignation and force, he departs considerably from that loose and declamatory manner to which he leans at other times, and becomes exceedingly cogent and vehement. This is the case in his orations against Anthony, and in those two against Verres and Catiline. Together with those high qualities which Cicero possesses, he is not exempt from certain defects, of which it is necessary to take notice. For the Ciceronian eloquence is a pattern so dazzling by its beauties, that, if not examined with accuracy and judgment, it is apt to betray the unwary into a faulty imitation; and I am of opi- nion, that it has sometimes produced this effect. In most of his ora- tions, especially those composed in the earlier part of his life, there is too much art; even carried the length of ostentation. There is too visible a parade of eloquence. He seems often to aim at ob- taining admiration, rather than at operating conviction, by what he says. Hence, on some occasions, he is showy rather than solid ; and diffuse, where he ought to have been pressing. His sentences are, at all times, round and sonorous; they cannot be accused of mono- tony, for they possess variety of cadence ; but, from too great a stu- dy of magnificence, he is sometimes deficient in strength. On all occasions, where there i.° the least room for it, he is full of himself. His great actions, and the real services which he had performed to his country, apologized for this in part; ancient manners, too, im- posed fewer restraints from the side of decorum; but, even after these allowances made, Cicero's ostentation of himself cannot be wholly palliated ; and his orations, indeed all his works, leave on our minds the impression of a good man, but withal, of a vain man. The defects which we have now taken notice of in Cicero's elo- quence, were not unobserved by his own contemporaries. This we learn from Quintilian, and from the author of the dialogue, -de Causis Corruptas Eloquentise.' Brutus, we are informed, called him, ' frac- tum et elumbem,' broken and enervated. ' Suorum temporum ho- mines,' says Quintilian, ' incessere audebant eum ut tumidiorem et Asianum, et redundantem, et in repetitionibus nimium, et in salibus aliquandofrigidum,etin compositionefractumetexsultantem, et pe- ne viro molliorem.'* These censures were undoubtedly carried too * ' His contemporaries ventured to reproach him as swelling, redundant, and Asia- U". ; tro frequent in repetitions ; in his attempts towards wit sometimes cold ; and in the str.iin of his composition, feeble, desultory, and more effeminate than became a man.' 2R 276 COMPARISON OF [lect. xxvi far; and savour of malignity and personal enmity. They saw his de- fects, but they aggravated them ; and the source of these aggrava- tions can be traced to the difference which prevailed in Rome, in Ci cercr's days, between two great parties, with respect to eloquence, the 'Attici,' and the ' Asiani.' The former, who called themselver the Attics, were the patrons of what they conceived to be the chaste simple, and natural style of eloquence; from which they accused Ci cero as having departed, and as leaning to the florid Asiatic manner In several of his rhetorical works, particularly in his ' Orator ad Bru- tum,' Cicero, in his turn, endeavours to expose this sect, as substitut- ing a frigid and jejune manner, in place of the true Attic eloquence ; and contends, that his own composition was formed upon the real At- tic style. In the 10th chapter of the last book of Quintilian's Insti- tutions, a full account is given of the disputes between these two par- ties; and of the Rhodian, or middle manner, between the Attics and the Asiatics. Quintilian himself declares on Cicero's side; and, whether it be called Attic or Asiatic, prefers the full, the copious, and the amplifying style. He concludes with this very just observa- tion : ' Plures sunt eloquentiae facies; sed stultissimum est quaerere, ad quam recturus se sit orator; cum omnis species, quae modo recta est, habeat usum. Utetur enim, ut res exiget, omnibus; nee pro causa modo, sed pro partibus causae.'* On the subject of comparing Cicero and Demosthenes, much has been said by critical writers. The different manners of these two princes of eloquence, and the distinguishing characters of each, are so strongly marked in their writings, that the comparison is, in many respects, obvious and easy. The character of Demosthenes is vigour and austerity; that of Cicero is gentleness and insinuation. Tn the' one, you find more manliness ; in the other, more ornament. The one is more harsh, but more spirited and cogent; the other more agreeable, but withal looser and weaker. To account for this difference without any prejudice to Cicero, it has been said, that we must look to the nature of their different auditories; that the refined Athenians followed with ease the con- cise and convincing eloquence of Demosthenes : but that a manner more popular, more flowery and declamatory, was requisite in speaking to the Romans, a people less acute, and less acquainted with the arts of speech. But this is not satisfactory. For we must observe, that the Greek orator spoke much oftener before a mixed multitude, than the Roman. Almost all the public business of "Athens was transacted in popular assemblies. The common people were his hearers, and his judges. Whereas, Cicero generally ad- dressed himself to the ' Patres Conscripti,' or in criminal trials to the Praetor, and the select judges ; and it cannot be imagined, that the persons of highest rank, and best education in Rome, required a * ' Eloquence admits of many different forms : and nothing can be more foolish than to inquire, by which of them an orator is to regulate his composition ; since every form, which is in itself just, has its own place and use. The orator, accordmg as circumstances require, will employ them all ; suiting them not only to the cause or subject of which he treats, but to the different parts of that subject.' lect.xxvi.] CICERO AND DEMOSTHENES. 277 more diffuse manner of pleading than the common citizens of Athens, in order to make them understand the cause, or relish the speaker. Perhaps we shall come nearer the truth, by observing, that to unite all the qualities, without the least exception, that form a perfect orator, and to excel equally in each of those quali- ties, is not to be expected from the limited powers of human ge nius. The highest degree of strength is, I suspect, never found united with the highest degree of smoothness and ornament; equal attention to both are incompatible ; and the genius that carries or- nament to its utmost length, is not of such a kind as can excel as much in vigour. For there plainly lies the characteristical difference between these two celebrated orators. It is a disadvantage to Demosthenes, that besides his conciseness, which sometimes produces obscurity, the language in which he writes is less familiar to most of us than the Latin, and that we are less acquainted with the Greek antiquities than we are with the Roman. We read Cicero with more ease, and of course with more pleasure. Independent of this circumstance, too, he is, no doubt, in himself, a more agreeable writer than the other. But notwith- standing this advantage, I am of opinion, that were the state in dan- ger, or some great national interest at stake, which drew the serious attention of the public, an oration in the spirit and strain of Demosthe- nes would have more weight, and produce greater effects,than one in the Ciceronian manner. Were Demosthenes' Philippics spoken in a British assembly, in a similar conjuncture of affairs, they would convince and persuade at this day. The rapid style, the vehement reasoning, the disdain, anger, boldness, freedom, which perpe- tually animate them, would render their success infallible over any modern assembly. I question whether the same can be said of Cicero's orations; whose eloquence, however beautiful, and how- ever well suited to the Roman taste, yet borders oftener on decla- mation, and is more remote from the manner in which we now ex- pect to hear real business and causes of importance treated.* In comparing Demosthenes and Cicero, most of the French critics are disposed to give the preference to the latter. P. Rapin the lesuit, in the parallels which he has drawn between some of the most eminent Greek and Roman writers, uniformly decides in favour of the Roman. For the preference which he gives to Ci- cero, he assigns, and lays stress on, one reason of a pretty extraor- dinary nature; viz. that Demosthenes could not possibly have so complete an insight as Cicero into the manners and passions ot men: Why? — Because he had not the advantage of perusing Am totle's Treatise of Rhetoric, wherein, says our critic, he has fully laid open that mystery ; and, to support this weighty argument, he enters into a controversy with A. Gellius, in order to prove that Aristotle's Rhetoric was not published till after Demosthenes had * In this judgment I concur with Mr. David Hume, in his Essay upon Eloquence He gives it as his opinion, that of all human productions, the orations of DemosthenM present to us the models which approach the nearest to perfection. 278 CICERO AND DEMOSTHENES. [lect. xxv* spoken, at leas*, his most considerable orations. Nothing can be more childish. Such orators as Cicero and Demosthenes, derived their knowledge of the human passions, and their power of moving them, from higher sources than any treatise of rhetoric. One French critic has indeed departed from the common track ; and, after bestowing on Cicero those just praises to which the consent of so many ages shows him to be entitled, concludes, however, with giving the palm to Demosthenes. This is Fenelon, the famous archbishop of Cambray, and author of Telemachus; himself sure- ly no enemy to all the graces and flowers of composition. It is in his Reflections on Rhetoric and Poetry, that he gives this judgment; a small tract, commonly published along with his dialogues on elo- quence.* These dialogues and reflections are particularly worthy of perusal, as containing, I think, the justest ideas on the subject that are to be met with in any modern critical writer. The reign of eloquence, among the Romans, was very short. After the age of Cicero, it languished, or rather expired; and we have no reason to wonder at this being the case. For not only was liberty entirely extinguished, but arbitrary power felt in its heaviest and most oppressive weight; Providence having, in its wrath, delivered over the Roman empire to a succession of some of the most execrable tyrants that ever disgraced and scourged the human race. Under tfieir government it was naturally to be expected that taste would be corrupted, and genius discouraged. Some of the ornamental arts, less intimately connected with liber- ty, continued, for a while, to prevail ; but for that masculine eloquence, which had exercised itself in the senate, and in the public affairs, there was no longer any place. The change that was produced on eloquence, by the nature of the government, and the state of the public manners, is beautifully described in the Dialogue de CausiscorruptaeEloquentias,which is attributed by some to Tacitus, by others, to Quintilian. Luxury, effeminacy, and flat- tery, overwhelmed all. The forum, where so many great affairs had been transacted, was now become a desert. Private causes were still pleaded ; but the public was no longer interested; nor any gen- eral attention drawn to what passed there : ' Unus inter ha?c, et alter, * As his expressions are remarkably happy and beautiful, the passage here re- ferred to deserves to be inserted. 'Je ne crams pas de dire, que Demosthene irse paroit superieur k Ciceron. Je proteste que personne n"admire plus Ciceron que je ne fais. II embellit tout ce qu'il touche. II fait honneur a la parole. II fait des mots ce qu'un autre n'en sauroit faire. II a je ne sais combien de sortes d'esprits. II est meme court, et vehement, toutes les fois qu'il vent l'etre ; contre Catiline, contre Verres, contre Antoine. Mais on remarque quelque parure dans sons dis- cours. L'art y est merveilleux ; mais on l'entrevoit. L'orateur en pensant au salut de la republique, ne s'oublie pas, et ne se laKsse pas oublier. Demosthene paroit sortfr de soi, et ne voir que la patrie. II ne cherche point le beau ; il It fait sans y penser. II est au-dessus d« l'admiration. I! se sert de !a parole, comme un homme modest^ £,: «on habit, pour se couvrir. II tonne ; il foudroye. C'est un torrent qu : emraine tout. On ne pent le rritiquer, parcrqu'on est. sais/ On pense aux choses qu'il dit, et non a ses paroles. On le perd de vue On n'est occupe que de Phillippe qui envahit tout. Je suis charm6 dt ces deuj orateurs ■ mais j'avoue que je suis moins touche de l'art infini, et de la magnifique eloquent e de Ciceron que dela rapide simplicite de Demosthene.' lect. xxvi.] DECAY OF ROMAN ELOQUENCE. 279 dicenti, assistit ; et res velut in solitudine agitur. Oratori autem clamore plausuque opus est, et velut quodam theatro, qualia quo- tidie antiquis oratoribus contingebant ; cum tot ac tam nobiles forum coarctarent: cum clientelae, et tribus, et municipiorum lega tiones, periclitantibus assisterent; cum in plerisque judiciis ere deret populus Romanus sua interesse quidjudicaretur.'* In the schools of the deelaimers, the corruption of eloquence was completed. Imaginary and fantastic subjects, such as had no refer- ence to real life, or business, were made the themes of declamation ; and all manner of false and affected ornaments were brought into vogue: 'Pace vestra lice.at dixisse,' says Petronius Arbiter, to the deelaim- ers of his time, ' primi omnem eloquentiam perdidistis. Levibus enim ac inanibus sonis ludibria qusedam excitando, effecistis ut corpus ora- i ionis enervaretur atque caderet. Et ideo ego existimo adolescentulos in scholis stultissimos fieri, quia nihil ex iis, qua? in usu habemus, aut audiunt, aut vident ; sed piratascum catenis in littore stantes ; et tyran- nos edictascribentes quibus imperent filiis utpatrum suorum capita prsecidant : sed responsa, inpestilentia data, ut virgines tres aut plures immolentur; sed mellitos verborum globulos, et omnia quasi papa- vere, et sesamo sparsa. Qui inter haec nutriuntur, non magis sapere possunt, quam bene olere qui in culina habitant.'! In the hands of the Greek rhetoricians, the manly and sensible eloquence of their first rioted speakers, degenerated, as I formerly showed, into subtil- ty and sophistry ; in the hands of the Roman declaimers, it passed into the quaint and affected ; into point and antithesis. This corrupt manner begins to appear in the writings of Seneca: and shows itself also in the famous panegyric of Pliny the Younger on Trajan, which may be considered as the last effort of Roman oratory. Though the author was a man of genius, yet it is deficient in nature and ease. We see throughout the whole, a perpetual attempt to depart from the ordinary way of thinking, and to support a forced elevation. In the decline of the Roman empire, the introduction of Chris tianity gave rise to a new species of eloquence, in the apologies, ser- mons, and pastoral writings of the Fathers of the Church. Among * ' The courts of judicature are, at present, so unfrequented, that the orator seems to stand alone, and to talk to bare walls. But eloquence rejoices in the bursts of loud applause, and exults in a full audience ; such as used to press round the an- cient orators, when the forum stood crowded with nobles; when a numerous reti- nue of clients, when foreign ambassadors, when tribes, and whole cities, assisted at the debate ; and when, in many trials, the Roman people understood themselves to be concerned in the event.' t'YVith your permission, I must be allowed to say, that you have been the first destroyers of all true eloquence. For, by those mock subjects, on which you employ yeur empty and unmeaning compositions, you have enervated and over- thrown all that is manly and substantial in oratory I cannot but conclude, that the youth whom you educate, must be totally perverted in your schools, by hearing and seeing nothing which has any affinity to real life, or human affairs ; but stories of pirates standing on the shore, provided with chains for loading their captives, and of tyrants issuing their edicts, by which children are commanded to cut off the heads of their parents ; but responses given by oracles in the time of pestilence, that several virgins must be sacrificed; but glittering ornaments of phrase and a style highly spiced, if we may say so, with affected conceits. They who ar2 edu- cated in the midst of such studies, can no more acquire a good taste, than they can smell sw«et who dwell perpetually in a kitchen.' 280 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [lect. xx n the Latin Fathers, Lactantius and Minutius Felix, are the most re- markable for purity of style; and, in a later age, the famous St. Au- gustine possesses a considerable share of sprightliness and strength But none of the Fathers afford any just models of eloquence. Their language, as soon as we descend to the third or fourth centu ry, becomes harsh ; and they are, in general, infected with the taste of that age, a love of swoln and strained thoughts, and of the play of words. Among the Greek Fathers, the most distinguished, by far, for his oratorial merit, is St. Chrysostom. His language is pure; his style highly figured. He is copious, smooth, and sometimes pa- thetic. But he retains, at the same time, much of that character which has been always attributed to the Asiatic eloquence, diffuse and redundant to a great degree, and often overwrought and tumid. He may be read, however, with advantage, for the eloquence of the pulpit, as being freer from false ornaments than the Latin Fathers. As there is nothing more that occurs to me, deserving particular attention in the middle age, I pass now to the state of eloquence in modern times. Here it must be confessed, that, in no European 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 pre- vailed in those ancient states, been so much as aimed at: notwith- standing too, that a new profession has been established, which gives peculiar advantages to oratory, and affords it the noblest field ; I mean that of the church. The genius of the world seems, in this respect, to have undergone some alteration. The two countries where we might expect to find most of the spirit of eloquence; are France and Great Britain: France, on account of the distinguished turn of the nation towards all the liberal arts, and of the encourage- ment which, for this century past, these arts have received from the public; Great Britain, on account both of the public capacity and genius, and of the free government which it enjoys. Yet so it is, that, in neither of those countries, has the talent of public speaking risen near to the degree of its ancient splendour; while in other productions of genius, both in prose and in poetry, they have con- tended for the prize with Greece and Rome; nay, in some compo- sitions,theymaybefhoughttohavesurpassedthem. The names of De- mosthenes and Cicero stand, at this day, unrivalled in fame; and it would be held presumptuous and absurd to pretend to place any modern whatever in the same, or even in a nearly equal rank. It seems particularly surprising, thai Great Britain should not have mude a more conspicuous figure in eloquence than it has hitherto at- tained; when we consider the enlightened, and, at the same time, the free and bold genius of the country, which seems not a little to favour oratory ; and when we consider that, of all the polite nations, it alone possesses a popular government, or admits into the legisla- ture, such numerous assemblies as can be supposed to lie under the dominion of eloquence.* Notwithstanding this advantage, it must * Mr. Hume, in his Essay on Eloquence, makes this observation, and illustrates lect.xxvi.] MODERN ELOQUENCE. 281 be confessed, that in most parts of eloquence, we are undoubtedly inferior, not only to the Greeks and Romans by many degree' ^ut also in some respects to the French. We have philosophers, em:;r.eiit and conspicuous, perhaps, beyond any nation, in every branch ol science. We have both taste and erudition, in a high degree. We have historians, we have poets of the greatest name; but of orators, or public speakers, how little have we to boast? And where are the monuments of their genius to be found ? In every period we have had some who made a figure, by managing the debates in parlia- ment ; but that figure was commonly owing to their wisdom or their experience in business, more than to their talent for Lratory ; and unless in some few instances, wherein the power of oratory has ap- peared, indeed, with much lustre, the art of parliamentary speak- ing rather obtained to several a temporary applause, than confer- red upon any a lasting renown. At the bar, though questionless we have many able pleaders, yet few or none of their pleadings have been thought worthy to be transmitted to posterity, or have commanded attention, any longer than the cause which was the subject of them interested the public: while in France, the plead- ings of Patru, in the former age, and those of Cochin and D'Aguesseau, in later times, are read with pleasure, and are often quoted as examples of eloquence by the French critics. In the same manner, in the pulpit, the British divines have distinguished themselves by the most accurate and rational compositions which, perhaps, any nation can boast of. Many printed sermons we have, full of good sense, and of sound divinity and morality, but the eloquence to be found in them, the power of persuasion, of in- teresting and engaging the heart, which is, or ought to be, the great object of the pulpit, is far from bearing a suitable proportion to the excellence of the matter. There are few arts, in my opin- ion, farther from perfection, than that of preaching is among us; the reasons of which, I shall afterwards have occasion to discuss: in proof of the fact, it is sufficient to observe, that an English sermon, instead of being a persuasive animated oration, seldom rises beyond the strain of correct and dry reasoning. Whereas, in the ser- mons of Bossuet, Massillon, Bourdaloue, and Flechier, amcngthe French, we see a much higher species of eloquence aimed at, and in a great measure attained, than the British preachers have in view. In general, the characteristical difference between the state of eloquence in France and in Great Britain is, that the French have adopted higher ideas both of pleasing and persuading by means ol oratory, though, sometimes, in the execution, they fail. In Great Britain, we have taken up eloquence on a lower key; but in our it with his usual elegance. He, indeed, supposes, that no satisfactory reasons can be given to account for the inferiority of modern to ancient eloquence. In this, I iiffer from him, and shall endeavour, before the conclusion of this lecture, to point out some causes to which, I think, it may in a great measure be ascribed in the three great scenes of public speaking. 36 282 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [lect. xxvi. execution, as was naturally to be expected, have been more cor- rec\ In France, the style of their orators is ornamented with bolder figures; and their discourse carried on with more am- plification, more warmth and elevation. The composition is of- ten very beautiful ; but sometimes, also, too diffuse, and deficient in that strength and cogency which renders eloquence powerful : a defect owing, perhaps, in part, to the genius of the people, which leads them to attend fully as much to ornament as to substance ; and, in part, to the nature of their government, which,by excluding pub- lic speaking from having much influence on the conduct cf public affairs, deprives eloquence of its best opportunity for acquiring nerves and strength. Hence the pulpit is the principal field which is left for their eloquence. The members, too, of the French aca demy,give harangues at their admission, in which genius often ap pears; but, labouring under the misfortune of having no subject to discourse upon, they run commonly into flattery and panegyric, the most barren and insipid of all topics. I observed before, that the Greeks and Romans aspired to a more sublime species of eloquence, than is aimed at by the moderns. Theirs was of the vehement and passionate kind, by which they endeavoured to inflame the minds of their hearers, and hurry their imagination away: and, suitable to this vehemence of thought, was their vehemence of gesture and action; the 'supplosio pedis'* the 'percussio frontis et femoris,'* were, as we learn from Cicero's wri- tings, usual gestures among them at the bar ; though now they would be reckoned extravagant any where, except upon the stage. Modern eloquence is much more cool and temperate; and in Great Britain especially, has confined itself almost wholly to the argumentative and rational. It is much of that species which the ancient critics called the ' Tenuis/ or * Subtilis;' which aims at convincing and instructing, rather than affecting the passions, and assumes a tone not much higher than common argument and discourse. Several reasons may be given, why modern eloquence has been so limited and humble in its efforts. In the first place, I am ot opinion, that this change must, in part, be ascribed to that correct turn of thinking, which has been so much studied in modern times. It can .hardly be doubted, that, in many efforts of mere genius^ the ancient Greeks and Romans excelled us; but, on the other hand, that, in accuracy and closeness of reasoning on many sub- jects, we have some advantage over them, ought, I think, to be admitted also. In proportion as the world has advanced, philo- sophy has made greater progress. A certain strictness of good sense has, in this island particularly, been cultivated, and introduced into every subject. Hence we are more on our guard against the flow- ers of elocution; we are now on the watch; we are jealous of being deceived by oratory. Our public speakers are obliged to be more reserved than the ancients, in their attempts to elevate the • Vide, De Clar. Orator. lect. xxvi.] MODERN ELOQUENCE. 283 imagination, and warm the passions; and by the influence of pre- vailing taste, their own genius is sobered and chastened, perhaps, in too great a degree. It is likely too, I confess, that what we fondly ascribe to our correctness and good sense, is owing, in a great measure, to our phlegm and natural coldness. For the vi vacity and sensibility of the Greeks and Romans, more especial ly of the former, seems to have been much greater than ours, and to have given them a higher relish of all the beauties of oratory. Besides these national considerations, we must, in the next place, attend to peculiar circumstances in the three great scenes of pub- lic speaking, which have proved disadvantageous to the growth of eloquence among us. Though the parliament of Great Britain be the noblest field which Europe, at this day, affords to a public speak- er, yet eloquence has never been so powerful an instrument there, as it was in the popular assemblies of Greece and Rome. Under some former reigns, the high hand of arbitrary power bore a violent sway; and in latter times, ministerial influence has generally pre- vailed. 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 fervour, as where its effect on business was irresistible and certain. At the bar, our disadvantage, in comparison with the ancients, is great. Among them, the judges were generally numerous; the laws were few and simple; the decision of causes was left, in a great measure, to equity and the sense of mankind. Here was an ample field for what they termed judicial eloquence. But among the moderns, the case is quite altered. The system of law is be- come much more complicated. The knowledge of it is thereby rendered so laborious an attainment, as to be the chief object of a lawyer's education, and in a manner, the study of his life. The art of speaking is but a secondary accomplishment, to which he can afford to devote much less of his time and labour. The bounds of eloquence, besides, are now much circumscribed at the bar ; and, except in a few cases, reduced to arguing from strict law, statute, or precedent, by which means knowledge, much more than oratory, is become the principal requisite. With regard to the pulpit, it has certainly been a great disad- vantage, that the practice of reading sermons, instead of repeating them from memory, has prevailed in England. This may indeed have introduced accuracy; but it has done great, prejudice to elo- quence ; for a discourse read is far inferior to an oration spoken. It leads to a different sort of composition, as well as of delivery ; and ian never have an equal effect upon any audience. Another circum- stance, too, has been unfortunate. The sectaries and fanatics, be- fore the Restoration, adopted a warm, zealous- and popular manner of preaching; and those who adhered to them, in aftertimes. con- tinued to distinguish themselves ov somewhat of the same manner The odium of these sect" --Vo^.- dv : sf,sUisb~a church from *lia* warmth which the) were judged to iiove : o;,rrip f ' u»o ?ar r' ^ tne 2S 284 QUESTIONS. [lect. XXVI opposite extreme of a studied coolness, and composure of manner Hence, from the art of persuasion, which preaching ought always to be, it has passed, in England, into mere reasoning and instruction ; which not only has brought down the eloquence of the pulpit to a lower tone than it might justly assume ; but has produced this far- ther effect, that by accustoming the public ear to such cool and dis- passionate discourses, it has tended to fashion other kinds of public speaking upon the same model. Thus I have given some view of the state of eloquence in modern times, and endeavoured to account for it. It has, as we have seen, fallen below that splendour which it maintained in ancient ages ; and from being sublime and vehement, has come down to be tempe- rate and cool. Yet, still, in that region which it occupies, it admits great scope ; and, to the defect of zeal and application, more than the want of capacity and genius, we may ascribe its not having Siitherto attained higher distinction. It is a field where there is much honour yet to be reaped ; it is an instrument which may be employed for purposes of the highest importance. The ancient models may still, with much advantage, be set before us for imita- tion : though, in that imitation, we must doubtless have some re- gard to what modern taste and modern manners will bear ; of whicli I shall afterwards have occasion to say more. QUESTIONS. Having treated of the rise of elo- quence, and of its state among the Greeks, to what do we now proceed ; and what shall we there find * Of the Remans, what is observed ; and what did they always acknowledge ? What says Horace ? As the Romans derived their eloquence, poetry, and learning, from the Greeks, what is the conse- quence ? How did they compare with the Greeks ? What is said of their lan- guage ? Repeat the passage here in- troduced from Horace. In comparing the rival productions of Greece and Rome, what shall we always find ? As tiie, Roman government, during the republic, was of the popular kind, of what is there no doubt. ? But, what re- mark follows ? Though Cicero attempts to give some reputation to the elder Cato, yet, what does he acknowledge? When did Roman orators first rise into any note? Of Crassus and Antonius, what is observed ? What is also ob- served of Hortensius ? Who, in this pe- riod, it most worthy of our attention ; and what does -his name alone sug- gest ? With what, at present, have we no direct concern ? How do we consi- der him ; and in this view, what is i* our business to do ? Of his virtues, and of his orations, what is observed ? How does he begin them ; and what is said of his method and arguments ? In this respect, how does he compare with Demosthenes? How is this illustrated? What is observed of his knowledge oi the force of words; and how does he roll them along ? Of him, what is fur- ther observed ; and what is said of his manner ? Of his four orations against Cataline, what is remarked ? How was he affected, when a great public object roused his mind ? In what orations is this the case? Together with those hiijh qualifies, from what is he not ex- empt? Why is it necessary to notice them ? What prevails in most of his orations ? What do they contain ; and at what does he seem often to aim ? Hence, what follows? Of his senten- ces, what is observed ? Where there is the least room for it, of what is he al- ways full ? What, in part, apologizes for this ? But even after all these al- lowances are made, what impression do his works leave upon the mind ? What evidence have we that Cicero's defecis were not unobserved by hi* contemporaries? Of these censures. LECT. XXVI.] QUESTIONS. 284 o what is observed ? What was the cause of the aggravation of his delects ? Of what were the former the patrons ? In several of his rhetorical works, what does Cicero, in his turn, do? What is given in the tenth chapter of the last book of Quintilian's Institu- tions ? On whose side does Quintilian himself declare ? With what observa- tion does he conclude his remarks? Why is a comparison between Cicero and Demosthenes in many respects ob- vious and easy ? What are their diffe- rent characters ; and in them respec- tively, what do we find ? To account for this difference, without any preju- dice to Cicero, what has been said ? Why is this not satisfactory ? By ob- serving what, shall we, perhaps, come nearer to the truth ? How is this illus- trated ? What circumstance operates against Demosthenes ? As we read Ci- cero with more ease, what is the con- sequence ; and what remark follows ? Notwithstanding this advantage, of what opinion is our author ? What ef- fect would the Philippics of Demosthe- nes produce on a British assembly? What would render their effect infalli- ble over any modern assembly ? What does our author here question ; and what remark follows ? On this subject, what was the opinion of David Hume? In favour of whom do the French cri- tics decide ? Of P. Rapin, what is ob- served ? For the preference which he gives to Cicero, what reasons does he assign ; and why ? How does he sup- port this araaunent ? Why can nothing be more childish than this ? Of one of the French critics, what is observed ; and who is this? In what writings does he give this judgment; and of them, what is observed ? Of the reign of eloquence among the Romans, what 13 observed ? When did it expire ; and why? Under their government, what was it natural to expect? What con- tinued to prevail ; but for what was there no longer any place ? By whom is this change beautifully described; and what overwhelmed all? What was now become a desert ; and what observation follows? How is this illus- trated? Where was the corruption of eloquence completed ? What, were made the themes of declamation; and what were brought into vogue ? What says Petronius Arbiter of the declaim- ers of his time ■ and what remark fol- lows ? In whose writings does this cor- rupt manner begin to appear; and where, also, dees it show itself? Though the author was a man of genius, yet m what is it deficient, and what do we see throughout the whole of it ? In the decline of the Roman empire, what gave rise to a new species of eloquence ; and in what did it appear? Among the Latin fathers, who are the most remarkable for purity of style ; and in a late age, of the famous Augus- tine, what is observed? But, from what does it appear that none of the fathers afford any just models of elo- quence? Among the Greek fathers, who was the most distinguished ; and of him, what is observed ? To what does our author now pass ; and why ? Here, what must be confessed ? Of it. what is further observed ; and notwith- standing what ? How is this accounted for ? In what two countries might we expect to find most of the spirit of elo- quence ? Why in France ; and why in Great Britain ? Yet what follows ? Oj the names of Demosthenes and Cicero, what is here observed ? What seems particularly surprising ; and why ? On this subject, what says Mr. Hume ? Notwithstanding this advantage, what must be confessed? Of our philoso- phers, of our men of erudition, and of our historians and poets, what is ob- served ? Of our orators, what is ob- served ; and in every period, what have we had ? Of our pleaders at the bar, and of their pleadings, what is ob- served? In this respect, how do the French differ from us? Of the British divines in the pulpit, what is observed ? How is this remark illustrated? Of the art of preaching among us, what is ob- served; and of this, what proof is given? What, in general, is the cha- racteristical difference between the state of eloquence in France and in Great Britain ? In Great Britain, how have we taken up eloquence ; and what is the consequence ? In France, with what is the style of their orators orna- mented; and in what manner is the'r discourse carried on ? Of the composi- tion, what is observed ? To what is this defect owing? Hence, of the pulpit what is observed ? What is, also, sair of the members of the French acade my? What was before observed' TheirY; was of what kind ; and by n, what effect did they endeavour to pn- 284 b QUESTIONS. [LECT. XXVII. duce? And to this vehemence of thought, what was suited? What do ive, on this subject, learn from Cicero ; and what is said of them ? Of modern eloquence, what is observed ; and in Great Britain, especially, to what has it confined itself? Of what species is it ; and at what does it aim ? What is the first reason assigned for the limited and humble efforts of modern eloquence ? What cannot be doubted ? In what proportion has philosophy made pro- cress? What, in Great Britain, has been cultivated and introduced into every subject ? Hence, what follows ? Of our public speakers, what is obser- ved? What is also likely; and why? Besides these national considerations, to what must we, in the next place, attend? Of the parliament of Great Britain, as a field for public speaking, what is observed ? What has prevent- ed the influence of eloquence there? Of the power of speaking, what is ob- served; and what follows? What are our disadvantages in comparison with the ancients, at the bar ? Here was an ample field for what ? How does it ap- pear that among the moderns, the case is quite different ? Of the bounds of eloquence at the bar, what is observed'! With regard to the pulpit, what haa been a great disadvantage? What may this have introduced; but what follows? To whit does it lead? What other circumstance has been unfortu- nate ? To what did the odium of these sects drive the established church ? Hence, what consequence has resulted? Thus, what has been given? In it, what change has taken place ? Yet, in the region which it now occupies, what does it admit; and what remark fol- lows ? In using the ancient models of eloquence, to what must we have some regard ? ANALYSTS. 1. The origin of Reman eloquence. a. Cicero. a. His excellences and his defects. b. Compared with Demosthenes. b. Eloquence among- the Runians of short continuance. a. The schools of the declaimcrs. c. A new species of eloquence. 2. Modern eloquence. a. The eloquence of Great Britain. b. The eloquence of France. c. Reasons for the limitedness of modern eloquence. a. The bar. b. The pulpit. LECTURE XXVII. DIFFERENT KINDS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING.— ELO- QUENCE OF POPULAR ASSEMBLIES.— EX- TRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. After the preliminary views which have been given of the nature ni eloquence in general, and of the state in which it has subsisted in different ages and countries, I am now to enter on the consideration of the different kinds of public speaking, the distinguishing charac- ters of each, and the rules which relate to them. The ancients di- vided all orations into three kinds ; the demonstrative, the delibe- rative, and the judicial. The scope of the demonstrative Avas to praise or to blame ; that of the deliberative, to advise or to dissuade ; that of the judicial, to accuse or to defend. The chief subjects of demonstrative eloquence, were panegyrics, invectives, gratulatory and funeral orations. The deliberative was employed in matters ol public concern, agitated in the senate, or before the assemblies of the people. The judicial is the same with the eloquence of the bar, employed in addressing judges, who have power to absolve or to condemn. This division runs through all the ancient treatises on rhetoric ; and is followed by the moderns, who copy them. It is a division not inartificial ; and comprehends most, or all, of the mat- ters which can be the subject of public discourse. It will, however, suit our purpose better, and be found, I imagine, more useful to fol- „ect. xxvn.] PUBLIC SPEAKING. 285 low that division which the trai n 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 cha- racter that, particularly suits it. This division coincides in part with the ancient one. The eloquence of the bar is precisely the same with what the ancients called the judicial. The eloquence of popu- lar assemblies, though mostly of what they term the deliberative spe- cies, yet admits also of the demonstrative. The eloquence of the pulpit is altogether of a distinct nature, and cannot be properly re- duced under any of the heads of the ancient rhetoricians. To all the three, pulpit, bar, and popular assemblies, belong, in common, the rules concerning the conduct of a discourse in all its parts. Of these rules I purpose afterwards to treat at large. But before proceeding to them, I intend to show, first, what is peculiar to each of these three kinds of oratory, in their spirit, character, or manner. For every species of public speaking has a manner or character peculiarly suited to it ; of which it is highly material to have a just idea, in order to direct the application of general rules. The eloquence of a lawyer is fundamentally different from that of a divine, or a speaker in parliament : and to have a precise and proper idea of the distinguishing character which any kind of public speak- ing requires, is the foundation of what is called a just taste in that kind of speaking. Laying aside any question concerning the pre-eminence in point of rank, which is due to any one of the three kinds before mention- ed, I shall begin with that Which tends to throw most light upon the rest, viz. the eloquence of popular assemblies. The most august theatre for this kind of eloquence, to be found in any nation of Eu rope, is, beyond doubt, the parliament of Great Britain. In meet ings,too, of less dignity, it may display itself. Wherever there is a popular court, or wherever any number of men are assembled for de- bate or consultation, there, in different forms, this species of eloquence may take place. Its object is, or ought always to be, persuasion. There must be some end proposed ; some point, most commonly of public utility or good, in favour of which we seek to determine the hearers. Now, in all attempts to persuade men, we must proceed upon this principle, that it is necessary to convince their understanding. Nothing can be more erroneous than to imagine, that, because speeches to popular assemblies admit more of a declamatory style than some other dis- courses, they therefore stand less in need of being supported by sound reasoning. When modelled upon this false idea, they may have the show, but never can produce the effect, of real eloquence. Even the show of eloquence which they make, will please only the trifling and superficial. For, with all tolerable judges, indeed almost with all men, mere declamation soon becomes insipid. Of whatever rank the hear- er:? be, a speaker is never to presume, that by a frothy and ostentatious harangue, without solid sense and argument, he can either make im- pression on them, or acquire fame to himself. It is, at least, a dan- gerous experiment; for, where such an artifice succeeds once, it will 286 ELOQUENCE OF [lect.xxvii Tail {.en times. Even the common people are better judges of argu ment and good sense, than we sometimes think them; and upon any question of business, a plain man, who speaks to the point without art, will generally prevail over the most artful speaker, who deals in flowers and ornament, rather than in reasoning. Much more, when public speakers address themselves to any assembly where there are persons of education and improved understanding, they ought to be careful not to trifle with their hearers Let it be ever kept in view, that the foundation of all that can be called eloquence, is good sense, and solid thought. As popular as the orations of Demosthenes were, spoken to all the citizens of Athens, every one who looks into them, must see how fraught they are with argument; and how important it appeared to him, to convince the understanding, in order to persuade, or to work on the principles of action. Hence their influence in his own time ; hence their fame at this day. Such a pattern as this, public speakers ought to set before them for imitation, rather than follow the track of those loose and frothy declaimers, who have brought discredit on eloquence. Let it be their first study, in addressing any popular assembly to be previous- ly masters of the business on which they are to speak; to be well provided with matter and argument; and to rest upon these the chief stress. This will always give to their discourse an air of manliness and strength, which is a powerful instrument of persuasion. Orna- ment, if they have genius for it, will follow of course: at any rate, it demands only their secondary study: ' Cura sit verborum; solicitu- do rerum.' 'To your expression be attentive; but about your matter be solicitous,' is an advice of Quintilian, which cannot be too often recollected by all who study oratory. In the next place, in order to be persuasive speakers in .a popular assembly, it is, in my opinion, a capital rule, that we be ourselves per- suaded of whatever we recommend to others. Never, when it can be avoided, ought we to espouse any side of the argument, but what we believe to be the true and the right one. Seldom or never will a man be eloquent, but when he is in earnest, and uttering his own sentiments. They are only the ' verse voces ab imo pectore,' the un assumed language of the heart or head, that carry the force of con- viction. In a former lecture, when entering on this subject, I observ- ed, that all high eloquence must be the offspring of passion, or warm emotion. It is this which makes every man persuasive ; and gives a force to his genius, which it possesses at no other time. Under what disadvantage then is he placed, who, not feeling what he utters, must counterfeit a warmth to which he is a stranger. I know, that young people, on purpose to train themselves to the art of speaking, imagine it useful to adopt that side of the question under debate, which, to themselves, appears the weakest, and to try what figure they can make upon it. But, I am afraid, this is not the most improving education for public speaking; and that it tends to form them to a habit of flimsy and trivial discourse. Such a liberty they should, at no time, allow themselves, unless in meetings where no real business is carried on, but where declamation and improve- lect.xxvii.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 287 men! of speech is the sole aim. Nor even in such meetings, would I recommend it as the most useful exercise. They will improve them- selves to more advantage, and acquit themselves with more honour, by choosing always that side of 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 contradiction to them. In assem- blies where any real business is carried on, whether that business be of much importance or not, it is always of dangerous consequence for young practitioners to make trial of this sort of play of speech. It may fix an imputation on their characters before they are aware : and what they intended merely as amusement, may be turned to the discredit, either of their principles or their understanding. Debate in popular courts, seldom allows the speaker that full and accurate preparation beforehand, which the pulpit always, and the bar sometimes, admits. The arguments must be suited to the course which the debate takes; and as no man can exactly foresee this, one who tru«ts to a set speech, composed in his closet, will. on many occasions, be thrown out of the ground which he had taken. He will find it pre-occupied by others, or his reasonings superseded by some new turn of the business ; and, if he ventures to use his prepared speech, it will be frequently at the hazard of making an awkward figure. There is a general prejudice with us. and not wholly an unjust one, against set speeches in public meet- ings. The only occasion, when they have any propriety, is, at the opening of a debate, wh^n the speaker has it in his power to choose his field. But as the debate advances, and parties warm, discourses of this kind become more unsuitable. They want the native air; the appearance of being suggested by the business that is going on ; study and ostentation are apt to be visible ; and, of course, though applauded as elegant, they are seldom so persuasive as more free and unconstrained discourses. This, however, does not by any means conclude against pre- meditation of what we are to say ; the neglect of which, and the trusting wholly to extemporaneous efforts, will unavoidably pro- duce the habit of speaking in a loose and undigested manner. But the premeditation which is of most advantage, in the case v/hich we now consider, is of the subject or argument in general, rather than of nice composition in any particular branch of it. With regard to the matter, we cannot be too accurate in our pre- paration, so as to be fully masters of the business under considera- tion; but with regard to words and expression, it is very possible sc far to over do, as to render our speech stiff and precise. Indeed. t.i\\ once persons acquire that firmness, that presence of mind, and command of expression, in a public meeting, which nothing but habit and practice can bestow, it may be proper for a young speak- er to commit to memory the whole of what he is to say. But 288 ELOQUENCE OF [lect.xxvii. after some performances of this kind shall have given him boldness, he will find it the better method not to confine himself so strictly : but only to write, beforehand, some sentences with which he in- tends to set out, in order to put himself fairly in the train; and, for the rest, to set down short notes of the topics, or principal thoughts upon which he is to insist, in their order, leaving the words to be suggested by the warmth cf 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 some degree of accuracy, which, if they speak frequently, they are in danger too soon of los- ing. They will even accustom them to think more closely on the subject in question ; and will assist them greatly in arranging their thoughts with method and order. This leads me next to observe, that in all kinds of public speak- ing, nothing is of greater consequence than a proper and cleai method. I mean not that formal method of laying down heads and subdivisions, which is commonly practised in the pulpit; and which, in popular assemblies, unless the speaker be a man a' great authority and character, and the subject of great importance, and the preparation too very accurate, is rather in hazard of dis gusting the hearers; such an introduction is presenting always the melancholy prospect of a long discourse. But though the method be not laid down in form, no discourse, of any length, should be without method; that is, every thing should be found in its proper place. Every one who speaks, will find it of the greatest advan- tage to himself 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 with out 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 makes them accompany the speaker easily and readily, as he goes along; and makes them feel the full effect of every argument which he employs. Few things, therefore, deserve more to be attended to, than distinct arrangement ; for eloquence, however great, can ne- ver produce entire conviction without it. Of the rules of method, and the proper distribution of the several parts of a discourse, I an hereafter to treat. Let us now consider the style and expression suited to the elo- quence of popular assemblies. Beyond doubt, these give scope for the most animated manner of public speaking. The very aspect of a large assembly, engaged in some debate of moment, and atten- tive to the discourse of one m?.n, is sufficient to inspire that man with such elevation and warmth, as both gives rise to strong impressions, and gives them propriety. Passion easily rises in a great assembly, where the movements are communicated by mutual sympathy between the orator and the audience. Those bold figures, o» which I treated formerlv as the native language of passion, have lect. xxvn.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 289 then their proper place. That ardour of speech, that vehemence and glow of sen.iment, which arise from a mind animated and in- spired by some great and public object, form the peculiar charac- teristics of popular eloquence, in its highest degree of perfection. The liberty, however, which we are now giving of the strong and passionate manner to this kind of oratory, must be always understood with certain limitations and restraints, which, it will be necessary to point out distinctly, in order to guard against dangerous mistakes on this subject. As, first, the warmth which we express must be suited to the occa- sion and the subject ; for nothing can be more preposterous, than an attempt to introduce great vehemence into a subject, which is either of slight importance, or which, by its nature, requires to be treated of calmly. A temperate tone of speech, is that for which there is most frequent occasion ; and he who is, on every subject, passionate and ve- hement, will be considered as a blusterer, and meet with little regard. In the second place, we must take care never to counterfeit warmth without feeling it. This always betrays persons into an un- natural manner, which exposes them to ridicule. For, as I have often suggested, to support the appearance, without the real feeling of passion, is one of the most difficult things in nature. The disguise can almost never be so perfect, as not to be discovered. The heart can only answer to the heart. The great rule here, as indeed in every other case, is, to follow nature ; never to attempt a strain of elo- quence which is not seconded by our own genius. One may be a speaker, both of much reputation and much influence, in the calm argumentative manner. To attain the pathetic, and the sublime of oratory, requires those strong sensibilities of mind, and that high power of expression, which are given to few. In the third place, eye* when" the subject justifies the vehement manner, and when genius prompts it ; when warmth is felt, not counterfeited; we must still set a guard en ourselves, not to al- low impetuosity to transport us too far. Without emotion in the speaker, eloquence, as was before observed, will never produce its highest effects; but at the same time, if the speaker lose command of himself, he will soon lose command of his audience too. He must never kindle too soon: he must begin with moderation; and study to carry his hearers along with him, as he warms in the pro- gress of his discourse. For, if he runs before in the course of pas- sion, and leaves them behind ; if they are not tuned, if we may speak so, in unison to him, the discord will presently be felt, and be very grating. Let a speaker have ever so good reason to be ani- mated and fired by his subject, it is always expected of him, that \he awe and regard due to his audience should lay a decent restraint upon his warmth, and prevent it from carrying him beyond certain bounds. If, when most heated by the subject, he can be so far mas- ter of himself as to preserve close attention to argument, and even to some degree of correct expression, this self-command, this exer- «ion of reason, in the midst of passion, has a wonderful effect both 2T 37 290 ELOQUENCE OF [lect. xxvii to p »s?e, and to persuade. It is indeed the master-piece, the high est 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 apt to accompany it. In the fourth place, in the highest and most animated strain oi popular speaking, we must always preserve regard to what the pub- lic ear will bear. This direction I give, in order to guard against an injudicious imitation of ancient orators, who, both in their pro- nunciation and gesture, and in their figures of expression, used a bolder manner than what the greater coolness of modern taste will readily suffer. This may, perhaps, as I formerly observed, be a disadvantage to modern eloquence. It is no reason why we should be too severe in checking the impulse of genius, and con tinue always creeping on the ground; but it is a reason, how- ever, why we should avoid carrying the tone of declamation to a height tnat would now be reckoned extravagant. Demos- thenes, to justify the unsuccessful action of Cheronaea, calls up the manes of those heroes who fell in the battle of Marathon and Platsea, and swears by them, that their fellow-citizens had done well, in their endeavours to support the same cause. Cicero, in his ora- tion for Milo, implores and obtests the Alban hills and groves, and makes a long address to them: and both passages, in these ora- tors, have a fine effect.* But how few modern orators could ven- ture on such apostrophes? and what a power of genius would it re- quire to give su»h figures now their proper grace, or make them produce a due effect upon the hearers? In the fifth and last place, in all kinds of public speaking, but especially in popular assemblies, it is a capital rule to attend to all the decorums of time, place, and character. No warmth of elo- quence can atone for the neglect of these. That vehemence, which is becoming in a person of character and authority, may be unsuitable to the modesty expected from a young speaker. That sportive and witty manner which may suit one subject and one as- sembly's altogether out of place in a grave cause, and a solemn meeting. ' Caput artis est,' says Quintilian, 'decere.' 'The first principle of art, is to observe decorum.' No one should ever rise to speak in public, without forming to himself a just and strict idea of what suits his own age and character; what suits the subject, ■ * The passage in Cicero is very beautifuljand adorned with the highest colouring of his eloquence. ' Non est humano consilio, ne mediocri quidem, iudices. de- uruni imniortalium cura, res ilia perfecta. Religiones, mehercule, ipsa areeque, cum ilium belluam cadere viderunt, commovisse se videntur, et jus in illo suum retinuisse. Vos rnim jam Albani tumuli, atque luci, vos inquam imploro atque obtestor, vosque Albanorum obrutae aras, sacrorum populi Romani socias et aequalcs, quas ille pra;ceps amentia, cassis prostratisque, sanctissimis lucis, substruc- tionum insanis molibus oppresserat ; vestrae turn ara;, vestraj religiones vigue- runt, vestra vis valuit, quam ille omni scelere pclluerat. Tuque ex tuo edito aionte Latiali, sancte Jupiter, cujus ille lacus, nemora, finesque, saepe omni ne» fario stupro, scelere macularat, aliquando ad eum punienduin, oculos aperuisti, vobis illae, vobis vestr. »o c mspectu, sera, sed justs tamen, et debita paena3 solutaa sunt lect. xxvn.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 291 the hearers, the place, the occasion : and adjusting the whole trair and manner of his speaking on this idea. All the ancients insist much on this. Consult the first chapter of the eleventh book of Quintilian, which is employed wholly on this point, and is full ot good sense. Cicero's admonitions, in his Orator ad Brutum, I shall give in his own words, which should never be forgotten by any who speak in public. ' Est eloquentiae, sicut "eliquarum rerum, fundamentum, sapientia; ux enim in vita, sic in oratione nihil est difficillius quam quod deceat videre ; hujus ignoratione ssepissime peccatur ; non enim omnis fortuna, non omnis auctoritas, non omnis astas, nee vero locus, aut tempus, aut auditor omnis, eodem aut ver- borum genere tractandus est, aut cententiarum. Semperque in omni parte orationis, ut vitas, quid deceat considerandum ; quod et in re de qua agitur positum est, et in personis et eorum qui dicunt, et eorum qui audiunt.'* So much for the considerations that require to be attended to, with respect to the vehemence and warmth *hich is allowed in popular eloquence. The current of style should in general be full, free, and xMturaL Quaint and artificial expressions are out of place here; and always derogate from persuasion. It is a strong and manly style which should chiefly be studied ; and metaphorical language, when properly introduced, produces often a happy effect. When the metaphors are warm, glowing, and descriptive, some inaccuracy in them will be overlooked, which, in a written composition, would be remarked and censured. Amidst the torrent of declamation, the strength of the figure makes impression ; the inaccuracy of it escapes. With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness suited to popular eloquence, it is not easy to fix any exact bounds. I know that it is common to recommend a diffuse manner as the most pro per. 1 am inclined, however, to think, that there is danger of er- ring in this respect ; and that by indulging too much in the diffuse style, public speakers often lose more in point of strength, than they gain by the fullness of their illustration. There is no doubt, that in speaking to a multitude, we must not speak in sentences and apo- i hegms : care must be taken to explain and to inculcate ; but this care may be, and frequently is, carried too far. We ought always to remember, that how much soever we may be pleased with hearing ourselves speak, every audience is very ready to bu tired ; and the moment they begin to be tired, all our eloquence gcv-*j for nothing. A loose and verbose manner never fails to create disgust ; and, on most occasions, we had better run the risk of saying too little than too much. Better place our thought in one strong point of view, and * ' Good sense is the foundation of eloquence, as it is of all other things that aix »Attable. It happens in oratory exactly as it does i.f life, that frequently nothing is more difficult than to discern what is proper au'J becoming. lr> consequence of mistaking this, the grossest faults are often coirr litied. For to ..ae different de- grees of rank, fortune, and age among men, to s».K the varieties of time, place, and auditory, the same style of language, and the r.ssua strain of thought, cannot agree. In every part of a discourse, just as in every pa/i of life, we must attend to •"hat is suitable and decent: whether that be dete^ mined by the nature of the subject of which we treat, or by the characters of those t/ho speak, or of those who hear * 232 EXTRACTS FROM [lect. xxvii rest it there, than by turning it into every light, and pouring forth a profusion of words upon it, exhaust the attention of our hearers, and leave them fiat and languid. Of pronunciation and delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. At present it is sufficient to observe, that in speaking to mixt assemblies, the best manner of delivery is the firm and the determined. An arro- gant and overbearing manner is indeed always disagreeable: and the least appearance of it ought to be shunned : but there is a cer- tain decisive tone, which may be assumed even by a modest man, who is thoroughly persuaded of the sentiments he utters; and which is calculated for making a general impression. A feeble and hesitating manner bespeaks always some distrust of a man's own opinion; which is, by no means, a favourable circumstance for his inducing others to embrace it. These are the chief thoughts which have occurred to me from reflection and observation, concerning the peculiar distinguishing characters of the eloquence proper for popular assemblies. The sum of what has been said, is this: the end of popular speaking is persuasion; and this must be founded on conviction. Argument and reasoning must be the basis, if we would be speakers of busi- ness, and not mere declaimers. We should be engaged in earnest on the side which we espouse ; and utter, as much as possible, our own, and not counterfeited sentiments. The premeditation should be of things, rather than of words. Clear order and method should be studied; the manner and expression warm and animated; though still, in the midst of that vehemence, which may at times be suita- ble, carried on under the proper restraints which regard to the audi- ence, and to the decorum of character, ought to lay on every public speaker: the style free and easy ; strong and descriptive, rather than diffuse ; and the delivery determined and firm. To conclude this head, let every orator remember, that the impression made by line and artful speaking is momentary; that made by argument and good sense, is solid and lasting. I shall now, that I may afford an exemplification of that species of oratory of which I have been treating, insert some extracts from Demosthenes. Even under the great disadvantage of an English translation, they will exhibit a small specimen of that vigorous and spirited eloquence which I have so often praised. I shall take my extracts mostly from the Philippics and Olynthiacs, which were en- tirely popular orations spoken to the general convention of the citi- zens of Athens: and, as the subject of both the Philippics, and the Olynthiacs, is the same, I shall not confine myself to one oration, but shall join together passages taken from two or three of them ; such as may show his general strain of speaking, on some of the chief branches of the subject. The subject in general is, to rouse the Athenians to guard against Philip of Macedon, whose growing power and crafty policy had by that time endangered, and soon after overwhelmed the liberties of Greece. The Athenians began to be alarmed; but their deliberations were slow, and their measures feeble; several of their favourite orators having been gained by lect. xxvn.] DEMOSTHENES. 293 Philip's tribes to favour his cause. In this critical conjuncture o* affairs, Demosthenes arose. In the following manner he begins his first Philippic; which, like the exordiums of all his orations, is sim- ple and artless.* 'Had we been convened, Athenians! on some new subject of de- bate, I had waited till most of your usual counsellors had declared their opinions. If I had approved of what was proposed by them, 1 should have continued silent; if not, I should then have attempted to speak my sentiments. But since those very points on which these speakers have often times been heard already, are at this time to be considered; though I have arisen first, I presume I may expect your pardon; for if they, on former occasions, had advised the proper measures, you would not have found it needful to consult at present ' First then, Athenians ! however wretched the situation of our af- fairs at present seems, it must not by any means be thought despe- rate. What I am now going to advance may possibly appear a para- dox; yet it is a certain truth, that our past misfortunes afford a cir- cumstance most favourable to our future hopes.t And what is that? even that our present difficulties are owing entirely to our total indolence, and utter disregard of our own interest. For were we thus situated, in spite of every effort which our duty demanded, then indeed we might regard our fortunes as absolutely desperate. But now, Philip hath only conquered your supineness and inac- tivity ; the state he hath not conquered. You cannot be said to be defeated ; your force hath never been exerted. ' If there is a man in this assembly who thinks that we must find a formidable enemy in Philip, while he views on one hand the nume- rous armies which surround him, and on the other the weakness of our state, despoiled of so much of its dominions, I cannot deny that he thinks justly. Yet let him reflect on this : there was a time, Athe- nians ! when we possessed Pydna, Patidcea, and Melthone, and all that country round : when many of the states, now subjected to him, were free and independent, and more inclined to our alliance than to his. If Philip, at that time weak in himself, and without allies, had desponded of success against you, he would never have engaged in those enterprises which are now crowned with success, nor could have raised himself to that pitch of grandeur at which you now be- hold him. But he knew well that the strongest places are only prizes laid between the combatants, and ready for the conqueror. He knew that the dominions of the absent devolved naturally to those who are in the field ; the possessions of the supine, to the active and intrepid. Animated by these sentiments, he overturns whole nations. He either rules universally as a conqueror, or governs as apiotector. For mankind naturally seek confederacy with such as they see re- solved, and preparing not to be wanting to themselves. ' ' If you, my countrymen ! will now at length be persuaded to enter- * In the following- extracts, Leland's translation is mostly followed. f This thought is only hinted at in the first Philippic, but brought out more fully in the third ; as the same thought, occasioned by similar situations of affairs sometimes occur in the different orations on this subject 294 EXTRACTS FROM [lect. xxvii tain the like sentiments; if each of you will be disposed to approve himself an useful citizen, to the utmost that his station and abilities enable him ; if the rich will be ready to contribute, and the young to take the field ; in one word, if you will be yourselves, and banish these vain hopes which every single person entertains, that the active part of public business may lie upon others, and he remain at his ease; you may then, by the assistance of the gods, recall those opportuni- ties which your supineness hath neglected, regain your dominions, and chastise the insolence of this man.' 'But when, my countrymen! will you begin to exert your vi- gour? Do you wait till roused by some dire event? till forced by some necessity? What then are we to think of our present condi- tion? To freemen, the disgrace attending on misconduct is,in my opinion, the most urgent necessity. Or say, is it your sole ambition to wander through the public places, each inquiring of the other, 'what new advices?' Can any thing be more new, than that a man of Macedon should conquer the Athenians, and give law to Greece ! ' Is Philip dead?' — ' No — but he is sick.' Pray, what is it to you whether Philip is sick or not? supposing he should die, you would raise up another Philip, if you continue thus regardless of your in- terest. ' Many, I know, delight more in nothing than in circulating all the rumours they hear as articles of intelligence. Some cry, Philip hath joined with the Lacedaemonians, and they are concert- ing the destruction of Thebes. Others assure us, he hath sent an embassy to the king of Persia; others, that, he is fortifying places in Illyria. Thus we all go about framing our several tales. I do believe indeed, Athenians ! that he is intoxicated with his greatness, and does entertain his imagination with many such visionary pro- jects, as he sees no power rising to oppose him. But I cannot be persuaded that he hath so taken his measures, that the weakest among us (for the weakest they are who spread such rumours) know what he is next to do. Let us disregard these tales. Let us only be persuaded of this, that he is our enemy; that we have long been subject to his insolence; that whatever we expected to have been done for us by others, hath turned against us; that all the resource left, is in ourselves; and that if we are not inclined to carry our arms abroad, we should be forced to engage him at home. Let us be persuaded of these things, and then we shall come to a pro- per determination, and be no longer guidjd by rumours. We need not be solicitous to know what particular events are to happen. We may be well assured that nothing good can happen, unless we give due attention to our own affairs, and act as becomes Athenians.' ' Were it a point generally acknowledged* that Philip is now at actual war with the state, the only thing under deliberation would then be, how to oppose him with most safety. But since there are persons so strangely infatuated, that although he has already pos- sessed himself of a considerable part of our dominions , although he is * Phil iii. lect xxvii.] DEMOSTHENES. 295 still extending his conquests; although all Greece has suffered by his injustice; yet they can hear it repeated in this assembly, that it is some of us who seek to embroil the state in war: this suggestion must first be guarded against. I readily admit, that were it in our power to determine whether we should be at peace or war, peace, if it depended on our option, is most desirable to be embraced. But if the other party hath drawn the sword, and gathered his armies round him; if he amuses us with the name of peace, while, in fact, he is proceeding to the greatest hostilities, what is left for us but to oppose him? If any man takes that for a peauo, which is only a preparation for his leading his forces directly upon us, after his other conquests, I hold that man's mind to be disordered. At least, it is only our conduct towards Philip, not Philip's conduct towards us, that is to be termed a peace ; and this is the peace for which Philip's treasures are expended, for which his gold is so liberally scattered among our venal orators, that he may be at liberty to carry on the war against ycu, while you make no war on him. 'Heavens! is there any man of a right mind who would judge of peace or war by words, and not by actions? Is there any man so weak as to imagine that it is for the sake of those paltry villages of Thrace, Drongylus, and Cabyle, and Mastira, that Philip is now braving the utmost dangers, and enduring the severity of toils and seasons; and that he has no designs upon the arsenals, and the navies, and the silver mines of Athens? or that he will take up his winter quarters among the cells and dungeons of Thrace, and leave you to enjoy all your revenues in peace? But you wait, perhaps, till he declare war against you. He will never do so: no, though he were at your gates. He will still be assuring you that he is not at war. Such were his professions to the people of Oreum, when his forces were in the heart of their country ; such his professions to those of Pherae, until the moment he attacked their walls: and thus he amused the Olynthians till he came within a few miles of them, and then he sent them a message, that either they must quit their city, or he his kingdom. He would indeed be the absur- dest of mankind, if, while you suffer his outrages to pass unnoticed, and are wholly engaged in accusing and prosecuting one another, he should, by declaring war, put an end to your private contests, warn you to direct all your zeal against him, and deprive his pen- sioners of their most specious pretence for suspending your resolu- tions, that of his not being at war with the state. I, for ray part, hold and declare, that by his attack of the Megarseans, by his attempts upon the liberty of Eubcea, by his late incursions into Thrace, by his practices in Peloponnesus, Philip has violated the treaty ; he is in a state of hostility with you ; unless you shall affirm, that he who prepares to besiege a city, is still at peace, until the walls be actually invested. The man whose designs, whose whoie conduct, tends to reduce me to subjection, that man is at war with ine, though not a blow hath yet been given, nor a sword drawn. 1 All Greece, all the barbarian world, is too narrow for this man's 896 EXTRACTS FROM [lect. xxvn. ambit' vn. And though we Greeks see and hear all this, we send no embassies to each other; we express no resentment; but into such wretchedness are we sunk, that even to this day, we neglect what our interest and duty demand. Without engaging in associa- tions, or forming confederacies, we look with unconcern upon Phi- lip's growing power ; each fondly imagining, that the time in which another is destroyed, is so much time gained on him; although no man can be ignorant, that, like the regular periodic return of a fever, he is coming upon those who think themselves the most remote from danger. And what is the cause of our present passive disposi- tion? For some cause sure there must be, why the Greeks, who have been so zealous heretofore in defence of liberty, are now so prone to slavery. The cause, Athenians ! is, that a principle, which was formerly fixed in the minds of all, now exists no more; a prin- ciple which conquered the opulence of Persia; maintained the freedom of Greece, and triumphed over the powers of sea and land. That principle was, an unanimous abhorrence of all those who accepted bribes from princes, that were enemies to the liber- ties of Greece. To be convicted of bribery, was then a crime altogether unpardonable. Neither orators, nor generals, would then sell for gold, the favourable conjunctures which fortune put into their hands. No gold could impair our firm concord at home, our hatred and defiance of tyrants and barbarians. But now all things are exposed to sale, as in a public market. Corruption has introduced such manners, as have proved the bane and destruction of our country. Is a man known to have received foreign money ? People envy him. Does he own it? They laugh. Is he convicted in form? They forgive him: so universally has this contagion dif- fused itself among us. 'If there be any who, though not carried away by bribes, yet are struck with terror, as if Philip was something more than human, they may see, upon a little consideration, that he hath exhausted all those artifices to which he owes his present elevation ; and that his affairs are now ready to decline. For I myself, Athenians! should think Philip really to be dreaded, if I saw him raised by honourable means. When forces join in harmony and affection, and one common interest unites confederating powers, then they share the toils with alacrity, and endure distresses with perseverance. But when extravagant ambition and lawless power, as in the case of Philip, have aggrandiz- ed a single person, the first pretence, the slightest accident, over- throws him, and dashes his greatness to the ground. For, it is not possible, Athenians! it is not possible, to found a lasting power up- on injustice, perjury, and treachery. These may perhaps succeed for once, and borrow for a while, from hope, a gay and a flourishing appearance. But time betrays their weakness, and they fall of them- selves to ruin. For, as in structures of every kind, the lower parts should have the firmest stability, so the grounds and principles of great enterprises should be justice and truth. But this solid founda- tion is wanting to all the enterprises of Philip. • Hence among his confederates, there are many who hate, who lect xxvii.] DEMOSTHENES. 297 distrust, who envy him. If you will exert yourselves as your ho- nour and your interestrequire, you will not only discover the weak- ness and insincerity of his confederates, but the ruinous condition also of his own kingdom. For you are not to imagine, that the inclinations of his subjects are the same with those of their prince. He thirsts for glory; but they have no part in this ambition. Ha- rassed by those various excursions he is ever making, they groan under perpetual calamity; torn from their business and their fami- lies ; and beholding commerce excluded from their coasts. All those glaring exploits, which have given him his apparent greatness, have wasted his natural strength, his own kingdom, and rendered it much weaker than it originally was. Besides, his profligacy and baseness, md those troops of buffoons, and dissolute persons, whom he ca- resses and constantly keeps about him, are, to men of just discern- ment, great indications of the weakness of his mind. At present,his successes cast a shade over these things; but let his arms meet with the least disgrace, his feebleness will appear, and his character be exposed. For, as in our bodies, while a man is in apparent health, the effect of some inward debility, which has been growing upon him, may, for a time, be concealed ; but as soon as it comes the length of disease, all his secret infirmities show themselves, in whatever part of his frame the disorder is lodged : so, in states and monarchies, while they carry on «i war abroad, many defects escape the general eye; but, as soon as wrr reaches their own territory, their infirmities come forth to general observation. 'Fortune has great influence in all human affairs; but I, for my part, should prefer the fortune of Athens, with the least degree of vi- gour in asserting your cause, to this man's fortune. For w Q have many better reasons to depend upon the favour of Heaven than this man. But, indeed, he who will not exeithis o<^n strength, hath no iitle to depend either on his friends, or on the gods. Is it at all sur- prising that he, who is himself ever amidst the labours and dangers jf the field; who is every where ; whom no opportunity escapes; vO whom no season is unfavourable; should besupeiioi to you, who ire wholly engaged in contriving delays, and framing decrees, and enquiring after news. The contrary would be much more surprising, if we, who have never hitherto acted as became a state engaged in war, should conquer one who acts, in every instance, with indefati- gable vigilance. It is this, Athenians ! it is this which gives him all his advantage against you. Philip, constantly surrounded by his troops, and perpetually engaged in projecting his designs, can, in moment, strike the blow where he pleases. But we, when any ace i dent alarms us, first appoint our Trierarchs ; then we allow them the exchange by substitution; then the supplies are considered; next, we resolve to man our fleet with strangers and foreigners; then find it necessary to supply their place ourselves. In the midst of these delays, what we are failing to defend, the enemy is already master of; for the time of action is spent by us in preparing; and the issues of war will not wait for our slow and irresolute measures. 2U =« 298 DEMOSTHENES. [lect. XXVII ' Consider, then, your present situation, and make such provision as the urgent danger requires. Talk not of your ten thousands, or your twenty thousand foreigners ; of those armies which appear so magnificent on paper only ; great and terrible in your decrees, in execution weak and contemptible. But let your army be made up chiefly of the native forces of the state ; let it be an Athenian strength to which you are to trust ; and whomsoever you appoint as general, et them be entirely under his guidance and authority. For ever since our armies have been formed of foreigners alone, their victories have been gained over our allies and confederates only, while our enemies have risen to an extravagant power.' The orator goes on to point out the number of forces which should be raised ; the places of their destination ; the season of the year m which they should set out; and then proposes, in form, his motion, as we would call it, or his decree, for the necessary supply of money, and for ascertaining the funds from which it should be raised. Having finished all that relates to the business under de liberation, he concludes these orations on public affairs, commonlv with no longer peroration than the following, which terminates the first Philippic ; ' I, for my part, have never, upon any occasion, chosen to court your favour by speaking any thing but what I was convinced would serve you. And on this occasion, you have heard my senti- ments freely declared, without art, and without reserve. I should have been pleased, indeed, that, as it is for your advantage to have your true interest laid before you, so I might have been assured, that he who layeth it before you would share the advantage. But uncertain as I know the consequence to be with respect to myself, I yet determined to speak, because I was convinced that these measures, if pursued, must prove beneficial to the public. And, of all those opinions which shall be offered to your acceptance, may the gods determine that to be chosen which will best advance the gene- ral welfare !' These extracts may serve to give some imperfect idea of the man- ner of Demosthenes. For a juster and more complete one, recourse must be had to the excellent original. QUESTIONS. After the preliminary views which have been given of the nature cf elo- quence in general, and of the state in which it has subsisted in different ages and cotmtrns, upon what are we now to enter? Into what three kinds did the ancients divide all orations; and what was the scope of each ? What were the chief subjects of demonstra- te eloquence ? In what was the deli- oerative employed ; and of the judicial, what is observed? Of this division, what is remarked ? What division will suit our purpose better, and be found more useful ? How does this division coincide with the ancient one; but with what exception? What belongs to all three ? But before proceeding to them, what does our author intend to show; and why? How is this illus- trated? What shall our author la;, aside ; and with what will he begin? LECT. XXVII.] QUESTIONS. 298 a Where is the most august theatre of this kind of eloquence to be found? Where, also, may it display itself ; and where may it take place !2 What is its object; and what must there always be ? In all attempts to persuade men, upon what principle must we proceed 1 What is a most erroneous opinion ; and what remark follows? Why will the show of eloquence which they make, please only the trifling and superficial ? Of whatever rank the hearer may be, what is the speaker never to presume ? Why is it a dangerous experiment? How is this remark illustrated ? When, particularly, ought public speakers to be careful not to trifle witJi their hear- ers? What should ever be kept in view? How is this illustrated; and hence, what follows ? In preference to what, should puBlic speaking set such a pattern as this before them ? In address- ing a popular assembly, what should be their first study? What will be the ef- fect of this; and what will follow? What says Quintilian? What is the next requisite, in order to be a persua- sive speaker in a popular assembly? What should we never espouse ; and why ? What only carries conviction ? In a former lecture, what was obser- ved ? Of this, what is here observed ; and what follows? What do young people consider useful ? But of what is our author afraid? Under what circum- stances only should they allow them- selves such a liberty ? Why is it not, even in such meetings, recommended as the most useful exercise ? By pur- suing this course, what habit will they acquire ? Where is it particularly dan- gerous for young practitioners to make use of this sort of play of speech ; and why? What do debates in popular courts seldom allow the speaker ? To what must the arguments be suited ; and what follows? Against what is there a general prejudice; and when only have they any propriety ? As the debate advances, why are they un- suitable? Against what does this not conclude; and of the neglect of it, what is observed? What kind of premedita- tion i? most advantageous? With re- gard to the matter, and with .egard to the words and expression, what is ob- served ? Until what period may it be proper for a young person to commit to memory the whole of what he has to say ? But after some performances of this kind shall have given him bold- ness, what will he find to be a better method? Of what advantage will these short notes be ? To what does this lead our author in the next place to ob- serve? By this, what does he not mean? But, though the method be not laid down in form, yet what follows ? What will every one who speaks find ot great advantage? What will be the effect of this ? With respect to hearers, what is observed ; and what is its ef- fect? What is, therefore, observed; and why ? Of what is our author here- after to treat? What shall we now consider ; and of them, what is obser- ved ? Of the effect of the aspect of a large assembly, what is observed ; and why ? What have then their proper place; and what form the peculiar characteristics of popular eloquence, in its highest degree of perfection ? Of the liberty which we are now giving, of the strong and passionate manner to this kind of oratory, what is observed ? What is the first restraint , and why ? For what is there most fre- quent occasion; and what follows? What is the second restraint ? What is always its effect ; and why ? How is this illustrated ? What is here the great rule ? In what manner may one be a speaker both of reputation and influ- ence ? But to attain the pathetic and sublime in oratory, what is required ? What is the third restraint ? What re- mark follows ? What must he not do ; how must he begin ; and why ? Let a speaker have ever so good reason to be animated, and fired by his subject, what is always expected of him ? What has a wonderful effect both to please and to persuade ? Of it, what is remarked? What is the fourth restraint ? Why is this direction given? Of this, what is observed ? For what is it no reason ? But for what is it a reason ? What & done by Demosthenes, in order to justi- fy the unsuccessful action of Chero- nrea ? What is also done by Cicero; and of both passages, what is observed/ What remark follows? What 3s the fifth and last restraint? What cannot atone for neglect of these ? How is this remark illustrated ? What says Quin- tilian ? No one should ever rise to spea> in public, without first doing what? WTiere, among the ancients, shall w*> 298 b QUESTIONS. ("lect. XXVI11 find this particularly insisted on ? Re- rite the admonition contained in Cicero's oration, ad Brutum. What should the current style he ? Of quaint and artifi- cial expressions, what is here observed ? What should be studied ; and what, when properly introduced, produces a happy effect? Under what circum- stances may some inaccuracies be over- looked ? When do they escape ? With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness, what is observed? What manner has commonly been recom- mended ? What, however, is our au- thor inclined to think ? Of what is there no doubt ? To do what must care be taken ; but of this care, what is obser- ved ? Of a loose and verbose manner, what is remarked ? What had we bet- ter dc ? Of what is our author after- wards to treat ? At present, what is it sufficient to observe? What manner should always be shunned ? But what may be assumed even by a modest man ? What does a feeble and hesi- tating manner bespeak; and what is said of it? What is the end of popular speaking ; and on what must it be (bunded ? If we would be speakers of business, and not mere declaimers, what must be the basis ? On what should we be engaged in earnest ; and what should we utter? Of what should the premeditation be? How is this illus- trated ? With what remark is this head concluded ? Why are the following ex- tracts from Demosthenes inserted ? Un- der the great disadvantage of an Eng- lish translation, what will they exhibit? Whence are the following ; and of them, what is observed ? How are the extracts selected; and why? What is the subject of the orations ? What dis- position did the Athenians manifest 1 In this critical conjuncture, who arose ; and in what manner does he besnn his first Philippic ? (The following extracts should be carefully committed.) ANALYSIS. The different kinds of public speaking. 1. The eloquence of popular assem- blies. a. Its foundation. B. The speaker himself should be persuaded of what he recom- mends to others. c. Preparative directions. d. The style of popular eloquence. a. The warmth should be suited to the subject. 6. It should never be counter- feited. c. It should not be carried too far. d. The public ear should be re- garded. e. The decorums of time, place &c. should be attended to. 2. Extracts from Demosthenes' ora dons. LECTURE XXVIII. ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR.— ANALYSIS OF CICE- RO'S ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. I treated in the last lecture of what is peculiar to the eloquence of popular assemblies. Much of what was said on that head is ap- plicable to the eloquence of the bar, the next great scene of public speaking, to which I now proceed, and my observations upon which will therefore be the shorter. All, however, that was said in the for- mer lecture, must not be applied to it ; and it is of importance that I begin with showing where the distinction lies. LEcr. xxviii.J ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 295 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 hear ers to some choice or conduct, as good, fit, or useful. For accom- plishing this end, it is incumbent on him to apply himself to all the principles 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 object. 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 of course, it is chiefly, or solely, to the understanding that his eloquence is addressed. This is a characteristical difference' which ought ever to be kept in view. In the next place, speakers at the bar address themselves to one or to a few judges, and these, too, persons generally of age, gravity, and authority 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. Pas- sion does not rise so easily ; the speaker is heard more coolly ; he is watched over more severely; and would expose himself to ridicule, by attempting that high vehement tone, which is only proper in speaking to a multitude. In the last place, the nature and management of the subjects which 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 confined to any precise rule; he can fetch his topics from a greaL 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 has al- ways lying 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 clear, that the eloquence of the bar is of a much more limited, more sober and chastened kind, than that ot popular assemblies ; and for similar reasons, we must beware of considering even the judicial orations of Cicero or Demosthenes, as exact models of the manner of speaking which is adapted to the present state of the bar. It is necessary to warn young lawyers of this ; because, though these were pleadings spoken in civil or criminal eauses, yet, in fact, the nature of the bar anciently, both in Greece and Rome, allowed a much nearer approach to popular eloquence, than what it now does. This was owing chiefly to two causes: First, Because in the ancient judicial orations, strict law was much less an object of attention than it is become among 113 In the days of Demosthenes and Cicero, the municipal statutes were few, simple, and general ; and the decision of causes was trusted, in a great measure, to the equity and common sense of the judges. Eloquence, mucb more than jurisprudence, was the study of those who were to plead causes. Cicero somewhere says, that three 300 ELOQUEx\CE OF THE BAR. [lect xxviri monihs study was sufficient to make any man a complete civilian; nay, it was thought that one might be a good pleader at the bar. who had never studied law at all. For there were among the Ro- mans a set of men called pragmatici, whose office it was to give the orator all the law knowledge which the cause he was to plead required, and which he put into that popular form, and dressed up with those colours of eloquence, that were best fitted for influencing the judges before whom he spoke. We may observe next, that the civil and criminal judges, both in Greece and Rome, were commonly much more numerous than they are with us, and formed a sort of popular assembly. The renowned tribunal of the Areopagus at Athens consisted of fifty judges at the least.* Some make it to consist of a great many more. When Socrates was condemned, by what court it is uncertain, we are informed that no fewer than 2S0 voted against him. In Rome, the Praetor, who was the proper judge both in civil and criminal causes, named, for every" cause of moment, the Judices S'electi, as they were called, who were always numerous, and had the office and power of both judge and jury. In the famous cause of Milo, Cicero spoke to fifty-one Judices Selecti, and so had the advantage of addressing his whole pleading, not to one or a few learned judges of the point of law, as is the case with us, but to an assembly of Roman citizens. Hence all those arts of popular eloquence, which we find the Roman orator so frequently employ- ing, and probably with much success. Hence tears and commis- eration are so often made use of as the instruments of gaining a cause. Hence certain practices, which would be reckoned thea- trical among us, were common at the Roman bar; such as introduc ing not only the accused person dressed in deep mourning, but presenting to the judges his family, and his young children, endea vouring to move them by their cries and tears. For these reasons, on account of the wide difference between the ancient and modern state of the bar, to which we may add also the difference in the turn of ancient and modern eloquence, which I formerly took notice of, too strict an imitation of Cicero's man- ner of pleading would now be extremely injudicious. To great advantage he may still be studied by every speaker at the bar. Jn the address with which he opens his subject, and the insinuation he employs for gaining the favour of the judges; in the distinct ar- rangement of his facts; in the gracefulness of his narration; in the conduct and exposition of his arguments, he may and he ought to be imitated. A higher pattern cannot be set before us ; but one who should imitate him also in his exaggeration and amplifications, in his diffuse and pompous declamation, and in his attempts to raise pas- sion, would now make himself almost as ridiculous at the bar, as if he should appear there in the Toga of a Roman lawyer. Before I descend to more particular directions concerning the eloquence of the bar, I must be allowed to take notice, that the> Vide Potter, Antiq.vol. i. p. 102. lect. xxvm.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 301 foundation of a lawyer's reputation and success, must always be laid in a profound knowledge of his own profession. Nothing is of such consequence to him, or deserves more his deep and serious study. For whatever his abilities as a speaker may be, if his know- ledge of the law be reckoned superficial, few will choose to commit their cause to him. Besides previous study, and a proper stock of knowledge attained, another thing, highly material to the success of e\ory 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 rhetori- cians insist with great earnestness, and justly represent it as a neces- sary basis to all the eloquence that can be exerted in pleading. Cicero tells us (under the character of Antonius, in the second book DeOratore) thathe always conversed at full length with every client who came to consult him; that he took care there should be no witness to their conversation, in order that his client might explain himself more freely; that he was wont to start every objection, and to plead the cause of the adverse party with him, that he might come at the whole truth, and be fully prepared on every point of the business; and that, after the client had retired, he used to balance all the facts with himself, under three different characters, his own, that of the judge, and that of the advocate on the oppo site side. He censures very severely those of the profession who decline taking so much trouble; taxing them not only with shame ful negligence, but with dishonesty and breach of trust.* To the same purpose Quintilian, in the eighth chapter of his last book, delivers a great many excellent rules concerning all the methods which a lawyer should employ for attaining the most thorough knowledge of the cause he is to plead; again and again recommend- ing patience and attention in conversation with clients, and ob- serving very sensibly, ' Non tarn obest audire supervacua, quam ignorare necessaria. Frequenter enim et vulnus, et remedium, in lis orator inveniet quae litigatorie in neutram partem, habere mo- mentum videbantur.'t Supposing an advocate to be thus prepared, with all the know- ledge which the study of the law in general, and of that cause which he is to plead in particular, can furnish him, I must next ob- * ' Equidem soleo dare operam, ut de sua quisque re me ipse doceat ; et ne- quis alius adsit, quo liberius loquatur; et agere adversarii causam, ut ille agat suam ; et quicquid de sua re cogitaret, in medium proferat. Itaque cumville de- cessit, ties personas unus sustineo, summa animi equitate ; meam, adversarii, judices. — Nomiuili dum operam suam multam existimari volunt, ut toto foro vol- itare, et accusa ad causam ire videantur, causas dicunt incognitas. In quo est ilia quidem magna offensio, vel negligentise susceptis rebus, vel perfidiae receptis ; sed etiam ilia, major opinione, quod nemo potest de ea re quam non novit, non turpissime dicere.' t ' To listen to .something that is superfluous can do no hurt ; whereas to be fgnorant of something that is material, may be highly prejudicial. The advocate will frequently discover the weak side of a cause, and learn at the same time, what is the proper defence, from circumstances which, to the party himself, appeared to be oi little or no mompnt.' 302 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [lect. xxvih serve, that eloquence in pleading is of the highest moment for giving support to a cause. It were altogether wrong to infer, that because the ancient popular and vehement manner is now in a great measure superseded, there is therefore no room for eloquence at the bar, and that the study of it is become superfluous. Though the manner of speaking be changed, yet still there is a right and proper manner, which deserves to be studied as much as ever. Perhaps there is no scene of public speaking where eloquence is more necessary. For, on other occasions, the subject on which men speak in public, is frequently sufficient, by itself, to interest the hearers. But the dryness and subtilty of the subjects ge- nerally 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 difference in the impression made upon the hearers, by a cold, dry, and confused speaker, and that made by one who pleads the same cause with elegance, order, and strength, as there is between our conception of an object, when it is presented to us in a dim light, and when we behold it in a full and clear one. It is no small encouragement to eloquence at the bar, that of all 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 forward according to his merit; for he stands forth every day to view ; he enters the list boldly with his competi- tors; every appearance which he makes is an appeal to the public, whose decision seldom fails of being just, because it is impartial. Interest and friends may set forward a young pleader with peculiar advantages beyond others, at the beginning ; but they can do no more than open the field to him. A reputation resting on these as- sistances 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., snd industry. It must belaid down for a first principle, that the eloquence suited to the bar, whether in speaking or in writing law papers, is of the calm and temperate kind, and connected with close reasoning. Sometimes a little play may be allowed to the imagination, in order to enliven a dry subject, and to give relief to the fatigue of atten- tion ; but this liberty must be taken with a sparing hand ; for a florid style, and a sparkling manner, never fail to make the speaker be heard with a jealous ear, by the judge. They detract from his weight, and always produce a suspicion of his failing in soundness and strength of argument. It is purity and neatness of expression which is chiefly to be studied ; a style perspi'cuous and proper, which shall not be needlessly overcharged with the pedantry oi law terms, and where, at the same time, no affectation shall appear of avoiding »hese, when they are suitable and necessary. lect. xxvni.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 303 Verbosity is a common fault, of which the gentlemen of this pio< fession are accused; and into which the habit of speakingand writing so hastily, and with so little preparation, as they are often obliged to do, almost unavoidably betrays them. It cannot, therefore, be too much recommended to those who are beginning to practise at the bar, that they should early study to guard against this, while as yet they have full leisure for preparation. Let them form themselves, especially in the papers which they write, to the habit of a strong and a correct style; which expresses the same thing much better in a few words, than is done by the accumulation of intricate and endless periods. If this habit be once acquired, it will become na- tural to them afterwards, when the multiplicity of business shall force them to compose in a more precipitant manner. Whereas, if the practice of a loose and negligent style has been suffered to be- come familiar, it will not be" in their power, even upon occasions when they wish to make an unusual effort, to express themselves with energy and grace. Distinctness is a capital property in speaking at the bar. This should be shown chiefly in two things ; first, in stating the question ; in showing clearly what is the point in debate; what we admit: what we deny; and where the line of division begins between us. and^the adverse party. Next, it should be shown in the order and arrangemen' of all the parts of the pleading. In every sort of ora iion, a clear method is of the utmost consequence; but. in those em- Droiled and difficult cases which belong to the bar, it is almost all in all. Too much pains, therefore, cannot be taken, in previously studying the plan and method. If there be indistinctness and dis- order there, we can have no success in convincing: we leave the whole cause in darkness. With respect to the conduct of narration and argumentation, I shall hereafter make several remarks, when I come to treat of the component parts of a regular oration. I shall at present only observe, that the narration of facts at the bar, should always be as concise as the nature of them will admit. Facts are always of the greatest consequence to be remembered during the course of the pleading ; but, if the pleader be tedious in his manner of relating them, and needlessly circumstantial, he lays too great a load upon the memo- ry. Whereas, by cutting off all superfluous circumstances in his re- cital, he adds strength to the material facts; he both gives a clearer view of what he relates, and makes the impression of it more last- ing In argumentation, again, I would incline to give scope to a more diffuse manner at the bar, than on some other occasions. For in popular assemblies, where the subject of debate is often a plain question, arguments, taken from known topics, gain strength by their conciseness. But the obscurity of law-points frequently requires the arguments to be spread out, and placed in different lights, in order to be fully apprehended. When the pleader comes to refute the arguments emploj^ed by his adversary, he should be on his guard not to do them injustice, by dis- guising, or placing them in a false light. The deceit is soon discov 2X 304 ELOQUENCE OF T HK BAR. [lect.xxviii. ered; it will not fail of being excised: and T ena« o impress the /udge and the hearers witn distrust ■»• ~ne =T)ea£er.as one who either wants discernment to perceive, or wants fairness to admit, the strength of the reasoning on the other side. Whereas, when they see that he states, with accuracy and candour, the arguments which have been used against him, before he proceeds to combat them, a strong prejudice is created in his favour. They are naturally led to think, that he has a clear and full conception of all that can be said on both sides of the argument; that he has entire confidence in the goodness of his own cause ; and does not attempt to support it by any artifice or concealment. The judge is thereby inclined to receive much more readily, the impressions which are given him by a speaker, who appears both so fair and so penetrating. There is no part of the discourse, in which the orator has greater opportunity of showing a masterly address, than when he sets himself to represent the reasonings of his antagonists, in order to refute them. Wit may sometimes be of service at the bar, especially in a lively reply, by which we may throw ridicule on something that has been said on the other side. But, though the reputation of wit be daz- zling to a young pleader, I would never advise him to rest his strength upon this talent. It is not his business to make an audience laugh, but to convince the judge ; and seldom, or never, did any one lise to eminence in his profession, by being a witty lawyer. A proper degree of warmth in pleading a cause is always of use. Though, in speaking to a multitude, greater vehemence be natural ; yet, in addressing ourselves even to a single man, the warmth which arises from seriousness and earnestness, is one of the most powerful means of persuading him. An advocate personates his client; he has taken upon him the whole charge of his interests; he stands in his place. It is improper, therefore, and has a bad effect upon the cause, if he appears indifferent and unmoved; and few clients will be fond of trusting their interests in the hands of a cold speaker. At the same time, he must beware of prostituting his earnestness and sensibility so much as to enter with equal warmth into every cause that is committed to him, whether it can be supposed really to excite his zeal or not. There is a dignity of character, which is of the utmost importance for every one in this profession to sup- port. For it must never be forgotten, that there is no instrument of persuasion more powerful, than an opinion of probity and ho- nour in the person who undertakes to persuade.* It is scarcely .possible for any hearer to separate altogether the impression made by the character of him that speaks, from the things that he says. However secretly and imperceptibly, it will be always lending its weight to one side or other; either detracting from, or adding to, the authority and influence of his speech. This opinion of ho- nour and probity must therefore be carefully preserved, both by some degree of delicacy in the choice of causes, and by the man- * ' Plurimum ad omnia momenti est in hoc positum, si vir bonus creditur. Sic eniro (ontingit, at non studlum advocati, videatur affere, sed pene testis fidem.' Quinct. 1. iv c. i- lect. xxvm.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 305 tier of conducting them. And though, perhaps, the nature of the profession may render it extremely difficultto carry this delicacy to it? utmost length, yet there are attentions to this point, which, as ever} good man for virtue's sake, so every prudent man for reputation's sake, will find to be necessary. He will always decline embarking in causes that are odious and manifestly unjust; and, when he sup- ports a doubtful cause, he will lay the chief stress upon such argu- ments as appear to his own judgment the most tenable; reserving his zeal and his indignation for cases where injustice and iniquity are flagrant. But of the personal qualities and virtues requisite in pub- lie speakers, I shall afterwards have occasion to discourse. These are the chief directions which have occurred to me con- cerning the peculiar strain of speaking at the bar. In order to illus- trate the subject farther, I shall give a short analysis of one of Cice- ro's pleadings, or judicial orations. I have chosen that, pro Clu- entio. The celebrated one, pro Milone, is more laboured and showy; but it is too declamatory. That, pro Cluentio, comes nearer the strain of a modern pleading; and though it has the disadvantage of being very long and complicated too in the subject, yet it is one cf the most chaste, correct, and forcible,of all Cicero's judicial ora- tions, and well deserves attention for its conduct. Avitus Cluentius, a Roman knight of splendid family and fortunes, had accused his stepfather Oppianicus, of an attempt to poison him. He prevailed in the prosecution ; Oppianicus was condemned and banished. But as rumours arose of the judges having been cor- rupted by money in this cause, these gave occasion to much popu- lar clamour, and had thrown a heavy odium on Cluentius. Eight years afterwards Oppianicus died. An accusation was brought against Cluentius of having poisoned him, together with a charge also of having bribed the judges in the former trial to condemn. In this action Cicero defends him. The accusers were Sassia, the mother of Cluentius, and widow of Oppianicus, and young Oppianicus, the son. Q. Naso, the Praetor, was judge, together with a consi- derable number of Judices Selecti. The introduction of the oration is simple and proper, taken from no common-place topic, but from the nature of the cause. It be- gins with taking notice, that the whole oration of the accuser was di- vided into two parts.* These two parts were, the charge of having poisoned Oppianicus; on which the accuser, conscious of having no proof, did not lay the stress of his cause ; but rested it chiefly on the other charge of formerly corrupting the judges, which was capi tal in certain cases, by the Roman law. Cicero proposes to follow him in this method, and to apply himself chiefly to the vindication of his client from the latter charge. He makes several proper ob- * < Anirnadvertite, judices, omnem accusatoris oraiionem in duas divisam esse partes . auarum altera mini niti et magnopere confidere videbatur, invidia jam inveterata judi cii Juniani, altera tantum modo consuetudinis causa, tiuiide et diffidenter attingere ra- tionem veneficii criminum ; qua de re lege est haec questio constituta. Itaque mihi certumest banc eandem distributionem invidiam et criminum sic in dsfensione servare, vA oraiips intelligant, nihil me nee subterfugere voluisse reticendo, nee obscurare dicende ' 39 306 ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S [lect. xxvm servations on the danger ofjudges suffering themselves to be sway ed by a popular cry, which often is raised by faction, and directed against the innocent. He acknowledges, that Cluentius had suffer ed much and long by reproach, on account of what had passed at the former trial ; but begs only a patient and attentive hearing, and assures the judges, that he will state every thing relating to that mat- ter so fairly and so clearly, as shall give them entire satisfaction. A great appearance of candour reigns throughout this introduction. The crimes with which Cluentius was charged, were heinous. A mother accusing her son, and accusing him of such actions, as having first bribed judges to condemn her husband, and having afterwards poisoned him, were circumstances that naturally raised strong prejudices against Cicero's client. The first step, therefore, necessary for the orator, was to remove these prejudices; by show- ing what sort of persons Cluentius's mother, and her husband Oppi- anicus, were; and thereby turning the edge of public indignation against them. The nature of the cause rendered this plan altoge- ther proper, and in similar situations it is fit to be imitated. He exe- cutes his plan with much eloquence and force; and in doing it, lays open such a scene of infamy and complicated guilt, as gives a shocking picture of the manners of that age; and such as would seem incredible, did not Cicero refer to the proof that was taken in the former trial, of the facts which he alleges. Sassia, the mother, appeal's to have been altogether of an aban- doned character. Soon after the death of her first husband, the fa- ther of Cluentius, she fell in love with Aurius Melinus, a young man of illustrious birth and great fortune, who was married to her own daughter. She prevailed with him to divorce her daughter, and then she married him herself.* This Melinus being afterwards, by the means of Oppianicus, involved in Sylla's proscription, and put to death; and Sassia being left, for the second time, a widow, and in a very opulent situation, Oppianicus himself made his addresses to her. She, not startled at the imprudence of the proposal, nor at me single: the virtues thai be her fellows iliII bear Iter company icilh joy and gladness :" alludingto a passage in the XLVth Psaim, which relates to the virgins, the companions of the king's daughter. And (Serin, xiii.) having said, that the universities have justly been called the eyes of the nation, he adds, and if the eyes of the nation be evil, the whole body of u must befall of darkness. 41 322 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT, [lect. xxix. ting to memory. Relaxation in this particular is so common, ana so ready to grow upon most speakers in the pulpit, that there is little occasion for giving any cautions against the extreme of over doing in accuracy. Of pronunciation or delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. All that I shall now say. upon this head is, that the practice of reading sermons, is one of the greatest obstacles to the eloquence of the pul pit in Great Britain, where alone this practice prevails. No dis course, which is designed to be persuasive, can have the same force when read, as when spoken. The common people all feel this, and their prejudice against this practice is not without foundation in na- ture. What is gained hereby in point of correctness, is not equal, I apprehend, to what is lost in point of persuasion and force. They, whose memories are not able to retain the whole of a discourse, might aid themselves considerably by short notes lying before them, which would allow them to preserve, in a great measure, the freedom and ease of one who speaks. The French and English writers of sermons proceed upon very different ideas of the eloquence of the pulpit ; and seem indeed to have split it betwixt them. A French sermon, is for most part, a warm, animated exhortation; an English one, is a piece of cool, in- structive reasoning. The French preachers address themselves chiefly to the imagination and the passions; the English, almost solely to the understanding. It is the union of these two kinds of composition, of the French earnestness and warmth, with the Eng lish accuracy and reason, that would form, according to my idea, the model of a perfect sermon. A French sermon would sound in our ears as a florid, and, often, as an enthusiastic harangue. The cen- sure which, in fact, the French critics pass on the English preach- ers is, that they are philosophers and logicians, but not orators.* The defects of most of the French sermons are these : from a mode that prevails among them of taking their text from the lesson of the day, the connexion of the text with the subject is often unnatural and forced ;t their applications of scripture are fanciful, rather than instructive: their method is stiff and cramped, by their practice of dividing their subject always either into three, or two main points; and their composition is in general too diffuse, and consists rather of a few thoughts spread out, and highly wrought up, than of a rich variety of sentiments. Admitting, however, all these defects, il cannot be denied, that their sermons are formed upon the idea of a persuasive popular oration ; and therefore, I am of opinion, they rna3 r be read with benefit. * ' Les Sermons sont suivant notre mcthode, de vrais discours oraioires ; &. non pas, comme chez les Anglois, des discussions metaphysiqiies plus convenabies a unc Acadam.e, qu'aux Assemblies populaires qui se Torment dans nos temples, et qu'il sagit d'.nstruire des devoirs du Chretianisnie, d'encourager, de consoler, d'edifier.' Rhetorique Franchise, par M. Crevier, torn. I. p. 134. t One of Masillon's best sermons, that on the coldness and languor with which Christians perfrrm the duties of religion, is preached from Luke iv. 18. And ne arost out of lit e synagogue, and entered inio Simon's house ; and Simon's wife's molhei win taken ill with a great leeer. lect. xxix.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 323 Among the French Protestant divines, Saurin is the most distin- guished; he is copious, eloquent, and devout, though too ostenta- tious in his manner. Among the Roman C#rholics, the two most eminent are Bourdaloue and Massillon. It is a subject of dispute among the French critics, to which of these the preference is due, and each of them has his partizans. To Bourdaloue, they attribute more solidity and close reasoning; to Massillon, a more pleasing and engaging manner. Bourdaloue is, indeed, a great reasoner, and inculcates his doctrines with much zeal, piety, and earnest- ness; but his style is verbose, he is disagreeably full of quotations from the fathers, and he wants imagination. Massillon has more grace, more sentiment, and, in my opinion, every way more genius. He discovers much knowledge both of the world and of the human heart; he is pathetic and persuasive; and, upon the whole, is per- haps the most eloquent writer of sermons which modern times have produced.* * In order to give an idea of that kind of eloquence which is employed by the French preachers, I shall insert a passage from Massillon, which in the Encyclopedic, (article, Eloquence) is extolled by Voltaire, who was the author of that article, as a chef d'oeuvre, equal to any thing of which either ancient or modern times can boast. The subject of the sermon is, the small number of those who shall be saved. The strain of the whole discourse is extremely serious and animated; but when the orator came to the passage which follows, Voltaire informs us, that the whole assembly were moved ; that by a sort of involuntary motion, they started up from their seats, and that such murmurs of surprise and acclamations arose as disconcerted the speaker, though they increased the effect of his discourse. ' Je m'arrete a vous, mes freres, qui etes ici assembles. Je ne parle plus du reste des homines : je vous regarde comme si vous etiez seuls sur la terre: voici la pensoe qui m'occupe Si qui m'epouvante. Je suppose que c'est ici votre derniere heure, et la fin de l'univers ; que les cieux vont s'ouvrir sur vos tetes. Jesus Christ paroitre dans sa gloire au milieu de ce temple, et que vous n'y etes assemblies que pour l'attendre, comme des crimlnels tremblans, a qui Ton va prononcer, ou un sentence de grace, ou tun arret du mort eternelle. Car vous avez beau vous flatter ; vous mourez tels que vous etes aujourd'hui. Tons ces desirs de changement qui vous amusent, vous amu- seror.t jusqu'au lit de la mort : c'est 1'experience de tous les siecles. Tout ce que vous trouverez alors en vous de nouveau, sera peut-etre un compte plus grand que celui que vous auriez aujourd'hui a rendre; et sur ce que vous seriez, si Ton venoit vous juger dans ce moment, vous pouvez presque decider ce que vous arrivera au sortir de la vie. ' Or. je vous le demande, etje vous le demande frappe de terreur, ne separant pas en ce point mon sort du votre, et ine mettant dans la meme disposition oil je souhaite que vous entriez ; je vous demande, done, si Jesus Christ paroissoit dans ce temple, au milieu de cette assemblee ; la plus auguste de l'univers, pour nous juger, pour faire le terrible discernement des boucs et des brebis, croyez vous que le plus grand nombre de tout ce que nous sommes ici, fuc place- a la droite? Croyez vous que les choses du moins fussent egales ? croyez vous qu'il s'y trouvat senlement dix justes, que le Seism eur ne pent trcuver autrefois en cinq villes toutes entieres ? Je vous le demande; votis Vignorez, etje l'ignore moi-meme. Vousseul, O mon Dieu ! connoissez ceux qui vous ao- partiennent. — Mes fre.res, notre perte est presque assurer, et nous n'y pensons pas Quand meme dans cette terrible separation qui se fera un jour, il ne devroit y avoir qu'un seul pecheur de cet assemblee du cAt6 des reprouves, et qu'une voix du ciel vieu droit nous en assurer dans ce temple, sans le designer ; qui de nous ne craindroit d'etre de malheureux ? qui de nous ne retomberoit d'abord, sur sa conscience, pour examine' si ses crimes n'ont pas merit6 ce chatiment ? qui de nous, saisie de frayeur, ne demnn- deroit pas a Jesus Christ comme autrefois les ap6tres ; Seigneur, ne seroit ce pas moi ? Somines nous sages, mes chers auditeurs ? peut-etre que parmi tous ceux qui m'enten- dent, il ne se trouvera pas dix justes ; peut-etre s'en trouvera-t-il encore moins. Que sai-je, O mon Dieu ! je n'ose regarder d'un ceil fixe les abymes de vos jugemens, et de votre justice ; peut-etre ne s'en trouvera-t-il qu'an seul ; et ce danger ne vous louche 324 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT, [lect. xxix. During the period that preceded the restoration of King Cnarles II. the sennons of the English divines ahounded with scholastic casuistical theology. They were full of minute divisions and subdivisions, and scraps of learning in the didactic part; but to these wei j joined very warm, pathetic addresses to the consciences of the hearers, in the applicatory part of the sermon. Upon the restoration, preaching assumed a more correct and polished form. It became disencumbered from the pedantry and scholastic divi- sions of the sectaries ; but it threw out also their warm and pa- thetic addresses, and established itself wholly upon the model of cool reasoning and rational instruction. As the dissenters from the church continued to preserve somewhat of the old strain of preaching, this led the established clergy to depart the farther from it. Whatever was earnest and passionate, either in the composition or delivery of sermons, was reckoned enthu- siastic and fanatical; and hence that argumentative manner, bor- dering on the dry and unpersuasive, which is too generally the character of English sermons. Nothing can be more correct upon that model, than many of them are ; but the model itself on which they are formed, is a confined and imperfect one. Dr. Clark, for instance, every where abounds in good sense, and the most clear and accurate reasoning; his applications of scripture are pertinent; his style is always perspicuous, and often elegant; he instructs and he convinces ; in what then is he deficient? In nothing, except in the power of interesting and seizing the heart. He shows you what you ought to do ; but he excites not the desire of doing it : he treats man as if he were a being of pure intellect without ima- gination or passions. Archbishop Tillotson's manner is more free and warm, and he approaches nearer than most of the English divines to the character of popular speaking. Hence he is, to this day, one of the best models we have for preaching. We must not indeed consider him in the light of a perfect orator ; his composi- tion is too loose and remiss ; his style too feeble, and frequently too flat, to deserve that high character: but there is in some of his sermons so much warmth and earnestness, and through them all there runs so much ease and perspicuity, such a vein of good sense and sincere piety, as justly entitle him to be held as eminent a preacher as England has produced. point, mon cher auditeur ? et vous croyez etre ce seul heureux dans le grand norobre qui perira ? vous qui avez moins sujet de le croirc que tout autre ; vous sur qui seui la sentence de mort devroit tomber. Grand Dieu ! qui Ton connoit peu dans le monde les terreurs de votre loi,'&.c. After this awakening' and alarming; exhortation, the orator comes with propriety to this practical improvement : • Mais que conclure des ces grands verites? qu'il faut desesperer deson salut ? a Dieu ne plaise ; il n'y a que l'impie, qui, pour se calmer sur ses desordres, tache ici de conclure en secret que toua les hommes periront comme lui ; ce ne doit pas etre la les fruits de ce discours. Mais de vous detronaper de cette erreur si universelle, qu'on peut faire ce que tous les autres font ; et que l'usuge est une voie sure ; mais de vous convaincre que pour se sauver, il faut de distinguer des autres ; etre singnlier, vivre a part au milieu du monde, et ne pas resseinbler a la foule.' Sermons de Massillon, Vol. IV lect. xxix.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 325 In Dr. Barrow, one admires more the prodigious fecundity of his invention, and the uncommon strength and force of his conceptions, than the felicity of his execution, or his talent in composition. We see a genius far surpassing the common, peculiar indeed almost to himself; but that genius often shooting wild, and unchas'ised by any discipline or study of eloquence. I cannot attempt to give particular characters of that great num- ber of writers of sermons which this, and the former age, have pro- duced, among whom we meet with a variety of most respectable names. We find in their composition much that deserves praise; a great display of abilities of different kinds, much good sense and piety, strong reasoning, sound divinity, and useful instruction; though in general the degree of eloquence bears not, perhaps, equal proportion to the goodness of the matter. Bishop Atterbury de- serves to be particularly mentioned as a model of correct and beau- tiful style, besides having the merit of a warmer and more eloquent strain of writing, in some of his sermons, than is commonly met with. Had Bishop Butler, in place of abstract philosophical essays, given us more sermons in the strain of those two excellent ones, which he composed upon self deceit, and upon the character of Ba- laam, we should then have pointed him out as distinguished for that species of characteristical sermons which I before recommended. Though the writings of the English divines are very proper to be read by such as are designed for the church, I must caution them against making too much use of them, or transcribing large pas- sages of them into the sermons they compose. Such as once indulge themselves in this practice, will never have any fund of their own. Infinitely better it is, to venture into the pulpit with thoughts and expressions which have occurred to themselves, though of inferior beauty, than to disfigure their compositions by borrowed and ill- sorted ornaments, which, to a judicious eye, will be always in ha- zard of discovering their own poverty. When a preacher sits down to write on any subject, never let him begin with seeking to consult all who have written on the same text or subject. This, if he con- sult many, will throw perplexity and confusion into his ideas; and if he consults only one, will often warp him insensibly into his method, whether it be right or not. But let him begin with pon- dering the subject in his own thoughts; let him endeavour to fetch materials from within; to collect and arrange his ideas; and form some sort of a plan to himself, which it is always proper to put down in writing. Then, and not till then, he may inquire how others have treated the same subject. By this means, the method and the leading thoughts in the sermon are likely to be his own. These thoughts he n.ay impiove, by comparing them with tl e (rack of sentiment which others have pursued; some of their sense he may, without blame, incorporate into his composition; retaining always his own words and style. This is fair assistance : all be- yond is plagiarism. On the whole, never let the capital principle with which we se* 3 A QUESTIONS. [lect. XXIX out at first, be forgotten, to keep close in view the great end for which a preacher mounts the pulpit ; even to infuse good dispositions into his hearers, to persuade them to serve God, and to become better men. Let this always dwell on his mind when he is composing, and it will diffuse through his compositions that spirit which will render them at once esteemed and useful. The most useful preacher is always the best, and will not fail of being esteemed so. Embel- lish truth only with a view to gain it the more full and free admis- sion into your hearers' minds ; and your ornaments will, in that case, be simple, masculine, natural. The best applause, by far, which a preacher can receive, arises from the serious and deep impressions which his discourse leaves on those who hear it. The finest enco- mium, perhaps, ever bestowed on a preacher, was given by Louis XIV. to the eloquent Bishop of Clermont, Father Massillon, whom I before mentioned with so much praise. After hearing him preach at Versailles, he said to him, ' Father, I have heard many great ora- tors hi this chapel ; I have been highly pleased with them : but for you, whenever I hear you, I go away displeased with myself ; for I see more of my own character.' QUESTIONS. Before treating of the structure and component parts of a regular oration, on what did our author propose making some observations ? Of what has he al- ready treated; and what remains? With what shall we begin ? What advantages has the pulpit peculiar to itself? But to- gether with these advantages, what peculiar difficulties attend the eloquence of the prlpit ? What sort of composi- tion is the greatest trial of skill ? What, also, is to be considered? What is solely the preacher's business ; and what is the pleader's ? Whom does the latter describe; and what is the consequence? From these causes, what comes to pass? In the art of preaching, we are still far from what ; and what tbllows? Of the object, however, what is observed ? On this subject, what is the opinion of Dr. Campbell? What may, perhaps, occur to some ; and on what principle? Un- der what circumstances would this ob- ;ection have weight ? What is true elo- quence ? Of this, what is observed ; and why ? What is an essential requisite, in order tc preach well ? Why is this necessary ; and what is the end of all preaching? What, therefore, should every sermon be ? What remark fol- lows ; and on what is all persuasion founded? How is this illustrated? At the same time, Avhat must be remembered? For what, purposes does he not ascend ♦he pulpit ; and for what purposes does the eloquence of the pulpit be ? What is one of the first qualities of preaching; and in what sense ? What does our au- thor, therefore, not. scruple to assert? How is this remark illustrated ? If this be the proper idea of a sermon, what very material consequence follows ? In a preceding lecture, what was shown ? If this holds in other kinds of public speaking, why does it hold in the high- est degree in preaching ? What will this always give to his exhortations ; and of this, Avhat is observed ? What would prove the most effectual guard against those errors which preachers are apt to commit; and what would be its influence ? What is one of the great causes why so few arrive at very high eminence in preaching ? What are the chief characteristics of the eloquence su ; ted to the pulpit; and why? Why is it difficult to unite these two charac- ters of eloquence ? In what should their union be studied by all preachers, as of the utmost consequence? What do gra- vity and warmth, united, form ; and by it, what is meant? Next to a just idea of the nature and object of pulpit elo- quence, what is the point of jrreatest importance to the preacher ? On this subject, what is remarked ? In general, the subjects should be of what kind? Hoav is this illustrated? As usefulness and true eloquence always go together, what follows? Till what time are the ♦ie ascend it ? Of what kind. then, must ' rules which relate to the different parts r.ECT. XXIX.] QUESTIONS. 326 a of a discourse, to be reserved ; but what will now be given ? What is the Srst rule mentioned ? Of unity, what is here observed ? What does our au- thor mean by unity ? How is this illus- trated ? On what is this rule founded ; and what is the effect of dividing? What does this unity not require 1 As it is not to be understood in so narrow a sense, what does it admit ? Of this re- mark, what illustration is given ? In the second place, according to what are sermons always the more striking, and commonly the more useful ; and from what does this follow? How is this illustrated ? By whom are general eubjects often chosen ; and why ? Of these subjects, what is observed ; and with what do they fa!l in ? By what course is attention much more particu- larly commanded ? What furnishes a subject not deficient in unity or pre- cision ? But how may the subject be made still more interesting ? What re- mark follows? In the third place, in- stead of saying all that can be said upon a subject, what course should be pursued? Under what circumstances would it be requisite for the ministers of the Gospel to be full on every parti- cular ; and why ? What remark fol- lows ? There may always be what ? If he seeks to omit nothing which his subject suggests, what will be the con- sequence ? In studying a sermon, what should the preacher do ? What mode enervates the noblest truths? What may be a consequence of observing this rule ? Why will this be attended with no disadvantage ? What is by far the simplest and most natural method ; and why ? On the contrary, to what is that tedious circuit, which some are ready to take in all their illustrations, frequently owing? In the fourth place, above all things, what must be studied ? Of this, what is observed ; and why ? In order to preach in an interesting manner, on what will much depend; and for what reason ? What are here but the secon- dary instruments ; and in wnat does the great secret lie? For this end, what must he avoid ? As much as possible, in what strain should the discourse be carried on ? What will be of much ad- vantage ; and for what reason ? For this purpose, what study is most neces- sary ; and what produces a wonderful effect ? When are the audience apt to think themselves unconcerned in the descrintion ? What gives the chief power and effect to a preacher's dis course ; and hence, what commands high attention? Why should no fa- vourable opportunity of introducing these be omitted ? What, perhaps, are the most beautiful, and among the most useful, sermons? Of this topic of preach- ing, what is observed ? What is men- tioned as an example? In the last place, what caution is added ? Of these, what is remarked ? How is this illustrated ? Of each of these modes, what is obser- ved ; and what follows? What, alone, is entitled to any authority ; and of it, what is observed ? If a preacher forms himself upon this standard, what will be the consequence ? How is this re- mark illustrated? With respect to style, what does the pulpit require ? As dis- courses spoken, there are calculated for the instruction of all sorts of hearers what should reign in them ; and what should be avoided ? Of young preach- ers, what is here observed ? What does the pulpit require, and with what is this perfectly consistent? How is this illus- trated ? Why is a lively and animated style, extremely suited to the pulpit ? Besides employing metaphors and com- parisons, what may he do ? But on this subject, what only is it necessary to obseive ? What is a great ornament to sermons, and how may it be employed? Of direct quotations, and of allusions to remarkable passages, what is observed ? In a sermon, what should not a ppear , and of these, what is observed ? Though a strong style must be studied, vet of what must we beware ? Of epithets, what is remarked ; and how is this il- lustrated ? With what advice does our author conclude this head ? What ques tion is here introduced ; and how is it answered ? To what must the choice of either of these methods be left ? Of the expressions which come warm anc glowing from the mind, what is obser- ved? But, then, what follows? What method, therefore, is proper, and at the beginning absolutely necessary ? Wha is our author inclined still further to say ; and why ? What only, at prest nt, is said of pronunciation and deliveiy ; and what remark follows ? Of the com- mon people, what is here observed ? How might those materially aid therr ' selves, whose memories are not suffi- cient to retain a whole discourse ? Of French and English writers of sermons, what is here observed? What is a French sermon ? To what do the French preachers address themselves - and \f> 326 ( QUESTIONS. [lect. xkx what the English ? What would form l he model of a perfect sermon ? How would a French sermon sound in our ears ? What censure do French critics pass on English preachers ? What are the defects of most of the French ser- mons ? Admitting, however, all these defects, what cannot be denied? Among French protestant divines, who is the most distinguished ; and who is the most celebrated among the Roman Catholics? Of them respectively, what is observed? When did the sermons of English divines abound with scho- lastic theology; and of what Averethey full ? But to these, what were subjoin- ed? Upon the restoration, what did preaching become ; and what was the effect of this upon the established cler- gy ? Upon this model, whose sermons are most correct ; and what is said of him ? Of Tillotson's manner, what is observed ? Hence, what is he ; but why must we not consider him in the light of a perfect orator? What, however, enti- tles him to be held as eminent a preach- er as England has produced ? In Dr. Barrow, what do we admire ; and what do we see ? What cannot our author attempt; and what i? observed of them ? Why does Atterbury deserve to be par- ticularly mentioned ? What is said ol Bishop Butler, and what are his best sermons? Against what are such aa are designed for the church here cau- tioned ; why ; and what practice were infinitely better? When a preacher sits down to write a sermon, what course should he pursue ; and for what reason ? On the whole, what should never be forgotten? What influence will this have upon his mind ; and what remarks follow ? What is the best applause that a preacher can receive ; and what instance is here mentioned ? ANALYSIS. 1. The advantages of pulpit eloquence. 2. The difficulties that attend it. 3. An habitual view of its end essential. 4. The character of the preacher. 5. Its characteristics. Rules for composing sermons. a. Unity should be attended to. b. The subject should be particular. c. It should not be exhausted. d. The instructions should be interest- ing - . e. No particular model should be fol- lowed. 6. Perspicuity of style requisite. 7. Reading 1 sermons considered. 8. The French and the English manner of preaching. 9. Distinguished preachers jf both nations. LECTURE XXX. CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A SERMON BISHOP ATTERBURY'S. OF The last lecture was employed in observations on the peculiar and distinguishing characters of the eloquence proper for the pulpit. But as rules and di.-ections, when delivered in the abstract, are never so useful as when they are illustrated by particular instances, it may, perhaps, be of some benefit to those who are designed for the church, that I should analyze an English sermon, and consider the matter of it, together with the manner. For this purpose, I have chosen Bishop Atterbury as my example, -.7or S the point which he has in view. lect. xxxi.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 343 Of this latter sort of introduction, we have an admirable instance in Cicero's second oration against Rullus. This Rullus was tribune of the people, and had proposed an Agrarian law; the purpose of which was to create a decemvirate, or ten commissioners, with ab- solute power for five years, over all the lands conquered by the re public, in order to divide them among the citizens. Such laws had often been proposed by factious magistrates, and were always greedi ly received by the people. Cicero is speaking to the people; he had lately been made consul by their interest ; and his first attempt i.s to make them reject this law. The subject was extremely deli- cate, and required much art. He begins with acknowledging all the favours which he had received from the people, in preference to the nobility. He professes himself the creature of their power, and of all men the most engaged to promote their interest. He de- clares, that he held himself to be the consul of the people ; and that he would always glory in preserving the character of a popular magistrate. But to be popular, he observes, is an ambiguous word. He understood it to import a steady attachment to the real interest of the people, to their liberty, their ease, and their peace ; but by some, he saw it was abused, and made a cover to their own selfish and ambitious designs. In this manner, he begins to draw gradually nearer to his purpose of attacking the proposal of Rullus ; but still with great management and reserve. He protests, that he is far from being an enemy to Agrarian laws ; he gives the highest praises to the Gracchi, those zealous patrons of the people ; and as- sures them, that when he first heard of Rullus's law, he had resolv- ed to support it if he found it for their interest; but that, upon ex- amining it, he found it calculated to establish a dominion that was inconsistent with liberty, and to aggrandize a few men at theexpense of the public : and then terminates his exordium, with telling them that he is going to give his reasons for being of this opinion ; but that ifh is reasons shall not satisfy them, he will give up his own opin- ion and embrace theirs. In all this there was great art. His elo- quence produced the intended effect ; and the people, with one voice, rejected this Agrarian law. Having given these general views of the nature and end of an in- troduction, I proceed to lay down some rules for the proper compo- sition of it. These are the more necessary, as this is a part of the discourse which requires no small care. It is always of importance to begin well ; to make a favourable impression at first setting out; when the minds of the hearers, vacant as yet and free, are most dis posed to receive any impression easily. I must add, too, that a good introduction is often found to be extremely difficult. Few parts of the discourse give the composer more trouble, or are attended with more nicety in the execution. The first rule is, that the introduction should be easy and natural. The subject must always suggest it. It must appear, as Cicero beau- tifully expresses it, 'Effioruisse penitus ex re de qua turn agitar.'* * ' To have sprung up, of its own accord, from the matter which is under considers tiOfi 344 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE, [lect. xxxi It is too cc-mmon a fault in introductions, that they are taken from some common-place topic, which has no peculiar relation to the subject in hand ; by which means they stand apart, like pieces de- tached from the rest of the discourse. Of this kind are Sallust's in- troductions, prefixed to his Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars. They might as well have been introductions to any other history, or to any other treatise whatever: and, therefore, though elegant in them selves, they must be considered as blemishes in the work, from want of due connexion with it. Cicero, though abundantly correct in this particular in his orations, yet is not so in his other works. It ap- pears from a letter of his to Atticus, (L. xvi. 6.) that it was his cus- tom to prepare, at his leisure, a collection of different introductions or prefaces, ready to be prefixed to any work that he might after- wards publish. In consequence of this strange method of composing, it happened to him, to employ the same introduction twice without remembering it; prefixing it to two different works. Upon Atticus informing him of this, he acknowledges the mistake, and sends him a new introduction. In order to render introductions natural and easy, it is, in my opin ion, a good rule, that they should not be planned till after one has meditated in his own mind the substance of his discourse. Then, and not till then, he should begin to think of some proper and na- tural introduction. By taking a contrary course, and labouring in the first place on an introduction, every one who is accustomed to composition will often find, that either he is led to lay hold of some common-place topic, or that, instead of the introduction being ac- commodated to the discourse, he is obliged to accommodate the whole discourse to the introduction which he had previously writ- ten. Cicero makes this remark; though, as we have seen, his practice was not always conformable to his own rule. ' Omnibus rebus consideratis, turn denique id, quod primum est dicendum, postremum soleo cogitare, quo utar exordio. Nam si quando id primum invenire volui, nullum mihi occurrit nisi aut exile, aut nuga- torium, aut vulgare.'* After the mind has been once warmed and put in train, by close meditation on the subject, materials for th*» preface will then suggest themselves much more readily. In the second place, in an introduction, correctness should be carefully studied in the expression. This is requisite on account of the situation of the hearers. They are then more disposed to criticise than at any other period; they are, as yet, unoccupied with the subject or the arguments; their attention is wholly direct- ed to the speaker's style and manner. Something must be done, therefore, to prepossess them in his favour; though, for the same reasons, too much art must be avoided ; for it will be more easily de- tected at that time than afterwards, and will derogate from persua- * ' When 1 have planned and digested all the materials of my discourse, it is my cus- tom to think, in the last place, of the introduction with which I am to begin. For if at any time I have endeavoured to invent an introduction first, nothing has ever occurred to me for that purpose, but what was trifling, nugatory, and vulgar.' lect. xxxi.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 34* sion in all that follows. A correct plainness, a: A elegant simpli- city, is the proper character of an introduction : ' Ut videamur,' says Quintilian, ' accurate non callide dicere/ In the third place, modesty is another character which it must carry. All appearances of modesty are favourable and prepossessing. If the orator set out with an air of arrogance and ostentation, the self- love and pride of the hearers will be presently awakened, and will follow him with a very suspicious eye throughout all his progress. His modesty should discover itself not only in his expressions at the beginning, but in his whole manner; in his looks, in his gestures, in the tone o. his voiee. Every auditory take in good part those marks of respect and awe, which are paid to them by one who addresses them. Indeed,the modesty of an introduction should never betray any thing mean or abject. It is always of great use to an orator, that together with modesty and deference to his hearers, he should show a certain sense of dignity, arising from a persuasion of the justice or importance of the subject on which he is to speak. The modesty of an introduction requires, that it promise not too much. i Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem.'* This certainly is the general rule, that an orator should not put forth all his strength at the beginning, but should rise and grow upon us, as his discourse advances. There are cases, however, in which it is allowable for him to set out from the first in a high and bold tone: as, for instance, when he rises to defend some cause which has been much run down, and decried by the public. Too modest a begin- ning might be then like a confession of guilt. By the boldness and strength of his exordium, he must endeavour to stem the tide that is against him, and to remove prejudices, by encountering them without fear. In subjects, too,of a declamatory nature, and in ser- mons, where the subject is striking, a magnificent introduction has sometimes a good effect, if it be properly supported in the sequel. Thus Bishop Atterbury, in beginning an eloquent sermon, preach- ed on the 30th of January, the anniversary of what is called King Charles's Martyrdom, sets out in this pompous manner: 'This is a day of trouble, of rebuke, and of blasphemy; distinguished in the calendar of our church, and the annals of our nation, by the suffer- ings of an excellent prince, who fell a sacrifice to the rage of his re- bellious subjects; and, by his fall, derived infamy, misery, and guilt on them, and their sinful posterity.' Bossuet, Flechier, and the other celebrated French preachers, very often begin their discour- ses with laboured and sublime introductions. These raise atten- tion, and throw a lustre on the subject; but let every speaker be much on his guard against striking a higher note at the beginning, than he is able to keep up in his progress. • He does not lavish at a blaze his fire, Sudden to glare, and then in smoke expire \ But rises from a cloud of smoke to light, And pours his specious miracles to sight. Hor. A ps. Poet. Frakcjs. 44 346 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE, [lect.axxi In the fourth place, an introduction should usually be carried or in the calm manner. This is seldom the place for vehemence and passion. Emotions must rise as the discourse advances. The minds of the hearers must be gradually prepared, before the speaker can venture on strong and passionate sentiments. The exceptions to this rule are, when the subject is such, that the very mention of it naturally awakens some passionate emotion ; or when the unexpect- ed presence of some person or object, in a popular assembly, inflames the speaker, and makes him break forth with unusual warmth. Ei- ther of these will justify what is called the Exordium ab abmpto. Thus the appearance of Catiline in the senate renders the vehement beginning of Cicero's first oration against him very natural and proper: ' Quousque tandem, Catilina, abutere patientia nostra?' And thus Bishop Atterbury, in preaching from this text, ' Blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me,' ventures on breaking forth with this bold exordium: ' And can any man then be offended in thee, blessed Jesus?' which address to our Saviour he continues for a page or two, till he enters on the division of his subject. But such introductions as these should be hazarded by very few, as they promise so much vehemence and unction through the rest of the dis- course, that it is very difficult to fulfil the expectations of the hearers. At the same time, though the introduction is not the place in which warm emotions are usually to be attempted, yet I must take notice, that it ought to prepare the way for such as are de- signed to be raised in subsequent parts of the discourse. The orator should, in the beginning, turn the minds of his hearers towards those sentiments and feelings which he seeks to awaken in the course of his speech. According, for instance, as it is compassion, or indignation, or contempt, on which his discourse is to rest, he ought to sow the seeds of these in his introduction ; he ought to begin with breathing that spirit which he means to in- spire. Much of the orator's art and ability is shown, in thus strik- ing properly at the commencement, the key note, if we may so express it, of the rest of his oration. In the fifth place, it is a rule in introductions, not to anticipate any material part of the subject. When topics, or arguments, which are afterwards to be enlarged upon, are hinted at, and, in part, brought forth in the introduction, they lose the grace of novelty jpon their second appearance. The impression intended to be made by any capital thought, 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 arbour. Common sense directs that every part o* i discourse should be suited to the strain and spirit of the whole. lect.xxxi.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 347 These are the principal rules that relate to introductions. They are adapted, in a great measure, equally, to discourses of all kinds. In pleadings at the bar, or speeches in public assemblies, particulai care must be taken not to employ any introduction of that kind, which the adverse party may lay hold of, and turn to his advantage. To this inconvenience all those introductions are exposed, which are taken from general and common-place topics; and it nevei fails to give an adversary a considerable triumph, if, by giving a small turn to something we had said in our exordium, he can ap- pear to convert, to his own favour, the principles with which we had set out, in beginning our attack upon him. In the case of re- plies, Quintilian makes an observation which is very worthy of no- tice; that introductions, drawn from something that has been said in the course of the debate, have always a peculiar grace; and the reason he gives for it is just and sensible: 'Multum gratiee exordio est, quod ab actione diversae partis materiam trahit; hoc ipso, quod non compositum domi, sed ibi atque e re natum; et facilitate famam ingenii auget; et facie simplicis, sumptique e proximo sermonis, fidem qnoque acquirit ; adeo, ut etiamsi relique scripta atque ela- borata sint, tamen videatur tota extemporalis oratio, cujus iuitium nihil preparatum habuisse manifestum est.'* In sermons, such a practice as this cannot take place; and, in- deed, in composing sermons, few things are more difficult than to remove an appearance of stiffness from an introduction, when a formal one is used. The French preachers, as I before observed, are often very splendid and lively in their introductions; but, among us, attempts of this kind are not always so successful. When long introductions are formed upon some common-place topic, as the desire of happiness being natural to man, or the like, they never fail o[ being tedio'H. Variety should be studied in this part of composition as much as possible; often it may be proper to be- gin without any introduction at all, unless, perhaps, one or two sentences. Explanatory introductions from the context, are the most simple of any, and frequently the best that can be used; but as they are in hazard of becoming dry, they should never be long. A historical introduction has, generally, a happy effect to rouse at- tention, when one can lay hold upon some noted fact that is con- nected with the text or the discourse, and, by a proper illustration of it, open the way to the subject that is to be treated of. After the introduction, what commonly comes next in older, is the proposition, or enunciation of the subject; concerning which there is nothing to be said, but that it should be as clear and * < An introduction, which is founded upon the pleading of the opposite party, is extremely graceful ; for this reason, that it appears not to have been meditated al home, but to have taken rise from the business, and to have been con_posed on the spot. Hence, it gives to the speaker the reputation of a quick invention, and adds weight likewise to his discourse, as artless and unlaboured : insomuch, that though all the rest of his oration should be studied and written, yet the whole discourse has the appearance of being extemporary, as it is evident that the introduction to it was unpre meditated.' 3D 348 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE, [lect. xxxi distinct as possible, and expressed in few and plain words, with- out the least affectation. To this generally succeeds the division, or the laying down the method of the discourse ; on which it is neces sary to make some observations. I do not mean, that in every discourse, a formal division,or distribution of it into parts, is requi- site. There are many occasions of public speaking, when this is neither requisite nor would be proper ; when the discourse, perhaps, is to be short, or only one point is to be treated of; or when the speaker does not choose to warn his hearers of the method he is to follow, or of the conclusion to which he seeks to bring them. Order of one kind or other is, indeed, essential to every good discourse; that is, every thing should be so arranged, as that what goes before may give light and force to what follows. But this may be accom- plished by means of a concealed method. What we call division is, when the method is propounded in form to the hearers. The discourse in which this sort of division most commonly takes place, is a sermon ; and a question has been moved, whether this method of laying down heads, as it is called, be the best method of preaching. A very able judge, the Archbishop of Cam- bray, in his Dialogues on Eloquence, declares strongly against it. He observes, that it is a modern invention ; that it was never practised by the Fathers of the church : and, what is certainly true, that it took its rise from the schoolmen, when metaphysics began to be introduced into preaching. He is of opinion, that it renders a sermon stiff; that it breaks the unity of the discourse ; and that, by the natural connexion of one part with another, the at- tention of the hearers would be carried along the whole with more advantage. But notwithstanding his authority and his arguments, I cannot help being of opinion, that the present method of dividing a ser- mon into heads, ought not to be laid aside. Established practice has now given it so much weight, that, were there nothing more in its favour, it would be dangerous for any preacher to deviate so far from the common track. But the practice itself has also, in my judgment, much reason on its side. If formal partitions give a sermon less of the oratorical appearance, they render it, however, more clear, more easily apprehended, and, of course, more instruc- tive to the bulk of hearers, which is always the main object to be kept in view. The heads of a sermon are great assistances to the memory and recollection of a hearer. They serve also to fix his ■attention. They enable him more easily to keep pace with the progress of the discourse; they give him pauses and resting places, where he can reflect on what has been said, and look forward to what is to follow. They are attended with this advantage too, that they give the audience the opportunity of knowing, before- hand, when they are to be released from the fatigue of attention, and thereby make them follow the speaker more patiently. < Re- ficit audientem,' says Quintilian, taking notice of this very advan tage of divisions in other discourses, ' Reficit audientem certo sin- i.ect. xxxi.] DIVISION OF A DISCOURSE. M gularum partium fine; non aliter quam facientibus i\.er, multum detrahunt fatigationis notata spatia inscriptis lapidibus : nam et ex- hausti Jaboris nosse mensuram voluptati est; et hortatur ad reliqua fortius exequenda, scire quantum supersit.'* With regard to break- ing the unity of a discourse, I cannot be of opinion that there arises, from that quarter, any argument against the method I am defending. If the unity be broken, it is to the nature of the heads, or topics of which the speaker treats, that this is to be imputed ; not to his laying them down in form. On the contrary, if his heads be well chosen, his marking them out, and distinguishing them, in place of impairing the unity of the whole, renders it more con- spicuous and complete ; by showing how all the parts of a discourse hang upon one another, and tend to one point. In a sermon, or in a pleading, or any discourse, where division is proper to be used, the most material rules are, First, That the several parts into which the subject is divided be really distinct from one another; that is, that no one include another. It were a very absurd division, for instance, if one should propose to treat, first, of the advantages of virtue, and next, of those of justice or temperance ; because, the first head evidently comprehends the second, as a genus does the species ; which me- thod of proceeding involves the subject in indistinctness and disorder. Secondly, In division, we must take care to follow the order of natuie; beginning with the simplest points, such as are easiest ap- prehended, and necessary to be first discussed; and proceeding thence to those which are built upon the former, and which suppose them to be known. We must divide the subject into those parts, into which most easily and naturally it is resolved; that it may seem to split itself, and not to be violently torn asunder: 'Divi- dere,' as is commonly said, f non frangere.' Thirdly, The several members of a division ought to exhaust the subject; otherwise we do not make a complete division ; we exhi- bit the subject by pieces and corners only, without giving any such plan as displays the whole. Fourthly, The terms in which our partitions are expressed, should be as concise as possible. Avoid all circumlocution here. Admit not a single word but what is necessary. Precision is to be studied, above all things, in laying down a method. It is this which chiefly makes a division appear neat and elegant; when the several heads are propounded in the clearest, most expressive, and, at the same time, the fewest words possible. This never fails to strike the hearers agreeably; and is, at the same time, of great conse- quence towards making the divisions be more easily remembered Fifthly, Avoid an unnecessary multiplication of heads. To split a subject into a great many minute parts, by divisions and subdivi * 'The conclusion of each head is a relief to the hearers; just as, upon a journey, the mile-stones which are set up on the road, serve to diminish the traveller's fatigue For we are always pleased with seeing our labour begin to lessen ; and, by calculating \oxv much remains, are stirred up to finish our task more cheerfully.' 350 NARRATION AND EXPLICATION, [lect. xxxi sions without end, has always a bad effect in speaking. It may be proper in a logical treatise; but it makes an oration appear hard and dry, and unnecessarily fatigues the memory. In a sermon, there may be from three to fh r e or six heads, including subdivi- sions ; seldom should there be more. In a sermon, or in pleading at the bar, few things are of great- er consequence, than a proper or happy division. It should be studi- ed with much accuracy and care; for if one take a wrong method at first setting out, it will lead him astray in all that follows. It will render the whole discourse either perplexed or languid ; and though the hearers may not be able to tell where the fault or disorder lies, they will be sensible there is a disorder somewhere, and find them- selves little affected by what is spoken. The French writers of ser- mons study neatness and elegance in laying down their heads, much more than the English do; whose distributions, though sensible and just, yet are often inartificial and verbose. Among the French, however, too much quaintness appears in their divisions, with an affectation of always setting out either with two, or with three, general heads of discourse. A division of Massillon's on this text, 'It is finished,' has been much extolled by the French critics: — 'This imports,' says the preacher, 'the consummation, first, of jus- tice on the part of God; secondly, of wickedness on the part of men ; thirdly, of love on the part of Christ.' This also of Bourda- loue's has been much praised, from these w r ords: 'My peace I give unto you.' 'Peace,' says he, 'first to the understanding, by sub- mission to faith; secondly, to the heart, by submission to the law.' The next constituent part of a discourse, which I mentioned, was narration or explication. I put these two together, both be- cause they fall nearly under the same rules, and because they com- monly answer the same purpose; serving to illustrate the cause or the subject of which the orator treats, before he proceeds to argue either on one side or other; or to make any attempt for interesting the passions of the hearers. In pleadings at the bar, narration is often a very important part of the discourse, and requires to be particularly attended to. Be- sides its being in any case no easy matter to relate with grace and propriety; there is in narrations at the bar, a peculiar difficulty. The pleader must say nothing but what is true; and, at the same time, he must avoid saying any thing that will hurt his cause. The facts which he. relates are to be the ground-work of all his future reason- ing. To recount them so as to keep strictly within the bounds of truth, and yet to present them under the colours most favourable to his cause; to place, in the most striking light, every circumstance which is to his advantage, and to soften and weaken such as make against him, demand no small exertion of skill and dexterity. He must always remember, that if he discovers too much art, he defeats his own purpose, and creates a distrust of his sincerity. Quintihau very properly directs, 'Effugienda in hac prsecipue parte, omnis rcalliditatis suspicio; neque enim se usquam magis custodit judex. lect. xxxi.] NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 351 quam cum narrat orator: nihil turn videatur fictum; ninil sollici- tum ; omnia potius a causa, quam ab oratore, profecta videantur.'* To be clear and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, are the qualities which critics chiefly require in narration; each oi which carries sufficiently the evidence of its importance. Distinct- ness belongs to the whole train of the discourse, but is especially requisite in narration, which ought to throw light on all that fol- lows. A fact, or a single circumstance left in obscurity, and mis- apprehended by the judge, may destroy the effect of all the argu- ment and reasoning which the speaker employs. If his narration be improbable, the judge will not regard it; and if it be tedious and diffuse, he will be tired of it, and forget it. In order to produce dis- tinctness, besides the study of the general rules of perspicuity which were formerly given, narration requires a particular attention to as- certain clearly the names, the dates, the places, and every other ma- terial circumstance of the facts recounted. In order to be probable in narration, it is material to enter into the characters of the per- sons of whom we speak, and to show, that their actions proceeded from such motives as are natural, and likely to gain belief. In order to be as concise as the subject will admit, it is necessary to throw out all superfluous circumstances; the rejection of which will like wise tend to make our narration more forcible, and more clear. Cicero is very remarkable for his talent of narration ; and from the examples in his orations much may be learned. The narration, for instance, in the celebrated oration pro Milone, has been often and justly admired. His scope is to show, that though in fact Clo- dius was killed by Milo or his servants, yet that it was only in self- defence; and that the design had been laid, not by Milo against Clodius, but by Clodius against Milo's life. All the circumstances for rendering this probable are painted with wonderful art. In re lating the manner of Milo's setting out from Rome, he gives the most natural description of a family excursion to the country, under which it was impossible that any bloody design could be conceal- ed. ' He remained,' says he, * in the senate house that day, till all the business was over. He came home, changed his clothes deliberate- ly, and waited for some time, till his wife had got all her things ready for going with him in his carriage to the country. He did not set out, till such time as Clodius might easily have been in Rome, if he had not been lying in wait for Milo by the way. By and by, Clodius met him on the road, on horse-back, like a man prepared for action ; no carriage, not his wife, as was usual, nor any family equipage along with him : whilst Milo, who is supposed to be meditating slaughter and assassination, is travelling in a carriage with his wife, trapped up in his cloak, embarrassed with baggage, and attended * ' In this part of discourse, the speaker must be ,ery careful to shun every appear ance of art and cunning. For there is no time at which the judge is more upon his guard, than when the pleader is relating facts. Let nothing then seem feigned : noth • ng anxiously concealed. Let all that is said, appear to arise from the cause itself, ana ioi to be the work of the orator.' 352 NARRATION AND EXPLICATION, [lect. xxxi by a great train of women-servants, and boys.' He goes on describ- ing the rencounter that followed; Clodius's servants attacking those of Mi ib, and killing the driver of his carriage; Milo jumping out, throwing off his cloak, and making the best defence he could, while Clodius's servants endeavoured to surround him; and then con- cludes his narration with a very delicate and happy stroke. He joes not say in plain words, that Milo's servants killed Clodius, but that 'in the midst of the tumult, Milo's servants, without the or ders, without the knowledge, without the presence of their master, did what every master would have wished his servants, in like con /tincture, to have done.'* • In sermons, where there is seldom any occasion for narration, explication of the subject to be discoursed on, corner in the place of narration at the bar, and is to be taken up much on the same tone; that is, it must be concise, clear, and distinct: and in a style correct and elegant, rather than highly adorned. To explain the doctrine of the text with propriety ; to give a full and perspicuous account of the nature of that virtue or duty which forms the subject of the dis course, is properly the didactic part of preaching ; on the right exe- cution of which much depends for all that comes afterwards ?n the way of persuasion. The great art of succeeding in it, is to med-tate profoundly on the subject, so as to be able to place it in a clear ind strong point of view. Consider what light other passages of scrip *ure throw upon it; consider whether it be a subject nearly related to some other from which it is proper to distinguish it ; considei whether it can be illustrated to advantage by comparing it with, 01 opposing it to some other thing ; by inquiring into causes, or trac ing effects; by pointing out examples, or appealing to the feelings of the hearers; that thus, a definite, precise, circumstantial view may be afforded of the doctrine to be inculcated. Let the preacher be persuaded, that by such distinct and apt illustrations of the known truths of religion, he may both display great merit in the way of composition, and, what he ought to consider as far more va- luable, render his discourses weighty, instructive, and useful. ** ' Milo, cum in senatu fuisset eo die, quoad senatus dimissus est, doraum venit Calceos et vestimenta mutavit ; paulisper, duin se uxor (at fit) comparat, commoratus est ; deinde profectus est, id temporis cum jam Clodius, si quidem eo die Romam ven- turus erat, redire potuisset. Obviam fit ei Clodius expeditus, in equo, nulla rheda, nul- lis impedimentis, nullis Graecis comitibus, ut solebat; sine uxore, quod nunquam fece. Cum hie insidiator, qui iter illud ad caedem faciendam apparasset, cum uxore veheretur in rheda, penulatus. vulgi magno impedimento, ac muliebri et delicato ancillarum pu- erorunu|iie comitatu. Fit obviam Clodio ante fundum ejus, hora fere undecima, aut non multo secus. Statitn complures cum telis in hunc faciunt de loco superiore impetum .• adversi rhedarium occidunt ; cum autem hie de rheda, rejecta penula desiluisset, seque acri animo defenderet, illi qui erant cum Clodio, gladiis eductis, partim recurrere ad rhedam, ut a tergo Milonem adorirentur ; partim, quod hunc jam intcrfectum puta- rent, caedere incipiunt ejus servos qui post erant ; ex quibus qui animo fideli in donu- num et praesenM fuerunt, partim occisi sunt ; partim cum ad rhedam pugnare viderent el domino succurrere prohiberentur, Milonemque occisum etiam ex ipso Clodio audi rent, et ita esse putarent, fecerur.t id servi Milonis,(dicam enim non denvandi criminis causS, sed ut factum est) neque imperante, neque sciente, neque praesente dr\mino quod suos quisque servos in tali re facere voluisset.' ( 352 a ) Q,UESTIOXS. Elf the four preceding lectures, what as been considered ; and of what is our author now to treat ? For what was the previous view given, necessary ; and in Eroceeding, what shall be pointed out? In whatever subject any one intends to discourse, what order will he pursue? This being the natural train of speak- ing, what six parts compose a regular formal oration? What is here not meant ; and why not ? There may be many excellent discourses before the public, without what ? Why then is it necessary that each of them should be treated of distinctly ? With what does our author begin ; and of this, what is observed ? How is this remark illustra- ted? Of this, what is remarked? To conciliate the good will of the hearers, and to render them benevolent, whence may topics in causes at the bar be drawn ? What is the second end of an introduction ; and how may this be ef- fected? What is the third end, and for this purpose, with what must we begin? When may formal introductions be omitted; and what remark follows? Of Demosthenes' and Cicero's introduc- tions, what is observed? What two Kinds of introductions did the ancient critics distinguish ; and what is said of them ? Of this latter sort of introduc- tion, in what oration have we an admi- rable instance ? Who was Rullus, and what did he propose? Of such 'aws, what is observed ? What is here said of Cicero; and in what manner does he introduce this difficult subject? What evidence does he give that he is not an enemy to Agrarian laws ? In all this, there is what ; and what was the con- sequence ? Having given this general view of the nature and end of an in- troduction, to what does our author proceed ? Why are these the more ne- cessary ? What is always of import- ance ; and what remark is added ? What is the first rule given ? What must always suggest it; and what says Cicero? In introductions, what is too common a fault ? "What introductions are of this kind? What is said of them; and what follows ? What is related of Cicero's introductions; and of his man- ner of preparing them ? Of this strange method, what was once a consequence ? J a order to render an introduction inte- resting, what is a good rule ? What will be the consequence of taking a con- 1 trary course? What remark is made by Cicero? In the second place . in an introduction, what should be carefully studied ? What is then the situation of the hearers ? Why, at the same time, must too much art be avoided ? What is the proper character of an introduc- tion ? In the third place, why is mo- desty requisite in an introduction? How should his modesty discover itself; and why ? What should the modesty of an introduction never betray ; and what is of great use to an orator ? What does the modesty of an introduction require ? What says Horace ? What is the gene- ral rule? What exception is there to this rule ? What might too modest a beginning, then, be like ? By the bold- ness and strength of his exordium, what must he endeavour to do ? Where, also, has a magnificent introduction, sometimes a good effect ? What exam- ple is given from a sermon of Bishop Atterbury's? How do the celebrated French writers often begin their dis- courses ? Of these, what is the effect , but against what, must every speaker be much on his guard ? In the fourtn place, in what manner should an in- troduction usually be carried on ? Why is this direction given ? What are the exceptions to this rule? What will either of these justify ? What instances are given? Why should such introduc- tions be hazarded by very few ? Of tfte introduction, what is further noticed? In the beginning, what should the ora- to" do? How is this remark illustrated? How is much of the orator's art shown? What, in the fifth place, is a rule in introductions? How is this rule fully il- lustrated? In the last place, to what ought the introduction be proportioned; and of this direction, what illustration is given ? What does common sense di- rect? To what are these rules adapted ? In pleadings at the bar, or speeches in public assemblies, about what must particular care be taken? To this in- convenience, what introductions are ex- posed ; what never fails to give an ad- versary considerable triumph ? In the case of replies, what observation does Quintilian make? What reason does he assign for this ? Of introductions to sermons, what is observed? Of the French p r eachers, what was before remarked ? When are introductions always tediou? ? Whaf 352 QUESTIONS. [LECT. XXX! should be studied in this part of com- position as much as possible ; and what may often be proper ? Of explanatory .ntroductions from the context, what is remarked? When has a historical in- iroductianahappy effect? What comes next in order after the introduction? What only is to be said concerning it ? To this, what Generally succeeds ? What does our author here not mean? How is this remark illustrated ? What is essentia] to every good discourse? How may this be accomplished ? What is division in discourse? In what dis- course does this sort of division most commonly take place ; and what ques- tion has been moved? What is the opinion of the Archbishop of Camhray? Of it, what does he observe ? What effect, in his opinion, has it? Notwith- standing his authority and arguments, what does our author think ; and why? What reason has the practice itself, on its side ? W'hat advantages result to the hearers, from the division of a ser- mon into heads ? On this subject, what says Quintilian ? With regard to break- ing the unity of a discourse, what docs >ur author observe? On the contrary, if the heads be well chosen, what is their effect ? In any discourse, where division is proper, what is the first rule to be observed ? How is this rule illus- trated ? Secondly, in division, what or- der must we follow ? Into what parts must we divide the subject? Thirdly, what should the several members of a division do; and why? In the fourth place, of the terms in which our parti- tions are expressed, what is observed ; and what remarks follow ? What is it which chiefly makes the divisions of a discourse appear neat and elegant? What is the effect of this ? In the fifth place, what must be avoided ? What has always a bad effect in speaking ? Where may it be proper; but what effect has it on an oration? To what member should the heads of a sermon be limited? Why should the division of a sermon, or of a pleading at the bar, be studied with much accuracy and care ? What effect will this have ? What do the French writers of ser- mons study much more than we do ? Among the French, however, what sometimes appears in their divisions? What examples, from two eminent French writers, are here introduced ? What was the next constituent part of a discourse mentioned? Why are these two put together ? In pleadings at the bar, of narration, what is observed? What peculiar difficulty is there in narrations at the bar ? What, here, de- mand no small exertion of skill and dexterity? What must he always re- member? What does Quintilian very properly direct? What qualities do critics chiefly require in narration ; and of each of these, what is observed ? 01 distinctness, what is remarked? How is this illustrated? In order to produce distinctness, what does narration re- quire ? What is material, n order to be probable in narration? Iti order to be as concise as the subject will admit, what is necessary ? Who is remarkable for his talent of narration ? What in- stance is given? What does he here wish to show ? How are all the cir- cumstances, for rendering this probable, painted ? What does he give, in rela- ting the manner in which Milo set out from Rome ? Repeat the passage. Ir sermons, what comes in the place of narration at the bar ; and in what manner must it be taken up ? What is, properly, the didactic part of preach- ing ; and on the right execution of it, what depends? WTiat is the great art of succeeding with it? How is this fully illustrated? Of what should the preach- er be persuaded ? ANALYSIS. 1. The introduction. a. The ends of an introduction. B. The introductions of the ancients Rules for the composition of an in- troduction. a. It should be easy and natural. b. Correctness of expression should be observed. c. Modesty should be one of its principal characteristics. d. It should be calmly conducted. e. It should not anticipate any pan of the subject. 2. The enunciation of the subject. 3. The divisions of the discourse. A. The parts should be distinct from each other. B. The natural order should be fol lowed. c. The members should exhaust the subject. D. The division should be expressed with precision. E. The heads should not be unneces sarily extended. 4 Narration or explication. ( 353 ) LECTURE XXXII. CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE.... THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART....THE PATHETIC PART....THE PERORATION. In treating of the constituent parts of a regular discourse or ora- tion, I have already considered the introduction, the division, and the narration or explication. I proceed next to treat of the argu- mentative or reasoning part of a discourse. In whatever place, or on whatever subject one speaks, this, beyond doubt, is of the greatest consequence. For the great end for which men speak on any se- rious occasion, is to convince their hearers of something being either true, or right, or good ; and, by means of this conviction, to influ- ence their practice. Reason and argument make the foundation, as I have often inculcated, of all manly and persuasive eloquence. Now, with respect to arguments, three things are requisite. First, the invention of them; secondly, the proper disposition and arrangement of them ; and thirdly, the expressing of them in such a style and manner, as to give them their full force. The first of these, invention, is, without doubt, the most mate- rial, and the ground-work of the rest. But, with respect to this, I am afraid it is beyond the power of art to give any real assistance. Art cannot go so far as to supply a speaker with arguments on every cause, and every subject; though it may be of considerable use in assisting him to arrange and express those, which his knowledge of the subject has discovered. For it is one thing to discover the rea- sons that are most proper to convince men, and another to manage these reasons with the most advantage. The latter is all that rhe- toric can pretend to. The ancient rhetoricians did indeed attempt to go much farther than this. They attempted to form rhetoric into a more complete system ; and professed not only to assist public speakers in setting off their arguments to most advantage; but to supply the defect of their invention, and to teach them where to find arguments on eve- ry subject and cause. Hence their doctrine of topics, or < Loci Communes,' and '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 man) different subjects, which the orator was directed to consult, in order to find out materials for his speech. They had their intrinsic and extrinsic loci; some loci, that were common to all the different kinds of public speaking, and some that were peculiar to each. The common or general loci, were such as genus and species, cause and effect, antecedents and consequents, likeness and contrariety. 3E 45 354 THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART [lect. xxxn. definition, circumstances of time and place; and a great many more of the same kinds. For each of the different kinds of public speak- ing, they had their ' Loci Personarum,' and 'Loci Rerum.' As in :lemonstrative 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 fortune he enjoyed, the stations he had filled, &c. ; and in delibera- tive orations, the topics that might be used in recommending any public measure, or dissuading from it; such as, honesty, justice, facility, profit, pleasure, glory, assistance from friends, mortification to enemies, and the like. The Grecian sophists were the first inventors of this artificial sys- tem of oratory; and they showed a prodigious subtilty and fertility in the contrivance of these loci. Succeeding rhetoricians, dazzled by the plan, wrought them up into so regular a system, that one would think they meant to teach how a person might mechanically become an orator, without any genius at all. They gave him re- ceipts for making speeches on all manner of subjects. At the same time, it is evident, that though this study of common places might produce very showy academical declamations, it could never pro- duce discourses on real business. The loci indeed supplied a most exuberant fecundity of matter. One who had no other aim, but to talk copiously and plausibly, by consulting them on every subject, and laying hold of all that they suggested, might discourse without end ; and that, too, tnough he had none but the most superficia knowledge of his subject. But such discourse could be no othei than trivial. What is truly solid and persuasive, must be drawn 'ex visceribus causse,' from a thorough knowledge of the subject, and profound meditation on it. They who would direct students of oratory to any other sources of argumentation, only delude them; and by attempting to render rhetoric too perfect an art, they render it, in truth, a trifling and childish study. On this doctrine, therefore, of the rhetorical loci, or topics, I think it superfluous to insist. If any think that the knowledge of them may contribute to improve their invention, and extend their views, they may consult Aristotle and Quintilian, or what Cicero has written on this head, in his Treatise De Inventione, his Topica, and second book De Oratore. But when they are to prepare a discoun-e, by which they purpose to convince a judge, or to pro- duce any considerable effect upon an assembly, I would advise them to lay aside their common places, and to think closely of their sub- ject. Demosthenes, I dare say, consulted none of the loci, when he was inciting the Athenians to take arms against Philip; and where Cicero has had recourse to them, his orations are so much the worse on that account. I proceed to what is of more real use, to point out the assistance that can be given, not with respect to the invention, but with re- spect to the disposition and conduct of arguments. Two different methods may be used by orators, in the conduct le^t. xxxii.] OF A DISCOURSE. 355 of their reasoning ; the terms of art for which are, the analytic, and the synthetic method. The analytic is, when the orator conceals his intention concerning the point he is to prove, till he has gradually brought his hearers to the designed conclusion. They are led on step by step, from one known truth to another, till the conclusion be stolen upon them, as the natural consequence of a chain of pro- positions. As, for instance, when one intending to prove the being of a God, sets out with observing, that every thing which we see in the world has had a beginning; that whatever has had a begin- ning, must have a prior cause ; that in human productions, art shown in the effect, necessarily infers design in the cause : and proceeds leading you on from one cause to another, till you arrive at one su- preme first cause, from whom is derived all the order and design visible in his works. This is much the same with the Socratic method, by which that philosopher silenced the sophists of his age. It is a very artful method of reasoning; may be carried on with much beauty, and is proper to be used when the hearers are much prejudiced against any truth, and by imperceptible steps must be led to conviction. But there are few subjects that will admit this method, and not many occasions on which it is proper to be employed. The mode of reasoning more generally used, and most suited to the train of popular speaking, is what is called the synthetic; when the point to be proved is fairly laid down, and one argument upon another is made to bear upon it, till the hearers be fully convinced. Now, in all arguing, one of the first things to be attended to is, among the various arguments which may occur upon a cause, to make a proper selection of such as appear to one's self the most solid; and to employ these as the chief means of persuasion. Eve- ry speaker should place himself in the situation of a hearer, and think how he would be affected by those reasons which he purpo- ses to employ for persuading others. For he must not expect to impose on mankind by mere arts of speech. They are not so easi- ly imposed on, as public speakers are sometimes apt to think. Shrewdness and sagacity are found among all ranks; and the speak- er may be praised for his fine T discourse, while yet the hearers are /iot persuaded of the truth of any one thing he has uttered. Supposing the arguments properly chosen, it is evident that their effect will, in some measure, depend on the right arrangement of them ; so as they shall not justle and embarrass one another, but give mutual aid ; and bear with the fairest and fullest direction on the point in view. Concerning this, the following rules may be taken In the first place, avoid blending arguments confusedly together that are of a separate nature. All arguments whatever are directed to prove on© or other of these three things ; that something is true ; that it is morally right or fit; or that it is profitable and good. These make the three great subjects of discussion among mankind ; truth, duty, and interest. But the arguments directed towards any one of tiiem are generically distinct; and he who blends them all under one 35k THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART [lect. xxxn topic, which he calls his argument, as in sermons, especially, is too often done, will render his reasoning indistinct and inelegant. Sup- pose, for instance, that I am recommending to an audience benevo- lence or the love of our neighbour, and that I take my first argu- ment, from the inward satisfaction which a benevolent temper af- fords; my second, from the obligation which the example of Christ lays upon us to this duty ; and my third, from its tendency to pro- cure us the good will of all around us : my arguments are good, but I have arranged them wrong; for, my first and third arguments are taken from considerations of interest, internal peace, and external advantages; and between these, I have introduced one which rests wholly upon duty. I should have kept those classes of arguments which are addressed to different principles in human nature, sepa- rate and distinct. In the second place, with regard to the different degrees oi strength in arguments, the general rule is to advance in the way ol climax, 'ut augeatur semper, et increscat oratio.' This especially is to be the course, when the speaker has a clear cause, and is con- fident that he can prove it fully. He may then adventure to begin with feeble arguments; rising gradually, and not putting forth his whole strength till the last, when he can trust to his making a suc- cessful impression on the minds of hearers, prepared by what has gone before. But this rule is not to be always followed. For, if he distrusts 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 for him to place this material argument in the front; to pre-occupy the hearers early, and make the strongest effort at first ; that, having removed prejudices, and disposed them to be favoura- ble, the rest of his reasoning may be listened to with more candour. When it happens, that amidst a variety of arguments, there are one or two which we are sensible are more inconclusive than the rest, and yet proper to be used, Cicero advises to place these in the mid- dle, as a station less conspicuous than either the beginning or the end of the train of reasoning. In the third place, when our arguments are strong and satisfacto ry,the more they are distinguished and treated apartfrom each other, the better. Each can then bear to be brought out by itself, placed in its full light, amplified and rested upon. But when our arguments are doubtful, and only of the presumptive kind, it is safer to throw them together in a crowd, and to run them into one another: ments, what is next requisite for their success is, to express them ill such a style, and to deliver them in such a manner, as shall give them full force. On these heads I must refer the reader to the di- rections I have given in treating of style, in former lectures: and to the directions I am afterwards to give concerning pronunciation and delivery. I proceed, therefore, next, to another essential part of discourse, which I mentioned as the fifth in order, that is, the pathetic; in which, if any where, eloquence reigns, and exerts its power. I shall not, in beginning this head, take up time in combating the scruples of those who have moved a question, whether it be consistent with fairness and candour in a public speaker, to address the passions of his audience? This is a question about words alone, and which common sense easily determines. In inquiries after mere truth, in matters of simple information and instruction, there is no question that the passions have no concern, and that all attempts to move them are absurd. Wherever conviction is the object, it is the un- derstanding alone that is to be applied to. It is by argument and reasoning, that one man attempts to satisfy another of what is true, or right, or just; but if persuasion be the object, the case is chang- ed. In all that relates to practice, there is no man who seriously means to persuade another, but addresses himself to his passions more or less; for this plain reason, that passions are the great springs of human action. The most virtuous man, in treating of the most virtuous subject, seeks to touch the heart of him to whom he speaks; and makes no scruple to raise his indignation at injustice, or his pity to the distressed, though pity and indignation be passions. In treating of this part of eloquence, the ancients made the same sort of attempt as they employed with respect to the argumentative part, in order to bring rhetoric into a more perfect system. They inquired metaphysically into the nature of every passion ; they gave a definition, and a description of it; they treated of its causes, its effects, and its concomitants; and thence deduced rules for work- ing upon it. Aristotle in particular has, in his treatise upon rhe- toric, discussed the nature of the passions with much profoundness and subtilty ; and what he has written on that head, may be read with no small profit, as a valuable piece of moral philosophy; but whether it will have any effect in rendering an orator more pathetic, is to me doubtful. It is not, I am afraid, any philosophical knowledge of the passions, that can confer this talent. We must be indebted for *tto nature, to a certain strong and happy sensibility of mind; and one may be a most thorough adept in all the speculative knowledge that can be acquired concerning the passions, and I'emain, at the same time, a cold and dry speaker. The use of rules and instruc- lect mp.] OF A DISCOURSE. 359 tions on this, or any other part of oratory, is not to supply the want of genius, but to direct it where it is found, into its proper channel ; to assist it in exerting itself with most advantage, and to prevent the errors and extravagances into which it is sometimes apt to run. On the head of the pathetic, the following directions appear to me to be useful. The first is, to consider carefully, whether the subject admit the pathetic, and render it proper: and if it does, what part of the dis- course is the most proper for attempting it To determine these points belongs to good sense; for it is evident, that there are many subjects which admit not the pathetic at all, and that even in those that are susceptible of it, an attempt to excite the passions in the wrong place, may expose an orator to ridicule. All that can be said in general is, that if we expect any emotion which we raise to have a lasting effect, we must be careful to bring over to our side, in the first place, the understanding and judgment. The hearers must be convinced that there are good and sufficient grounds for their entering with warmth into the cause. They must be able to justify to themselves the 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 re- sume their ordinary tone of thought; and the emotion which he has raised will die entirely away. Hence mpst writers assign the pa- ihetie to the peroration, or conclusion, as its natural place; and, no doubt, all other things being equal, this is the impression that one would choose to make last, leaving the minds of the hearers warm- ed with the subject, after argument and reasoning had produced their full effect : but wherever it is introduced, I must advise, In the second place, never to set aparta head of a discourse in form, for raising any passion; never give warning that you are about to be pathetic ; and call upon your hearers, as is sometimes done, to follow you in the attempt. This almost never fails to prove a re frigerant to passion. It puts the hearers immediately on their guard and disposes them for criticising, much more than for being moved The indirect method of making an impression is likely to be more successful: when you seize the critical moment that is favourable to emotion, in whatever part of the discourse it occurs; and then, after due preparation, throw in such circumstances, and present such glowing images, as may kindle their passions before they are aware. This can often be done more happily, in a few sentences inspired by natural warmth, than in a long and studied address. In the third place, it is necessary to observe, that there is a great difference between showing the hearers that they ought to be mov- ed, and actually moving them. This distinction is not sufficiently attended to, especially by preachers, who, if they have a head in their sermon to show how much we are bound to be grateful to God, or to be compassionate to the distrest, are apt to imagine this to be x pathetic part. Now all the arguments you produce to show me, 360 THE PATHETIC PART [lect. xxxn why it is my duty, why it is reasonable and fit, that I should be moved in a certain way, go no farther than to dispose or prepare me for entering into such an emotion ; but they do not actually ex- cite it. To every emotion or passion, nature has adapted a set of corresponding objects; and, without setting these before the mind, it is not in the power of any orator to raise that emotion. I am warmed with gratitude, I am touched with compassion, not when a speaker shows me that these are noble dispositions, and that it is my duty to feel them; or when he exclaims against me for my in- difference and coldness. All this time, he is speaking only to my reason or conscience. He must describe the kindness and tender- ness of my friend; he must set before me the distress suffered by the person for whom he would interest me; then, and not till then, my heart begins to be touched, my gratitude or my compassion be- gins to flow. The foundation, therefore, of all successful execution in the way of pathetic oratory is, to paint the object of that passion which we wish to raise, in the most natural and striking manner; to describe it with such circumstances as are likely to awaken it in the minds of others. Every passion is most strongly excited by sensation; as anger, by the feeling of an injury, or the presence of the injurer. Next to the influence of sense, is that of memory ; and next to memory, is the influence of the imagination. Of this pow- er, therefore, the orator must avail himself, so as to strike the ima- gination of the hearers *vith circumstances which, in lustre and steadiness, resemble those of sensation and remembrance. In or- der to accomplish this, In the fourth place, the only effectual method is, to be moved yourselves. There are a thousand interesting circumstances sug- gested by real passion, which no art can imitate, and no refinement can supply. There is obviously a contagion among the passions, Ut ridentibus, arrident, sic flentibus adflent, Humani vultus. The internal emotion of the speaker adds a pathos to his words, his looks, his gestures, and his whole manner, which exerts a power almost irresistible over those who hear him.* But on this point, though the most material of all, I shall not now insist, as I have «ften had occasion before to show, that all attempts towards becom- ing pathetic, when we are not moved ourselves, expose us to cer- tain ridicule. Quintilian, who discourses upon this subject with much good sense, takes pains to inform us of the method which he used, when he was a public speaker, for entering into those passions which he wanted to excite in others ; setting before his own imagination what he calls, 'Phantasiae' or 'Visiones,' strong pictures of the distress * 'Quid enim aliud est causae ut lugentes, in recenti dolore. disertissime quffidam ex- clamave videantur; et ira nommquam in indoctis quoque eloquentiam faciat; quam quod illts inest vis mentis, et Veritas ipsa Morum ? quare in iis qua verisimilia esse vo- iumus, simus ipsi similes eorum qui vere patiunter affectibus: et a tali animo proficis- catur oratio qualem fatere judicem volet. Afficiamur antequam afficere conemur.' Quint. Lib. & lect.xxxii.J OF A DISCOURSE. 3 henceforth, it shall be my study to learn from you, how my own may be blessed. Happy, if warned by those gray hairs, ot the account which I must soon give of my ministry, I reserve, solely, for that flock whom I ought to feed with the word of life, the feeble remains of a voice which now trembles, and of an ardour which is now on the point of being extinct.'* In all discourses, it is a matter of importance to hit the precise time of concluding, so as to bring our discourse just to a point; neither ending abruptly and unexpectedly; nor disappointing the expectation of the hearers, when they look for the close, and con- * ' Agreez ces derniers efforts d'une voix que vous fat connue. Vous mettrez fin a tous ces discours. Au lieu de d6plorer la mort des autres, grand prince! dore- navant je veux apprendre de vous, a rendre la mienne sainte. Heureux, si averti par ces cheveux blancs, du compte que je dois rendre de mon administration je reserve au troupeau que je dois nourrir de la parole de vie, lcs restes d'une voix qui tombe, k. d'une arrleur qui s'eteint.' These are the last sentences of that oratior* : bu* the whole of the peroration, from thai passage, 'Venez peuples, venez maintenan*. kc. though it is too long for insertion, is a great master-piece of paihetic eloquence. LECT. XXX11.J QUESTIONS. 365 tinuing to hover round and round the conclusion, till they become heavtily tired of us. We should endeavour to go off with a good grace ; not to end with a languishing and drawling sentence ; but to close with dignity and spirit, that we may leave the minds of the hearers warm, and dismiss them with a favourable impression oi the subject, and of the speaker. Q,UESTIOXS. In treating of the constituent parts of a regular discourse, what have been considered 1 To what does our author next proceed ? From what, does it ap- pear that this is always of the greatest consequence ? Of what do reason and argument make the foundation ? With respect to argument, what three things are requisite? Of invention, what is observed ? Of art, what is remarked ; and why ? What was attempted by the ancient rhetoricians ; and what did they profess? Hence, what arose? Oi' these topics, or loci, what is observed ? What had they ? What were the com- mon, or general loci? For each of the different kinds of public speaking, what had they? How is this remark illus- trated ? Who were the first inventors ■>f this artificial system of oratory, and in the contrivance of their loci, what did they show ? Of succeeding rhetori- cians, what is observed ? At the same time, what is evident ? What did the loci supply; and what remark follows? Whence must what is truly solid and persuasive in >ratory be drawn; and what remark follows ? On this doctrine, what is farther remarked ; and to what sources are those referred who think that the knowledge of them may con- tribute to improve their invention ? But when are they advised to lay aside their common piaces, and to think closely on their subject? Of Demosthe- nes and Cicero, what is here observed ? To what does our author proceed ? What two different methods may be used by orators in the conduct of their reasoning? What is the analytic me- thod ? How are his hearers led on ? Of this method, Avhat illustration is given? With what method is this much the eame ; and of it, what is observed ? But, what remark follows ; and consequent- ly, what mode of reasoning is more ge- nerally used ? In all arguing, what is one of the first things to be attended to? In what situation should every speaker place himself; and why? What re- marks follow ? Supposing their argu- ments properly chosen, on what, is it evident, their effect, in some measure, will depend ? Concerning this, what is the first rule that may be taken ? All arguments are directed to prove one of what three things ; and what do these make ? Of the arguments directed to wards any one of these, what is re- marked ? Of this remark, what illus- tration is given ? In the second place, with regard to the different degrees oi strength in argument, what rule is given ? When, especially, is this to be the course ? What course may he then venture to pursue ? Why is not thk. rule to be always followed ? About in conclusive arguments, what does Cice ro advise ? Of arguments, in the third place, what is observed; and why? But when is it safer to throw them to- gether ? What says Quintilian on this, subject; and what example is given 1 Where have we a most beautiful ex- ample of the distinct amplification oi one persuasive argument ? From what is the argument taken? Repeat the manner in wnich it is conducted. Re- peat the passage. In the fourth place, against what must we guard ? What ef- fect does this have ? What, also, is to be observed? From what does this detract ? When a speaker dwells long on any favourite argument, what is the conse- quence? After due attention to the proper arrangements of arguments, what is the next requisite for their suc- cess ? On these heads, to what is the reader referred ? To what does our au- thor, therefore, next proceed ? In com- batting what scruples, will our author not, in beginning this head, take up time ; and why ? Where, is it evident, the passions have no concern ? What remark follows? What illustration of this remark is given? But why does 565 QUESTIONS. [LECT X3X1I me man who seriously intends to per- suade another, address himself to his passions ? How is this illustrated ? In treating of this part of eloquence, what attempt did the ancients make, and for what purpose 1 What order did they fol- ow ? What has Aristotle done ; and of t, what is observed ? What cannot confer this talent ; and to what must we be indebted for it ? With what attainment may one remain a cold and dry speak- er? What is the use of rules and in- structions on this, or any other part of oratory ? On the head of the pathetic, what is the first direction given ? Why does it belong to good sense to determine these points ? What is all that can, in gene- ral, be said ? Of what must the hearers be convinced ; and what may they be able to justify ? Unless their minds be brought into this state, what will be the consequence ? Hence, what place have most writers assigned to the pa- thetic ; and what remark follows ? In the second place, what does our author advise ? What is almost always the ef- fect of this ; and why ? What is the in- direct method of making an impression? How can this often be happily done ? In the third place, what is it necessary to observe ? By whom is this distinction not sufficiently attended to ; and of them, what is here observed ? How is this remark illustrated ? To every emo- tion, or passion, what has nature adapt- ed ; and what follows ? What illustra- tion of this remark follows? All this time he is speaking of what? When, only, does the heart begin to be touch- ed, and the gratitude and compassion begin to flow? What, therefore, is the foundation of all successful execution in the way of pathetic oratory? By what is every passion most strongly excited ; and what examples are given ? Why must the orator, therefore, avail himself if this power? To accomplish this, what, in the fourth place, is the only effectual method ; and why ? What is the effect of the internal emotion of the speaker? Why does our author not now insist on this point ? Of what does Quintilian take pains to inform us ; and what was it? To this method, what does he attribute; and of what can Jiere be no doubt ? In the fifth place, jo what is it necessary to attend? 'Vliat should we observe; and what shall we always find? Of this Ian guage, what is further remarked ; and why not? His mind being wholly seized by one object, which has fired it, what is the consequence? When must this be the style of the orator ; and when, in reality, will it be his style ; and what will be the consequence ? When wil! he touch the heart no more ; and what will his composition become ? Of what must we take notice ? How is this dif- ference illustrated ? In the sixth place, what must be avoided? Of what di- gressions should we beware ; and what beauties should Ave sacrifice ? Hence, of comparisons, what is observed ; and of what further should we beware? In the last place, what should we never attempt ; and why ? In what manner must we. however, study to make our retreat ? Above all things, of what must we beware? A due regard to what must we always preserve ; and what must we remember ? By endea- vouring to warm them too much, of what does he take the most effectual method? Having given these rules concerning the pathetic, what does our author do ? Whence is it taken ? Of this Gavius, what is related ; and also of the chief magistrate of Messina? How is the behaviour of Verres, on this occasion, described? Entering the fo- rum, what does he there direct, and what follows ? How does Cicero then proceed ? Of this passage, what is ob served ? In what manner does the ora- tor exaggerate Verres' cruelty still far- ther ? Of the address, hitherto, what is observed? But what must he needs do? Repeat what follows. What must we pronounce this to be ? What does every hearer immediately perceive ? What remark follows ? What part, only, now remains to be treated cf ? Concerning this, why is it needless to say much 1 How is this remark illustrated? What is the great rule of a conclusion ? In sermons, what make a common con elusion ? With regard to these, about what should care be taken ; and why? In this case, like what do they appeal I In what manner does the most eloquent of the French orators terminate his funeral oration on the great prince of Cond6 ? Repeat the passage. In the conclusion of all discourses, what is o matter of importance ? How should w? endeavour to go oft"; and not. to end i-. LECT. XXXIII.] QUESTIONS. 365 i what manner ? Why should we end • villi dignity and spirit % ANALYSIS" The argument of a discourse. a. The invention of arguments. b. The analytic and synthetic methods. Rules for the proper disposition of argu- ments. a. They should not be blended together. b. They should advance in the way of climax. c. If strong, they should be distinctly treated. d. They should not be extende 1 too far 2. The pathetic part of a discourse. • A. Discretion necessary in introducing it b. No part of the discourse should be sel apart for it. c. The speaker should actually affect the hearers. d. The speaker should be moved himself. e. The proper language of the passions should be attended to. F. Nothing foreign should be interwoven with it. g. It should not be too much prolonged. 3. Instances of the pathetic. LECTURE XXXIII. PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. Having treated of several general heads relating to eloquence, or public speaking, I now proceed to another very important part of the subject yet remaining, that is, the pronunciation, or delivery of a discourse. How much stress was laid upon this by the most elo- quent of all orators, Demosthenes, appears from a noted saying of his, related both by Cicero and Quintilian ; when being asked, what was the first point in oratory 1 he answered, delivery ; and being ask- ed, what was the second 1 and afterwards, what was the third 1 he still answered, delivery. There is no wonder that he should have rated this so high, and that for improving himself in it, he should have employed those assiduous and painful labours, which all the ancients take so much notice of; for, beyond doubt, nothing is of more im- portance. To superficial thinkers, the management of the voice and gesture, in public speaking, may appear to relate to decoration only, and to be one of the inferior arts of catching an audience. But this is far from being the case. It is intimately connected with what is, or ought to be, the end of all public speaking, persuasion ; and, therefore, deserves the study of the most grave and serious speakers, as much as of those whose only aim it is to please. For, let it be considered, whenever we address ourselves to others by words, our intention certainly is to make some impression on those to whom we speak : it is to convey to them our own ideas and emotions. Now, the tone of our voice, our looks and gestures, inter- pret our ideas and emotions no less than words do ; nay, the impres- sion they make on others, is frequently much stronger than any that words can make. We can see that an expressive look, or a passion- ate cry, unaccompanied by words, convey to others more forcible ideas, and rouses within them stronger passions, than can be com- municated by the most eloquent disccurse. The signification of our sentiments, made by tones and gestures, has this advantage above that made by words, that it is the language of nature. It is that method of interpreting our mind, which nature has dictated to alL and which is understood by all ; whereas, words are only arbitrary, conventional symbols of our ideas, and, by consequence, must make a more feeble impression. So true is this, that to render words fully significant, they must, almost in every case, receive some aid from 366 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [lect. xxxm the manner of pronunciation and delivery; and he who, in speaking should employ bare words, without enforcing them by proper tones and accents, would leave us with a faint and indistinct impression, often with a doubtful and ambiguous conception, of what he had de- livered. Nay, so close is the connexion between certain sentiments and the proper manner of pronouncing them, that he who does not pronounce them after that manner, can never persuade us, that he believes, or feels, the sentiments themselves. His delivery may be such, as to give the lie to all that he asserts. When Marcus Oalli- dius accused one of an attempt to poison him, but enforced his ac- cusation in a languid manner, and without any warmth or earnest- ness of delivery, Cicero, who pleaded for the accused person, im- proved this into an argument of the falsity of the charge, 'An tu, M. Callidi, nisi fingeres, sic ageres?' In Shakspeare's Richard II. the Duchess of York thus impeaches the sincerity of her husband : Pieads he in earnest ? — Look upon his face, His eyes do drop no tears ; his prayers are jest; i His words come from his mouth; ours, from our breast} He prays but faintly, and would be denied ; We pray with heart and soul. But I believe it is needless to say any more, in order to show the high importance of a good delivery. I proceed, therefore, to such observations as appear to me most useful to be made on this head. The great objects which every public speaker will naturally have in his eye in forming his delivery, are, first, to speak so as to be fully and easily understood by all who hear him; and next, to speak with grace and force, so as to please and to move his audience. Let us consider what is most important with respect to each of these.* In order to be fully and easily understood, the four chief requi- sites are, a due degree of loudness of voice, distinctness, slowness, and propriety of pronunciation. The first attention of every public speaker, doubtless, must be, to make himself be heard by all those to whom he speaks. He must endeavour to fill with his voice the space occupied by the assembly. This power of voice, it may be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It is so ijn a good measure ; but, however, may receive considera- ble assistance from art. Much depends for this purpose on the pro- per pitch, and management of the voice. Every man has three pitches in his voice; the high, the middle, and the low one. The high, is that which he uses in calling aloud to some one at a dis- tance. The low is, when he approaches to a whisper. The middle is, that which he employs in common conversation, and which he should generally use in public discourse. For it is a great mistake, to imagine that one must take the highest pitch of his voice, in order to be well heard by a great assembly. This is confounding two things which are different, loudness, or strength of sound, with the key it note on which we speak. A speaker may render his voice * On this whole subject, Mr. Sheridan's Lectures on Elocution are very worthy A being consulted; and several hints are here taken from them. lect. xxxin.] OF A DISCOURSE. 367 louder, without altering the key; and we shall always be able to give most body, most persevering force of sound, to that pitch of voice, to which in conversation we are accustomed. Whereas, by setting out on our highest pitch or key, we certainly allow ourselves less compass, and are likely to strain our voice before we have done. We shall fatigue ourselves, and speak with pain; and whenever a man speaks with pain to himself, he is always heard with pain by his audience. Give the voice, therefore, full strength and swell of sound ; but always pitch it on your ordinary speaking key. Make it a constant rule never to utter a greater quantity of voice, than you can afford without pain to yourselves, and without any extraordina- ry effort. As»long as you keep within these bounds, the other or- gans of speech will be at liberty to discharge their several offices with ease; and you will always have your voice under command. But whenever you transgress these bounds, you give up the reins, •»nd have no longer any management of it. It is an useful rule too, in order to be well heard, to fix our eye on some of the most distant persons in the assembly, and to consider ourselves as speaking to then.- We naturally and mechanically utter our words with such a degree of strength, as to make ourselves be heard by one to whom we address ourselves, provided he be within the reach of our voice. As this is the case in common conversation, it will hold also in pub- lic speaking. But remember, that in public as well as in conver- sation, it is possible to offend by speaking too loud. This extreme hurts the ear, by making the voice come upon it in rumbling indis- tinct masses ; besides its giving the speaker the disagreeable appear- ance of one who endeavours to compel assent, by mere vehemence and force of sound. In the next place, to being well heard and clearly understood, distinctness of articulation contributes more, perhaps, than mere loudness of sound. The quantity of sound necessary to fill even a large space, is smaller than is commonly imagined; and with dis- tinct articulation, a man of a weak voice will make it reach farther than the strongest voice can reach without it. To this, therefore, every public speaker ought to pay great attention. He must give every sound which he utters its due proportion, and make every syllable, and even every letter in the word which he pronounces, be heard distinctly; without slurring, whispering, or suppressing any of the proper sounds. In the third place, in order to articulate distinctly, moderation is requisite with regard to the speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy of speech confounds all articulation, and all meaning. I need scarcely observe, that there may be also an extreme on the opposite side. It is obvious that a lifeless, drawling pronunciation, which allows the minds of the hearers to be always outrunning the speak- er, must render every discourse insipid and fatiguing. But the ex- treme of speaking too fast is much more common, and requires the more to be guarded against, because, when it has grown up into a habit, few errors are more difficult to be corrected. To pronounce with a proper degree of slowness, and with a full and clear articula- 3G PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [lect. xxxiii lion, is the first thing to be studied by all who begin to speak in pub- lic; and cannot be too much recommended to them. Such a pronun- ciation gives weight and dignity to their discourse. It is a great assistance to the voice, by the pauses and rests which it allows it more easily to make; and it enables the speaker to swell all his sounds both with more force and more music. It assists him alsc in preserving a due command of himself; whereas a rapid and hur- ried manner is apt to excite that flutter of spirits, which is the great- est enemy to all right execution in the way of oratory. 'Promp- tum sit os,' says Quintilian, ' non pneceps, moderatum, non lentum.' After these fundamental attentions to the pitch and management of the voice, to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree of slow- ness of speech, what a public speaker must, in the fourth place, study, is propriety of pronunciation ; or the giving to every word which he utters, that sound which the most polite usage of the lan- guage appropriates to it; in opposition to broad, vulgar, or provin- cial pronunciation. This is requisite, both for speaking intelligibly, and for speaking with grace or beauty. Instructions concerning this article can be given by the living voice only. But there is one observation, which it may not be improper here to make. In the English language, every word which consists of more syllables than one, has one accented syllable. The accent rests sometimes on the vowel, sometimes on the consonant. Seldom, or never, is there more than one accented syllable in any English word, however long; and the genius of the language requires the voice to mark that syllable by a stronger percussion, and to pass more slightly over the rest. Now, after we have learned the proper seats of these accents, it is an important rule to give every word just the same accent in public speaking, as in common discourse. Many persons err in this respect. When they speak in public, and with solemnity, they pro- nounce the syllables in a different manner from what they do at other times. They dwell upon them, and protract them; they multiply accents on the same word ; from a mistaken notion, that it gives gravity and force to their discourse, and adds to the pomp of public declamation. Whereas, this is one of the greatest faults that can be committed in pronunciation; it makes what is called a theatrical, or mouthing manner; and gives an artificial, affected air to speech, which detracts greatly both from itsagreeableness,and its impression. I proceed to treat next of those higher parts of delivery, by study- ing which, a speaker has something farther in view than merely to render himself intelligible, and seeks to give grace and force to what he utters. These may be comprised under four heads, emphasis, pauses, tones, and gestures. Let me only premise, in general, to what I am to say concerning them, that attention to these articles of delivery, is by no means to be confined, as some might be apt to ima- gine, to the more elaborate and pathetic parts of a discourse. There is, perhaps, as great attention requisite, and as much skill display ed, in adapting emphasis, pauses, tones, and gestures, properly to calm and plain speaking; and the effect of a just and graceful de iECT. xxxiii.] OF A DISCOURSE. 369 livery will, in every part of a subject, be found of high importance for commanding attention, and enforcing what is spoken. First, let us consider emphasis ; by this, is meant a stronger and fuller sound of voice, by which we distinguish the accented syllable of some word, on whicn we design to lay particular stress, and to show how it affects the rest of the sentence. Sometimes the em- phatic word must be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as well as by a stronger accent. On the right management of the em- phasis, depend the whole life and spirit of every discourse. If no emphasis be placed on any words, not only is discourse rendered heavy and lifeless, but the meaning left of"^n ambiguous. If the emphasis be placed wrong, ve pervert and c nfound the meaning wholly. To give a common instance; such a simple question as this: 'Do you ride to town to-day?' is capable of no fewer than four different acceptations, according as the emphasis is differently placed on the words. If it be pronounced thus ; do you ride to town to-day ? the answer may naturally be, No : I send my servant in my stead. If thus; Do you ride to town to-day ? Answer, No; I intend to walk. Do you ride to town to-day? No; I ride out into the fields. Do you ride to town to-day? No; but I shall to-morrow. In like manner, in solemn discourse, the whole force and beauty ol an expression often depend on the accented word; and we may present to the hearers quite different views of the same sentiment, by placing the emphasis differently. In the following words of our Saviour, observe in what different lights the thought is placed, ac- cording as the words are pronounced, ' Judas, betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss?' Betrayest thou — makes the reproach turn, on the infamy of treachery. Betrayest thou — makes it rest, upon Ju- das's connexion with his master. Betrayest thou the Son of Man — rests it upon our Saviour's personal character and eminence. Be- trayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss? turns it upon his prosti- tuting the signal of peace and friendship, to the purpose of a mark pf destruction. In order to acquire the proper management of the emphasis, the great rule, and indeed the only rule possible to be given is, that the speaker study to attain a just conception of the force and spirit ot those sentiments which he is to pronounce. For, to lay the empha sis with exact propriety, is a constant exercise of good sense and at- tention. It is far from being an inconsiderable attainment. It is one of the greatest trials of a true and just taste ; and must arise from feeling delicately ourselves, and from judging accurately, of what is fittest to strike the feelings of others. There is as great a difference between a chapter of the Bible, or any other piece of plain prose, read by one who places the several emphasis every where with taste and judgment, and by one who neglects or mis- takes them, as there is between the same tune played by the most masterly hand, or by the most bungling performer. In all prepared discourses, it would be of great use, if they were read over or rehearsed in private, with this particular view, to search 47 370 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [lect. xxxiti tor the proper emphasis before they were pronounced in public, marking, at the same time, with a pen, the emphatical words in every sentence, or at least in the most weighty and affecting parts of a discourse, and fixing them well in memory. Were thisatten tion oftener bestowed, were this part of pronunciation studied with more exactness, and not left to the moment of delivery, as is com monly done, public speakers would find their care abundantly re paid, by the remarkable effects which it would produce upon their •udience. Let me caution, at the same time, against one error, that of multiplying emphatical words too much. It is only by a pru- dent reserve in the use of them, that we can give them any weight If they recur too often; if a speaker attempts to render every thing which he says of high importance, by a multitude of strong empha sis, we soon learn to pay little regard to them. To crowd every sentence with emphatical words, is like crowding all the pages of a book with italic characters, which, as to the effect, is just the same with using no such distinctions at all. Next to emphasis, the pauses in speaking demand attention These are of two kinds; first, emphatical pauses; and next, such as mark the distinctions of sense. An emphatical pause is made, after something has been said of peculiar moment, and on which we want to fix the hearer's attention. Sometimes, before such a thing is said, we usher it in with a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same effect, as a strong emphasis, and are subject to the same rules; especially to the caution just now given, of not repeating them too fre- quently. For as they excite uncommon attention, and of course raise expectation, if the importance of the matter be not fully answerable to such expectation, they occasion disappointment and disgust. But the most frequent and the principal use of the pauses, is to mark the divisions of the sense ; and at the same time to allow the speak- er to draw his breath ; and the proper and graceful adjustment of such pauses, is one of the most nice and difficult articles in delivery. In all public speaking the management of the breath requires a good deal of care, so as not to be obliged to divide words from one another, which have so intimate a connexion that they ought to be pronounced with the same breath, and without the least separation. Many a sentence is miserably mangled, and the force of the empha sis totally lost, by divisions being made in the wrong place. To tvoid this, every one, while he is speaking, should be very careful to provide a full supply of breath for what he is to utter. It is a great mistake to imagine, that the breath must be drawn only at the end of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be gathered at the intervals of the period, when the voice is only sus- pended for a moment; and by this management, one may have al- ways a sufficient stock for carrying on the longest sentence, with- out improper interruptions. If any one, in public speaking, shall have formed to himself a certain melody or tune, which requires rest and pauses of its own, dist ; nct from those of the sense, he has, undoubtedly, contracted cne of the worst habits into which a public speaker can fall. It is lect xxxiii.] OF A DISCOURSE. 371 the sense which should always rule the pauses of the voice; for wherever there is any sensible suspension of the voice, the hearer is always led to expect somewhat corresponding in the meaning. Pauses in public discourse, must be formed upon the manner in which we utter ourselves in ordinary, sensible conversation; and not upon the stiff, artificial manner, which we acquire from reading books according to the common punctuation. The general run of punctuation is very arbitrary; often capricious and false; and dic- tates an uniformity of tone in the pauses, which is extremely disa- greeable ; for we are to observe, that to render pauses graceful and expressive, they must not only be made in the right place, but also accompanied with a proper tone of voice, by which the nature of these pauses is intimated; much more than by the length of them, which can never be exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a slight and simple suspension of voice that is proper; sometimes a degree of cadence in the voice is required; and sometimes that peculiar tone and cadence, which denotes the sentence finished. In all these cases, we are to regulate ourselves, by attending to the manner in which nature teaches us to speak, when engaged in real and earnest discourse with others. When we are reading or reciting verse, there is a peculiar diffi- culty in making the pauses justly. The difficulty arises from the melody of the verse, which dictates to the ear pauses or rests of its own ; and to adjust and compound these properly with the pauses of the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor offend the understand- ing, is so very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we so seldom meet with good readers of poetry. There are two kinds of pauses that belong to the music of verse; one is, the pause at the end of the line; and the other, the csesural pause in the middle of it. With regard to the pause at the end of the line, which marks that strain or verse to be finished, rhyme renders this always sensible, and in some measure, compels us to observe it in our pronunciation. In blank verse, where there is a greater liberty permitted of running the lines into one another, sometimes without any suspension in the sense, it has been made a question, whether in reading such verse with propriety, any regard at all should be paid to the close of a line? On the stage, where the appearance of speaking in verse should always be avoided, there can, I think, be no doubt, that the close of such lines as make no pause in the sense, should not be rendered perceptible to the ear. But on other occasions, this were improper for what is the use of melody, or for what end has the poet compos- ed in verse, if in reading his lines, we suppress his numbers; and degrade them, by our pronunciation, into mere prose? We ought, therefore, certainly, to read blank verse so as to make every line sensible to the ear. At the same time, in doing so, every appeal ance of sing-song and tone must be carefully guarded against. The elose of the line, where it makes no pause in the meaning, ought to be marked, not by such a tone as is used in finishing a sentence; but without either letting the voice fall, or elevating it, it should be mark- 372 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [lect. xxxiu ed only by such a slight suspension of sound, as may distinguish tne passage from one line to another, without injuring the meaning The other kind of musical pause, is that which falls somewhere about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two hem i sticks : a pause, not so great as tbat which belongs to the close of the line, but still sensible to an ordinary ear. This, which is called the ccesu ral pause, in the French heroic verse, falls uniformly in the middle of the line. In the English, it may fall after the 4th, 5th, 6th, or 7th syllables in the line, and no other. Where the verse is so con- structed, that this caesural pause coincides with the slightest pause or division in the sense, the line can be read easily; as in the two first verses of Mr. Pope's Messiah, Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song; To heav'nly themes, sublimer strains belong. But if it should happen that words, which have such a strict and intimate connexion, as not to bear even a momentary separation, are divided from one another by this caesural pause, we then feel a sort of struggle between the sense and the sound, which renders it difficult to read such lines gracetully. The rule of proper pro- nunciation in such cases is, to regard only the pause which the sense forms, and to read the line accordingly. The neglect of the caesural pause, may make the lines sound somewhat unharmonious- ly; but the effect would be much worse, if the sense were sacrific- ed to the sound. For instance, in the following line of Milton, What in me is dark, Illumine ; what is low, raise and support. The sense clearly dictates the pause after 'illumine/ at the end of the third syllable, which, in reading, ought to be made accord- ingly; though, if the melody only were to be regarded, 'illumine' should be connected with what follows, and the pause not made till the fourth or sixth syllable. So, in the following line of Mr Pope's (Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot:) I sit, with sad civility I read. The ear plainly points out the caesural pause as falling after 'sad, the 4th syllable. But it would be very bad reading to make any pause there, so as to separate 'sad' and 'civility.' The sense ad- mits of no other pause than after the second syllable ' sit,' which therefore must be the only pause made in the reading. I proceed next to treat of tones in pronunciation, which are dif- ferent both from emphasis and pauses; consisting in the modulation of the voice, the notes or variations of sound which we employ in public speaking. How much of the propriety, the force and grace of discourse, must depend on these, will appear from this single consideration ; that to almost every sentiment we utter, more espe- cially to every strong emotion, nature hath adapted some peculiar tone of voice; insomuch, that he who should tell another that he was very angry, or much grieved, in a tone which did not suit such emotions, instead of being believed, would be laughed at. Sympathy is one of the most powerful principles by which persua- sive discourse works its effect. The speaker endeavours to transfuse. lect. xxxiii. ] OF A DISCOURSE. S73 into his hearers his own sentiments and emotions; which he car never be successful in doing, unless he utters them in such a man ner as to convince the hearers that he feels them.* The proper ex- pression of tones, therefore, deserves to be attentively studied by every one who would be a successful orator. The greatest and most material instruction which can be given for tins purpose is, to form the tones of public speaking upon the tones of sensible and animated conversation. We may observe that every man, when he is much in earnest in common discourse, when he is engaged in speaking on some subject which interests him nearly, has an eloquent or persuasive tone and manner. What is the reason of our being often so frigid and unpersuasive in public discourse, but our departing from the natural tone of speaking, and de'ivering ourselves in an affected, artificial manner? Nothing can be more absurd than to imagine, that as soon as one mounts a pul- pit, or rises in a public assembly, he is instantly to lay aside tbe voice with which he expresses himself in private ; to assume a new, stu- died tone, and a cadence altogether foreign to his natural manner. This has vitiated all delivery; this has given rise to cant and tedious monotony, in the different kinds of modern public speaking, espe- cially in tbe pulpit. Men departed from nature ; and sought to give a beauty or force, as they imagined, to their discourse, by substitut- ing certain studied musical tones, in the room of the genuine ex- pressions of sentiment, which the voice carries in natural discourse. Let every public speaker guard against this error. Whether he speak in a private room, or in a great assembly, let him remember that he still speaks. Follow nature: consider how she teaches you to utter any sentiment or feeling of your heart. Imagine a subject of debate starting in conversation among grave and wise men, and yourself bearing a share in it. Think after what manner, with what tones and inflexions of voice, you would on such an occasion express yourself, when you were most in earnest, and sought most to be lis tened to. Carry these with you to the bar, to the pulpit, or to any publie assembly; let these be the foundation of your manner of pronouncing there; and you will take the surest method of render- ing your delivery both agreeable and persuasive. I have said, let these conversation tones be the foundation of public pronunciation ; but on some occasions, solemn public speaking re- quires them to be exalted beyond the strain of common discourse. In a formal, studied oration, the elevation of the style, and the har- * i All that passes in the mind of man may be reduced to two classes, which [ call ltas and emotions. By ideas, I mean all thoughts which rise, and pass in succession in the mind. By emotions, all exertions of the mind in arranging, combining, and separating its ideas ; as well as all the effects produced on the mind itself by those ideas ; from the more violent agitation of the passions, to the calmer feelings produces' by the operation of the intellect and the fancy. In short, thought is the object of the one, internal feeling of the other. That which serves to express the former, I call the language of ideas ; and the latter, the language of emotions. Words are the signs of the one, tones of the other. Without the use of these two sorts of language, it is im- possible to communicate through the ear, all that passes in the mind of man.' Shekidan on the Art of Reading 374 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [lect. xxxni morjy of the sentences, prompt, almost necessarily, a modulation ol Voice mor.' ounded, and bordering more upon music, than conver- sation admits. This gives rise to what is called the declaiming man- ner. But though this mode of pronunciation runs considerably be- yond ordinary discourse, yet still it must have, for its basis, the natu- ral tones of grave and dignified conversation. I must observe, at the same time, that the constant indulgence of a declamatory man- ner, is not favourable either to good composition, or good delivery, and is in hazard of betraying public speakers into that monotony of tone and cadence, which is so generally complained of. Where- as, he who forms the general run of his delivery upon a speaking manner is not likely ever to become disagreeable through monoto- ny. He will have the same natural variety in his tones, which a person has in conversation. Indeed, the perfection of delivery requires both these different manners, that of speaking with live- liness and ease, and that of declaiming with stateliness and dignity, to be possessed by one man ; and to be employed by him, accord- ing as the different parts of his discourse require either the one or the other. This is a perfection which is not attained by many, the greatest part of public speakers allowing their delivery to be formed altogether accidentally, according as some turn of voice appears to them most beautiful, or some artificial model has caught their fan- cy; and acquiring, by this means, a habit of pronunciation, which they can never vary. But the capital direction, which ought never to be forgotten, is, to copy the proper tones for expressing every sentiment from those which nature dictates to us, in conversation with others ; to speak always with her voice ; and not to form to ourselves a fantastic public manner, from an absurd fancy of its be- ing more beautiful than a natural one.* It now remains to treat of gesture, or what is called action in pub- lic discourse. Some nations animate their words in common con- versation, with many more motions of the body than others do. The French and the Italians are, in this respect, much more sprightly thanweare. Butthere is no nation, hardly any person so phlegmatic, as not to accompany their words with some actions and gesticula- tions,on all occasions, when they are much in earnest. Itistherefore unnatural in a public speaker, it is inconsistent, with that earnestnes^ and seriousness which he ought to show in all affairs of moment, to remain quite unmoved in his outward appearance ; and to let the words drop from his mouth, without any expression of meaning, or warmth in his gesture. The fundamental rule, rs to propriety of action, is undoubtedly the same with what I gave as to propriety of tone. Attend to the * ' Loquere,' (says an author of the 16th century, who has written a Treatise in verse de Gestu, et Voce Oratoris,) ' Loquere; hoc vitium commune, loquatur Ut nemo; at tensa declamitet omnia voce. Tu loquere ; ut mos est hominum ; boat &, latrat ille f Ille ululat ; rudit hie ; (fari si talia digimm est) Non hominem vox ulla sonat ratione loquentera.' Jo4nnes Lucas, de Gestu et Voce, lib. II. Paris, 1675. lect. xxxiii.] OF A DISCOURSE. 375 looks and gestures, in which earnestness, indignation, compassion, or any other emotion, discovers itself to most advantage in the com mon intercourse of men ; and let these be your model. Some of these looks and gestures are common to all men; and there are also ertain peculiarities of manner which distinguish every individual. A public speaker must take that manner which is most natural to himself. For it is here just as in tones. It is not the business of a speaker to form to himself a certain set of motions and gestures, which he thinks most becoming and agreeable, and to practise these in public, without their having any correspondence to the man ner which is natural to him in private. His gestures and motions ought all to carry that kind of expression which nature has dictat- ed to him; and, unless this be the case, it is impossible, by means of any study, to avoid their appearing stiff and forced. However, although nature must be the groundwork, I admit, that there is room in this matter for some study and art. For many per- sons are naturally ungraceful in the motions which they make; and this ungracefulness might, in part at least, be reformed by applica- tion and care. The study of action in public speaking, consists chiefly in guarding against awkward and disagreeable motions ; and in learning to perform such as are natural to the speaker, in the most becoming manner. For this end, it has been advised by wri- ters on this subject, to practise before a mirror, where one may see and judge of his own gestures. But I am afraid persons are not always the best judges of the gracefulness of their own motions; and one may declaim long enough before a mirror, without correct- ing any of his faults. The judgment of a friend, whose good taste they can trust, will be found of much greater advantage to begin- ners, than any mirror they can use. With regard to particular rules concerning action and gesticulation, Quintilian has delivered a great many in the last chapter of the 11th book of his institutions; and all the modern writers on this subject have clone little else but translate them. I am not of opinion that such rules, delivered either by the voice, or on paper, can be of much use, unless persons saw them exemplified before their eyes.* * The few following hints only I shall adventure to throw out, in case they may be of any service. When speaking in public, one should study to preserve as much dig- nity as possible in the whole attitude of the body. An erect posture is generally to bi chosen ; standing firm, so as to have the fullest and freest command of all his motions; any incltnation which is used, should be forwards towards the hearers, which is a na- tural expression of earnestness. As for the countenance, the chief rule is, that it should correspond with the nature of the discourse ; and when no particular emotion is ex- pressed, a serious and manly look is always the best. The eyes should never be fixed "Jose on any one object, but move easily round the audience. In the motions made with the hands, consist the chief part of gesture in speaking. The ancients condemned all motions performed by the left hand alone; but I am not sensible that these are al- ways offensive, though it is natural for the right hand to be more frequently employed Warm emotions demand the motion of both hands corresponding together. But whethei one gesticulates with one or with both hands, it is an important rule, that all his motions should be free and easy. Narrow and straitened movements are generally ungra-^efu. lor which reason, motions made with the hands, are directed to proceed from the shoul- der, rather than from the elbow. Perpendicular movements too with the hands, that 3H S76 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY, [lect. xxxitz I shall only add further on this head, that in order to succeed well in delivery, nothing is more necessary than for a speaker to guard against a certain flutter of spirits, which is peculiarly incident to those who begin to speak in public. He must endeavour, above all things, to be collected, and master of himself. For this end, he will find nothing of more use to him, than to study to become wholly engaged in his subject; to be possessed with a sense of its importance or seriousness; to be concerned much more to persuade than to please. He will generally please most, when pleasing is not his sole nor chief aim. This is the only rational and proper method of raising one's self above that timid and bashful regard to an au- dience, which is so ready to disconcert a speaker, both as to what he is to say, and as to his manner of saying it. I cannot conclude, without an earnest admonition to guard against all affectation, which is the certain ruin of good delivery. Let your manner, whatever it is, be your own; neither imitated from an- other, nor assumed upon some imaginary model, which is unnatural to you. Whatever is native, even though accompanied with seve- ral defects, yet is likely to please: because it shows us a man; be- cause it has the appearance of coming from the heart. Whereas a delivery, attended with several acquired graces and beauties, if it be not easy and free, if it betray the marks of art and affectation, never fails to disgust. To attain any extremely correct, and per- fectly graceful delivery, is what few can expect; so many natural talents being requisite to concur in forming it. But to attain what as to the effect is very little inferior, a forcible and persuasive man- ner, is within the power of most persons; if they will only unlearn "alse and corrupt habits ; if they will allow themselves to follow na- ture, and will speak in public, as they do in private, when they speak in earnest, and from the heart. If one has naturally any gross de fects in his voice or gestures, he begins at the wrong end, if he at- tempts at reforming them only when he is to speak in public. He should begin with rectifying them in his private manner of speak- ing; and then carry to the public the right habit he has formed. For when a speaker is engaged in a public discourse, he should not be then employing his attention about his manner, or thinking of his tones and his gestures. If he be so employed, study and affecta- tion will appear. He ought to be then quite in earnest; wholly oc- cupied with his subject and his sentiments ; leaving nature, and previously formed habits, to prompt and suggest his manner of de- * livery. is, iii the straight line up and down, which Shakspeare in Hamlet calls 'sawing the air with the hand/ are seldom good. Oblique motions are, in general, the most graceful. Too sudden and nimble motions should be likewise avoided. Earnestness can be fully expressed without them. Shakspeare's directions on this head, are full of good sense ; use all gendy,' says he, ' and in the very torrent and tempest of passion, acquire a finperance that may give it smoothness.' (376 a ) QUESTIONS. Having treated of several general neads relating to eloquence, to what does our author now proceed 1 What evidence have we -hat Demosthenes laid great stress on this ? Of what is there no wonder ; and why ? To what may the management of the voice and gesture, in public speaking, appear to superficial thinkers, to relate? How does it appear that this is far from be- ing the case ? Whenever we address ourselves to others by words, what is our intention ? Of the tone of our voice, our looks and gestures, what is here ob- served ? What can we see ? What ad- vantage has the signification of senti- ments, made by tones and gestures, above that made by words ? So true is this, that to render words fully signifi- cant, what is requisite ; and what re- marks follow ? What two illustrations of these remarks are given ? Repeat them. As it is needless to say any more, in order to show the high impor- tance of a good delivery, to what does our author proceed ? What are the great objects which every public speak- er will naturally have in his eye, in forming his delivery? On this subject, what are worthy of being consulted ? In order to be fully and easily under- stood, what are the four chief requi- sites? What must, doubtless, be the first attention of every public speaker ; and what must he endeavour to do? Of this power of voice, what is remark- ed ? What three pitches has every man to his voice ; and define them ? To imagine what is a great mistake ? This is confounding what two different things? How is this fully illustrated? As long as you keep within these bounds, what will be the consequence? But what follows, when you transgress them ? What, also, is a useful rule in order to be well heard? How do we naturally, and mechanically, utter our words ? As this is the case, in common conversation, in what will it also hold ? But what must be remembered? In what manner does this extreme offend ? In the next place, of distinctness of ar- ticulation, what is observed? What re- mark follows? In orler to effect this, what must every public speaker do ? In the third place, in order to articulate distinctly, what is requisite ; and why ? What need scarcely be observed ? What must render every discourse in- feinid and fatiguing? But what extreme is much more common, and why should it be guarded against? What is the first thing to be studied by all who begin to speak in public; and of it, what is observed? In what manner, does it assist the voice ; and what does it enable the speaker to do? What other advantage has it ; and what fol- lows ? After these fundamental atten- tions to the pitch and management of the voice, &c. what, in the fourth place, must the speaker study ? For what is this requisite ? How, only, can instruction concerning this article, be given? But here, what observations may it be proper to make ? How do many persons err in this respect ? From what mistaken notion does this arise ? Whereas, what is the effect of this? To treat of what, does our author next proceed ? Under what four heads, may these be comprised ? To what is to be said concerning them, what is, in general, premised ? How is this illus- trated ? By emphasis, what is meant 7 How must the emphatic word some- times be distinguished ? On the right management of the emphasis, what depends? How is this illustrated? What simple rule is given ; and repeat it ? Of the same thing, in solemn discourse, what is observed ; and by what example is this illustrated ? In order to acquire the proper management of the emphasis, what is the great rule ; and why ? It is far from what ? Of what is it one of the greatest trials ; and from what must it arise? How is this illustrated? In all prepared discourses, what practice would be of great use ? Were this at- tention oftener bestowed, what would be the consequence? Against what, are speakers at the same time, caution- ed ? Why is this caution given ; and what remark follows ? To crowd every page with emphatic words, is like what? Next to emphasis, what demand atten- tion ? These are, of what two kinds ? When is an emphatic pause made ? What effect have such pauses ; and to what are they subject ? For what reason ? But what is the most frequent and principal use of the pauses; and of the proper and graceful adjustment of such pauses, what is observed ? Why does the management of the breath, in all public speaking, require a good deal of attention? By what, is many a sentence miserably mangled and the force of the empnasis totally 576 b QUESTIONS. [lect. xxxm .ost? In what manner may this be avoided ? What is a great mistake ; anc when may it be easily gathered? What is cine of the worst habits into which a oublic speaker can fall ? Why should the sense always rule the pauses of the voice? Upon what must pauses in public discourse be founded ? Of the general run of punctuation, what is ob- served ; and why ? How is this remark illustrated 1 In all these cases, how are we to regulate ourselves ? From what does the difficulty of reading poetry arise ? Why is it no wonder that we seldom meet with good readers of poetry ? What two kinds of pauses be- long to the music of verse ? With re- srard to the former, what is observed ? In blank verse, what has been made a question ? Of the reading of this verse on the stage, what is observed? But why were this improper on other oc- casions ? What, therefore, follows ? At the same time, what should be guard- ed against? How is this illustrated? Of the other kindsof musical pause what is observed? In French heroic verse, where does this pause fall ; and where may it fall in the English ? When can the line be read easily ; and what ex- ample is given? When do we feel a sort of struggling between the sense and the sound ; and what is its effect ? In such cases, what is the rule for pronuncia- tion? What remark follows; and by what example is it illustrated ? How is this principle further illustrated from a line of Mr. Pope's? To what does our author next proceed ; and of them what is observed ? From what consideration will the extent to which the propriety, force, and grace of discourse, depend on these, appear ? How is this remark illustrated ? What is the greatest, and most material instruction which can be given for this purpose? When has every man an eloquent or persuasive tone and manner ? What is the reason of our being often so frigid and unper- suasive in public discourse; and to ima- gine what, is an absurdity ? What has been the effect of this? How is this further illustrated ? Of these conver- sational tones, what has been said ? In a formal, studied oration, to what does the elevation of the style, and the har- nony of the sentences, almost necessa- rily prompt? To Avhat manner does this give rise ? Thouch this mode of pronunciation was considerably beyond oi-'inary discourse, yet what must it have for its basis? What, at the same lime, must be observed ? Whereas, what follows ? In tones, what variety will he have? What does the perfec- tion of delivery require? Why is not this perfection acquired by many ? But what is the direction which ought never to be forgotten ? It now remains to treat of what ? Of some nations, what is observed, and what instances are mentioned ? But what remark follows ? What is, therefore, unnatural and in- consistent in a public speaker? As to propriety of action, what is the funda- mental rule ? Of these look's and ges- tures, what is observed ? What man- ner must a public speaker take, and why ? What kind of expression o-jt they are inexcusable if they fail in it. Sallust's histories of the Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars, Xenophon's Cyropoedia, and his retreat of the ten thousand, are instances of particular histories, where the unity of historical narration is perfectly well maintained. Thucydides, otherwise a writer of great strength and dignity, has failed much, in this article, in his history of the Peloponnesian war. * Kifluxx fjiit yx^t/uoiyt S~ox.cv■* «V*«TOt yryovirc; S'tiiio/jiita. Tst fxtpn 3W /utvoi, vopigctiv ikxikc at/TOTTTa; ytyvt;8*t txc iv'^ytixt iiVToZ rx £a>-jv Ktl KstAAGVHC. u yig t/c dLwrix.*. fA-x\i truv&iU x.*l tiamoi *i-8ic etrt^y*t- *,««voc to £'-izv, nee ts tiSu S'i t« :t»k "lvx»t *»»■£«*•*« hikiti «z-st.\ii tTiS~iix.vjot re/f iLutcU txilvots, Tn^tm £v oi.um tsrivra.; xvrcut h t uo\oyiio-. iirirHfjUtY S'i *«) yvmuUV ClT^iKti t%UV dJlsVAT-JY Su itevlihtes @p*X v «»» &&&(tgl±t Kcti 0PaC (A'V&S «V T If i$ix.Cl]l> HAI fuDlitin HX.rOTrltUO'a.C 1M*. Xli Tt ytiviun wu Tt> tij>t»5», tx. rut irogiitf \aCs7v. Polyb. Histoi t'rim. j.ect xxxv.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 397 No one great object is properly pursued, and kept in view; but his narration is cut down into small pieces ; his history is divided by summers and winters; and we are every now and then leaving trans- actions unfinished, and are hurried from place to place, from Athens to Sicily, from thence to Peloponnesus, to Corcyra, to Mitylene, that we may be told of what is going on in all these places. We have a great many disjointed parts and scattered limbs, which with difficulty we collect into one body ; and through this faulty distribu- tion and management of his subject, that judicious historian becomes more tiresome, and less agreeable than he would otherwise be. For these reasons he is severely censured by one of the best critics of antiquity, Dionysius of Halicarnassus.* The historian must not indeed neglect chronological order, with a view to render his narration agreeable. He must give a distinct account of the dates, and of the coincidence of facts. But he is not under the necessity of breaking off always in the middle of transactions, in order to inform us of what was happening elsewhere at the same time. He discovers no art, if he cannot form some" con- nexion among the affairs which he relates, so as to introduce them in a proper train. He will soon tire the reader, if he goes on re- cording, in strict chronological order, a multitude of separate trans- actions, connected by nothing else, but their happening at the same time. Though the history of Herodotus be of greater compass than that of Thucydides, and comprehend a much greater variety of dissimilar parts, he has been more fortunate in joining them together; and digesting them into order. Hence he is a more pleasing writer, and gives a stronger impression of his subject; though, in judgment and * The censure which Diori3'siiis passes upon Thucydides, is, in several articles, carried too far. He blames him for the choice of his subject, as not sufficiently splendid and agreeable, and as abounding' too much in crimes and melancholy events, on which he observes that Thucydides loves to dwell. He is partial to Herodotus, whom, both for the choice and the conduct of his subject, he prefers to the other historian. It is true, that the subject of Thucydides wants the gay- ety and splendour of that of Herodotus; but it is not deficient in dignity. The Peloponnesian war was the contest between two great rival powers, the Athenian and Lacedemonian states, for the empire of Greece. Herodotus loves to dwell on prosperous incidents, and retains somewhat of the amusing manner of the ancient poetical historians; but Herodotus wrote to the imagination. Thucydides writes; to the understanding. He was a grave reflecting man, well acquainted with hu- man life ; and the melancholy events and catastrophes which he records, are often both the most interesting parts of history, and the most improving to the heart. The critic's observations on the faulty distribution which Thucydides makes of his subject, are better founded, and his preference of Herodotus in this respect is not unjust. — Oxx.vJ'iS'»t fjt.ii to/c ^gova/c v, 'HgceToi-oc »? x.m *KOAK&/iToc jroXAaiv \up x.*.to. to dvto 3^goc jc=ti ^waaivot ytyvu/uivvv ev Sinpcgiic tg7tok, Yi.untxu; Tag •argoTstc &'§»£«£ >taTa- UTlll, iTi5'(£V tfTTiTJI TM» KIT* TO BtUTO S'WC Itai ^Sf^OTi yiyVOUltUV. UlrKXVai/Ui^dL Jjr xa9«TSg iix.ce, mi JusKihui; tok fnM/xtvct; -crzgzx.o.Kx'jxu.iv \ Xyi/uCiCitKi QhuvMh /utzi uiroQUtv Ai&VT/ iroMa. iromtiti /ut^ti to ev irai/ui.. 'HgscToTO) $% rxe sroXXatc x.tl tsftv f»o- Kt//*c vTrcbiTUC cr^cs/\0|U£va), e-u/utceviv vt o-os/lhl iWi7roi»x.iv*l. — With regard to style, Dionysius gives Thucydides the just praise of energy and brevity; but censures him on many occasions, not without reason, for harsh and obscure expression, deficient in smoothness and ease. 398 QUESTIONS. [lect. xxxy accuracy, much inferior to Thucydides. With digressions and epi- sodes he abounds ; but when these have any connexion with the main subject, and are insert Q d professedly as episodes, the unity of the whole is less violated by them, than by a broken and scattered narration of the principal story. Among the moderns, the President Thuanus has, by attempting to make the history of his own times too comprehensive, fallen into the same error, of loading the reader with a great variety of unconnected facts, going on together in dif- ferent parts of the world ; an historian otherwise of great probity, candour, and excellent understanding ; but through this want of unity, more tedious, and less interesting, than he would otherwise have been. QUESTIONS. What has our author now finished ; and what has lie endeavoured to do ? What remains to be done ? Of this part of the work, what is observed ; but of what is our author sensible? What will he, therefore, study to do? What method will he here follow ? In former lectures, what has been done; and what remark follows? On what does our author think it necessary to make some observations, before he proceeds farther; and why? Why are these observations the more necessary; and why may they with propriety be made now? What is a remarkable phenomenon ? How is this illustrated ? What moral causes, for this, are obvi- ous ? But as these have been thought inadequate to the whole effect, what, also, have been assigned ; and what has been done by the Abbe du Bos? But, whatever the cause be, what fact is certain? How many of these happy ages have learned men marked out ? What is the first, when does it com- mence, and till what time does it ex- tend ? Within this period, whom have we ? What is the second ; and within I lie days of whom is it included? Whom does it afford us ? The third age is the restoration of learning-, under whom ; and in it, who flourished ? The fourth comprehends what age, and in it, who flourished in France, and in England ? Wher we speak comparatively of the ancients, and the moderns, what do we generally mean bv _ne ancients, and what t>y the moderns ? Why must any comparison between these two classes of writers, be vague and loose ? Upon ^vhat is the comparison generally made to turn ? Between whom, was it agi- tated with much heat, in France ? To this day, among men of taste, what do we find? What may, therefore, be the effect of a few reflections ? Whom may we boldly venture to tell, that he has come too late with his discovery ? Of the reputation of such writers, what is observed? What may he be able to point out in their works; and what may he show? But what remark follows? How is this illustrated ? Of matters of mere reasoning, what is remarked? Ac- cording to what, may positions that de- pend upon science, knowledge, and mat- ters of fact, be overturned ? For this reason, what follows; and what illustra- tion is given ? On what does taste de- pend ? Why is it vain to think of de- ceiving mankind here, as in matters of philosophy ? Of this remark, what illus- tiation is given? What is it also vain to allege? Of them, what is true? But how came they to gain possession of colleges and schools ? Of the Greek and Latin, what is observed ; and what fol- lows? To what are the classics not indebted for their fame; and in con- sequence of what, did they become classics? What evidence have we of this? From this general principle, what may we boldly and justly infer? Against what, however, must we guard? What remark follows? Whatever supeiiority the ancients may have had in point of genius, yet, in what, have the moderns some advantage? Koav may the world be considered ? To what have its im- provements not always been in pro- portion, and why? Yet, when rousei from this lethargy, what has follT ed? Some happy genius, arising <*. intervals, would do what? With the I.ECT. XXXV.] QUESTIONS. 398 a advantage of a proper stock of materi- als, what can an inferior genius do? Hence, in what have modern philoso- phers an unquestionable superiority over the ancients ? What is our author also inclined to think ; and to what, perhaps, is this owing ? Of some studies, that relate to taste, what is also ob- served? What instance is given? Why- are we better acquainted with the na- ture of government ? How is this illus- trated ? Of the more complex kinds of poetry, what is observed ; and what il- lustration is given ? Why do not these points of superiority, extend as far as might be imagined at first view ? To return to our former comparison, what, not without reason, may be said? What does this appear to ibrm ? Among the ancients, what do we find ; and what among the moderns ? How is this gene- ral remark to be understood ; and why ? What is it proper to observe, and what were they ? Under what circumstances did they return to their own country ? As their knowledge and improvements cost them more labour, what was the consequence? What illustrations fol- low ? Of these testimonies of public re- gard, what is observed ? In our times, how is good writing considered ; and what illustration is given? What cir- cumstances have contributed to spread a mediocrity of genius over all wri- ters? What is Sir William Temple : s opinion of the effect of the multitude of assistances which we have for all kinds of composition ? Repeat the pas- sage here introduced from him. Among the ancients, for what must we look ; and to the moderns, for what must we have recourse ? How do they compare in works of taste ; and how is this illustrated ? In history, what may safely be asserted ? Of the drama, ivhat is observed ; and of elegies, pastoral and lyric poetry, what is said ? What is remarked of the name of Horace ? What contributes to render him one of the very few authors whom one never tires of reading ; and of him, what is further observed ? To such as wish to form their taste, what is warmly re- commended; and for what reason? Who has great reason to suspect his 3wn taste ? And of what is our author persuaded? Who, only, undervalue them ? At the same time, from what is a just and high regard for the prime writers of antiquity, to be distinguifh- ed? What remarks follow? Why ought we, therefore, to read then, with a distinguishing eye? After these re- flections on the ancients and mod°rns, to what does our author proceed? What is the most general division of the dif- ferent kinds of composition ? Why do these require to be separately consider- ed ? With what does our author begin ; and of what has he already spoken ? What are the remaining species of prose compositions ; and what shall be first considered ? Of it, what is obser- ved ? What is the office of an historian? Of this object, what is remarked? As the primary end of history is to record truth, what are the fundamental quali- ties of an historian ? How is this illus- trated ? At the same time, what record of facts only, is entitled to the name of history ? Of the nature of the facts themselves, what is observed? What is the great end of history; and for what is it designed ? What remark fol- lows ? What is its object ; and whar must it not, therefore, be? What are essential characteristics of history ; anci what should not be employed ? What character must the writer sustain ? A . the same time, with what is historical information not inconsistent? What does it admit ; but of it, what is obser- ved ? What does historical composition comprehend ? Of these, what is re- marked? Histories, are of how many kinds ; and what are they ? In the con- duct and management of his subject, what is the first attention requisite in an historian ? Of the effect of this, what is observed; and what remark follows ? Where must this unity necessarily be less perfect? Yet, even there, how does it appear, that some decree of it can be preserved? How is this remark fully illustrated ? Of all the ancient general historians, who had the most exact idea of this quality of historical composition 1 From what does this appear: and in that account, what does he observe? Of this action, what does he say? In another place, on what doea he con- gratulate himself; and what does he remark ? Whereupon, he adds what ; and what comparison does he intro- duce? Of such as write the history of some particular great transaction, what is observed ? What are instances of par- ticular histories, where the unity oi historical narration is perfectly weil maintained? What are the remarks 398 b HISTORICAL WRITING. [iect. x&xvi. made on Thucydides' history of thej ANALYSIS. Peloponnesian war"? For these reasons, , , by whom is he severely censured? * The ancients and the moden.a roir-pared. ««t. . , . ii- x- I a. A remarkable phenomenon. With a view to render his narration B F our of these happy ages agreeable, what must not the historian neglect? Of what must he give a dis- tinct account? But what is he not under the necessity of doing? If he cannot do what, does he discover no art; and by what method will he soon tire the reader ? Of the history of Herodo- tus, what is. observed? Hence, what follows? With what does he abound; and what is said of them? Of the President Thuanus, and of the history of his own times, what is observed ? The fallacy of attempting' to riccry the ancient classics. D. A caution against an implicit venera- tion for them. e. Favourable circumstances ol ancient times. f. Good writing now, not so tEJIlCClt an attainment. a. The ancient classics recommended, 2. Historical writing. a. The office of an historian. a. Attention to unity. (a.) Instances of its observance- (b.) Instances of its violation. LECTURE XXXVI. HISTORICAL WRITING. After making some observations on the controversy which has been often carried on concerning the comparative merit of the ancients and the moderns, I entered, hi the last lecture, on the consi- deration of historical writing. The general idea of history is, a record of truth for the instruction of mankind. Hence arise the primary qualities required in a good historian, impartiality, fidelity, gravity, and dignity. What I principally considered, was the unity which belongs to this sort of composition ; the nature of which I have endeavoured to explain. I proceed next to observe, that in order to fulfil the end of history, the author must study to trace to their springs the actions and events which he records. Two things are especially necessary for his doing this successfully ; a thorough acquaintance with human nature, and political knowledge, or acquaintance with government. The former is necessary to account for the conduct of individuals, and to give just views of the character ; the latter, to account for the revolutions of government, and the operation of political causes on public affairs. Both must concur, in order to form a complete instructive historian. With regard to the latter article, political knowledge, the an- cient writers wanted some advantages which the moderns enjoy ; from whom, upon that account, we have a title to expect more accurate and precise information. The world, as I formerly hint- ed, was more shut up in ancient times, than it is now ; there was then less communication among neighbouring states, and, by con- sequence, less knowledge of one another's affairs ; no intercourse by establishing posts, or by ambassadors resident at different courts The knowledge and materials of the ancient historians, were thereby more limited and circumscribed ; and it is to be obser- ved too, that tl.ey wrote for their own countrymen only; thef tECT. xxxvi.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 399 had no idea of writing for the instruction of foreigners, whom they despised, or of the world in general ; and hence, they are .less attentive to convey all that knowledge with regard to domestic policy, which we, in distant times, would desire to have learned from them. Perhaps also, though in ancient ages men were abun- dantly animated with the love of liberty, yet the full extent of the influence of government, and of political causes, was not then so thoroughly scrutinized, as it has been in modern times ; when a lon- ger experience of allthe different modes of government, has rendered men more enlightened and intelligent, with respect to public affairs. To these reasons it is owing, that though the ancient historians set before us the particular facts which they relate, in a very dis- tinct and beautiful manner, yet sometimes they do not give us a clear view of all the political causes, which affected the situation of affairs of which they treat. From the Greek historians, we are able to form but an imperfect notion of the strength, the wealth, and the revenues of the different Grecian states ; of the causes of several of those revolutions that happened in their government; or of their separate connexions zrA interfering interests. In writing the history of the Romans, Livy had surely the most ample field for displaying political knowledge concerning the rise of their greatness, and the advantages or defects of their government. Yet the instruction of these important articles, which he affords, is not considerable. An elegant writer he is, and a beautiful re- lator of facts, if ever there was one; but by no means distinguish- ed for profoundness or penetration. Sallust, when writing the history of a conspiracy against the government, which ought to have been altogether a political history, has evidently attended more to the elegance of narration, and the painting of characters, than to the unfolding of secret causes and springs. Instead of that com- plete information, which we would naturally have expected from him of the state of parties in Rome, and of that particular conjunc- ture of affairs, which enable so desperate a profligate as Catiline to become so formidable to government, he has given us little more than a general declamatory account of the luxury and corruption of manners in that age, compared with the simplicity of former times. I by no means, however, mean to censure all the ancient histori- ans as defective in political information. No historians can be more instructive than Thucydides, Polybius, and Tacitus. Thucydides is grave, intelligent, and judicious ; always attentive to give very exact information concerning every operation which he relates; and to show the advantages or disadvantages of every plan that was propos- ed, and every measure that was pursued. Polybius excels in com- prehensive political views, in penetration into great systems, and in his profound and distinct knowledge of all military affairs. Taci- tus is eminent for his knowledge of the human heart; is sentimen- tal and refined in a high degree ; conveys much instruction with respect to political matters, but more with respect to human nature 400 HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect. xxxvt But when we demand from the historian profound and instructive riews of his subject, it is not meant that he should be frequently inter- rupting the course of his history, with his own reflections and specu- lations. He should give us all the information that is necessary for our fully understanding the affairs which he records. He should make us acquainted with the political constitution, the force, the re- venues, the interna] state of the country of which he writes; and with its interests and connexions in respect of neighbouring coun- tries He should place us, as on an elevated station, whence we may have an extensive prospect of all the causes that co-operate in bringing forward the events which are related. But having put into our hands all the proper materials for judgment, he should not be too prodigal of his own opinions and reasonings. When an histori- an is much given to dissertation, and is ready to philosophize and speculate on all the records, a suspicion naturally arises, that he will be in hazard of adapting his narrative of facts to favour some system which he has formed to himself. It is rather by fair and judicious narration that history should instruct us, than by deliver- ing instruction in an avowed and direct manner. On some occa- sions when doubtful points require to be scrutinized, or when some great event is in agitation, concerning the causes or circumstances of which mankind have been much divided, the narrative may be al- lowed to stand still for a little ; the historian may appear, and may with propriety enter into some weighty discussion. But he must take care not to cloy his readers with such discussions, by repeating them too often. When observations are to be made concerning human nature in general, or the peculiarities of certain characters, if the historian can artfully incorporate such observations with his narrative, they will have a better effect than when they are delivered as formal detach- ed reflections. For instance: in the life of Agricola, Tacitus, speak- ing of Domitian's treatment of Agricola, makes this observation : 'Propium humani ingenii est, odisse quern laeseris.'* The obser- vation is just and well applied ; but the form in which it stands, is abstract and philosophical. A thought of the same kind has a finer effect elsewhere in the same historian, when speaking of the jea- lousies which Germanicus knew to be entertained against him by Livia and Tiberius : ' Anxius,' says he, ' occultis in se patrui aviae- que odiis, quorum causae acriores quia iniquse.'t Here a profound moral observation is made; but it is made, without the appeal ance of making it in form ; it is introduced as a part of the narration, in assigning a reason for the anxiety of Germanicus. We have another instance of the same kind, in the account which he gives of a mutiny raised against Rufus, who was a 'Praefectus Castrorum/ on account of the severe labour which he imposed on the soldiers. 'Quippe Rufus, diu manipularis, dein centurio, mox castris praefectus, anti- • ' It belongs to human nature to hate the man whom you ha/e injured.' t ' Uneasy in his mind, on account of the concealed hatred ertertained against hi» by his uncle an^ grandmother, which was the more bitter.because the cause of it wu aniust' lect. xxxvi.] HISTORICAL WRITING 401 quam duramque militiam revocabat, vetus operis & laboris, et eo vmmitior quia toleraverat.'* There was room for turning this into a general observation, that they who have been educated and har- dened in toils, are commonly found to be the most severe in requir- ing the like toils from others. But the manner in which Tacitus in- troduces this sentiment as a stroke in the character of Rufus, gives it much more life and spirit. This historian has a particular talent of intermixing after this manner, with the course of his narrative, many striking sentiments and useful observations. Let us next proceed to consider the proper qualities of his torical narration. It is obvious, that on the manner of narration, much depends,as the first notion of history is the recital of past facts-, and how much one mode of recital may be preferable to another, we shall soon be convinced, by thinking of the different effects which the same story, when told by two different persons, is found to produce. The first virtue of historical narration, is clearness, order, and due connexion. To attain this, the historian must be completely master of his subject; he must see the whole as at one view; and comprehend the chain and dependence of all its parts, that he may introduce every thing in its proper place; that he may lead us smoothly along the track of affairs which are recorded, and may always give us the satisfaction of seeing how one event arises out of another. Without this, there can be neither pleasure nor instruc- tion, in reading history. Much for this end will depend on the observance of that unity in the general plan and conduct, which, in the preceding lecture, I recommended. Much too will depend on 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. Nothing tries an historian's abilities more, than so to lay his train beforehand, as to make us pass naturally and agree- ably from one part of his subject to another; to employ no clumsy and awkward junctures; and to contrive ways and means of form- ing some union among transactions, which seem to be most widely separated from one another. In the next place, as history is a very dignified species of com- position, gravity must always be maintained in the narration. There must be no meanness nor vulgarity in the style; no quaint nor col- loquial phrases; no affectation of pertness, or of wit. The smart, or the sneering manner of telling a story, is inconsistent with the historical character. I do not say, that an historian is never to let himself down. He may sometimes do it with propriety, in order to diversify the strain of his narration, which, if it be perfectly uni- form, is apt to become tiresome. But he should be careful nevei to descend too far; and, on occasions where a light or ludicrous mecdote is proper to be recorded, it is generally better to throw * « For Rufus. who bad long been a common soldier, afterwards a centurion, and al Jjp.r-lh a i;eijeral officer, restored the severe military discipline of ancient tunes Crown oi-f amidst toils and labours, he was more rigid in imposing them, because hr fcn-J been accustomed a bear them.' 3M 51 402 HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect. xxxvi. it into a note, than to hazard becoming too familiar, by introducing it into the body of the work. But an historian may possess these qualities of being perspi- cuous, distinct, and grave, and may notwithstanding be a dull writer ; in which case, we shall reap little benefit from his labours. We shall read him without pleasure ; or, most probably, we shall soon give over reading him at all. He must therefore study to ren der his narration interesting; which is the quality that ckiefiy dis tinguishes a writer of genius and eloquence. Two things are especially conducive to this; the first is, a just medium in the conduct of narration, between a rapid or crowded recital of facts, and a prolix detail. The former embarrasses, and the latter tires us. An historian that would interest us, must know when to be concise, and where he ought to enlarge ; passing con- cisely over slight and unimportant events, but dwelling on such as are striking and considerable in their nature, or pregnant with con- sequences ; preparing beforehand our attention to them, and bring- ing them forth into the most full and conspicuous light. The next thing he must attend to, is a proper selection of the circum- stances belonging to those events which he chooses to relate fully. General facts make a slight impression on the mind. It is by means of circumstances and particulars properly chosen, that a narration becomes interesting and affecting to the reader. These give life, body, and colouring, to the recital of facts, and enable us to behold them as present, and passing before our eyes. It is this employment of circumstances, in narration, that is properly termed historical painting. In all these virtues of narration, particularly in this last, of pic- turesque descriptive narration, several of the ancient historians emi- nently excel. Hence, the pleasure that is found in reading Herodo- tus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Livy, Sallust, and Tacitus. They are all conspicuous for the art of narration. Herodotus is, at all times, an agreeable writer, and relates every thing with that naivete and si mplicity of manner, which never fails to interest the reader. Though the manner of Thucydides be more dry and harsh, yet, on great oc- casions, as when he is giving an account of the plague of Athens, the siege of Platsea, the sedition in Corcyra, the defeat of the Athe- nians in Sicily, he displays a very strong and masterly power of de- scription. Xenophon's Cyropsedia, and his Anabasis, or Retreat of the Ten Thousand, are extremely beautiful. The circumstances are finely selected, and the narration is easy and engaging ; but his Hellenics, or Continuation of the History of Thucydides, is a much inferior work. Sallust's Art of Historical Painting, in his Catilina- rian, but, more especially, in hi^ jugurthine War, is well known; though his style is liable to censure, as too studied and affected. Livy is more unexceptionable in his manner, and is excelled by no historian whatever in the art of narration : several remarkable- examples might be given from him. His account, for instance, o[ the famous defeat of the Roman army by the Samnites, at the Fur- lect. xxxvi.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 403 C3e Caudinae, in the beginning of the ninth book, affords one of the most beautiful exemplifications of historical painting that is any where to be met with. We have,first, an exact description of the narrow pass between two mountains, into which the enemy had de- coyed the Romans. When they find themselves caught, and no hope of escape left, we are made to see, first, their astonishment, next their indignation, and then, their dejection, painted in the most lively manner, by such circumstances and actions as were natural to persons in their situation. The restless and unquiet manner in which they pass the night 3 the consultations of the Samnites ; the various measures proposed to be taken ; the messages between the two armies, all heighten the scene. At length, in the morning, the consuls return to the camp, and inform them that they could receive no other terms but that of surrendering their arms, and passing un- der the yoke, which was considered as the last mark of ignominy for a conquered army. Part of what then follows, I shall give in the author's own words. ' Redintegravit luctum in castris consulum adventus; ut vix ab iis abstinerentmanus, quorum temeritate in eum locum deducti essent. Alii alios intueri, contemplari arma mox tra- denda, &. inermes futuras dextras; proponere sibimet ipsi ante ocu- los, jugum hostile, et ludibria victoris, et vultus superbos, et per ar- matos inermium iter. Inde faedi agminis miserabilem viam; per sociorum urbes reditum in patriam ac parentes quo saspe ipsi trium phantes venissent. Se solos sine vulnere, sine ferro, sine acie vie los; sibi non stringere licuisse gladios, non manum cum hoste conserere j sibi nequicquam arma, nequicquam vires, nequicquam animos datos. Hsec frementibus, hora fatalis ignominice adve- tiit. Jamprimum cum singulis vestimentis, inermes extra vallum abirejussi. Turn a consulibus abire lictores jussi, paludamentaque detracta. Tantam hoc inter ipsos, qui paulo ante eos dedendos, la- cerandosque censuerant, miserationem fecit, ut, suas quisque conditio nis oblitus, ab ilia deformatione tantse majestatis velut ab nefando spectaculo, averteret oculos. Primi consules, prope seminudi, sub jugum missi,'* &c. The rest of the story,which it would be too long * ' The arrival of the consuls in the camp, wrought up their passions to such a de- gree, that they could scarcely abstain from laying violent hands on them, as by their rashness they had been brought into this situation. They began to look on one another ; to cast a melancholy eye on their arms, which were now to be surren- dered, and on their right hands, which were to become defenceless. The yoke under which they were to pass ; the scoffs of the conquerors ; and their haughty looks, when disarmed and stripped, they should be led through the hostile lines ; a!l rose before their eyes. They then looked forward to the sad journey which awaited them, when they were to pass as a vanquished and disgraced army through the territories of their allies, by whom they had often been beheld returning in triumph to their families and native land. They alone, they muttered to one another, without an engagement, without a single blow, had been conquered. To their hard fate it fell, never to have had it in their power to draw a sword, or to look an enemy in the face; to them only, arms, strength, and courage, had been given in vain. While they were thus giving vent to their indignation, the fatal moment of their ignominy arrived. First, they are commanded to come forth from the camp, vniliout armour, and in a single garment. Next, orders were given, that the consuls should be left without their lictors, and that they should 0* stripped of their robes. Such commiseration did this affront excite amonj? them, who, but a little before, had been for delivering up those very consuls to #04 HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect xxxvj. to insert, is carried on with the same beauty, and full of picturesque circumstances.* Tacitus is another author eminent for historical painting, though in a manner altogether different from that of Livy. Livy's descrip- tions are more full, more plain, and natural; those of Tacitus con- sist in a few bold strokes. He selects one or two remarkable cir- cumstances, and sets them before us in a strong, and, generally, in a new and uncommon light. Such is the following picture of the situation of Rome, and of the emperor Galba, when Otho was advancing against him: 'Agebatur hue illuc Galba, vario turbae fluctuantis impulsu, completis undique basilicis et templis, lugubri prospectu. Neque populi aut plebis ulla vox; sed attoniti vultus, et conversse ad omnia aures. Non tumultus. non quies; sed quale magni metus, et magnae irae, silentium est.'t No image, in any po- et, is more strong and expressive than this last stroke of the descrip- tion : ' Non tumultus, non quies, sed quale,' &c. This is a concep- tion of the sublime kind, and discovers high genius. Indeed, through- out all his work, Tacitus shows the hand of a master. As he is profound in reflection, so he is striking in description, and pathetic in sentiment. The. philosopher, the poet, and the historian, all meet in him. Though the period of which he writes may be reck oned unfortunate for an historian, he has made it afford us many in- teresting exhibitions of human nature. The relations which he gives of the deaths of several eminent personages, are as affecting as the deepest tragedies. He paints with a glowing pencil ; and possesses, beyond all writers, the talent of painting, not to the ima- gination merely, but to the heart. With many of the most distin- the enemy, and for putting them to death, that everyone forgot his own condition;- and turned his eyes aside from this infamous disgrace, suffered by the consular dig- nity, as from a spectacle which was too detestable to be beheld. The consuls, almost half naked, were first made to pass under the yoke,'&.c. * The description which Casar gives of the consternation occasioned in his camp, by the accounts which were spread among his troops, of the ferocity, the size, and the courage of the Germans, affords an instance of historical painting, executed in a simple manner ; and, at the same time, exhibiting a natural and lively scene. ' Dum paucos dies ad Vesontionem moratur, ex percunctatione nos trorum, vocibusque Gallorum ac mercatorum, qui ingenti magnitudine corporum Germanos, incredibili virtute, atque exercitatione in armis esse praedicabar.t , ssepe numero sese cum iis congressos, ne vultum quidem atque aciem oculorum ferre potuisse ; tantus subito terror omnem exercitum occupavit, ut non medio- criter omnium mentes animosque perturbaret. Hie primum ortus est a tribunis militum, ac prsfectis, reliquisque qui ex urbe, amicitis causa, Casarem secuti, suum periculum miserabantur, quod non magnum in re militari usum habebant- quorum alius, alia causa illata quam sibi ad proficiscendum necessariam esse dice ret, pctebat ut ejus voluntate discedere liceret. Nonnulli pudore adducti, ut timo ris suspicionem vitarent, remanebant. Hi neque vultum fingere, neque interdum lacrymas tenere poterant. Abd'.ti in tabernaculis, aut suum fatum querebantur, aut cum familiaribus suis, commune periculum miserabantur. Vulgo, totis castris tes tamenta obsignabantur.' De Bell Gall. L. I. f ' Galba was driven to and fro by the tide of the multitude, shoving him from place to place. The temples and public buildings were fdled with crowds, of a dis- mal appearance. No clamours were heard, either from the citizens, or from the rab- ble. Their countenances were filled with consternation: their ears were employed *n listening w ith anxiety. It was not a tumult ; it was not quietness : it was the silence \rf terror, and of wrath.' «5CT. xxxvi.J HISTORICAL WRITING 405 guished beauties, he is, at the same time, not a perfect model for nistory, and such as have formed themselves upon him, have seldom been successful. He is to be admired, rather than imitated. In his reflections he is too refined; in his style, too concise, sometimes quaint and affected, often abrupt and obscure. History seems to re quire a more natural, flowing, and popular manner. The ancients employed one embellishment of history which th moderns have laid aside; I mean orations, which. on weighty occa sions, they put into the mouths of some of their chief personages. By means of these, they diversified their history; they conveyed both moral and political instruction; and, by the opposite arguments which were employed, they gave us a view of the sentiments of dif- ferent parties. Thucydides was the first who introduced this me- thod. The orations with which his history abounds, and those of some other Greek and Latin historians, are among the most valu- able remains which we have of ancient eloquence. How beautiful soever they are, it may be much questioned, I think, whether they find a proper place in history. I am rather inclined to think, that they are unsuitable to it; for they form a mixture which is unnatural in history, of fiction with truth. We know that these orations are en tirely 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 deliver ing his own sentiments, under the name of that person. This is & sort of poetical liberty which does not suit the gravity of history, throughout which an air of the strictest truth should always reign. Orations may be an embellishment to history; such might also po- etical compositions be, introduced under the name of some of the personages mentioned in the narration, who were known to have possessed poetical talents. But neither the one nor the other, finds a proper place in history. Instead of inserting formal orations, the method adopted by later writers seams better and more natural; that of the historian, on some great occasion, delivering, in his own person, the sentiments and reasonings of the opposite parties, or the substance of what was understood to be spoken in some public as- sembly ; which he may do without the liberty of fiction. The drawing of characters is one of the most splendid, and, at the same time, one of the most difficult ornaments of historical composi tion. For characters are generally considered, as professed exhibi tions of fine writing; and an historian, who seeks to shine in them, i<* frequently in danger of carrying refinement to excess, from a desire of appearing very profound and penetrating. He brings together so many contrasts, and subtile oppositions of qualities, that we are rather dazzled with sparkling expressions, than entertained with any clear conception of a human character. A writer who would cha- racterize in an instructive and masterly manner, should be simple in his stvle, and should avoid all quaintness and affectation: at the same time, not contenting himself with giving us general outlines only, but descending into those peculiarities which mark a charac ter,in its most strong and distinctive features. The Greek historians 406 HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect. xxxvi sometimes give eulogiums, but rarely draw full and professed cha- racters. The two ancient authors who have laboured this part of historical composition most, are Sallust and Tacitus. As history is a species of writing designed for the instruction of mankind, sound morality should always reign in it. Both in describ- ing characters, and in relating transactions, the author should al ways show himself to be on the side of virtue. To deliver moral instruction in a formal manner, falls not within his province ; but both as a good man, and as a good writer, we expect that he should discover sentiments of respect for virtue, and an indignation at fla- grant vice. To appear neutral and indifferent with respect to good and bad characters, and to effect a crafty and political, rather than a moral turn of thought, will, besides other bad effects, derogate great- ly from the weight of historical composition, and will render the strain of it much more cold and uninteresting. We are always most interested in the transactions which are going on, when our sympa thy is awakened by the story, and when we become engaged in the fate of the actors. But this effect can never be produced by a wri- ter, who is deficient in sensibility and moral feeling. As the observations which I have hitherto made, have mostly re spected the ancient historians, it may naturally be expected that I should also take some notice of the moderns who have excelled in this kind of writing. The country in Europe, where the historical genius has, in later ages, shone forth with most lustre, beyond doubt, is Italy. The na- tional character of the Italians seems favourable to it. They were always distinguished as an acute, penetrating, reflecting people, re- markable for political sagacity and wisdom, and who early addicted themselves to the arts of writing. Accordingly, soon after the res- toration of letters, Machiavel, Guicciardin, Davila, Bentivoglio, Fa- ther Paul, became highly conspicuous for historical merit. They all appear to have conceived very just ideas of history ; and are agreeable, instructive, and interesting writers. In their manner of narration, they are formed upon the ancients; some of them, as Bentivoglio and Guicciardin, have, in imitation of them, introduc- ed orations into their history. In the profoundness and distinctness of their political views, they may, perhaps, be esteemed to have sur- passed the ancients. Critics have, at the same time, observed some imperfections in each of them. Machiavel, in his history of Flo- rence, is not altogether so interesting as one would expect an author of his abilities to be; either through his own defect, or through some unhappiness in his subject, which led him into a very minute detail of the intrigues of one city. Guicciardin, at all times sensible and profound, is taxed for dwelling so long on the Tuscan affairs as to be sometimes tedious; a defect which is also imputed occasional- ly to the judicious Father Paul. Bentivoglio, in his excellent his- tory of the wars of Flanders, is accused of approaching to the florid and pompous manner; and Davila, though one of the most agree- able and entertaining relaters, has manifestly this defect of spreading * sort of uniformity overall his characters, by ^presenting them as lect. xxxvi.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 407 guided too regularly by political interest. But although some objections may be made to these authors, they deserve, upon the whole, to be placed in the first rank of modern historical writers The wars of Flanders, written in Latin by Famianus Strada, :p a book of some note ; but is not entitled to the same reputation as t>« works of the other historians I have named. Strada is too violently partial to the Spanish c mse; and too open a panegyrist of the Prince of Parma. He is florid, diffuse, and an affected imitator of the man- ner and style of Livy. Among the French, as there has been much good writing in many kinds, so also in the historical. That ingenious nation who have done so much honour to modern literature, possess, in an eminent degree, the talent of narration. Many of their later his- torical writers are spirited, lively, and agreeable; and some of them not deficient in profoundness and penetration. They have not, however, produced any such capital historians as the Italians, whom I mentioned above. Our island, till within these few years,' was not eminent for its historical productions. Early, indeed, Scotland made some figure by means of the celebrated Buchanan. He is an elegant writer, classical in his Latinity, and agreeable both in narration and description. But one cannot but suspect him to be more at- tentive to elegance than to accuracy. Accustomed to form his poll tical notions wholly upon the plans of ancient governments, the feudal system seems never to have entered into his thoughts; and as this was the basis of the Scottish constitution, his political views are, of course, inaccurate and imperfect. When he comes to the transactions of his own times, there is such a change in his manner of writing, and such an asperity in his style, that, on what side soever the truth lies with regard to those dubious and long controvert- ed facts which make the subject of that part of his work, it is im- possible to clear him from being deeply tinctured with the spirit of party. Among the older English historians, the most considerable is Lord Clarendon. Though he writes as the professed apologist of one side, yet there appears more impartiality in his relation of facts, than might at first be expected. A great spirit of virtue and probity runs through his work. He maintains all the dignity of an historian. His sentences, indeed, are often too long, and his general manner is prolix; but his style, on the whole, is manly; and his merit, as an historian, is much beyond mediocrity. Bishop Burnet is lively and perspicuous; but he has hardly any other historical merit His style is too careless and familiar for history; his characters are, indeed, marked with a bold and strong hai:d; but they are generally light and satirical ; and he abounds so much in little stories concern- nig himself, that he resembles more a writer of memoirs than of history. During a long period, English historical authors seeme^ to aim at nothing higher than an exact relation of facts; till of late the distinguished names of Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon, have raised 4u» HISTORICAL WRITING. [lect. xxxn the British character, in this species of writing, to high reputation and dignity. 1 observed, in the preceding lecture, that annals, memoirs, and fives, are the inferior kinds of historical composition. It will be proper, before dismissing this subject, to make a few observations upon them. Annals are commonly understood to signify a col- lection of facts, digested according to chronological order; rather serving for the materials of history, than aspiring to the name of history themselves. All that is required, therefore, in a writer of such annals, is to be faithful, distinct, and complete. Memoirs denote a sort of composition, in which an author does not pretend to give full information of all the facts respecting the period of which he writes, but only to relate what he himself had access to know, or what he was concerned in, or what illustrates the conduct of some person, or the circumstances of some trans- action, which he chooses for his subject. From a writer of me- moirs, therefore, is not expected the same profound research, or enlarged information, as from a writer of history. He is not subject to the same laws of unvarying dignity and gravity. He may talk freely of himself; he may descend into the most familiar anec- dotes. What is chiefly required of him is, that he be sprightly and interesting; and especially, that he inform us of things that are useful and curious ; that he convey to us some sort of know- ledge worth the acquiring. This is a species of writing very be- witching to such as love to write concerning themselves, and con- ceive every transaction, in which they had a share, to be of singu- lar importance. There is no wonder, therefore, that a nation so sprightly as the French, should, for two centuries past, have been pouring forth a whole flood of memoirs ; the greatest part of which are little more than agreeable trifles. Some, however, must be excepted from this general character: two in particular; the memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz, and those of the Duke of Sully. From Retz's Memoirs, besides the pleasure of agreeable and lively narration, we may derive also instruc- tion, and much knowledge of human nature. Though his poli- tics be often too fine spun, yet the memoirs of a professed fac- tious leader, such as the Cardinal was, wherein he draws both his own character, and that of several great personages of his time, so fully, cannot be read by any person of good sense without benefit. The Memoirs of the Duke of Sully, in the state in which they aie now given to the public, have great merit, and deserve to be mentioned with particular praise. No memoirs approach more nearly to the usefulness and the dignity of full legitimate history. They have this peculiar advantage, of giving us a beautiful dis- play of two of the most illustrious characters which history pre- sents ; Sully himself, one of the ablest and most incorrupt ministers, and Henry IV. one of the greatest and most amiable princes of modern times. I know kxv books more full of virtue, and of good tense, thanSully'sMemoirs; few, therefore, more proper to form both lect xxxvi.] HISTORICAL WRITING. 409 the heads and the hearts of such as are designed for public business, and action, in the world. Biography, or the writing of lives, is a very useful kind of com- position, less formal and stately than history ; but to the bulk of readers, perhaps, no less instructive,, as it affords them the opportu- nity of seeing the characters and tempers, the virtues and failings of eminent men fully displayed ; and admits them into a more tho- rough and intimate acquaintance with such persons, than history ge- nerally allows; for a writer of lives may descend, with propriety, to minute circumstances, and familiar incidents. It is expected of him, that he is to give the private, as well as the public life, of the person whose actions he records ; nay, it is from private life, from familiar, domestic, and seemingly trivial occurrences, that we often receive most light into the real character. In this species of writing, Plutarch has no small merit; and to him we stand indebted for much of the knowledge that we possess, concerning several of the most eminent personages of antiquity. His matter is, indeed, better than his manner; as he cannot lay claim to any peculiar beauty or ele- gance. His judgment too, and his accuracy, have sometimes been tax- ed : but whatever defects of this kind he may be liable to, his Lives of Eminent Men will always be considered as a valuable treasure of instruction. He is remarkable for being one of the most humane wri- ters of all antiquity ; less dazzled than many of them are, with the exploits of valour and ambition ; and fond of displaying his great men to us, in the more gentle lights of retirement and private life. I cannot conclude the subject of history, without taking notice of $. very great improvement which has, of late years, begun to be in- troduced into historical composition ; I mean a more particular at- tention than was formerly given to laws, customs, commerce, reli- gion, literature, and every other thing that tends to show the spirit and genius of nations. It is now understood to be the business of an able historian to exhibit manners, as well as facts and events ; and assuredly, whatever displays the state and life of mankind, in differ- ent periods, and illustrates the progress of the human mind, is more useful and interesting than the detail of sieges and battles. The person to whom we are most indebted for the introduction of this improvement into history, is the celebrated M. Voltaire, whose genius has shone with such surprising lustre, in so many different parts of literature. His age of Louis XIV. was one of the first great productions in this taste; and soon drew throughout all Europe, that general attention, and received that high approbation, which so ingenious and eloquent a production merited. His essay on the general history of Europe, since the days of Charlemagne, is not to be considered either as a history, or the proper plan of an histori cal work ; but only as a series of observations on the chief events that have happened throughout several centuries, and on the changes that successively took place in the spirit and manners of different Cations. Though, in some dates and facts, it may, perhaps, be in- accurate, and is tinged with those particularities, which unhappily 3N 52 410 QUESTIONS. [lect. XXXVI distinguish Voltaire's manner of thinking on religious subjects, yet it contains so many enlarged and instructive views, as justly to merit the attention of all who either read or write the history of those ages QUESTIONS. Towards the close of the last lec- ure, on what subject did our author enter? What is the general idea of history? Hence, arise what? What was principally considered, in the last lecture ? To observe what does our au- Jior next proceed ? To do this, what two things are especially necessary? Why is the former necessary, and why the latter ? To form what, must both concur ? With regard to political know- ledge, what is observed? In ancient times, what was the state of the world? What influence did this exert over the knowledge and materials of the ancient historians ? And what is also to be ob- served ? Hence, to what are they less attentive? What remark follows? To these reasons, what is owing? How is this remark illustrated from the Greek historians, from Livy, and from Sallust? Of what does our author not mean to censure all the ancient historians? Illustrate this remark from Thucydides, Polybius, and Tacitus. But when we demand from the historian profound and instructive views of his subject, what is not meant ? What information should he give us ; and with what should he make us acquainted ? Where should he place us ? But having put into our hands the proper materials for judgment, of what should he not be too prodigal ; and why ? By what should history instruct us? On what occasions may the narrative be allowed to stand still for a little ? On such oc- casions, what may the historian do ; but of what must he be careful ? When ob- servations are to be made concerning human nature in general, on the pe- culiarities of particular characters, what is remarked ? What is the first nstance given to llustrate this remark ; and of it, what is observed ? What other thought, in the same historian, has a finer effect ; and of it, what is re- marked ? What other instance of the same kind have we ? Into what gene- ral observation, was there room for turning this remark? But of the man- ner in which Tacitus introduces it, what is observed? What particular talent has this historian ? To consider what, do we next proceed ? Why does much depend on the manner of narra- tion? How may we be convinced of the truth of this remark ? What is the first virtue of historical narration ? To attain this, what is requisite ; and why? Without this, what can we not expect? For this end, nntce observance of what will much depend ; and on what, also, will much depend ? What is the high- est test of the abilities of an historian ? What is ihe riext requisite in historical narration t What must not appear in it ; and why ? What does our author not say ? W T hy ma\ he sometimes do this with propriety ? But of what should he be careful ; and what remark fol- lows? If a historian possesses these qualities, and is still o dull writer, what will be the consequence l What must he therefore study ; and of it, what '» observed? What two things especially conduce to this ? What is the effect 01 the former ; and of the latter? Whai must an historian that would intentf us, do? What is the n« xi. thing to be attended to? Of geneial facta, what is observed ? Dy means of what, does a narration become interesting and affect- ing to the reader? What is the effect of these ; and what is it properly term ed ? In all these virtues of narration, who eminently excel ; and hence, what follows? Of Herodotus, what -s here observed ? Though the manner of Thu- cydides be more dry and harsh, yet, on what occasions does he display a very strong and masterly power of descrip- tion? Of Xenophon's CyropseJia, and his Anabasis, what is- observed ; but what is a much inferior work ? What is here remarked of Sallust? And of Livy, what is observed? What instance ip given ? What are the particulars ? Re- peat the passage which then follows, n* it is here introduced. Of the rest of the story, what is observed ? What is observed of Tacitus; and how do his descriptions compare with those of Livy ? What course does he pursue? What example is given; and of it, what is remarked ? Throughout LECT. XXXVI.] QUESTIONS. 410 a all of his works, what does he show ? How is this remark illustrated ? How does he paint ; and what does he, be- yond all writers, possess ? With many of the most distinguished beauties, however, what is further observed of him ? What embellishment did the an- cients employ, which the moderns have laid aside ? By means of these, what did they do ? Who was the first who introduced this method? Of the orations with which his history abounds, and of those of some other Greek and Latin historians, what is observed ? What, however, may be much questioned? Why does our author think they are unsuitable to it? Of these orations, what do we know ? Of this sort of po- etical liberty, what is observed ? How is this illustrated ? Instead of inserting foTnal orations, what method has been aaopted by later writers ? Of the draw- ing of characters, what is observed ; and why ? What does he bring to- gether ? What are the requisites of the writer who would characterize in an instructive and masterly manner? What is here said of the Greek histo- rians ; and of Sallust and Tacitus ? Why should sound morality reign in history ? In what should the author al- ways show himself to be on the side of virtue ? What falls not witliin his pro- vince ; but, what do we expect from him ? What derogate greatly from the weight of historical composition; and what additional effect will they have ? When are we most interested in the transactions which are going on ? But by whom cannot this effect be pro- duced ? As the observations hitherto made have mostly respected the an- cient historians, what may naturally be expected ? Where has historical ge- nius, in later ages, shone forth with most lustre ? From what does it appear that the natural character of the Ital- ians favours it ? Accordingly, what fol- lowed ; and of them, what is observed ? In their manner of narration, upon whom are they formed ; and of some of them, what is r ^marked ? In what may they be esteemed to have surpassed the ancients ? But what have critics, at the same time, observed ? Of Ma- chiavsl, what is remarked ? With what is Guicciardin taxed? What is ob- served of Bentivaglio, and of Davila ? What remark follows? Of the wars of Flanders, by Famianus Strada, and of Strada himself, what is observed ? Oi the French, and of their later historical writers, what is observed? What, however, have they not done ? What is remarked of Great Britain? By means of whom did Scotland early- make some figure ; and of him, what is observed ? Why are his political views inaccurate and imperfect ? What is said of the manner in which he re- cords the transactions of his own times ? What is observed of Lord Clarendon ? What is the character of Bishop Bur- net, as an historical writer? During a long period, at what only did English authors seem to aim ? What is said of Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon ? What was observed in a preceding lecture ? What are annals commonly understood to signify ? What, therefore, is all that is required in a writer of annals? What sort of composition do memoirs denote ? What, therefore, is not expected from a writer of memoirs ? What is chiefly re- quired of him ? Of this species of wri- ting, what is observed? About what, therefore, is there no wonder? What two must be excepted from this general character ? Of the former, what is ob- served ? What is observed of the Me- moirs of the Duke of Sully ? What pe culiar advantage have they ? Of Bt- ography, or the writing of lives, what is observed ? To what may a writer ol lives descend ? What is expected ot him ; and why ? In this species of wri- ting, who has no small merit, and what is observed of him ? For what is he re- markable? Without noticing what, cannot our author close the subject of history ? What is now understood to be the business of an able historian ; and what remark follows ? To whom are we most indebted for this improve- ment; and what is said of him? What. was one of the first great works in this taste, and what was its effect ? What is observed of his essay on the general history of Europe, since the days oi Charlemap-ne ? ANALYSIS. 1. Historical writing. a. Actions and events to be traced to their springs. a. An acquaintance with human nature. b. Political knowledge. b. The proper qualities of historical nar ration. 410 6 QUESTIONS. [LETT XXXVI* a. Clearness, order, and due connexion. 6. Gravity to be maintained, c. The narration should be interesting', (a.) The ancients eminent for this quality. c. Orations employed by the ancients. d. The drawing of characters. e. Morality, an indispensable reqi f. Distinguished modern historian 2. Annals. 3. Memoirs. 4. Biography. LECTURE XXXVII. PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING.— DIALOGUE.— EPISTOLA RY WRITING.— FICTITIOUS HISTORY. As history is both a very dignified species of composition, and, oy the regular form which it assumes, falls directly under the laws of criticism, I discoursed of it fully in the two preceding lectures. The remaining species of composition, in prose, afford less room for critical observation. Philosophical writing, for instance, will not lead us into any long discussion. As the professed object of philosophy is to convey in- struction, and as they who study it are supposed to do so for instruc- tion, not for entertainment, the style, the form, and dress of such writings, are less material objects. They are objects, however, that must not be wholly neglected. He who attempts to instruct man- kind, without studying, at the same time, to engage their attention, and to interest them in his subject by his manner of exhibiting it, is not likely to prove successful. The same truths and reasonings, delivered in a dry and cold manner, or without a proper measure ot elegance and beauty, will make very different impressions on the minds of men. It is manifest that every philosophical writer must study the ut- most perspicuity , and, by reflecting on what was formerly delivered on the subject of perspicuity, with respect both to single words and the construction of sentences, we may be convinced that this is a study which demands considerable attention to the rules of style and good writing. Beyond mere perspicuity, strict accuracy and pre- cision are required in a philosophical writer. He must employ no word of uncertain meaning, no loose nor indeterminate expressions ; and should avoid using words which are seemingly synonymous, without carefully attending to the variations which they make upon the idea. To be clear, then, and precise, is one requisite which we have a title to demand from every philosophical writer. He may possess this quality, and be, at the same time, a very dry writer. He should, therefore, study some degree of embellishment, in order to render his composition pleasing and graceful. One of the most agreeable, and me of the most useful embellishments, which a philosopher can employ, consists in illustrations taken from historical facts, and the characters of men. All moral and political subjects laterally affoid scope for these ; and wherever there is room for enploying them . i!CT. xxxvit] DIALOGUE. 411 they seldom fail of producing a happy effect. They diversify the composition ; they relieve the mind from the fatigue of mere reason- ing, and at the same time raise more full conviction than any reason ings produce : for they take philosophy out of the abstract, and give weight to speculation, by showing its connexion with real life, and the actions of mankind. Philosophical writing admits besides of a polished, a n« \t, and elegant style. It admits of metaphors, comparisons, and ail the calm figures of speech, by which an author may convey his sense to the understanding with clearness and force, at the same time that he entertains the imagination. He must take great caie, however, that all his ornaments be of the chastest kind, never partaking of the florid or the tumid ; which is so unpardonable in a professed philo- sopher, that it is much better for him to err on the side of naked simplicity, than on that of too much ornament. Some of the ancients, as Plato and Cicero, have left us philosophical treatises composed with much elegance and beauty. Seneca has been long and justly censured for the affectation that appears in his style. He is too fond of a certain brilliant and sparkling manner ; of antithesis and quaint sentences. It cannot be denied, at the same time, that he often ex- presses himself with much liveliness and force : though his style, upon the whole, is far from deserving imitation. In English, Mr. Locke's celebrated Treatise on Human Understanding, may be pointed out as a model, on the one hand, of the greatest clearness and distinctness of philosophical style, with very little approach to ornament; Lord Shaftesbury's writings, on the other hand, exhibit philosophy dressed up with all the ornament which it can admit ; perhaps with more than is perfectly suited to it. Philosophical composition sometimes assumes a form under which it mingles more with works of taste, when carried on in the way of dialogue and conversation. Under this form the ancients have given us some of their chief philosophical works ; and several of the mo- derns have endeavoured to imitate them. Dialogue writing may be executed in two ways, either as direct conversation, where none but the speakers appear, which is the method that Plato uses ; or as the recital of a conversation, where the author himself appears, and gives an account of what passed in discourse, which is the method that Cicero generally follows. But though those different methods make some variation in the form, yet the nature of the composition is at bottom the same in both, Lnd subject to the same laws. A dialogue, in one or other of these forms, on some philosophical, moral, or critical subject, when it is well conducted, stands in a high rank among the works of taste ; but is much more difficult in the execution than is commonly imagined : 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 conversa tion ; 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 bv 412 DIALOGUE. [lect. xxxvn. means ot the debate going on among the personages, he receives x fair and full view of both sides of the argument, and is at thr ••■.-.v.o lime amused with polite conversation, and with a display of con- sistent and well supported characters. An author, therefore, who has genius for executing such a composition after this manner, I'.as it in his power both to instruct and to please. But the greatest part of modern dialogue writers have no idea ot any composition of this sort; and bating the outward forms of con- versation, and that one speaks and another answers, it is quite the same as if the author spoke in person throughout the whole. He sets up a Philotheus, perhaps, and a Philatheos, or an A and a B ; who, after mutual compliments, and after admiring the fineness ot the morning or evening, and the beauty of the prospects around them, enter into conference concerning some grave matter ; and all that we know farther of them is, that the one personates the author, a man of learning, no doubt, and of good principles ; and the other is a man of straw, set up to propose some trivial objections, over which the first gains a most entire triumph, and leaves his skepti- cal antagonist } at the end, much humbled, and generally, convinced of his error. This is a very frigid and insipid manner of writing ; the more so, as it is an attempt toward something, which we see the author cannot support. It is the form, without the spirit, of con- versation. The dialogue serves no purpose, but to make awkward in- terruptions ; and we should with more patience hear the author con tinuing always to reason himself, and remove the objections that are made to his principles, than be troubled with the unmeaning appear- ance of two persons, whom we see to be in reality no more than one. Among the ancients, Plato is eminent for the beauty of his dia- logues. The scenery, and the circumstances of many of them, art' Deautifully painted. The characters of the sophists, with whom Socrates disputed, are well drawn : a variety of personages are ex- hibited to us •, we are introduced into a real conversation, often sup- ported with much life and spirit, after the Socratic manner. For richness and beauty of imagination, no philosophic writer, ancient or modern, is comparable to Plato. The only fault of his imagina- tion is, such an excess of fertility as allows it sometimes to obscure his judgment. It frequently carries him into allegory, fiction, en- thusiasm, and the airy regions of mystical theology. The philoso pher is, at times, lost in the poet. But whether we be edified with the matter or not, (and much edification he often affords,) we are always entertained with the manner ; and left with a strong impres- sion of the sublimity of the author's genius. Cicero's dialogues, or those recitals of conversation, which he ha? introduced into several of his philosophical and critical works, are not so spirited, nor so characteristical, as those of Plato. Yet some, as that D° n ~atore especially, are agreeable and well supported. They show us conversation carried on among some of the principal persons of ancient Rome, with freedom, good breeding, and digni ty. The author of the elegant dialogue. De Causis Corruptee Elo- quentix, which is annexed sometimes to the works of Quiutuiai^ lect. xxxvii. J EPISTOLARi WRITING. 413 il self, are elegant and polite writers : which serves to heighten our .dea of the taste and manners of that age. The most distinguished collection of letters in the English lan- guage, is that of Mr. Pope, Dean Swift, and their friends ; partly published in Mr. Pope's works, and partly in those of Dean Swift. This collection is, on the whole, an entertaining and agreeable one ; and contains much wit and refinement. It is not, however, altogeth- er free from the fault which I imputed to Pliny's Epistles, of too much study and refinement. In the variety of letters from different persons, contained in that collection, we find many that are written with ease, and a beautiful simplicity. Those of Dr. Arbuthnot, in particular, always deserve that praise. Dean Swift's also are unaffect- ed ; and as a proof of their being so, they exhibit his character ful- ly, with all its defects ; though it were to be wished, for the honour of his memory, that his epistolary correspondence had not been drained to the dregs, by so many successive publications as have been given to the world. Several of Lord Bolingbroke's and of Bishop Atterbury's letters, are masterly. The censure of writing letters in too artificial a manner, falls heaviest on Mr. Pope himself. There is visibly more study, and less of nature and the heart in his letters, than in those of some of his correspondents. He had form- ed himself on the manner of Voiture, and is too fond of writing like a wit. His letters to ladies are full of affectation. Even in writing to his friends, how forced an introduction is the following, of a let- ter to Mr. Addison : ' I am more joyed at your return, than I should be at that of the sun, as much as I wish for him in this melancholy wet season ; but it is his fate too, like yours, to be displeasing to owls and obscene animals, who cannot bear his lustre.' How stiff a compliment is it which he pays to Bishop Atterbury ! ' Though the noise and daily bustle for the public be now over, I dare say you are still tendering its welfare ; as the sun in winter, when seem- ing to retire from the world, is preparing warmth and benedictions for a better season.' This sentence might be tolerated in a harangue ; but is very unsuitable to the style of one friend corresponding with another. The gayety and vivacity of the French genius appear to much advantage in their letters, and have given birth to several agreeable publications. In the last age, Balzac and Voiture were the two most celebrated epistolary writers. Balzac's reputation indeed soon declined, on account of his swelling periods and pompous style. .But Voiture continued long a favourite author. His composition is extremely sparkling; he shows a great deal of wit, and can trifle in the most entertaining manner. His only fault is, that he is too open and professed a wit, to be thoroughly agreeable as a letter wri- ter. The letters of Madame de Sevigne are now esteemed the most accomplished model of a familiar correspondence. They turn indeed very much upon trifles, the incidents of the day, and the news of the town ; and they are. overloaded with extravagant compliments, and expressions of fondness, to her favourite daughter; but withal, they show such perpp' al sprightliness, they contain such easy and varied lect. xxxvii.] FICTITIOUS HISTORY 417 narration, and so many strokes of the most lively and beautiful paint- ing, perfectly free from any affectation, that they are justly entitled to high praise. The letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague are not unworthy of being named after those of Madame de Sevigne. They have much of the French ease and vivacity ; and retain more the character of agreeable epistolary style, than perhaps any letters which have appeared in the English language. There remains to be treated of, another species of composition in prose, which comprehends a very numerous, though, in general, a very insignificant class of writings, known by the name of romances and novels. These may, at first view, seem too insignificant, to de- serve that any particular notice should be taken of them. But I can- not be of this opinion. Mr. Fletcher, of Salton, in one of his tracts, quotes it as the saying of a wise man, that, give him the making of all the ballads of a nation, he would allow any one that pleased to make their laws. The saying was founded on reflection and good sense, and is applicable to the subject now before us. For any kind of writing, how trifling soever in appearance, that obtains a general cur- rency, and especially that early preoccupies the imagination of the youth of both sexes, must demand particular attention. Its influence is likely to be considerable, both on the morals and taste of a nation. In fact, fictitious histories might be employed for very useful 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. The effect of well contrived stories, towards accomplishing these purposes, is stronger than any effect that can be produced by simple and naked instruction ; and hence we find, that the wisest men in all ages have more or less employed fables and fictions, as the vehicles of knowledge. These have ever been the basis of both epic and dramatic poetry. It is not, there- fore, the nature of this sort of writing, considered in itself, but the faulty manner of its execution, that can expose it to any contempt. Lord Bacon takes notice of our taste for fictitious history, as a prooi of the greatness and dignity of the human mind. He observes very ingeniously, that the objects of this world, and the common train of affairs which we behold going on in it, do not fill the mind, nor give it entire satisfaction. We seek for something that shall expand the mind in a greater degree : we seek for more heroic and illustrious deeds, for more diversified and surprising events, for a more splen- did order of things, a more regular and just distribution of rewards and punishments, than what we find here: because we meet no with these in true history, we have recourse to fictitious. We cre- ate worlds according to our fancy, in order to gratify our capacious desires : " Accommodando," says that great philosopher, " rerum simulacra ad animi desideria, non submittendo animum rebus, quod ratio facit, et historia."* Let us then, since the subject * " Accommodating the appearances of tilings to the desires of the mind, not bring- ing down the mind, as history and philosophy do, to the course of events. 53 ♦18 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [lect. xxxvn wants neither dignity nor use, make a few observations on the vise and progress of fictitious history, and the different forms it has as sumed in different countries. In all countries we find its origin very ancient. The genius oi the Eastern nations, in particular, was from the earliest times much turned towards invention, and the love of fiction. Their divinity, their philosophy, and their politics, were clothed in fables and par- ables. The Indians, the Persians, and Arabians, were all famous for their tales. The Arabian Nights' Entertainments are the pro- duction of a romantic invention, but of a rich and amusing imagi- nation ; exhibiting a singular and curious display of manners and characters, and beautified .vith a very humane morality. Among the ancient Greeks, we hear of the Ionian and Milesian Tales ; but they have now perished, and, from any account that we have of them, appear to have been of the loose and wanton kind. Some fictitious histories yet remain, that were composed during the de- cline of the Roman empire, by Apuleius, Achilles Tatius, and He- liodorus, bishop of Trica, in the fourth century ; but none of them are considerable enough to merit particular criticisms. During the dark ages, this sort of writing assumed a new and very singular form, and for a long while made a great figure in the world The martial spirit of those nations, among whom the feudal government prevailed ; the establishment of single combat, as an allowed method of deciding causes both of justice and honour; the appointment of champions in the cause of women, who could not maintain their own rights by the sword ; together with the insti- tution of military tournaments, in which different kingdoms vied with one another, gave rise, in those times, to that marvellous sys- tem of chivalry; which is one of the most singular appearances in the history of mankind. Upon this were founded those romances of knight-errantry, which carried an ideal chivalry to a still more extravagant height than it had risen in fact. There was displayed in them a new and very wonderful sort of world, hardly bearing any resemblance to the world in which we dwell. Not only knights setting forth to redress all manner of wrongs, but in every page> magicians, dragons, and giants, invulnerable men, winged horses, enchanted armour, and enchanted castles ; adventures absolutely incredible, yet suited to the gross ignorance of these ages, and to the legends, and superstitious notions concerning magic and necro- mancy, which then prevailed. This merit they had, of being writ- ings of the highly moral and heroic kind. Their knights were patterns not of courage merely, but of religion, generosity, courtesy, and fidelity ; and the heroines were no less distinguished for mo- desty, delicacy, and the utmost dignity of manners. These were the first compositions that received the name of ro mances. The origin of this name is traced, by Mr. Huet, the learn- ed bishop of Avranche, to the Provencal troubadours, a sort o*' story-tellers and bards in the county of Provence, where there sub- sisted some remains of literature and poetry. The language which pievailed in that country was a mixture of Latin and Gallic, called lect. xxxvu. J FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 419 «.he Roman or Romance language ; and, as the stories of these trouba- dours were written in that language, hence it is said the name of Romance, which we now apply to all fictitious composition. The earliest of these romances is that which goes under the name of Turpin, the archbishop of Rheims, written in the 11th century. The subject is, the achievements of Charlemagne and his peers, or paladins, in driving the Saracens out of France and part oi Spain ; the same subject which Ariosto has taken for his celebrated poem of Orlando Furioso, which is truly a chivalry romance, as extravagant as any of the rest, but partly heroic, and partly comic, embellished with the highest graces of poetry. The romance of Turpin was followed by Amadis de Gaul, and many more of the same stamp. The crusades both furnished new matter, and in- creased the spirit for such writings ; the Christians against the Sara- cens made the common groundwork of them; and from the lllh to the 16th century, they continued to bewitch all Europe. In Spain, where the taste for this sort of writing had been most greedily caught, the ingenious Cervantes, in the beginning of the last century, contributed greatly to explode it; and the abolition of tournaments, the prohibition of single combat, the disbelief of magic ar.d enchantments, and the change in general of man- ners throughout Europe, began to give a new turn to fictitious com- position. Then appeared the Astraea of D'Urfe, the Grand Cyrus, the Clelia and Cleopatra of Madame Scuderi, the Arcadia of Sir Philip Sidney, and other grave and stately compositions in the same style. These may be considered as forming the second stage of romance writing. The heroism and the gallantry, the moral and virtuous turn of the chivalry romance, were still preserved ; but the dra- gons, the necromancers, and the enchanted castles, were banished, and some small resemblance to human nature was introduced. Stil however, there was too much of the marvellous in them to pleast an age which now aspired to refinement. The characters were dis- cerned to be strained ; the style to be swoln ; the adventures incre- dible ; the books themselves were voluminous and tedious. Hence, this sort of composition soon assumed a third form, and from magnificent heroic romance, dwindled down to the familiar novel. These novels, both in France and England, during the age of Lewis XIV. and King Charles II. were in general of a trifling nature, without the appearance of moral tendency, or useful instruction. Since that time, however, somewhat better has been attempted, and a degree of reformation introduced into the spirit of novel writing. Imitations of life and character have been professed to be given of the behaviour of persons in particular interesting situations, such as may actually occur in life ; by means of which, what is lau- dable or defective in character and in conduct, may be pointed out, and placed in a useful light. Upon this plan, the French have produced some compositions of considerable merit. Gil Bias, bv Le Sage, is a book full of good sense, and instructive know *20 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [lect. xxxvii ledge of the world. The works of Marivaux, especially his Mari anne, discover great refinement of thought, great penetration into human nature, and paint, with a very delicate pencil, some of the nicest shades and features in the distinction of characters. The Nouvelle Heloise of Rousseau is a production of very singular kind ; in many of the events which are related, improbable and unnatu- ral ; in some of the details tedious, and for some of the scenes which are described justly blamable; but withal, for the power of eloquence, for tenderness of sentiment, for ardour of passion, enti- tled to lank among the highest productions of fictitious history. In this kind of writing we are, it must be confessed, in Great Bri- tain, inferior to the French. We neither relate so agreeably, nor draw characters with so much delicacy; yet we are not without some performances which discover the strength of the British geni- us. No fiction, in any language, was ever better supported than the Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. While it is carried on with that appearance of truth and simplicity, which takes a strong hold of the imagination of all readers, it suggests, at the same time, very useful instruction; by showing how much the native powers of man may be exerted for surmounting the difficulties of any external situation. Mr. Fielding's novels are highly distinguished for their humour; a humour which, if not of the most refined and delicate kind, is origi- nal, and peculiar to himself. The characters which he draws are lively and natural, and marked with the strokes of a bold pencil. The general scope of his stories is favourable to humanity and good- ness of heart ; and in Tom Jones, his greatest work, the artful con- duct of the fable, and the subserviency of all the incidents to the winding up of the whole, deserve much praise. The most moral of all our novel writers is Richardson, the author of Clarissa, a writer of excellent intentions, and of very considerable capacity and geni- us ; did he not possess the unfortunate talent of spinning out pieces of amusement into an immeasurable length. The trivial performances which daily appear in public under the title of Lives, Adventures, and Histories, by anonymous authors, if they bo often innocent, yel are most commonly insipid; and though in the general it ought to be admitted that characteristical novels, formed upon nature and upon life, without extravagance and without licentiousness, might furnish an agreeable and useful entertainment to the mind ; yet, con- sidering: the manner in which these writings have been for the most part conducted, it must also be confessed, that they oftener tend to dissipation and idleness, than to any good purpose. Let us now therefore, make our retreat from these regions of fiction ( 420 a ) QUESTIONS. Why was history discoursed of fully, in the two preceding lectures ? Of the remaining species of composition in prose, what is observed? What is the first instance given ? Why are not the style. form, and dress of such writings, mate- rial objects? But why, at the same time, are they objects not to be neglect- ed? What is it manifest, every philoso- phical writer must study, and what re- mark follows? Beyond mere perspi- cuity, what are required ? How is this illustrated? What, then, have we a right to demand, from every philoso- phical writer? But as he may possess this quality, and still be a very dry writer, what should he study; and why ? What is one of the most useful embellishments, which a philosopher can employ? What subjects afford scope for these ? What is their effect ; and why ? What styie does philosophi- cal writing admit ? What else does it admit? About what, however, must he take great care? What have some of the ancients left us? Of Seneca, what is observed ? What, at the same time, cannot be denied ? What is said of Mr. Locke'a Treatise on Human Under- standing ; and of Lord Shaftesbury's writings ? What form does philosophical composition sometimes assume ? By whom has this form been used? In what two ways may it be executed? Of these diffident methods, what is ob- served ? Of a dialogue thus conducted, what is remarked? It requires more 'han whai, a::d what ought it to be? Why does a dialogue thus conducted, give the reader a very agreeable enter- tainment, ? What, therefor* , has an author who has genius for executing such a composition in his power ? Of the greater part of modern dialogue writers, what is observed? How is this observation illustrated? From what re- marks does it appear that this is a very frigid and insipid manner of writing ? What is said of the dialogues of Plato? In what does Plato excel all writers, ancient or modern ? What is the only fault of his imagination? Into what does it frequently carry him ? In what, is the philosopher at times lost ; and what remark follows ? What is obser- ved of Cicero's dialogues ? What do -hey show us ? Who has, perhaps, ex- celled Cicero in this manner of writiig? Of Lue'an, as p dialogue writer, what is observed? Of what kind of ditogua has he given us the model ? Whf dis- tinguishes all his writings ? Whav. was his great object ; and of the method which he took, what is observed ? In what has he been followed by several modern authors? Who, in particular, has given us dialogues of this sort, and what is said of them? In the course of a dia- logue, what is a difficult task and why ? Hence, what follows ? Who is one of the most remarkable writers of dialogues in the English language ? Of Ids dialogues, what is observed? What is the character of Bishop Berkeley's Dialogues? To what sub- ject does our author next proceed ? Into what does epistolary writing appear at first view to stretch ; and why ? Hoav is this remark illustrated ? But for what is this not sufficient ? Of writing of this kind, what is further observed ? Even where one is writing a real letter, what is remarked ; and what, instance is given ? In such cases, bow do we consider the author ? When does epis- tolary writing become a distinct spe- cies of composition ? Of such an inter- course, what is observed; and when will they be the more valuable? Even when may they still be interesting, and more especially if there be any thing to interest us in what ? Hence, what curiosity ; and why? To expect what is childish ; and for what reason ? But still, why may we expect to see more of the character displayed in these than in any other productions? With what do we please ourselves? Upon what, therefore, will much of the merit of epistolary writing depend ? What ia its first and fundamental requisite ; and why ? What does this not banish ; and of these, what is observed ? Who will not please long ? Of the style of letters, what is remarked? What does all nicety about words betray ; and , hence what should be avoided? Which are the best letters? How is this illustrated ' What ought, at the same time, to be remembered ? How is this remark illus- trated? What is the first requisite, both in conversation, and in correspondence? What illustration of this remark fo'- lows? Of Pliny's Letters, what is observed'/ What is, indeed, a very difficult taek ? What is the effect of attention to the epinion of the world, in what he says? 420 b QUESTIONS. [lect. XXXVII What is the character of Cicero's Epis- tles? Of them, what is farther observed? From What does it appear that they were written without any intention of being published to the world? What do they contain ; and of what are they the last monument ? The greatest part of them being written when ? To whom does Cicero lay open his heart without reserve? Of his correspondence with others, what is remarked? What is the most distinguished collection of letters in the English language ; and where are they published? What is the gene- ral character of this collection ? What is observed of those of Dr. Arbuthnot? What proof is there that Dean Swift's letters are unaffected ? What, however, were to be wished? Several of whose letters are masterly; and of Mr. Pope's, what is observed ? What instance of af- fectation have we from a letter to Mr. Addison ; and also to Bishop Atterbury ? Of the latter sentence, what is obser- ved ? What appears to much advan- tage in the letters of French writers ; and to what have they given birth ? In the last age, who were the two most celebrated epistolary writers? Why did Balzac's reputation soon decline ? Why did Voiture continue long a fa- vourite author? W r hat is his only fault? Whose letters are now esteemed the most accomplished model of a familiar correspondence? Of them, what is fur- ther observed ? Of the letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, what is re- marked ? What other species of com- position remains to be treated of? How may these, at first view, seem ? What does Mr. Fletcher, in one of his tracts, quote, as the saying of a wise man ? Of this saying, what is observed ; and why? Why might fictitious histories be employed for very useful purposes ? How is this illustrated ? Of what have these ever been the basis ? What re- mark, therefore, follows? Of what does Lord Bacon take notice ; and what does he observe? On what, therefore, shall we make a few observations? Of its origin, what is remarked ? What is observed of the genius of eastern nations; and how is this illustrated? What is said of Arabian Nights Enter- tainments? Among the ancient Greeks, of what do we hear ; and what is said of them ? What fictitious histories still remain ; and of them, what is observed ? Of this sort of writing durinar the dark ages, what is remarked ? What gave rise, in those times, to that marvellous system of chivalry, which is one of i he most singular appearances in the histo- ry of mankind ? Upon this, what were found-d ? In them, what was display- ed ? What merit did they possess ? How is this remark illustrated ? To what is the origin of this name traced; and by whom ? Which is the earliest of these romances ; and what ia the subject of it ? For what celebrated poem is the same subject taken ; and what is ob- served of it ? By what was the romance of Turpin followed? What was the effect of the crusades? Who, in the be- ginning of the last century, contributed greatly to explode this kind of writing; and what followed ? What then ap- peared ; and how may these be consider- ed 1 What were still preserved ; but what was banished ? Still what objec- tion was there to them ? Hence, whal form did this sort of composition soon as- sume ? Of these novels what is obser- ved ? Upon this plan, what have the French effected ? Of Gil Bias, what is observed ? What is the character of the works of Marivaux? Of the Nou- velle Heloise of Rousseau, what is re marked? What is the state of this kind of writing in Great Britain ? In what respects arc we inferior to them ; yet what remark follows ? To illustrate this, what work is mentioned ; and what is observed cf it ? What is the character of Mr. Fielding's novels ; and how are his characters drawn? Why does hie Tom Jones deserve much praise ? Who is the most moral of all our novel wri- ters; and of him, what is observed* What is remarked of the trivial per- formances which daily appear ? ANALYSIS. 1. Philosophical writing 1 . a. Its object. b. Perspicuity, its first requisite. c. It admits of a polished, neat, and ela {rant style. 2. Dialogue. a. A direct conversation. b. The recital of a conversation. c. Ancient and modern dialogists. 3. Epistolary writing". a. When a distinct speciesof composition. b. It must acquaint us with the author. c. Distinguished ancient and modern epistolary writers. 4. Fictitious history. a. Lord Bacon's remark. b. Its origin, very ancient. c. Iu* different forms. d. The most distinguished production of this kind. ( 421 ) LECTURE XXXVIII. NATURE OF POETRY.. ..ITS ORIGIN ANI PRO GRESS....VERSIFICATION I have now finished my observations on the different kinds of writing in prose. What remains is, to treat of poetical composition Before entering on the consideration of any of its particular kinds, 1 design this lecture as an introduction to the subject of poetry in general, wherein I shall treat of its nature, give an account of its ori- gin, and make some observations on versification, or poetical num- bers. Our first inquiry must be, 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 differed and disputed much, concerning the proper definition of poetry. Some have made its essence to consist in fiction, and support their opinion by the au- thority of Aristotle and Plato. But this is certainly too limited a de- finition ; 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 cha racteristic of poetry to lie in imitation. But this is altogether loose : for several other arts imitate as well as poetry ; and an imitation of human manners and characters may be carried on in the humblest prose, no less than in the more lofty poetic strain. The most just and comprehensive definition which, I think, can be given of poetry, is, ' that it is the language of passion, or of en- livened imagination, formed, most commonly, into regular numbers/ The historian, the orator, the philosopher, address themselves, for the most part, primarily to the understanding: their direct aim is to !nfoim, to persuade, or to instruct. But the primary aim of a poet is to please, and to move ; and, therefore, it is to the imagination, and the passions, that he speaks. He may, and he ought to have it in his view, to instruct, and to reform ; but it is indirectly, and by pleas ing and moving, that he accomplishes this end. His mind is sup posed to be animated by some interesting object which fires his ima- gination, or engages his passions; and which, of course, communi- cates to his style a peculiar elevation suited to his ideas; very differ* ent from that mode of expression, which is natural to the mind in its calm, ordinary state. I have added to my definition, that this language of passion, or imagination, is formed, m.ost commonly ', into regular numbers; because, though versification be, in general, the exterior 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 Terence's Comedies; and there is also a species of prose, so measured in its cadence, and so much raised in its tone. 3P 422 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [lect. xxxvm as to approach very near to poetical numbers ; such as the Telema- chus of Fenelon ; and the English translation of Ossian. The truth is, verse and prose, on some occasions, run into one another, like light and shade. It is hardly possible to determine the exact limit where eloquence ends, and poetry begins ; nor is there any occasion for being very precise about the boundaries, as long as the nature of each is understood. These are the minutiae of criticism, concerning which, frivolous writers are always disposed to squabble ; but which deserve not any particular discussion. The truth and justness of the definition, which I have given of poetry, will appear more fully from the account which I am now to give of its origin ; and which will tend to throw light on much of what I am afterwards to deliver, concerning its various kinds. The Greeks, ever fond of attributing to their own nation the in- vention of all sciences and arts, have ascribed the origin of poetry to Orpheus, Linus, and Musaeus. There were, perhaps, such per- sons as these, who were the first distinguished bards in the Grecian countries. But long before such names were heard of, and among nations where they were never known, poetry existed. It is a great error to imagine, that poetry and music are arts which belong only to polished nations. They have their foundation in the nature of man, and belong to all nations, and to all ages; though, like other arts founded in nature, they have been more cultivated, and from a concurrence of favourable circumstances, carried to greater perfec- tion in some countries than in others. In order to explore the rise of poetry, we must have recourse to the deserts and the wilds; we must go back to the age of hunters and of shepherds; to the high- est antiquity; and to the simplest form of manners among mankind. It has been often said, and the concurring voice of all antiquity affirms, that poetry is older than prose. But in what sense this seemingly strange paradox holds true, has not always been well un- derstood. There never, certainly, was any period of society, in which men conversed together.in poetical numbers. It was in very humble and scanty prose, as we may easily believe, that the first tribes car- ried on intercourse among themselves, relating to the wants and ne- cessities of life. But from the very beginningof society, there were occasions on which they met together for feasts, sacrifices, and pub- lic assemblies; and on all such occasions, it is well known, that mu- sic, song, and dance, made their principal entertainment. It is chiefly in America, that we have had the opportunity of being made acquainted with men in their savage state. We learn from the par- ticular and concurring accounts of travellers, that among all the na- tions of that vast continent, especially among the northern tribes, with whom wo have had most intercourse, music and song are, at ail theii meetings, carried on with an incredible degree of enthusiasm ; that the chiefs of the tribe are those who signalize themselves most on such occasions; that it is in songs they celebrate their religious rites; that by these they lamer.t their public and private calamities, the death of friends, or the loss of warriors; express their joy on their victories ; celebrate the great actions of their nation, and their lect. xxxvm.] UF POETRY. 423 neroes ; excite each other to perform brave exploits in war, or suf fer death and torments with unshaken constancy. Here then we see the first beginnings of poetic composition, h those rude effusions, which the enthusiasm of fancy or passion sug- gested to untaught men, when roused by interesting events, and by their meeting together in public assemblies. Two particulars would early distinguish this language of song, from that in which they con- versed on the common occurrences of life; namely, an unusual ar- rangement of words, and the employment of bold figures of speech. It would invert words, or change them from that order in which thev are commonly placed, to that which most suited the train in which they rose in the speaker's imagination, or which was most accommo- dated to the cadence of the passion by which he was moved. Under the influence too of any strong emotion, objects do not appear to us such as they really are, but such as passion makes us see them. We magnify and exaggerate; we seek to interest all others in what cau- ses our emotion; we compare the least things to the greatest; we call upon the absent as well as the present, and even address our selves to things inanimate. Hence, in congruity with those various movements of the mind, arise those turns of expression, which we now distinguish by the learned names of hyperbole, prosopopoeia, simile, &c. but which are no other than the native original langoage of poetry among the most barbarous nations. Man is both a poet and a musician by nature. The same impulse which prompted the enthusiastic poetic style, prompted a certain melody, or modulation of sound, suited to the emotions of joy or grief, of admiration, love, or anger. There is a power in sound, which, partly from nature, partly from habit and association, makes such pathetic impressions on the fancy, as delight even the most wild barbarians. Music and poetry, therefore, had the same rise: they were prompted by the same occasions ; they were united in song ; and, as long as they continued united, they tended, without doubt, mutually to heighten and exalt each other's power. The first poets sung their own verses; and hence the beginning of what we call versification, or words arranged in a more artful order than prose, so as to be suited to some tune or melody. The liberty of transposi- tion, or inversion, which the poetic style, as I observed, would natu- rally assume, made it easier to form the words into some sort of numbers that fell in with the music of the song. Very harsh and uncouth, we may easily believe, these numbers would be at first. But the pleasure was felt ; it was studied ; and versification, by de- grees, passed into an art. It appears from what has been said, that the first compositions which were either recorded by writing, or transmitted by tradition, could be no other than poetical compositions. No other than these could draw the attention of men in their rude uncivilized state. In- deed, they knew no other. Cool reasoning and plain discourse had no power to attract savage tribes, addicted only to hunting and war. There was nothing that could either rouse the speaker to pour him- 86if forth, or to draw the crowd to listen, but the high powers of pas* 424 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [lect. xxxviii sion, of music, and of song. This vehicle, therefore, and no other .ijould be employed by chiefs and legislators, when they meant to in- struct or to animate their tribes. There is, likewise, a farther reason why such compositions only could be transmitted to posterity ; be- cause, before writing was invented, songs only could last, and be re- membered. The ear gave assistance to the memory, by the help of numbers ; fathers repeated and sung them to their children ; and by this oral tradition of national ballads, were conveyed all the his- torical knowledge, and all the instruction of the first ages. The earliest accounts which history gives us concerning all na- tions, bear testimony to these facts. In the first ages of G reece, priests, philosophers, and statesmen, all delivered their instructions in poetry. Apollo, Orpheus, and Amphion, their mostancient bards, arerepresent- fcdas the first tamers of mankind, the first founders of law and civili- sation. Minos and Thales sung to the lyre the laws which they com- posed ;* 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 scalders, or poets; and it is from their Runic songs, that the most early writers of their history, such as Saxo-Grammaticus, acknowledge that they had derived their chief information. Among the Celtic tribes, in Gaul, Britain, and Ireland, we know in what admiration their bards were held, and how great influence they possessed over the people. They were both poets and musicians, as all the first poets, in every country, were. They were always near the person of the chief or sovereign ; they recorded all his great exploits ; they were employ- ed as the ambassadors between contending tribes, and their persons were held sacred. From this deduction it follows, that as we have reason to look for poems and songs among the antiqu.'*:es of all countries, so we may expect, that in the strain of these there will be a remarkable resem- blance, during the primitive periods of every country. The occa- sions 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 lamenta- tion over the misfortunes and death of their countrymen, occur among all nations; and the same enthusiasm and fire, the same wild and irregular, but animated composition, concise and glowirg style, bold and extravagant figures of speech, are the general distin- guishing characters of all the most ancient original poetry. That strong hyperbolical manner which we have been long accustomed to call the oriental manner of poetry, (because some of the earliest poetical productions came to us from the East.) is in truth no mor? oriental than occidental ; it is characteristical of an age rather than oi a country ; and belongs, in some measure, to all nations at that pe- riod which first gives rise to music and to song. Mankind never re- * Strabo, lib. x. lect. xxxviii.] OF POETRY 425 semble each other so much as they do in the beginnings of society. Us subsequent revolutions give birth to the principal distinctions of character among nations, and divert, into channels widely separated, that current of human genius and manners, which descends origin ally from one spring. Diversity of climate, and of manner of living, will, however, oc casion some diversity in the strain of the first poetry of nations chiefly according as those nations are of a more ferocious, or of a more gentle spirit; and according as they advance faster or slower in the arts of civilization. Thus we find all the remains of the an- cient Gothic poetry remarkably fierce, and breathing nothing but slaughter and blood; while the Peruvian and the Chinese songs turned, from the earliest times, upon milder subjects. The Celtic poetry, in the days of Ossian, though chiefly of the martial kind, yet had attained a considerable mixture of tenderness and refine- ment ; in consequence of the long cultivation of poetry among the Celtae, by means of a series and succession of bards which had been established for ages. So Lucan informs us : Vos quoque qui fortes animos, belloque peremptos Laudibus in loitgum vates diftunditis aevuni, Plurima securi ludistis carmina bardi.* L. 44. Among the Grecian nations, their early poetry appears to have soon received a philosophical cast, from what we are informed con- cerning the subjects of Orpheus, Linus, and Musseus, who treated of creation and of ehaos, of the generation of the world, and of the rise of things; and we know that the Greeks advanced sooner to philosophy, and proceeded with a quicker pace in all the arts of re- finement, than most other nations. The Arabians and the Persians have always been the greatest po- ets of the east; and among them, as among other nations, poetry was the earliest vehicle of all their learning and instruction.! The ancient Arabs, we are informed, J valued themselves much on their metrical compositions, which were of two sorts; the one they com- pared to loose pearls, and the other to pearls strung. In the former, the sentences or verses were without connexion ; and their beauty arose from the elegance of the expression, and the acuteness of the sentiment. The moral doctrines of the Persians were generally comprehended in such independent proverbial apophthegms, formed into verse. In this respect they bear a considerable resemblance to the Proverbs of Solomon ; a great part of which book consists of unconnected poetry, like the loose pearls of the Arabians. The game form of composition appears also in the book of Job. The • You too, ye bards, whom sacred raptures fire, To chaunt your heroes to your country's lyre, Who consecrate in your immortal strain, Brave patriot souls in righteous battle slain ; Securely now the useful task renew, And noblest themes in deathless song's pursue Rows. ( Vid. Voyages de Chardin, chap de la Poe"sie des Persans. { Vid. Preliminary discourse to Sale's Translation ?f the Koran 54 «*26 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [lect. xxxvm Greeks seem to have been the first who introduced a more regjular structure, and closer connexion of parts, into their poetical writings. During the infancy of poetry, all the different kinds of it lay confused, and were mingled in the same composition, according as inclination, enthusiasm, or casual incidents, directed the po- et's strain. In the progress of society and arts, they began to assume those different regular forms, and to be distinguished by those different names under which we now know them. But in the first rude state of poetical effusions, we can easily discern the seeds and beginnings of all the kinds of regular poetry. Odes and hymns, of every sort, would naturally be among the first compo- sitions ; according as the bards were moved by religious feelings, by exultation, resentment, love, or any other warm sentiment, to pour themselves forth in song. Plaintive or elegiac poetry, would as naturally arise from lamentations over their deceased friends. The recital of the achievements of their heroes, and their ancestors, gave birth to what we now call epic poetry ; and as not content with simply reciting these, they would infallibly be led, at some of their public meetings, to represent them, by introducing different bards, speaking in the character of their heroes, and answering each other, we find in this the first outlines of tragedy, or dramatic writing. None of these kinds of poetry, however, were in the first ages of society properly distinguished or separated, as they are now, from each other. Indeed, not only were the different kinds ot poetry then mixed together, but all that we now call letters, or composition of any kind, was then blended in one mass. At first, history, eloquence, and poetry, were all the same. Whoever want- ed to move or to persuade, to inform or to entertain his countrymen and neighbours, whatever was the subject, accompanied his sentiment and tales with the melody of song. This was the case in that period of society, when the character and occupations of the husbandman and the builder, the warrior and fehe statesman, were united in one person. When the progress of society brought on a separation of the different arts and professions of civil life, it led also by degrees to a separation of the different literary provinces from each other. The art of writing was in process of time invented; records of past transactions began to be kept; men, occupied with the subjects of policy and useful arts, wished now to be instructed and inform- ed, as well as moved. They reasoned and reflected upon the affairs of life; and were interested by what was real, not fabulous, in past transactions. The historian, therefore, now laid aside the buskins of poetry ; he wrote in prose, and attempted to give a faithful and judicious relation of former events. The philosopher addressed himself chiefly to the understanding. The orator stu- died to persuade by reasoning, and retained more or less of the ancient passionate and glowing style, according as it was conducive to his purpose. Poetry became now a separate art, calculated chiefly to please, and confined generally to such subjects as related to the imagination and passions. Even its earliest companion, music, was in a great measure divided from it. lect. xxxvin.] OF POETRY. 427 These separations, brought all the literary arts into a more regular form, and contributed to the exact and accurate cultivation oi each. Poetry, however, in its ancient original condition, was per- haps more vigorous than it is in its modern state. It included then the whole burst of the human mind; the whole exertion of its imaginative faculties. It spoke then the language of passion, and no other ; for to passion, it owed its birth. Prompted and inspired by objects, which to him seemed great, by events which interested his eountry or his friends, the early bard arose and sung. He sung indeed in wild and disorderly strains ; but they were the native effu- sions of his heart; they were the ardent conceptions of admiration or resentment, of sorrow or friendship, which he poured forth. It is no wonder, therefore, that in the rude and artless strain of the first poetry of all nations, we should often find somewhat that capti- vates and transports the mind. In after ages, when poetry became a regular art, studied for reputation and for gain, authors began to affect what they did not feel. Composing coolly in their closets, *hey endeavoured to imitate passion, rather than to express it; they tried to force their imagination into raptures, or to supply the defect t>f native warmth, by those artificial ornaments which might give composition a splendid appearance. The separation of music from poetry, produced consequences noi favourable in some respects to poetry, and in many respects hurtful to music* As long as they remained united, music enlivened and animated poetry, and poetry gave force and expression to musi- cal sound. The music of that early period was, beyond doubt, ex • tremely simple ; and must have consisted chiefly of such pathetic notes, as the voice could adapt to the words of the song. Musical instruments, such as flutes, and pipes, and a lyre with a very few strings, appear to have been early invented among some nations; but no more was intended by these instruments, than simply to accom- pany the voice, and to heighten the melody of song. The poet's strain was always heard ; and, from many circumstances, it appears, that among the ancient Greeks, as well as among other nations, the bard sung his verses, and played upon his harp or lyre at the same time. In this state, the art of music was,when it produced all those great effects, of which we read so much in ancient history. And certain it is, that from simple music only, and from music accom- panied with verse or song, we are to look for strong expression, and powerful influence over the human mind. When instrumental music came to be studied as a separate art, divested of the poet's song, and formed into the artificial and intricate combinations of harmony, it lost all its ancient power of inflaming the hearers with strong emotions ; and sunk into an art of mere amusement, among polished and luxurious nations. Still, however, poetry preserves, in all countries, some remains of its first and original connexion with music. By being uttered * See Dr. Brown's Dissertation on the Rise, Union, and Separation of Poetry ana Miisic 428 VERSIFICATION. [lect. xxxvm in song, it was formed into numbers, or into an artificial arrangement of words and syllables, very different in different countries; but such, as to the inhabitants of each, seemed most melodious and agree able in sound. Whence arises thatgreat characteristic of poetry which we now call verse; a subject which comes next to be treated of. It is a subject of a curious nature ; but as I am sensible, that were I to pursue it as far as my inclination leads, it would give rise to discussions, which the greater part of readers would consider as minute, I shall confine myself to a few observations upon English versification. Nations, whose language and pronunciation were of a musical kind, rested their versification chiefly upon the quantities, that is, the length or shortness of their syllables. Others, who did not make the quantities of their syllables be so distinctly perceived in pro- nouncing 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, every syllable, or the far greatest number at least, was known to have a fixed and determined quantity ; and their manner of pronouncing rendered this so sensible to the ear, that a long syllable was counted precisely equal in time to two short ones. Upon this principle, the number of syllables con- tained in their hexameter verse was allowed to vary. It may extend to 17; it can contain, when regular, no fewer than 13; but the mu- sical time was, notwithstanding, precisely the same in every hexa- meter verse, and was always equal tothatofl2longsyllables. In order to ascertain the regular time of every verse, and the proper mixture and succession of long and short syllables which ought to compose it, were invented, what the grammarians call metrical feet, dactyles, spondees, iambus, &c. By these measures was tried the accuracy of composition in every line, and whether it was so constructed as to complete its proper melody. It was requisite, for instance, that the hexameter verse should have the quantity of its syllables so disposed, that it could be scanned or measured by six metrical feet, which might be either dactyles or spondees (as the musical time of both these is the same) with this restriction only, that the fifth foot was regularly to be a dactyle, and the last a spondee.* * Some writers imagine, that the feet in Latin verse were intended to correspond to bars in music, and to form musical intervals or distinctions, sensible to the ear in the pronunciation of the line. Had this been the case, every kind of verse must have had a peculiar order of feet appropriated to it. But the common prosodies show that there are several forms of Latin verse which are capable of being- mea- sured indifferently, by a series of feet of very different kinds. For instance, what is called the Asclepedaean verse (in which the first ode of Horace is written) may be scanned either by a Spondens, two Choriambus's, and a Pyrrichius ; or by a Spon- deus, a Dactylus succeeded by a Caesura, and two Dactylus's. The common Penta- meter, and some other forms of verse, admit the like varieties ; and yet the melody of the verse, remains alwavs the same, though it be scanned by different feel. This proves, that the metrical feet were not sensible in the pronunciation of the line, but were intended only to regulate its construction •, or apmied as measures, to tr> cect. xxxvin.] VERSIFICATION. 429 The introduction of these feet into English verse, would be alto- gether out of place; for the genius of our language corresponds not in this respect to Greek or Latin. I say not, that we have no regard to quantity, or to long and short, in pronouncing. Many words we have, especially our words consisting of several syllab es. where the quantity, or the long and short syllables, are invariably fixed ; but great numbers we have also, where the quantity is left al- together loose. This is the case with a great part of our words con- sisting of two syllables, and with almost all our monosyllables. In general, the difference made between long and short syllables, in our manner of pronouncing them,is so very inconsiderable, and so much liberty is left us for making them either long or short at plea- sure, that mere quantity is of very little effect in English versification. The only perceptible difference among our syllables, arises from some of them being uttered with that stronger percussion of voice, which we call accent. This accent does not always make the sylla- ble longer, but gives it more force of sound only ; and it is upon a certain order and succession of accented and unaccented syllables, /nfinitely more than upon their being long or short, that the melody of our verse depends. If we take any of Mr. Pope's lines, and in reciting them alter the quantity of the syllables, as far as our quanti- ties are sensible, the music of the verse will not be much injured: whereas, if we do not accent the syllables according as the verse dictates, its melody will be totally destroyed.* ■ Our English heroic verse is of what maybe called an iambic struc- ture ; that is, composed of a succession, nearly alternate, of syllables, not short and long, but unaccented and accented. With regard to the place of these accents, however, some liberty is admitted, for the sake of variety. Verv often, though not always, the line begins with an unaccented syllable; and sometimes, in the course of it, two un- accented syllables follow each other. But in general, there are either five, or four, accented syllables in each line. The number of f yllables is ten, unless where an Alexandrine verse is occasionally ad- mitted. In verses not Alexandrine, instances occur where the line appears to have more than the limited number. But in such instan- ces, I apprehend it will be found, that some of the liquid syllables are whether the succession of long and short syllables was such as suited the melod; of tlie verse; and as feet of different kinds could sometimes be applied for this purpose, hence it happened, that some forms of verse were capable of being scan- ned in different ways. For measuring the hexameter line, no other feet were found so proper as dactyles and spondees, and therefore by these it is uniformlv scanned But no ear is sensible of the termination of each foot, in reading an hex- ameter iine From a misapprehension of this matter, I apprehend that confusio has sometimes arisen among writers, in treating of the prosody both of Latin and of English verse. . _, . . , _ , * See this well illustrated in Lord Monboddo's Treatise of The Origin and Progress oj Lano-uase, vol. ii. under the head of the prosody of language. He shows that this is not only the constitution of our own verse, but that, by our manner of reading Latin terse we make its music nearly the same. For we certainly do not pronounce it ac- cording to the ancient quantities, so as to make the musical time of one long syllable equal to two short ones ; but according to a succession of accented and unaccented sylla- bles, only mixed in a ratio different from that of our own verse. No Roman could po* sibly understand our pronunciation. 3Q t Sft VERSIFICATION. [lect. xxxviti. so slurred in pronouncing, as to bring the verse, with respect to its effect upon the ear, within the usual bounds. Another essential circumstance in the constitution of our verse, is die caesural pause, which falls towards the middle of each line. Some pause of this kind, dictated by the melody, is found in the verse of most nations. It is found, as might be shown, in the Latin hexameter. In the French heroic verse it is very sensible. That is a verse of twelve syllables; and in every line, just after the sixth syllable,there falls regularly and indispensably a cassural pause, di- viding the line into two equal hemisticks. For example, in the first lines of Boileau's Epistle to the King: Jeune h vaillant heros | dont la haute sagesse N'est point le fruit tardif | d'une lente vieillesse, Qui seul sans Ministre | a l'example des Dieux, Soutient tout par toi-nieme | &i voit tous par tes yeux. In this train all their verses proceed ; the one half of the line always answering to the other, and the same chime returning incessantly on the ear without intermission or change ; which is certainly a defect in their verse, and unfits it so very much for the freedom and dignity of heroic poetry. On the other hand, it is a distinguishing advan- tage of our English verse, that it allows the pause to be varied through four different syllables in the line. The pause may fall after the 4th, the 5th, the 6th, or the 7th syllable; and according as the pause is placed after one or other of these syllables, the melody of the verse is much changed, its air and cadence are diversified. By this means, uncommon richness and variety are added to English versification. When the pause falls earliest, that is, after the 4th syllable, the 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 kiss | and infidels adore ; Her lively looks | a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as her eyes | and as unfix'd as those. Favours to none, | to all she smiles extends, Oft she rejects, | but never once offends. When the pause falls after the 5th syllable, which divides the line into two equal portions, the melody is sensibly altered. The verse loses that brisk and sprightly air, which it had with the former pause, and becomes more smooth, gentle, and flowing. Eternal sunshine | of the spotless mind, Each prayer accepted | and each wish resign'd. When the pause proceeds to follow the 6th syllable, the tenour o : the music becomes solemn and grave. The verse marches now with a more slow and measured pace, than in any of the two for mer cases. The wrath of Peleus' son, | the direful spring Of all the Grecian woes, | goddess sing ! l*ct. xxxviii.] VERSIFICATION. 43] But tne grave, solemn cadence becomes still more sensible, when the pause falls after the 7th syllable, which is the nearest place to the end of the line that it can oorupy. This kind of verse occurs the seldomest, but has a happy effect in diversifying the melody. It produces that slow Alexandrine air which is finely suited to a close; and for this reason, such lines almost never occur together, but are Jsed in finishing the couplet. And in the smooth description | murmur still, Longlov'd, ador'd ideas ! j all adieu. I have taken my 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 sen- sible to the ear. It is constructed, however, entirely upon the same principles with respect to the place of the pause. There are some who, in order to exalt the variety and the power of our heroic verse, have maintained that it admits of musical pauses, not only after those four syllables, where I assigned their place, but after any one syllable in the verse indifferently, where the sense directs it to be placed. This, in my opinion, is the same thing as to maintain that there is no pause at all belonging to the natural melody of the verse; since, according to this notion, the pause is formed entirely by the meaning, not by the music. But this I apprehend to be contrary both to the nature of versification, and the experience of every ^ood ear.* Those certainly are the happiest lines, wherein the pause, prompted by the melody, coincides in some degree with that of the sense, or at least does not tend to spoil or interrupt the mean- ing. Wherever any opposition between the music and the sense chances to take place, I observed before, in treating of pronunciation or delivery, that the proper method of reading these lines, is to read them according as the sense dictates, neglecting or slurring the cae- sural pause ; which renders the line less graceful indeed, but, how- ever, does not entirely destroy its sound. Our blank verse possesses great advantages, and is indeed a noble, bold, and disencumbered species of versification. The principal defect in rhyme, is the full close which it forces upon the ear, at the end of every couplet. Blank verse is freed from this ; and al- lows the lines to run into each other with as great liberty as the La- tin hexameter permits, perhaps with greater. Hence it is particu- larly suited to subjects of dignity and force, which demand more * In the Italian heroic verse, employed by Tasso in his Gierusalemme, and Ariosto in his Orlando, the pauses are of the same varied nature with those which I have shown to belong to English versification, and fall after the same four sylla- bles in the line. Marmontel, in his Poetique Francoise, vol. i. p. 269, takes no tice, that the construction of verse is common to the Italians and the English ; and defends the uniformity of the French cjesural pause upon this ground, that the al- ternation of masculine and feminine rhymes furnishes sufficient variety to the French poetry; whereas the change of movement occasioned by the four different pauses in English and Italian verse, produces, according to him, too great diversity. On the head of pauses in English versification, see the Elements of Criticism, chap 18, sect. 4. 432 VERSIFICATION. [lect. xxxvm free and manly numbers than rhyme. The constraint and strict re- gularity of rhyme, are unfavourable to the sublime, or to the highly pathetic strain. An epic poem, or a tragedy, would be fettered and degraded by it. It is best adapted to compositions of a temperate strain, where no particular vehemence is required in the sentiments, nor great sublimity in the style ; such as pastorals, elegies, epistles, satires, &c. To these, it communicates that degree of elevation which is proper for them ; and without any other assistance suffi- ciently distinguishes the style from prose. He who should write such poems in blank verse, would render his work harsh and un- pleasing. In order to support a poetical style, he would be obliged to affect a pomp of language unsuitable to the subject. Though I join in opinion with those, who think that rhyme finds its proper place in the middle, but not in the higher regions of poe- try, I can by no means join in the invectives which some have pour- ed out against it, as if it were a mere barbarous jingling of sounds, fit only for children, and owing to nothing but the corruption of taste in the monkish ages. Rhyme might indeed be barbarous in Latin or Greek verse, because these languages, by the sonorousness of their words, by their liberty of transposition and inversion, by their fixed quantities and musical pronunciation, could carry on the melody of verse without its aid. But it does not follow, that therefore it must be barbarous in the English language, which is destitute of these ad- vantages. Every language has powers and graces, and music pecu- liar to itself; and what is becoming in one, would be ridiculous in another. Rhyme was barbarous in Latin; and an attempt to con- struct English verses, after the form of hexameters, and pentameters, and sapphics, is as barbarous among us. It is not true, that rhyme is merely a monkish invention On the contrary, it has obtained under different forms, in the versification of most known nations. It is found in the ancient poetry of the northern nations of Europe ; it is said to be found among the Arabs, the Persians, the Indians, and the Americans. This shows that there is something in the return of similar sounds, which is grateful to the ears of most part of man kind. And if any one, after reading Mr. Pope's Rape of the Lock, or Eloisa to Abelard, shall not admit our rhyme, with all its varieties of pauses, to carry both elegance and sweetness of sound, his ear must be pronounced to be of a very peculiar kind. The present form of our English heroic rhyme in couplets, is a modern species of versification. The measure generally used in the days of Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King Charles I. was the stanza of eight lines, such as Spenser employs, borrowed from the Italian ; a measure very constrained and artificial. Waller was the first who brought couplets into vogue ; and Dryden afterwards estab- lished the usage. Waller first smoothed our verse; Dryden perfected it. Mr. Pope's versification has a peculiar character. It is flow- ing and smootn in the highest degree; far more laboured and cor- rect than that of any who went before him. He introduced one considerable change into verse, by totally throwing aside the trip- lets, or three lines rhyming together, in which Mr. Dryden abound LECT. XXXVIII. J QUESTIONS. 433 ed. Dryden's versification, however, has ve?y great merit ; and, like ill his productions, has much spirit, mixed with carelessness. If not so smooth and correct as Pope's, it is, however, more varied and easy. He subjects himself less to the rule of closing the sense with the coup- et ; and frequently takes the liberty of making his couplets run into me another, with somewhat of the freedom of blank verse. QUESTIONS. On what has our author now finish- ed his observations ; and what remains? As what does our author design this lecture ; and in what manner does he propose to treat it? What is our first inquiry? Of the answer to this question, what is observed ? In what have some made its essence to consist, and by what authority do they support their opinion ? How does it appear that this is too limited a definition ? Why is it too loose to make the characteristics of poetry lie in imitation ? What is the most just and comprehensive definition which can be given of poetry ? How is this definition fully illustrated ? What has our author added to this definition ; and why ? How nearly do verse and prose approach each other ; and what remarks follow ? From what will the truth and justness of the definition given, appear? To whom have the Greeks ascribed the origin of poetry? Of such persons as these, what is re- marked ? To imagine what, is a great error ; and why ? In order to explore the rise of poetry, to what must we have recourse ? What has been often said ? What period of society never existed ? What illustration, then, of the paradox, that poetry is older than prose, follows ? Where, only, have we had an opportunity of being made acquainted with men in their savage state ? Of them, what do we learn from concur- ring accounts of travellers ? Here, then, in what do we see the beginnings of poetic composition ? What two parti- culars would early distinguish this language of song ? How is this illus- trated ? What influence do strong emo- tions exert over the passions ; and what do we, consequently, do? Hence, what arises ? What is man by nature ; and how is this remark illustrated ? What, therefore, follows ? As the first poets sung their own verses, of what was this the beginning ? What fell in with the music of the song ? What was the ear- ly character of these members; but what followed ? From what has been said, what appears ? From what does it appear that they knew no other than these ? What, therefore, follows ? What farther reason is there why such com- positions only, could be transmitted to posterity ? How is this illustrated ? What bear testimony to these facts ; and of this remark, what illustrations follow ? How does it appear, that, in the same manner, among all other na- tions, poets and songs are the first ob- jects that make their appearance? From this deduction, what follows; and why? What occur among all na- tions; and what are the general dis- tinguishing characters of all the most ancient original poetry ? Of that strong hyperbolical manner, which we have long been accustomed to call the orien- tal manner of poetry, what is obser- ved? When do mankind most resemble each other ? What is the effect of its subsequent revolutions ? What influ- ence has diversity of climate, and manners of living, on the first poetry of nations? Of this remark, what illus- trations are given? Repeat the passage from Lucan. From what does it ap- pear that the early poetry of the Gre- cian nations assumed a philosophical cast? Who have always bee.! the greatest poets of the east ; and among them, of what was poetry the vehicle ? Of the ancient Arabs, what are we in- formed ? Of what two sorts were they? Of the former, what is observed ? Who seem to have been the first who intro- duced a more regular structure, and closer connexion of parts, into their poetical writings ? What was the state of poetry during its infancy ? In the progress of society and arts, what did they begin to assume ? But in the first rude state of poetical effusions, what may easily be discerned? How is this re- 433 a QUESTIONS. [lect. XXXVIII mark illustrated ? Of all of these kinds of poetry, however, what is observed ? What, also, was then blended in one mass ? How is this illustrated ? In what, period of society was this the case? When was this order changed? What effect was produced by the in vention of the art of writing ? What effect did this produce on the histo- rian, the philosopher, and the orator? What did poetry now become? What was the effect of these separations? From what, however, does it appear that poetry, in its ancient, original con- dition, was perhaps more vigorous than it is in its modern state? What, there- fore, is not to be wondered at ? When did authors begin to affect what they did not feel ; and what was the conse- quence? Of the separation of music from poetry, what is remarked ? How is this remark illustrated ? Of the mu- sic, and of the musical instruments of that early period, what is observed; and what follows? What is certain? When did music lose all its ancient power of inflaming the hearers with strong emotions ; and into what did it sink ? What does poetry, in all nations, still preserve? Whence ar^es that great characteristic of poetry which we now call verse ? W T hy does our author confine himself to a few observations upon English versification ? Upon what did nations, whose language and pronunciation were of a musical kind, rest their versification ? Upon what did ethers, who did not make the quantities of their syllables so distinctl}' perceived in pronouncing them, rest them ? The former was the case with whom, and with whom is the latter? Among the Greeks and Romans, of every syllable, what is remarked ? Upon this principle, to wh"t extent was the number of syl- lables contained in their hexameter verse, allowed to vary? In order to ascertain the regular time of every verse, what were invented ? By these measures, what were tried ? How is this illustrated? W T hy would the intro- duction of these feet into English verse, be entirely out of place ? What illus- tration of this remark follows? With what words is this the case ? Of the dif- ference, in general, made between long and short syllables, in our manner of pronouncing them, what is observed ? From what does the only perceptible I difference, among our syllables, arise ? ' What is remarned of this accent? How is this illustrated ? Of what structure is our English heroic verse ? With regard to the place of these accents, what re- marks are made ? What is another es- sential circumstance in the construc- tion of our verse ? In what other verse is it found ? Of its use in French, what is observed ; and by what example is this illustrated? On French verses, what is farther remarked ? On the other hand, what is a distinguishing advantage of our English verse ? After what syllables may the pause fall, and what remark follows ? By this means, what are added to English versifica- tion ?_ What effect is produced, when the pause falls earliest, or after the fourth syllable ? By what example is this illustrated ? When the pause falls after the fifth syllable, what is its ef- fect, and what does the verse then lose? Repeat the example. W T hen the pause follows the sixth syllable, what air does the tenour of the music assume ? By what example is this il- lustrated ? But when does the grave, solemn cadence, become still more sen- sible ? Of this kind of verse, what is observed ; and what example is given ? Why has our author taken his exam- ples from verses in rhyme ? Of blank verse, what is here observed? With regard to our verse, what have some maintained 5 This, in the opinion of our author, is the same thing as what : and why ? To what is this apprehend- ed to be contrary ; and for what rea- son? How are blank verse and rhyme contrasted? With what opinion does our author coincide, yet, in what in- vectives can he not join ? Why might rhyme be barbarous in Latin or Greek verse ? But what does not, therefore, follow ? How are these remarks illus- trated ? How does it appear to be not true, that rhyme is merely a monkish invention ? What do these instances show ; and what remark follows ? Of the present form of our English ? hyme, in couplets, what is observed ? What measure was generally used in the days of Queen Elizabeth ; and what is observed of it ? Who first brought coup- lets into vogue ; and who established the usage? Of them, what ip farther remarked ? What is the character of Mr. Pope's versification ? How doea Dryden compare with him ? LECT. XXXIX.] QUESTIONS. 433 ANALYSIS 1. The definition of poetry. 2. Its origin and antiquity. 3. Its ancient characteristics. 4. The different kinds, not distinguished. 5. The influence of the invention of the art of writing'. 6. The separation of music from verse. . The nature of verse. . English versification. a. The effects of the cssural pause, when differently placed, (a.) After the fourth syllable. (b.) After the fifth syllable, (c.) After the sixth syllable, (d.) After the seventh syllable. b. The character of our blank ver3e._ (a.) Blank verse contrasted with rhyme. LECTURE XXXIX. PASTORAL POETRY.— LYRIC POETRY. In the last lecture, I gave an account of the rise and progress of poetry, and made some observations on the nature of English versi- fication. I now proceed to treat of the chief kinds of poetical com- position, and of the critical rules that relate to them. I shall follow that order which is most simple and natural ; beginning with the lesser forms of poetry, and ascending from them to the epic and dra- matic, as the most dignified. This lecture shall be employed on pastoral and lyric poetry. . . Though I begin with the consideration of pastoral poetry, it is not because! consider it as one of the earliest forms of poetical com- position. On the contrary, I am of opinion that it was not cultivated as a distinct species, or subject of writing, until society had advanced in refinement. Most authors have, indeed, indulged the fancy, that because the life which mankind at first led was rural, therefore their first poetry was pastoral, or employed in the celebration of rural scenes and objects. I make no doubt, that it would borrow many ot its images and allusions from those natural objects with which men were best acquainted; but I am persuaded, that the calm and tranquil scenes of rural felicity were not, by any means, the first ob- jects which inspired that strain of composition, which we now call poetry. It was inspired, in the first periods of every nation, by events and objects which roused men's passions ; or, at least, awa- kened their wonder and admiration. The actions of their gods and heroes, their own exploits in war, the successes or misfortunes of their countrymen and friends, furnished the first themes to the bards of every country. What was of a pastoral kind in their composi- ions, was incidental only. They did not think of choosing for their theme the tranquillity and the pleasures of the country, as long as these were daily and familiar objects to them. It was not till men had begun to be assembled in great cities, after the distinctions of rank and station were formed, and the bustle of courts and large so- cieties was known, that pastoral poetry assumed its present form. Men then began to look back upon the more simple and innocent hie whicn their forefathers led, or which, at least, they fancied them to have led : thev ,ooked back upon it with pleasure, and in those rura) 134 PASTORAL POETRY. [lkct.xxxtx. scenes, and pastoral occupations, imagining a degree of felicity to take place, superior to what they now enjoyed, conceived the idea of celebrating it in poetry. It was in the court of King Ptolemy, that Theocritus wrote the first pastorals with which we are acquainted ; and, in the court of Augustus, he was imitated by Virgil. But whatever may have been the origin of pastoral poetry, it is undoubtedly a natural and very agreeable form of poetical compo- sition. It recalls to our imagination those gay scenes, and pleasing views of nature, which commonly are the delight of our childhood and youth ; and to which, in more advanced years, the greatest part of men recur with pleasure. It exhibits to us a life, with which we are accustomed to associate the ideas of peace, of leisure, and of in- nocence ; and, therefore, we readily set open our heart to such repre- sentations as promise to banish from our thoughts the cares of the world ; and to transport us into calm elysian regions. At the same time, no subject seems to be more favourable to poetry. Amidst rural objects, nature presents,on all hands, the finest field for descrip- tion ; and nothing appears to flow more of its own accord, into poeti- cal 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, allured many readers, and excited many writers. But, notwithstanding the advantages it possesses, it will appear from what I have farther to observe upon it, that there is hardly any species of poetry which is more difficult to be carried to perfection, or in which fewer writers have excelled. Pastoral life may be considered in three different views : either such as it now actually is; when the state of shepherds is reduced to be a mean, servile, and laborious state ; when their employments are become disagreeable, and their ideas gross and low ; or such a? we may suppose it once to have been, in the more early and simple ages, when it was a life of ease and abundance, when the wealth of men consisted chiefly in flocks and herds, and the shepherd, though unrefined in his manners, was respectable in his state ; or lastly, such as it never was, and never can in reality be, when, to the ease, inno- cence, and simplicity of the early ages, we attempt to add the po- lished taste and cultivated manners of modern times. Of these three states, the first is too gross and mean, the last too refined and un- natural, to be made the ground-work of pastoral poetry. Either of these extremes is a rock upon which the poet will split, if he ap- proach too near it. We shall be disgusted if he gives us too much of the servile employments, and low ideas of actual peasants, as Theo- critus is censured for having sometimes done: and if, like some of the French and Italian writers of pastorals, he makes his shepherds discourse as if they were courtiers and scholars, he then retains the name only, but wants the spirit of pastoral poetry. He must, therefore, keep in the middle station between these. He must form to himself the idea of a rural state, such as in cer- tain periods of society may have actually taken place, where there was ease, equality, and innocence; where shepherds were gay and •greeable, without being learned or refined; and plain and artless lect. xxxix.] PASTORAL POETRY. 435 without being gross and wretched. The great charm of pastoral poe- try arises, from the view which itexhibits of the tranquillity and hap- piness of a rural life. This pleasing illusion, therefore, the poet must carefully maintain. He must display to us all that is agree* able in that state, but hide whatever is displeasing.* Let him paint its simplicity and innocence to the full ; but cover its rude- ness and misery. Distresses, indeed, and anxieties he may attri- bute tc it ; for it would be perfectly unnatural to suppose any con- dition 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 dis- gusting in the pastoral life. The shepherd may well be afflicted for the displeasure of his mistress, or for the loss of a favourite lamb. It is a sufficient recommendation of any state, to have only sucn evils as these to deplore. In short, it is the pastoral life some- what embellished and beautified, at least, seen on its fairest side only, that the poet ought to present to us. But let him take care that, in embellishing nature, he do not altogether disguise her ; or pretend to join with rural simplicity and happiness, such im- provements as are unnatural and foreign to it. If it be not exactly real life which he presents to us, it must, however, be somewhat that resembles it. This, in my opinion, is the general idea of pas- toral poetry. But, in order to examine it more particularly, let us consider, first, the scenery ; next, the characters; and, lastly, the subjects and actions, which this sort of composition should ex- hibit. As to the scene, it is clear, that it must always be laid in the country, and much of the poet's merit depends on describing it beautifully. Virgil is, in this respect, excelled by Theocritus, whose descriptions of natural beauties are richer and more picturesque * In the following beautiful lines of the first Eclogue, Virgil has, in the true spirit of a pastoral poet, brought together as agreeable an assemblage of images of ru? ral pleasure as can any where be found : Fortunate senex ! hlc inter flumina nota, Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum. Hinc tibi, quae semper vicino ab limite sepes, HybLeis *pibus, florem depasta salicti, Sa?pele»< somnum suadebit inire susurro. Hinc a!ta fcub rupe, canet frondator ad auras ; Nee (amen interna raucEP, tua cura, palumbes, Nee gemere agria cessabit turtur ab ulmo. Happy old man ! here mid th' accustom'd streams And sac-ed springs, you'll shun the scorching beams ; While from yon willow fence, thy pasture's bound, The bees that suck their flowery stores around, Shall sweetly mingle, with the whisp'ring boughs, Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose. While from steep rocks the pruner's song is heard ; Nor the soft cooing dove, thy fav'rite bird, Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her uniting strain, Nir turtles from the aerial elms to plain, Wartoh. 3R 43b PASTORAL POETRY. [lect. xxxw than those of the other.* In every pastoral, a scene, or rural prospect, should be distinctly drawn, and set before us. It is not enough, that we have those unmeaning groups of violets and roses, of birds, and brooks, and breezes, which our common pastoral- mongers throw together, and which are perpetually recurring upon us without variation. A good poet ought to give us such a land- scape, as a painter could copy after. His objects must be particu- larized ; the stream, the rock, or the tree, must each of them stand forth, so as to make a figure in the imagination, and t o give ,is a pleasing conception of the place where we are. A single ob- ject happily introduced, will sometimes distinguish and charac- terize a whole scene ; such as the antique rustic sepulchre, a very beautiful object in a landscape, which Virgil has set before us, and which he has taken from Theocritus. Hinc adeo media est nobis via ; jamque sepulchrum Incipit apparere Bianoris: hie ubi densas Agricolae stringunt frondes. Ecl. IX.i * What rural scenery, for instance, can be painted in more lively colours, than th« following description exhibits ? -VI Tl fcaOJIar/C "Elf ti norfJutTotirl ytyaBiitc ohafkivi. Uohxa.i J* a /up iv V7rt^t xati xp*TC( fwiorro "Alytipot 7rTtxini W to J~ tyyvBtt itphi uo f »{ liVuqiv »£ ItTgOtO X*T«)26|U»W XtXot'glfoVl. tot /• woTl a-KiifaTlf ipcfstfjtvia-iY aiha^iccvtt Trrrtyic \a.\a.ytZvTK ^X oy 7r ' vcy ' * f •*•*■}•> T»x63"i» i» irvxnig-i /Htbh tpv^vrxn ix.xvbut. 'hufoi Kopvftl xtti a*av6l'«r«, ferTtn T^vyiiy Uaravro £«8tti itrigt o small, but inimitably fine poems, are as exquisite as can be conceived. They are, indeed, the storehouse whence many succeeding poets have enriched their descriptions of similar subjects ; and they alone are sufficient for illustrating the observations which I made, concerning the proper selection of circumstances in descriptive writing. Take, for instance, the following passage from the Pen- seroso : -I walk unseen On the dry, smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon : Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way, And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound, Over some wide watered shore, Swinging slow with solemn roar ; Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm ; son, is high, and, in my opinion, very just : ' As a writer, he is entitled to c.ie praise of the highest kind ; his mode of thinking, and of expressing his thoughts, is original His blank verse is no more the blank verse of Milton, or of any other poet, than the rhymes of Prior are the rhymes of Cowley. His numbers, his pauses, his diction, are of his own growth, without transcription, without imitation. He thinks in a peculiar train, and he thinks always as a man of genius. He looks round on nature and life, with the eye which nature bestows only on a poet ; the eye that distinguishes in everv thing presented to its view, whatever there is on which imagination can delight to be detained; and with a mind, that at once comprehends the vast and attends to the minute. The reader of the Seasons wonders that he never saw before what Thomson shows him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson impresses. His descriptions of extended scenes, and general effects, bring before us the whole magnificence of nature, whether pleasing or dreadful. The gayety of .spring, the spl< ndour of summer, the tranquillity of autumn, and the horror of winter, take, in their turn, possession o» the mind. The poet leads us through the appearances of things, as they are succes- sively varied by the vicissitudes of the year, and imparts to us so much of his own enthusiasm, that our thoughts expand with his imagery, and kindle with his senti- ments.' Tlie censure which the same eminent critic passes upon Thomson's diction, is no less just and well founded, that • it is too exuberant, and may sometimes be charged with filling the ear more than the mind.' LfiCT. xl.] DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. ASS Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, Be seen, in some high lonely tower, Where I may outwatch the Bear With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds, cr what vast regions hold Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in his fleshly nook ; \nd of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground. Here there are no unmeaning general expressions; all is particu- lar, a! is picturesque; nothing forced or exaggerated ; but a simple style, and a collection of strong expressive images, which are all of one eiass, and recal a number of similar ideas of the melancholy kind particularly the walk by moon-light; the sound of the curfew- bell heard distant; the dying embers in the chamber ; the bellman's call ; and the lamp seen at midnight in the high lonely tqwer. We may observe, too, the conciseness of the poet's manner. He does not rest long on one circumstance, or employ a great many words to describe it; which always makes the impression faint and lan- guid ; but placing it in one strong point of view, full and clear before the reader, he there leaves it. ' From his shield and his helmet,' says Homer, describing one of his heroes in battle, ' From his shield and his helmet, there sparkled an incessant blaze ; like the autumnal star, when it appears in its brightness from the waters of the ocean.' This is short and lively ; but when it comes into Mr. Pope's hands, it evaporates in three pompous lines, each of which repeats the same image in different words : High on his helm celestial lightnings play, His beamy shield emits a living ray ; Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies. It is to be observed, in general, that, in describing solemn or great objects, the concise manner is almost always proper. De- scriptions of ga} T and smiling scenes can bear to be more amplified and prolonged, as strength is not the predominant quality expected in these. But where a sublime or a pathetic impression is intended to be made, energy is above all things required. The imagination ought then to be seized at once ; and it is far more deeply impressed by one strong and ardent image, than by the anxious minuteness of laboured illustration. l His face was without form, and dark,'' says Ossian, describing a ghost, ' the stars dim twinkling through his form ; thrice he sighed over the hero ; and thrice the winds e* the night roared around.' It deserves attention, too, that in describing inanimate natural ob- jects, the poet, in order to enliven his description, ought always to mix living beings with them. The scenes of dead and still life are apt to pall upon us, if the poet do not suggest sentiments and intro- duce life and action into his description. This is well known to > % very painter who is a master of his art. Seldom has any beautiful 156 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [lect. xu landscape been drawn, without some human being represented on the canvas, as beholding it, or on some account concerned in it : Hie gelidi fontes, hlc mollia prata. Lycori, Hie nemus, hie ipso tecum consumerer svo.* Eel. x. 42. The touching part of these fine lines of Virgil's, is the last, which sets before us the interest of two lovers in this rural scene. A long description of the 'fori tes? the ' nemus,' and the 'prata,' in the most poetical modern manner, would have been insipid without thi.< stroke, which in a few words, brings home to the heart all the beau ties of the place : ' hie ipso tecum consumerer aevo.' It is great beauty in Milton's Allegro, that it is all alive, and. full of persons. Every thing, as I before said, in description, should be as marked and as particular as possible, in order to imprint on the mind a dis- tinct and complete image. A hill, a river, or a lake, rises up more conspicuous to the fancy, when some particular lake, or river, or hill, is specified, than when the terms are left general. Most of the ancient writers have been sensible of the advantage which this giv« <> to description. Thus, in that beautiful pastoral composition, the Song of Solomon, the images are commonly particularized by the objects to which they allude. It is the ' rose of Sharon ; the lily of the vallies; the flock which feeds on Mount Gilead ; the stream which comes from Mount Lebanon. Come wi- tive style, what are the richest and most remarkable? Of these two poems, what is farther observed ? Repeat the passage here introduced from the Pen- seroso. On this passage, what remarks are mado? What says Homer, de- scribing one of his heroes in battle ? Of this passage, what is observed ? Into what does it evaporate, when it cornea into the hands of Pope ? Repeat Mr. Pope's translation. What is to be ob- served ? What can bear to be more amplified and prolonged; and why? But where a sublime or pathetic im- pression is intended to be made, what, above all tilings, is required ; and for what reason ? Repeat Ossian's descrip- tion of a ghost. What, also, deserves attention? Why should this be done ? To whom is this well known ; and what remark follows? What illustra- tive example is given ? Of these five lines, what is remarked ? What is a great beauty in Milton's Allegro? Why should every thing in descrip- tion be as marked and as particular as possible ? What illustration of this re- mark is given? What writers were sensible of this ; and of this, what in- stance is given ? What passage is also introduced from Horace, illustrative of the same remark? What evidence have we that both Homer and Virgil are remarkable for the talent of poeti- cal description? What furnish many beautiful instances of poetical descrip- tion? Of Ossian, what is obser/ed? W'hat passage is introduced as one of his fullest descriptions ? Of Shakspeare as a descriptive poet, what is observed : and what instance is given ? Upon what does much of the beauty of de- scriptive poetry depend ? On this parti- cular, what remarks are made ? What poems of Virgil, and of Horace, must be assigned to this class; and why? What should every epithet do ? To il- lustrate this, what example is given from Milton ? Of the epithets here em- ployed, what is observed ? How is this illustrated? But, of what kind are there many epithets? Of this kind, what instances are given ? What do they give to the language ; but what is their effect ? What is, sometimes, m the power of a poet of genius? In whai lines may we remark this effect i LECT. XLI.] QUESTIONS. 459 b Among these wild scenes, what is ad- mirably imagined ; and by this one word, presenting what? Akin to this, is what epithet 1 ? What, does he say? Repeat the passage. What comment has been made on this passage ? In ac- counting for what, has Virgil employ- ed an epithet with great beauty and propriety? Repeat the passage. Of what may these instances and obser- vations «give some just idea ? When have Ave reason to distrust an author's descriptive talents? Of the best de- scriptions, what is observed? What features of an object do they set before us, and what do they give us? ANALYSIS. 1. Didactic poetry. a. The maimer of its execution. b. Method and order essential. c. Episodes and embellishments. d. Satirical poems. e. Poetical epistles. f. Didactic writers of eminence. 2. Descriptive poetry. a. Description the test cf a poet's imap ginaticn. o. The selection of circumstances. b. The character of Thompson's Sea- sons. c. ParneU, Milton, &c. descriptive poets. d. Homer, Virgil, &c. descriptive poets. a. A proper choice of epithets o£ great importance. LECTURE XLI. THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. Among the various kinds of poetry which we are, at present, em- ployed in examining, the ancient Hebrew poetry, or that of the Scriptures, justly deserves a place. Viewing these sacred books in no higher light, than as they present to us the most ancient monu- ments of poetry extant, at this day, in the world, they afford a cu- rious object of criticism. They display the taste of a remote age and country. They 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 discus- sions of another kind. But it is our business, at present, to consider them net in a theological, but in a critical view : and it must needi give pleasure, if we shall find the beauty and dignity of the composi tion, adequate to the weight and importance of the matter. Dr. Lowth's learned treatise, ' De Sacra Poesi Hebraeorum,' ought to be perused by all who desire to become thoroughly acquainted with this subject. It is a work exceedingly valuable, both for the elegance of its composition, and for the justness of the criticism which it con- tains. In this lecture, as I cannot illustrate the subject with more benefit to the reader, than by following the track of that ingenious author, I shall make much use of his observations. I need not spend many words in showing, that among the books of the Old Testament, there is such an apparent diversity in style, as sufficiently discovers, which of them are to be considered as poetical, and which as prose compositions. W r hile the historical books, and legislative writings of Moses, are evidently prosaic in the composi- tion, the book of Job, the Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, the Lamentations of Jeremiah, a great part of t'he prophetical writings, and several passages scattered occasionally through the historical books, rarry the most plain and distinguishing marks of poetical writing. There is not the least reason for doubting, that originally these 460 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, [lf.ct. xli. were written in verse, or some kind of measured numbers ; though, as the ancient pronunciation of the Hebrew language is now lost, we are not able to ascertain the nature of the Hebrew verse, or at most can ascertain it but imperfectly. Concerning this point there have been great controversiesamonglearned men, which it is unnecessary to our present purpose to discuss. Taking the Old Testament in our own translation, which is extremely literal, we find plain marks of m a- ny parts of the original being written in a measured style; and the 'disjecti membra poetae,' often show themselves. Let any person read the historical introduction to the book of Job, contained in the first and second chapters, and then go on to Job's speech in the be- ginning of the third chapter, and he cannot avoid being sensible, that he passes all at once from the region of prose to that of poetry. Not only the poetical sentiments and the figured style, warn him of the change ; but the cadence of the sentence, and the arrangement of the words, are sensibly altered; the change is as great as when he passes from reading Caesar's Commentaries, to read Virgil's ^Eneid. This is sufficient to show that the sacred Scriptures contain what must be called poetry in the strictest sense of that word ; and I shall afterwards show, that they contain instances of most of the different forms of poetical writing. It may be proper to remark in passing, that hence arises a most invincible argument in honour of poetry. No person can imagine that to be a frivolous and contemptible art, which has been employed by writersunderdivineinspiration, and has been chosen as a proper channel for conveying to the world the knowledge of divine truth. From the earliest times, music and poetry were cultivated among the Hebrews. In the days of the judges, mention is made of the schools or colleges of the prophets ; where one part of the employ- ment of the persons trained in such schools was, to sing the praises of God, accompanied with various instruments. In the first book of Samuel, (chap. x. 7.) we find, on a public occasion, a company of these prophets coming down from the hill where their school was, ' prophesying/ it is said, ' with the psaltery, tabret, and harp,before them.' But in the days of king David, music and poetry were carried to their greatest height. For the service of the tabernacle, he appoint- ed four thousand Levites, divided into twenty-four courses, and mar- shalled under several leaders, whose sole business il was to sing hymns, and to perform the instrumental music in the public worship. Asanh, lleman,and Jeduthun, were the chief directors of the music; and from the titles of some psalms, it would appear that they were also eminent composers of hymns or sacred poems. In chapter xxv. of the Qr«t book of Chronicles, an account is given oi'David's insti- tutions, relating to the sacred music and poetry ; which were cer- tainly more costly, more splendid and magnificent, than ever obtain- ed in the public service cf any other nation. The general construction of the Hebrew poetry is of a singular nature, and peculiar to itself. It consists in dividing every period into correspondent, for the most part into equal members, which answer to one another, both in sense and sound. In the first mem- lect. xli.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 461 ber of the period a sentiment is expressed ; and in the second mem- ber, the same sentiment is amplified, or is repeated in different terms, or sometimes contrasted with its opposite; but in such a manner that the same structure, and nearly the same number of words, Is preserved. This is the general strain of all the Hebrew poetry. Instances of it occur every where on opening the Old Testament. Thus, in Psalm xcvi. ' Sing unto the Lord a new song — sing unto the Lord all the earth. Sing unto the Lord, and bless his name — show forth his salvation from day to day. Declare his glory among the heathen — his wonders among all the people. For the Lord is great, and greatly to be praised — he is to be feared above all the gods. Honour and majesty are before him — strength and beauty are in his sanctuary.' It is owing, in a great measure, to this form of composition, that our version, though in prose, retains so much of a poetical cast. For the version being strictly word for word after the original, the form and order of the original sen- tence are preserved ; which, by this artificial structure, this regular alternation and correspondence of parts, makes the ear sensible of a departure from the common style and tone of prose. The origin of this form of poetical composition among the Pie- brews, is clearly to be deduced from the manner in which their sacred hymns were wont to be sung. They were accompanied with music, and they were performed by choirs ^r bands of singers and musicians, who answered alternately to each jther. When, for instance, one band began the hymn thus: ' The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice ;' the chorus, or semi-chorus, took up the corres- ponding versicle; 'Let the multitude of the isles be glad thereof.' — ' Clouds and darkness are around 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 correspondent to each other; whence, it is probable, the antiphon, or responsory, in the public religious service of so many christian churches, derived its origin. We are expressly told, in the book of Ezra, that the Levites sung in this manner; 'Alternating' or by course; (Ezra iii. 11.) and some of David's Psalms bear plain marks of their being composed In order to be thus performed. The 24th Psalm, in particular, which is thought to have been composed on the great and solemn occasion of the ark of the covenant being brought back to Mount Zion, must have had a noble effect when performed after this man- ner, as Dr. Lowth has illustrated it. The whole people are supposed to be attending the procession. The Levites and singers, divided into their several courses, and accompanied with all their musical instruments, led the way. After the introduction to the Psalm, in the two first verses, when the precession begins to ascend the sacred mount, the question is put, as by a semi-chorus : 'Who shall ascend unto the hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in his holy place?' The response is made by the full chorus with the greatest dignity . ' He that hath clean hands and a pure heart; who hath not lifted 462 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, [lect. xli. up his soul to vanity, nor sworn deceitfully.' As the procession approaches to the doors of the tabernacle, the chorus, with all their instruments, join in this exclamation: 'Lift up your heads, ye gatp«, and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory shall come in.' Here the send-chorus plainly breaks in, as with a lower voice, ' Who is this King of Glory ?' and at the mo- ment when the ark is introduced into the tabernacle, the response is made by the burst of the whole chorus: ' The Lord, strong and mighty; the Lord, mighty in battle.' I take notice ot this instance the rather, as it serves to show how much the grace and magnifi- cence of the sacred poems, as indeed of all poems, depends upon our knowing the particular occasions for which they were composed, and the particular circumstances to which they were adapted ; and how much of this beauty must now be lost to us, through our im- perfect acquaintance with many particulars of the Hebrew history and Hebrew rites. The method of composition which has been explained, by cor- responding versicles, being universally introduced into the hymns or musical poetry of the Jews, easily spread itself through their other poetical writings, which were not designed to be sung in alternate portions, and which therefore did not so much require this mode of composition. But the mode became familiar to their ears, and carried with it a certain solemn majesty of style, particularly suited to sacred subjects. Hence, throughout the prophetical writings, we find it prevailing as much as in the Psalms of David; as, for in- stance, in the prophet Isaiah : (chap. lx. 1.) ' Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee : for lo ! darkness shall cover the earth, — and gross darkness the people. But the Lord shall rise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen upon thee, and the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising.' This form of writing is one of the great character- istics of the ancient Hebrew poetry ; very different from, and even opposite to, the style of the Greek and Ri man poets. Independently of this peculiar mode o( construction, the sacred poetry is distinguished by the highest beauties of strong, concise, bold, and figurative expression. Conciseness and strength are two of its most remarkable charac ters. One might indeed at first imagine, that the practice of the Hebrew poets, of always amplifying the same thought by repetition or contrast, might tend to enfeeble their style. But they conduct themselves so, as not to produce this effect. Their sentences are always short. Few superfluous words are used. The same thought is never dwelt upon long. To their conciseness and sobriety of expression, their poetry is indebted for much of its sublimity; and all writers who attempt the sublime, might profit much, by imitating in this respect, the style of the Old Testament. For, as I have for- merly had occasion to show, nothing is so great an enemy to the sublime, as prolixity or difluseness. The mind is never so much affected by any great idea that is presented to it, as when it is struck all at once. By attempting to prolong the impression, we at the lect. xli.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 463 same time weaken it. Most of the ancient original poets of a}] nations are simple and concise. The superfluities and excrescences of style, were the result of imitation in after-times; when compo- sition passed into inferior hands, and flowed from art and study, more than from native genius. N J writings whatever abound so much with the most bold and ani- mated figures, as the sacred books. It is proper to dwell a httle tpon this article ; as, through our early familiarity with these books, (a familiarity too often with the sound of the words, rather than with their sense and meaning,) beauties of style escape us in the Scripture, which, in any other book, would draw particular atten- tion. Metaphors, comparisons, allegories, and personifications, are there particularly frequent. In order to do justice to these, it is necessary that we transport ourselves as much as we can into the land of Judaea; and place before our eyes that scenery, and those objects, with which the Hebrew writers were conversant. Some attention of this kind is requisite, in order to relish the writings of any poet of a foreign country, and a different age. For the imagery of every good poet is copied from nature, and real life ; if it were not so, it could not be lively ; and therefore, in order to enter into the propriety of his images, we must endeavour to place ourselves in his situation. Now we shall find that the metaphors and com- parisons of the Hebrew poets, present to us a very beautiful view of the natural objects of their own country, and of the arts and em- ployments of their common life. Natural objects are in some measure common to them with poets of all ages and countries. Light and darkness, trees and flowers, the forest and the cultivated field, suggest to them many beautiful figures. But, in order to relish their figures of this kind, we must take notice, that several of them arise from the particular circum- stances of the land of Judaea. During the summer months, little or no rain falls throughout all that region. While the heats continued,- the country was intolerably parched ; want of water was a great distress ; and a plentiful shower falling, or a rivulet breaking forth, altered the whole face of nature, and introduced much higher ideas of refreshment and pleasure, than the like causes can suggest to us* Hence, to represent distress, such frequent allusions among them, to ' a dry and thirsty land, where no water is ;' and hence to de- scribe a change from distress to prosperity, their metapnors are founded on the falling of showers, and the bursting out of springs in the desert. Thus in Isaiah: ' The wilderness and the solitary pi a 33 shall be glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as t)& rose. For in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the dcert; and the parched ground shall become a pool ; and the thirsty land, springs of water; in the habitation of dragons there shall be grass, with rushes and reeds.' Chap. xxxv. 1 6, 7. Images of this nature are very familiar to Isaiah, and occur in many parts of his book. Again, as Judaea was a hilly country, it was, during the rainy months,exposed to frequent inundations by the rushing of torrents, 3X 464 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, [lect. xli. which came down suddenly from the mountains, and carried every thing before them; and Jordan, their only great river, annually overflowed its banks. Hence the frequent allusions to ' the noise, and to the rushings of many waters ;' and hence great calamities so often compared to the overflowing torrent, which, in such a coun- try, must have been images particularly striking: 'Deep calleth jnto deep at the noise of thy water-spouts ; all thy waves and thy nil lows are gone over me.' Psalm xlii. 7. The two most remarkable mountains of the country, were Leba- non 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 pro priety, 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 excellency of Carmel.' (xxxv. 2.) Lebanon is often put metaphori- cally for the whole state or people of Israel, for the temple, for the king of Assyria ; Carmel, for the blessings of peace and prosperity. ' His countenance is as Lebanon,' says Solomon, speaking of the dignity of a man's appearance ; but when he describes female beau- ty, ' Thine head is like mount Carmel.' Song v. 15. and vii. 5. It is farther to be remarked under this head, that in the images of the awful and terrible kind, with which the sacred poets abound, they plainly draw their descriptions from that violence of the ele- ments, and those concussions of nature, with which their climate rendered them acquainted. Earthquakes were not unfrequent ; and the tempests of hail, thunder, and lightning, in Judaea and Arabia, accompanied with whirlwinds and darkness, far exceed any thing of that sort which happens in more temperate regions. Isaiah describes, with great majesty, the earth 'reeling to and fro like a drunkard, and removed like a cottage.' (xxiv. 20.) And in those circumstances of terror, with which an appearance of the Al- mighty is described in the 18th Psalm, when his 'pavilion round about him was darkness; when hailstones and coals of fire were hjis voice ; and when, at his rebuke, the channels of the waters are said to be seen, and the foundations of the hills discovered;' though there may be some reference, as Dr. Lowth thinks, to the history of God's descent upon Mount Sinai, yet ii seems more probable, that the figures were taken directly from t\ ose commotions of na- ture with which the author was acquainted and which suggested stronger and nobler images than what now r rcur to us. Besides the natural objects of their own cc ntry, we find tlje rites of their religion, and the arts and employments of their common life, frequently employed as grounds of image* y among the Hebrews They were a people chiefly occupied with agriculture and pasturage. These were arts held in high honour among them ; not disdained by their patriarchs, kings, and prophets. Little addicted to com- merce; separated from the rest of the world by ttieir laws and their religion; they were,during the better days of their state, strangers in a great measure to the refinements of luxury. Hence flowed, of lect. xli.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 465 course, the many allusions to pastoral life, to the 'green pastures and the still waters,' and to the care and watchfulness of a shepherd over his flock, which carry to this day so much beauty and tender- ness in them, in the 23d Psalm, and in many other passages of the poetical writings of Scripture. Hence, all the images founded upon rural employments, upon the wine-press, the threshing-floor, the stubble and the chaff. To disrelish all such images, is the effect of false delicacy. Homer is at least as frequent, and much more mi- nute and particular, in his similes, founded on what we now call low life; but, in his management of them, far inferior to the sacred wri- ters, who generally mix with their comparisons of this kind some- what of dignity and grandeur to ennoble them. What inexpressible grandeur does the following rural image in Isaiah, for instance, re- ceive from the intervention of the Deity : 'The nations shall rush like the rushings of many waters ; but God shall rebuke them, and they shall fly far off; and they shall be chased as the chaffof the mountain before the wind, and like the down of the thistle before the whirlwind.' Figurative allusions, too, we frequently find, to the rites and cere- monies of their religion ; to the legal distinctions of things clean and unclean ; to the mode of their temple service ; to the dress of their priests ; and to the most noted incidents recorded in their sacred history ; as to the destruction of Sodom, the descent of God upon Mount Sinai, and the miraculous passage of the Israelites through the Red Sea. The religion of the Hebrews included the whole of their laws and civil constitution. It was full of splendid external rites that occupied their senses ; it was connected with every part of their national history and establishment; and hence, all ideas founded on religion, possessed in this nation a dignity and importance peculiar to themselves, and were uncommonly fitted to mpress the imagination. From all this it results, that the imagery of the sacred poets is, in a high degree, expressive and natural ; it is copied directly from real objects that were before their eyes ; it has this advantage, of being more complete within itself, more entirely founded on national ideas and manners, than that of most other poets. In reading their works, we find ourselves continually in the land of Judaea. The palm-trees, and the cedars of Lebanon, are ever rising in our view. The face of their territory, the circumstances of theirclimate, the mannersof the people, and the august ceremonies of their religion, constantly pass under different forms before us. The comparisons employed by the sacred poets are generally short, touching on one point only of resemblance, rather than branching out into little episodes. In this respect, they have per haps an advantage over the Greek and Roman authors ; whose com- parisons, by the length to which they are extended, sometimes interrupt the narration too much, and carry too visible marks of study and labour. Whereas, in the Hebrew poets, they appear more like the glowings of a lively fancy, just glancing aside to some resembling object, and presently returning to its track. Such is the 59 466 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, [lect. xli following; fine comparison, introduced to describe the happy influ cnce of good government upon a people, in what arc called the last words of David, recorded in the 2d book of Samuel : (xxiii. 3.) •' He that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God; and he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun riseth ; even a morning without clouds ; as the tender grass springing out of the earth, by clear shining after rain." This is one of the most regular and formal comparisons in the sacred books. Allegory, likewise, is a figure frequently found in them. When formerly treating of this figure, I gave, for an instance of it, that remarkably fine and well-supported allegory, which occurs in the 80th Psalm, wherein the people of Israel are compared to a vine. Of parables, which form a species of allegory, the prophetical wri- tings are full ; and if to us they sometimes appear obscure, we must remember, that in those early times, it was universally the mode throughout all the eastern nations, to convey sacred truths under mysterious figures and representations. But the poetical figure, which, beyond all others, elevates the style of Scripture, and gives it a peculiar boldness and sublimity, is prosopopoeia or personification. No personifications employed by any poets, are so magnificent and striking as those of the inspired writers. On great occasions, they animate every part of nature •, especially, when any appearance or operation of the Almighty is concerned. " Before him went the pestilence — the waters saw thee, God, and were afraid — the mountains saw thee, and they trem- bled — the overflowing of the water passed by — the deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high." When inquiry is made about the place of wisdom, Job introduces the " Deep, saying, it is not in me; and the sea saith, it is not in me. Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our ears." That noted sublime passage in the book of Isaiah, which describes the fall of the king of Assyria, is full of -/^sonified objects ; the fir-trees and cedars of Lebanon breaking forth into exultation on the fall of the tyrant; hell from beneath, stirring up all the dead to meet him at his coming; and the dead kings introduced as speaking, and join- ing in the triumph. In the same strain, are the many lively and passionate apostrophes to cities and countries, to persons and things, with which the prophetical writings every where abound. " thou sword of the Lord! how long will it be ere thou be quiet? put thyself up into the scabbard, rest and be still." "How can it be quiet," (as the reply is instantly made) "seeing the Lord hath given it a charge against Askelon, and the sea-shore? there hath he appointed it." Jerem. xlvii. 6. In general, for it would carry us too far to enlarge upon all the instances, the style of the poetical books of the Old Testament is, beyond the style of all other poetical works, fervid, bold, and ani- mated. It is extremely different from that regular correct expres- sion, to which our ears are accustomed in modern poetry. It is the burst of inspiration. The scenes are not coolly described, but re- presented as passing before our eyes. Every object, and every lect. xli.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 467 person, is addressed and spoken to, as if present. The transilion is often abrupt ; the connexion often obscure ; the persons are often changed : figures crowded, and heaped upon one another. Bold sublimity, not correct elegance, is its character. We see the spirit of the writer raised beyond himself, and labouring to find vent for ideas too mighty for his utterance. After these remarks on the poetry of the Scriptures, ingeneral, I shall conclude this dissertation, with a short account of the different kinds of poetical composition in the sacred books ; and of the dis- tinguishing characters of some of the chief writers. The several kinds of poetical composition which we find in Scrip- ture, are chiefly of the didactic, elegiac, pastoral, and lyric. Of the didactic species of poetry, the book of Proverbs is the principal instance. The nine first chapters of that book are highly poetical, adorned with many distinguished graces and figures of expression. At the tenth chapter the style is sensibly altered, and descends into a lower strain, which is continued to the end : retaining, however, that sententious pointed manner, and that artful construction of pe- riod, which distinguish all the Hebrew poetry. The book of Eccle- siastes comes likewise under this head ; and some of the Psalms, as the 119th in particular. Of elegiac poetry, many very beautiful specimens occur in Scrip- ture; such as the lamentation of David over his friend Jonathan ; several passages in the prophetical books ; and several of David's Psalms, composed on occasions of distress and mourning. The 42d Psalm, in particular, is, in the highest degree, tender and plaintive. But the most regular and perfect elegiac composition in the Scrip- ture, perhaps in the whole world, is the book, entitled the Lamen- tations of Jeremiah. As the prophet mourns in that book over the destruction of the temple, and the holy city, and the overthrow of the whole state, he assembles all the affecting images which a sub- ject so melancholy could suggest. The composition is uncommonly artificial. By turns, the prophet, and the city of Jerusalem, are in- troduced, as pouring forth their sorrows ; and in the end, a chorus of the people send up the most earnest and plaintive supplications to God. The lines of the original, too, as may, in part, appear from our translation, are longer than is usual in the other kinds of Hebrew poetry : and the melody is rendered thereby more flowing and bet- ter adapted to the querimonious strain of elegy. The Song of Solomon affords us a high exemplification of pasto- ral poetry. Considered with respect to its spiritual meaning, it is undoubtedly a mystical allegory; in its form, it is a dramatic pasto- ral, or a perpetual dialogue between personages in the character of shepherds ; and suitably to that form, it is full of rural and pastoral images, from beginning to end. Of lyric poetry, or that which is intended to be accompanied with music, the Old Testament is full. Besides a great number of hymns and songs, which we find scattered in the historical and pro- phetical books, such as the song of Moses, the song of Deborah, and many others of like nature, the whole book of Psalms is to be 468 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, [lect. xli considered as a collection of sacred odes. In these, we find the ode exhibited in all the varieties of its form, and supported with the highest spirit of lyric poetry; sometimes sprightly, cheerful, and tri- umphant ; sometimes solemn and magnificent ; sometimes tender and soft. From these instances, it clearly appears, that there are con- tained in the Holy Scriptures, full exemplifications of several of the chief kinds of poetical writing. Among the different composers of the sacred books, there is an evident diversity of style and manner; and to trace their different characters in this view, will contribute not a little towards our read- ing their writings with greater advantage. The most eminent of the sacred poets are, the author of the book of Job, David, and Isaiah. As the compositions of David are of the lyric kind, there is a greater variety of style and manner in his works, than in those of the other two. The manner in which, considered merely as a poet, David chiefly excels, is the pleasing, the soft, and the tender. In his Psalms there are many lofty and sublime passages ; but, in strength of description, he yields to Job; in sublimity, he yields to Isaiah. It is a sort of temperate grandeur, for which David is chiefly dis- tinguished ; and to this he always soon returns, when, upon some occasions, he rises above it. The Psalms in which he touches us most are those in which he describes the happiness of the right- eous, or the goodness of God ; expresses the tender breathings of a devout mind, or sends up moving and affectionate supplications ti Heaven. Isaiah is, without exception, the most sublime of all poets This is abundantly visible in our translation ; and, what is a mate rial circumstance, none of the books of Scripture appear to have been more happily translated than the writings of this prophet Majesty is his reigning character; a majesty more commanding, and more uniformly supported, than is to be found among the rest of the Old Testament poets. He possesses, indeed, a dignity and grandeur, both in his conceptions and expressions, which is altogethei unparalleled, and peculiar to himself. There is more clearness and order too, and a more visible distribution of parts, in his book, than in any other of the prophetical writings. When we compare him with the rest of the poetical prophets, we immediately see in Jeremiah a very different genius. Isaiah employs himself generally on magnificent subjects. Jeremiah seldom disco- vers any disposition to be sublime, and inclines always to the tender and elegiac. Ezekiel, in poetical grace and elegance, is much inferior to them both ; but he is distinguished by a character of uncommon force and ardour. To use the elegant expressions of Bishop Lowth, with regard to this prophet: ' Est atrox, vehemens, tragicus ; in sensibus, fervidus, acerbus, indignabundus; in imaginibus fecundus, trucu- lentus, et nonnunquam pene deformis; in dictione grandiloquus, gravis, austerus, et interdum incultus; frequens in repetitionibus, non decoris aut gratiae causa, sed ex indignatione et violentia. Quicquid susceperit tractandum id sedulo persequitur; in eo unice hreret defixus ; a proposito raro deflectens. In caeteris, a plerisque vatibus fortasse superatus ; sed in eo genere, ad quod videtur a na- lect. xli.j THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 469 tora unice comparatus, nimirum, vi, pondere, impetu, granditate, ne- mo unquam eum superavit.' The same learned writer compares Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah to Simonides, and Ezekiel to iEschylus. Most of the book of Isaiah is strictly poetical ; of Jeremiah and Ezekiel, not above one half can be held to belong to poetry. Among the minor prophets, Hosea, Joel, Micah, Habakkuk, and es- pecially Nahum, are distinguished for poetical spirit. In the pro- phecies of Daniel and Jonah, there is no poetry. It only now remains to speak of the book of Job, with which I shall conclude. It is known to be extremely ancient ; generally re- puted the most ancient of all the poetical books; the author uncer- tain. It is remarkable, that this book has no connexion With the affairs or manners of the Jews or Hebrews. The scene is laid in the land of Uz, or Idumaea, which is a part of Arabia; and the imagery employed is generally of a different kind, from what I before showed to be peculiar to the Hebrew poets. We meet with no al- lusions to the great events of sacred history, to the religious rites of the Jews, to Lebanon or to Carmel, or any of the peculiarities of the climate of Judaea. We find few comparisons founded on rivers or torrents; these were not familiar objects in Arabia. But the longest comparison that occurs in the book, is to an object frequent and well known in that region, a brook that fails in the season of heat, and disappoints the expectation of the traveller. The poetry, however, of the book of Job, is not onty equal to that of any other of the sacred writings, but is superior to them all. except those of Isaiah alone. As Isaiah is the most sublime, David the most pleasing and tender, so Job is the most descriptive, of ail the inspired poets. A peculiar glow of fancy, and strength of des- cription, characterize the author. No writer whatever abounds so much in metaphors. He may be said not to describe, but to render visible, whatever he treats of. A variety of instances might be given. Let us remark only those strong and lively colours, with which, in the following passages taken from the 18th and 20th chapters of his book, he paints the condition of the wicked; observe how rapidly his figures rise before us ; and what a deep impression, at the same time, they leave on the imagination. ' Knowest thou not this of old, since man was placed upon the earth, that the triumphing of the wicked is short, and the joy of the hypocrite but for a moment? Though his excellency mount up to the heavens, and his head reach the clouds, yet he shall perish for ever. He shall fly away as a dream, and shall not be found; yea, he shall be chased away as a vision of the night. The eye also which saw him, shall see him no more ; they which have seen him shall say, Where is he? — He shall suck the poison of asps; the viper's tongue shall slay him. In the ful- ness of his sufficiency, he shall be in straits ; every hand shall come upon him. He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel shall strike him through. All darkness shall be hid in his secret pla- ces. A fire not Dlown shall consume him. The heaven shall re- veal his iniquity, and the earth shall rise up against him. The in- crease of his house shall depart. His goods shall flow away in the 470 QUESTIONS. [lect. xli. day of wrath. The light of the wicked shall be put out ; the light shall be dark in his tabernacle. The steps of his strength shall be straitened, and his own counsel shall cast him down. For he is cast into a net, by his own feet. He walketh upon a snare. Terrors shall make him afraid on every side ; and the robber shall prevail against him. Brimstone shall be scattered upon his habitation. His remembrance shall perish from the earth, and he shall have no name in the street. He shall be driven from light into darkness. They that come after him shall be astonished at his day. He shall drink of the wrath of the Almighty.' Q,UESTIOtfS. Among the various kinds of poetry, which we are at present employed in examining, what justly deserves a place? With what view alone, do the sacred books afford a curious object of criticism? What do they display; and what exhibit ? In what view do they give rise to discussion of another kind? But what, at present, is our business ; and what must needs give pleasure ? What treatise ought to be particularly perused ; and of it, what is observed ? In this lecture, what course is consequently pursued? In showing what, need not many words be spent ? How is this il- lustrated ? What is there no reason to doubt? What has this occasioned? Taking the Old Testament, in our own translation, what do we find ? How is this remark illustrated ? To show what, is this sufficient ; and afterwards, what shall be shown ? What may it be pro- per, in parsing, to remark? What illus- tration of this remark is given ? What evidence have we, that music and poetry were cultivated among the He- Drews, from the earliest times ? Of the general construction of Hebrew poetry, what is remarked? In what does it con- sist ? What is done in the first member of the period ; and also in the second ? What instance, to illustrate this form of Hebrew poetry, is given? To this kirn of composition, what is owing; and why ? From what is the origin of this form of composition among the He- brews, to be deduced? With what were Uiey accompanied ; and by whom were they performed ? To illustrate this, what instances are given ? In this manner, their poetry, when set to music, naturally divided itself into what? Whence, what probably deri ved its origin ? In the book of Ezra, what are we expressly .old ; and of some of David's Psalms, what is ob- served ? Repeat the remarks made or> the 24th Psalm, to illustrate this re- mark. Why does our author notice this instance ? The method of composition which has been explained, being uni- versally introduced into the hymns of the Jews, what was the consequence ? But of this mode, what is observed ? Hence, where do we find it prevailing ; and what instance is given ? Of thie form of writing, what is remarked ? In- dependently of thm peculiar mode of construction, by what is the sacred poetry distinguished ? What are its two most remarkable characters? What might one at first imagine? But how do they prevent this effect? To what is their poetry indebted for much of its sublimity ? How might all writers, who attempt the sublime, profit much ; and why ? When is the mind most affected hy any great idea ; and what is the ef- feet of attempting to prolong the im- pression ? Of most of the ancient ori- ginal poets, what is observed ; and of what were the superfluities and exere- seences of style, the result ? With what do the sacred books more particularly abound, than any other writings ? Why is it proper to dwell a little upon thi< ar tide ? What figures there, are particu- larly frequent ? In order to do justice to these, what is necessary ? In orde7 to do what, is some attention of thi* kind requisite; and why? Pursuing this course, wha „ shall we find ? Of natural objects, what is observe..: anc what suggest to them many beautify LECT. XLI.] QUESTIONS 470 Secures? But in order to relish their figures of this kind, of what must we take notice ? Of this remark, what il- lustration is given? Again, as Judea was a hilly country, to what, during the rainy months, was it exposed? Hence, the frequent allusions to what ; and hence to what are great calamities frequently compared ? Repeat the pas- sage here introduced from the Psalms. Which were the two most remarkable mountains of the country ; and for what were they respectively noted ? Hence, how are they, with the greatest propriety, employed ? Repeat the illus- trations that follow. Under this head, what is farther to be remarked? Of earthquakes, tempests, and thunder and lightning, what is observed ? How does Isaiah describe the earth? In those circumstances of terror, with which an appearance of the almighty is descri- bed, from what, is it probable, the figures were taken? Repeat the pas- sage. Besides the natural objects of their own country, what did the Hebiews frequently employ as grounds of im- agery ? With what were they chiefly occupied ; and in what estimation were these held ? As they were little addict- ed to commerce, and separated from the rest of the world by their laws and their religion, what was the conse- quence? Hence, as a matter of course, what allusions flowed ? Hence, also, vvhat images were employed ? To dis- relish such images is the effect of what? Of Homer, what is here observed? Repeat the passage here introduced from Isaiah illustrative of this remark. To what, also, do we frequently find figurative allusions? What instances are mentioned? What did the religion of the Hebrews include ? Of what was it full ; and with what was it connect- ed ? Hence, what followed ? From all this, what results ? Whence is it copied ; and what advantage has it ? In read- ing their works, where do we find our- selves; what are ever rising in our view ; and what constantly pass in dif- ferent forms before us ? Of the compari- sons employed by the sacred poets, what is observed ? In this respect, over whom have they an advantage ; and how does this appear? To illustrate this remark, what fine comparison is intro- duced? Repeat it ; and of it, what is observed? What otner figure is also frequently found in Scripture? When formerly treating of this figure, what was done ? Of the parables of the pro- phetical writings, what is observed? What poetical figure is it, which, be yond all others, elevates the style of Scripture? How is this fully illustrated? What is the general remark on the poetical books of the Old Testament? From what is it extremely different; and what is it? How are the scenes represented ; and how is this illustra- ted ? After these remarks on the poetry of the Scriptures in general, with what is this dissertation concluded? What are the several kinds of poetical com- position which we find in Scripture ? Of didactic poetry, what is the principal instance ? Of the nine first chapters of that book, what is observed ; and what is said of the rest ? What other parts of Scripture likewise come under this head ? Of elegiac poetry, what beauti- ful specimens occur in Scripture ? Which of the Psalms is, in the highest degree, tender and plaintive? But which is the most regular and perfect elegiac composition in the Scriptures, and per- haps that was ever written ? Of this poem, what is observed? What does the song of Solomon afford us ? Consi- dered with respect to its spiritual mean- ing, what is it; and what is it in its form ? Suitably to this form, of what is it full ? In what poetry does the Old Testament abound? How is this re- mark illustrated ? In the Psalms, what do we find ? From these instances, what clearly appears ? Of the different Cf m- posers of the sacred books, what is ob- served ? Who are the most eminent oi the sacred poets ? As the compositions of David are chiefly of the lyric kind, what is the consequence ; and in what does he excel ? In his Psalms, what are found ; but to whom does he yield ; and in what ? For what is David chiefly distinguished? In Avhat Psalms does he touch us most? Of Isaiah, what is observed ? In what is this abundantly visible; and what is a material circum- stance ? What is his reigning charac- ter; and of it, what is remarked? What does he possess ; and what pre- vails in his book, to a greater extent, than in any other book of the propheti- cal writings ? How do Isaiah and Jere- miah compare; and of Ezekiel, what 470 b EPIC POETRY. [lect. xlii. is observed? What comparisons does Bishop Lovvth make? Oi" most of the books of Isaiah, and of Jeremiah and Ezekiel, what is farther observed ? Among the minor poets, who are dis- tinguished for poetical spirit; and hi whose prophecies is there no poetry? Of what does it still remain for us to speak ? What are the general remarks made upon it? Of the poetry of the book of Job, what is observed ? How is this illustrated ? Repeat the passage with which these remarks are closed. ANALYSIS. 1. Introductory remarks. 2. Music and poetry very early cultivated. 3. Its construction peculiar to itself. 4. Its remarkable conciseness and strength. a. The boldness of its figures. b. Natural objects figuratively used. c. Awful and terrible miageryintroducedL d. Religious rights employed. e. Their imagery,expressive and natural, r. Their comparisons short and pointed. G. Allegory of frequent use. h. Personification their boldest figui e. 5. The different kinds of Hebrew poetiy. 6. Distinguished Hebrew poets. a. The book of Job. LECTURE XLII. EPIC POETRY. It now remains to treat of the two highest kinds of poetical wri- ting, the epic and the dramatic. I begin with the epic. This lec- ture shall be employed upon the general principles of that species of composition : after which, I shall take a view of the character and genius of the most celebrated epic poets. The epic poem is universally allowed to be, of all poetical works, the most dignified, and, at the same time, the most difficult in execu- tion. To contrive a story which shall please and interest all read- ers, by being at once entertaining, important, and instructive ; to lill it with suitable incidents ; to enliven it with a variety of charac- ters and of descriptions ; and, throughout a long work, to maintain that propriety of sentiment, and that elevation of style, which the epic character requires, is unquestionably the highest effort of poeti- cal genius. Hence so very few have succeeded in the attempt, that strict critics will hardly allow any other poems to bear the name of epic, except the Iliad and the .ZEneid. There is no subject, it must be confessed, on which critics have displayed more pedantry than on this. By tedious disquisitions, founded on a servile submission to authority, they have given such an air of mystery to a plain subject, as to render it difficult for an ordinary reader to conceive what an epic poem is. By Bossu's de- finition, it is a discourse invented by art, purely to form the manners of men, by means of instructions disguised under the allegory of some ■ important action which is related in verse. This definition would suit several of iEsop's fables, if they were somewhat extended, and put into verse ; and accordingly, to illustrate his definition, the critic draws a parallel, in form, between the construction of one of jEsop's fables and the plan of Homer's Iliad. The first thing, says he, which either a writer of fables, or of heroic poems, does, is to choose some maxim or point of morality ; to inculcate which, is to be the design of his work. Next, he invents a general story, or a series of facts, without any names, such as he judges will be most proper for illustra- lect. xlii.] EPIC POETRY. 471 ting his intended moral. Lastly, he particula jzes his story ; that is, if he he a fabulist, he introduces his dog, his sheep, and his wolf; or if he be an epic poet, he looks out in ancient history for some proper names of heroes to give to his actors ; and then his plan is completed. This is one of the most frigid and absurd ideas that ever entered into the mind of a critic. Homer, he says, saw the Grecians divided into a great number of independent states ; but very often obliged to unite into one body against their common enemies. The most useful instruction which he could give them in this situation, was, that a misunderstanding between princes is the ruin of the common cause. In order to enforce this instruction, he contrived, in his own mind, such a general story as this. Several princes join in a con- federacy against their enemy. The prince who was chosen as the leader of the rest, affronts one of the most valiant of the confederates, who thereupon withdraws himself, and refuses to take part in the common enterprise. Great misfortunes are the consequence of this division ; till at length, both parties having suffered by the quarrel, the offended prince forgets his displeasure and is reconciled to the leader ; and union being once restored, there ensues complete vic- tory over their enemies. Upon this general plan of his fable, adds Bossu, it was of no great consequence, whether, in filling it up, Ho- mer had employed the names of beasts, like iEsop, or of men. He would have been equally instructive either way. But as he rather fancied to write of heroes, he pitched upon the wall of Troy for the scene of his fable ; he feigned such an action to happen there ; he gave the name of Agamemnon to the common leader; that of Achilla? to the offended prince ; and so the Iliad arose. He that can believe Homer to have proceeded in this manner, may believe any thing. One may pronounce, with great certainty, that an author who should compose according to such a plan ; who should arrange all the subject in his own mind, with a view to the moral, before he had ever thought of the personages who were to be the actors, might write, perhaps, useful fables for children ; but as to an epic poem, if he adventured to think of one, it would be such as would find few readers. No person of any taste can enter- tain a doubt, that the first objects which strike an epic poet are, the hero whom he is to celebrate, and the action, or story, which is to be the ground-work of his poem. He does not sit down, like a phi- losopher, to form the plan of a treatise of morality. His genius is fired by some great enterprise, which, to him, appears noble and interesting; and which, therefore, he pitches upon, as worthy ot being celebrated in the highest strain of poetry. There is no subject of this kind, but will always afford some general moral instruction, arising from it naturally. The instruction which Bossu points out, is certainly suggested by the Iliad; and there is another which arises as naturally, and may just as well be assigned for the moral of that poem ; namely, that providence avenges tho?e who have suffer- ed injustice; but that when they allow their resentment to carry them too far, it brings misfortunes on then/selves. The subject 472 EPIC POETRY. [lkct. xli, of the poem is the wrath of Achilles, caused by the injustice of Agamemnon. Jupiter avenges Achilles by giving success to the Trojans against Agamemnon; but by continuing obstinate in his resentment, Achilles loses his beloved friend Patroclus. The plain account of the nature of an epic poem is, the recital of some illustrious enterprise in a poetical form. This is as exact a definition, as there is any occasion for on this subject. It compre- hends several other poems besides the Iliad of Homer, the iEneid of Virgil, and the Jerusalem of Tasso ; which are, perhaps, the three most regular and complete epic works that ever were compo- sed. But to exclude all poems from the epic class, which are not formed exactly upon the same model as these, is the pedantry 01 criticism. We can give exact definitions and descriptions of mine- rals, plants, and animals ; and can arrange them with precision, un- der the different classes to which they belong, because nature affords a visible unvarying standard, to which we refer them. But with regard to works of taste and imagination, where nature has fixed no standard, but leaves scope for beauties of many different kinds, it is absurd to attempt defining and limiting them with the same preci- sion. Criticism, when employed in such attempts, degenerates into trifling questions about words and names only. I therefore have no scruple to class such poems as Milton's Paradise Lost, Lucan's Pharsalia, Statius's Thebaid, Ossian's Fingal andTemora,Camoens' Lusiad, Voltaire's Henriade, Cambray's Telemachus, Glover's Le- onidas, Wilkie's Epigoniad, under the same species of composition with the Iliad and the iEneid ; though some of them approach much nearer than others to the 'perfection of these celebrated works. They are, undoubtedly, all epic; that is, poetical recitals of great ad- ventures ; which is all that is meant by this denomination of poetry. Though I cannot, by any means, allow, that it is the essence of an epic poem to be wholly an allegory, or a fable contrived to illus- trate some moral truth, yet it is certain, that no poetry is of a more moral nature than this. Its effect in promoting virtue, is not to be measured by any one maxim, or instruction, which results from the whole story, like the moral of one of iEsop's fables. This is a poor and trivial view of the advantage to be derived from perusing a long epic work, that at the end we shall be able to gather from it some common-place morality. Its effect arises from the impression which the parts of the poem separately, as well as the whole taken together, make upon the mind of the reader ; from the great exam- ples which it sets before us, and the high sentiments with which it warms our hearts. The end which it proposes is to extend our ideas of human perfection : or, in ether words, to excite admiration. Now this can be accomplished only by proper representations of he- roic deeds and virtuous characters. For high virtue is the object, which all mankind are formed to admire ; and, therefore, epic poems are, and must be, favourable to the cause of virtue. Valour, truth, iustice, fidelity, friendship, piety, magnanimity, are the objects which, in thecourse of such compositions, are presented to our mirds, under the most splendid and honourable colours. In behalf of virtu .ect. ZLir.] EPIC POETRY. 475 >us pe r sonages, our affections are engaged; in their designs, and their distresses, we are interested ; the generous and public affec- tions 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 honour of virtue, that several ol the most refined and elegant entertainments of mankind, such as ihat species of poetical composition which we now consider, must oe grounded on moral sentiments and impressions. This is a testi- mony of such weight, that, were it in the power of skeptical philo- sophers to weaken the force of those reasonings, which establish the essential distinctions between vice and virtue, the writings of epic poets alone were sufficient to refute their false philosophy ; showing by that appeal which they constantly make to the feelings of mankind in favour of virtue, that the foundations of it are laid deep and strong in human nature. The general strain and spirit of 'pic composition, sufficiently mark its distinction from the other kinds of poetry. In pastoral writing, the reigning idea is innocence and tranquillity. Compas- sion is the great object of tragedy ; ridicule, the province of comedy. The predominant character of the epic is, admiration excited by heroic actions. It is sufficiently distinguished from history, both by its poetical form, and the liberty of fiction which it assumes. It is a more calm composition than tragedy. It admits, nay requires, the pathetic and the violent, on particular occasions ; but the pa- thetic is not expected to be its general character. It requires, more than any other species of poetry, a grave, equal, and support- ed dignity. It takes in a- greater compass of time and action, than dramatic writing admits; and thereby allows a more full display of characters. Dramatic writings display characters chiefly by means of sentiments and passions ; epic poetry, chiefly by means of actions. The emotions, therefore, which it raises, are not so violent, but they are more prolonged. These are the general characteristics of this species of composition. But, in order to give a more particular and critical view of it, let us consider the epic poem under three heads; first, with respect to the subject, or action ; secondly, with respect to the actors, or characters; and lastly, with respect to the narration of the poet. The action, or subject of the epic poem, must have three pro- perties ; it must be one ; it must be great ; it must be interesting. First, it must be one action, or enterprise, which the poet chooses for his subject. I have frequently had occasion to remark the importance of unity, in many kinds of composition, in order to make a full and strong impression upon the mind. With the high- est reason, Aristotle insists upon this, as essential to epic poetry ; and it is, indeed, the most material of all his rules respecting it. For it is certain, that, in the recital of heroic adventures, several scattered and independent facts can never affect a reader so deeply, nor engage his attention so strongly, as a tale that is one and con- nected, where the several incidents hang upon one another, a&J 60 474 EPIC POETRIl. [lect. xlii are all made to conspire for the accomplishment of one end. In a regular epic, the more sensible this unity is rendered to the ima- gination, the better will be the effect; and, for this reason, as Aris- totle has observed, it is not sufficient for the poet to confine himself to the actions of one man, or to those which happened during a certain period of time; but the unity must lie in the subject itself; and arise from all the parts combining into one whole. In all the great epic poems, unity of action is sufficiently appa rent. Virgil, for instance, has chosen for his subject, the establish- ment 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 connexion. The unity of the Odyssey is of the same nature ; the return and re-establishment of Ulysses in his own country. The subject of Tasso, is the recovery of Jerusalem from the infidels ; that of Milton, the expulsion of our first parents from Paradise ; and both of them re unexceptionable in the unity of the story. The professed subject of the Iliad, is the anger of Achilles, with the consequences which it produced. The Greeks carry on many unsuccessful engagements against the Trojans, as long as they are deprived of the assistance of Achilles. Upon his being appeased and reconciled to Agamemnon, victory follows, and the poem closes. It must be owned, however, that the unity, or con- necting principle, is not quite so sensible to the imagination here as in the iEneid. For, throughout many books of the Iliad, Achilles is out of sight; he is lost in inaction, and the fancy termi- nates on no other object, than the success of the two armies whom we see contending in war. The unity of the epic action is not to be so strictly interpreted, as if it excluded all episodes, or subordinate actions. It is neces- sary to observe here, that the term episode is employed by Aris- totle, in a different sense from what we now give to it. It was a term originally applied to dramatic poetry, and thence transferred to epic; and by episodes, in an epic poem, it should seem that Aris- totle understood the extension of the general fable, or plan of the poem, into all its circumstances. What his meaning was, is indeed not very clear ; and this obscurity has occasioned much altercation among critical writers. Bossu, in particular, is so perplexed upon this subject, as to be almost unintelligible. But, dismissing so fruitless a controversy, what we now understand by episodes, are certain actions, or incidents, introduced into the narration, connect- ed 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 Cacus, and that of Nisus and Euryalus, in the JEneid; the adventures of Tancred with Erminia and Clorinda,in the Jeru salem ; and the prospect of his descendants exhibited to Adam, in the last books of Paradise Lost. Such episodes as these, are not only permitted to an epic poet, but, provided they be properly executed, are great ornaments to his work, 'Hie rules regarding them are the following: tECT. xlii.] EPIC POETRY. 475 First, they must be naturally introduced ; they must have a suf- ficient connexion with the subject of the poem ; they must seem in- ferior parts that belong to it ; not mere appendages stuck to it. The episode of Olinda and Sophronia, in the second book of Tasso's Jeru- salem, is faulty, by transgressing 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 6ome future consequence ; whereas, it proves to be connected with nothing that follows. In proportion as any episode is slightly related to the main subject, it should always be the shorter. The passion of Dido in the iEneid, and the snares of Armida in the Jerusalem, which are expanded so fully in these poems, cannot with propriety be called episodes. They are constituent parts of the work, and form a considerable share of the intrigue of the poem. In the next place, episodes ought to present to us objects of a 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 va- riety, that episodes are introduced into an epic composition. In so long a work, they tend to diversify the subject, and to relieve the reader, by shifting the scene. In the midst of combats, therefore, an episode of the martial kind would be out of place; whereas, Hector's visit to Andromache in the Iliad, andErminia's adventure with the shepherd in the seventh book of the Jerusalem, afford us a well-judged and pleasing retreat from camps and battles. Lastly, as an episode is a professed embellishment, it ought lo 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 episodes of Teribazus and Ariana, in Leonidas, and of the death of Hercules, in the Epigoniad, are the two greatest beauties in these poems. The unity of the epic action necessarily supposes, that the action be entire and complete; that is, as Aristotle well expresses it, that it have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Either by relating the whole, in his own person, or by introducing some of his actors to relate what had passed before the opening of the poem, the author must always contrive to give us full information of every thing that belongs to his subjec;; he must not leave our curiosity in any ar- ticle ungratified ; he must bring us precisely to the accomplishment of his plan, and then conclude. The second property of the epic action is, that it be great ; that it have sufficient splendour and importance, both to fix our atten- tion, and to justify the magnificent apparatus which the poet bestows upon it. This is so evidently requisite as not to require illustra- tion : and, indeed, hardly any who have attempted epic poetry, have failed in choosing some subject sufficiently important, either by the nature of the action, or by the fame of the personages con- cerned in it. It contributes to the grandeur of the epic subject, that * Ise not of a modern date, nor fall within any period of history witu which we are intimately acquainted. Both Lucan and Voltaire have, in the 476 EPIC POETRY. [lect. xlii choice of their subjects, transgressed this rule, and they have, upon that account, succeeded worse. Antiquity is favourable to those nigh and august ideas, whi^h epic poetry is designed to raise. It tends to aggrandize, in our imagination, both persons and events ; and what is still more material, it allows the poet the liberty of adorning his subject by means of fiction. Whereas, as soon as he comes within the verge of real and authenticated history, this liberty is abridged. He must either confine himself wholly, as Lucan has done, to strict historical truth, at the expense of rendering his story jejune ; or if he goes beyond it, like Voltaire in his Henriade, this disadvantage follows, that, in well-known events, the true and the fictitious parts of the plan do not naturally mingle and incorporate wit'i each other. These observations cannot be applied to dramatic writing ; where the personages are exhibited to us, not so much that we may admire, as that we may love or pity them. Such passions are much more consistent with the familiar historical knowledge of the persons who are to be the objects of them ; and even require them to be displayed in the light, and with the failings, of ordinary men. Modern and well-known history, therefore, may furnish very proper materials for tragedy. But for epic poetry, where heroism is the ground-work, and where the object in view is to excite admiration, ancient or traditionary history is assuredly the safest region. There the author may lay hold on names, and characters, and events, not wholly unknown, on which to build his story, while, at the same time, by reason of the distance of the pe- riod, or of the remoteness of the scene, sufficient license is left him for fiction and invention. The third property required in the epic poem is, that it be inter- esting. It is not sufficient for this purpose that it be great. For deeds of mere valour, how heroic soever, may prove cold and tire some. Much will depend on the happy choice of some subject, which shall, by its nature, interest the public ; as when the poet se- lects for his hero, one who is the founder, or the deliverer, or the r £VOurite of his nation ; or when he writes of achievements that have been highly celebrated, or have been connected with important consequences to any public cause. Most of the great epic poems are abundantly fortunate in this respect, and must have been very interesting to those ages and countries in which they were composed. But the chief circumstance which renders an epic poem interest- ing, and which tends to interest, not one age or country alone, but all readers, is the skilful conduct of the author in the management of his subject. He must so contrive his plan, as that it shall com- prehend many affecting incidents. He must not dazzle us perpetu- ally with valiant achievements ; for all readers tire of constant fight- ing and battles ; but he must study to touch our hearts. He may sometimes be awful and august; he must often be tender and pathet- ic; he must give us gentle and pleasing scenes of love, friendship, \nd affection. The more an epic poem abounds with situations ■vhich awaken the feelings of humanity, the more interesting it is umt. xlii.1 EPIC POETRY. 477 and these form always, the favourite passages of the work. I know no epic poets so happy in this respect as Virgil and Tasso. Much, too, depends on the characters of the heroes, for rendering the poem interesting; that they be such as shall strongly attach the readers, and make them take part in the dangers which the he- roes encounter. These dangers, or obstacles, form what is called the nodus, or the intrigue of the epic poem ; in the judicious con- duct of which consists much of the poet's art. He must rouse our attention, by a prospect of the difficulties which seem to threaten disappointment to the enterprise of his favourite personages; he must make these difficulties grow and thicken upon us by degrees ; till, after having kept us, for some time, in a state of agitation and sus- pense, he paves the way, by a proper preparation of incidents, for the winding up of the plot, in a natural and probable manner. It is plain, that every tale which is designed to engage attention, must be conducted on a plan of this sort. A question has been moved, whether the nature of the epic poem does not require that it should always end successfully ? Most critics are inclined to think, that a successful issue is the most proper ; and they appear to have reason on their side. An unhappy conclusion depresses the mind, and is opposite to the elevating emotions which belong to this species of poetry. Terror and compassion are the proper subjects of tragedy ; but as the epic poem is cf larger com- pass and extent, it were too much, if, after the difficulties and trou bles which commonly abound in the progress of the poem, the au thor should bring them all at last to an unfortunate issue. Accord- ingly, the general practice of epic poets is on the side of a prosper- ous conclusion ; not, however, without some exceptions. For two authors of great name, Lucan and Milton, have held a contrary course; the one concluding with the subversion of the Roman lib- erty ; the other, with the expulsion of man from Paradise. With regard to the time or duration of the epic action, no precise boundaries can be ascertained. A considerable extent is always al- lowed to it, as it does not necessarily depend on those violent pas- sions which can be supposed to have only a short continuance. The Iliad, which is formed upon the anger of Achilles, has, with propri- ety, the shortest duration of any of the great epic poems. Accord- ing to Bossu,the action lasts no longer than forty -seven clays. The action of the Odyssey, computed from the taking of Troy to the peace of Ithaca, extends to eight years and a half; and the action of the iEneid., computed in the same way, from the taking of Troy to the death of Turnus, includes about six years. But if we measure the period only of the poet's own narration, or compute from the time in which the hero makes his first appearance to the conclusion, the duration of both these last poems is brought within a much smaller compass. The Odyssey, beginning with Ulysses in the isl- and of Calypso, comprehends fifty-eight days only; and theiEneid, beginning with the storm, which throws iEneas upon the coast of Africa, is reckoned to include, at the most, a year and some months. Having 1hus treated of the epic action, or the subject of the 3Z 478 EPIC POETRY. [lect. xlii poem, I proceed next to make some observations on the actors 01 personages. As it is the business of an epic poet to copy after nature, and to form a probable and interesting tale, he must study to give all his per- sonages proper and well-supported characters, such as display the 'eatures of human nature. This is what Aristotle calls giving man-" ners to the poem. It is by no means necessary, that all his actors be morally good ; imperfect, nay, vicious characters, may find a proper place ; though the nature of epic poetry seems to require, that the principal figures exhibited should be such as tend to raise admiration and love, rather than hatred or contempt. But whatever the character be which a poet gives to any of his actors, he must take care to preserve it uniform, and consistent with itself. Every thing which that person says, or does, must be suited to it, and must serve to distinguish him from any other. Poetic characters may be divided into two kinds, general and particular. General characters are, such as are wise, brave, virtuous, without any farther distinction. Particular characters express the species of bravery, of wisdom, of virtue, for whjch any one is eminent. They exhibit the peculiar features which distin- guish one individual from another, which mark the difference of the same moral quality in different men, according as it is combined with other dispositions in their temper. In drawing such particular characters, genius is chiefly exerted. How far each of the three great epic poets have distinguished themselves in this part of com- position, I shall have occasion afterwards to show, when I come to make remarks upon their works. It is sufficient now to mention, that it is in this part Homer has principally excelled ; Tasso has come the nearest to Homer; and Virgil has been the most deficient It has been the practice of all epic poets, to select some one per- sonage, whom they distinguish above all the rest, and make the hero of the tale. This is considered as essential to epic composition, and is attended with several advantages. It renders the unity of the subject more sensible, when there is one principal figure, to which, as to a centre, all the rest refer. It tends to interest us more in the enterprise which is carried on ; and it gives the poet an opportunity of exerting his talents for adorning and displaying one character, with peculiar splendour. It has been asked, Who then is the hero of Paradise Lost ? The devil, it has been answered by some critics ; and, in consequence of this idea, much ridicule and censure has been thrown upon Milton. But they have mistaken that author's intention, by proceeding upon a supposition, that, in the conclusion of the poem, the hero must needs be triumphant. Whereas Milton followed a different plan, and has given a tragic conclusion to a po- em, otherwise epic in its form. For Adam is undoubtedly his hero ; that is, the capital and most interesting figure in his poem. Besides human actors, there are personages of another kind, thai usually occupy no small place in epic poetry; I mean the gods, or supernatural beings. This brings us to the consideration of what is called the machinery of the epic poem; the most nice and difficult lect. xlii.] EPIC POETRY. 479 part of the subject. Critics appear to me to have gone to extremes on both sides. Almost all the French critics decide in favour of machinery, as essential to the constitution of an epic poem. They quote that sentence of Petronius Arbiter, as if it were an oracle, •per ambages, Deorumque ministeria, prsecipitandus est liber spirit- us ;' and hold that though a poem had every other requisite that could be demanded, yet it could not be ranked in the epic class, unless the main action was carried on by the intervention of the gods. This decision seems to be founded on no principle or reason whatever, unless a superstitious reverence for the practice of Homer and Virgil. These poets very properly embellished their story by the traditional tales and popular legends of their own country ; ac- cording to which,all the great transactions of the heroic times were intermixed with the fables of their deities. But does it thence fol- low, that in other countries, and other ages, where there is not the like advantage of current superstition, and popular credulity, epic poetry must be wholly confined to antiquated fictions and fairy tales ? Lucan has composed a very spirited poem, certainly of the epic kind, where neither gods nor supernatural beings are at all employ- ed. The author of Leonidas has made an attempt of the same kind, not without success ; and beyond doubt, wherever a poet gives us a regular heroic story, well connected in its parts, adorned with characters, and supported with proper dignity and elevation, though his agents be every one of them human, he has fulfilled the chief requisites of this sort of composition, and has a just title to be class- ed witn epic writers. But though I cannot admit that machinery is necessary or essen- tial to the epic plan, neither can I agree with some late critics of considerable name, who are for excluding it totally, as inconsistent with that probability and impression of reality which they think should reign in this kind of writing.* Mankind do not consider poetical writings with so philosophical an eye. They seek enter- tainment from them ; and for the bulk of readers, indeed for almost all men, the marvellous has a great charm. It gratifies and fills the imagination, and gives room for many a striking and sublime de- scription. In epic poetry, in particular, where admiration and lofty ideas are supposed to reign, the marvellous and supernatural find, if any where, their proper place. They both enable the poet to aggrandize his subject, by means of those august and solemn objects which religion introduces into it; and they allow him to enlarge and diversify his plan, by comprehending within it het ven, and earth, ind hell, men and invisible beings, and the whole circle ot the universe. At the same time, in the use of this supernatural machinery, it be- comes a poet to be temperate and prudent. He is not at liberty to invent wh&i: system of the marvellous he pleases. It must always have some foundation in popular belief. Hf must avail himself, in a decent manner, either of the religious faith, or the superstitious • See Elements of Criticism, ch. 22. 480 EPIC POETRY. [lect. xlii. credulity of the country wherein he lives, or of winch he writes, so as to give an air of probability to events which are most contrary to the common course of nature. Whatever machinery he em- ploys, he must take care not to overload us with it ; not to with- draw human actions and manners too much from view, nor to ob- Ecure them under a cloud of incredible fictions. He must always remember, that his chief business is to relate to men, the actions and the exploits of men ; that it is by these principally he is to interest us, and to touch our hearts ; and that if probability be altogether banished from his work, it can never make a deep or a lasting im- pression. Indeed, I know nothing more difficult in epic poetry, than to adjust properly the mixture of the marvellous with the pro- bable ; so as to gratify and amuse us with the one, without sacrifi- cing the other. I need hardly observe, that these observations af- fect not the conduct of Milton's work; whose plan being altogether theological, his supernatural beings form not the machinery, but are the principal actors in the poem. With regard to allegorical personages, fame, discord, love, and the like, it may be safely pronounced, that they form the worst machinery of any. In description they are sometimes allowa- ble, and may serve for embellishment; but they should never be permitted to bear any share in the action of the poem. For being plain and declared fictions, mere names of general ideas, to which even fancy cannot attribute any existence as persons, if they are introduced as mingling with human actors, an intolerable con- fusion of shadows and realities arises, and all consistency of action is utterly destroyed. In the narration of the poet, which is the last head that remains to be considered, it is not material, whether he relate the whole story in his own character, or introduce some of his personages to relate any part of the action that had passed before the poem opens. Homer follows the on* method in lis Iliad, and the other in his Odyssey. Virgil has, in this respect, imitated the conduct of the Odyssey ; Tasso, that of the Iliad. The chief advantage which ari- ses from any of the actors being employed to relate part of the sto- ry, is, that i f allows the poet, if he chooses it, to open with some in- teresting situation of affairs, informing us afterwards of what had passed before that period ; and gives him the greater liberty of spreadingout such parts of the subject as he is inclined to dwell upon in person, and of comprehending the rest within a short recital. Where the subject is of great extent, and comprehends the transac- tions of several years, as in the Odyssey and the^Eneid, this method therefore seems preferable. When the subject is of smaller compass, and shorter duration, as in the Iliad and the Jerusalem, the poet may, without disadvantage, relate the whole in his o\yn person. In the proposition of the subject, the invocation of the nurse, and other ceremonies of the introduction, poets may vary at their plea- sure. It is perfectly trifling to make these little formalities the object of precise rule, any farther, than that the subject of the work should nlways be clearly proposed, and without affected or unsuitable pomjj. LECT. XLII.] QUESTIONS. 481 For, according to Horace's noted rule, no introduction should ever set out too high, or promise too much, lest the author should not fulfil the expectations he has raised. What is of most importance in the tenour of the narration is, that it be perspicuous, animated, and enriched with all the beauties of poetry. No sort of composition requires more strength, dignity, and fire, than the epic poem. It is the region within which we look for every thing that is sublime in description, tender in sentiment, and bold and lively in expression ; and, therefore, though an authors plan should be faultless, and his story ever so well conducted, yet, il he be feeble, or flat in style, destitute of affecting scenes, and defi- cient in poetical colouring, he can have no success. The ornaments which epic poetry admits, must all be of the grave and chaste kind. Nothing that is loose, ludicrous, or affected, finds any place there. All the objects which it presents ought to be either great, or tender, or pleasing. Descriptions of disgusting or shocking objects, should, as much as possible, be avoided ; and, therefore, the fable of the Harpies, in the third book of the iEneid, and the allegory of Sin and Death, in the second book of Paradise Lost, had been better omitted in these celebrated poems. Q,UESTIOtfS. Of what does it now remain to treat? With which does our author begin? On what shall this lecture be employ ed ? After which, what shall be done ? Of the epic poem, what is allowed ? What is, unquestionably, the highest effort of poetical genius ? Hence, what follows? On this subject, what have critics displayed? By tedious disquisi- tions, what have they done ? By Bos- su's definition, what is it ? Of this defi- nition, what is observed ? What does he say is the first thing which either a writer of fables, or of heroic poems, does ? Next, what does he do ? And lastly, what ? Of this idea, what is ob- served ? Repeat the whole account of the origin of the Iliad, according to Bossu. What is said of him who can believe Homer to have proceeded in this manner ; and what may one, with great certainty, pronounce ? Of what can no person of taste entertain a doubt ? How is this illustrated ? Be- sides the instruction which Bossu as- signs to the Iliad, what other may as naturally be considered the moral of that poem ? What is the subject of the poem? How does Jupiter avenge Achilles ; and what is t.be effect of Achilles' continued obstinacy ? What is the plain account of tire nature of an epic poem ? Of this definition, what is observed ; and what does it compre- hend? But what is the pedantry of cri- ticism ? With minerals, plants, and ani- mals, what can we do ; and why ? But with regard to works of taste and ima- gination, what is observed ? When em ployed in such attempts, into what does criticism degenerate ? To class what poems, therefore, with tire Iliad and thejEneid, does our author not scru- ple ? They are, undoubtedly, all of what character ? What cannot our au- thor allow ; yet, what is certain ? Of its effect in promoting virtue, what in observed ; and what remark follows ? From what does its effect arise ? What is the end which it proposes ? How, only, can this be accomplished ; and why? What objects, in the course of such compositions, are presented to our minds, under the most honourable co- lours ; and consequently, hew are we affected? What is, indeed, no small testimony in honour of virtue ? Of the weight of this testimony, what is ob- served ? What sufficiently mark its dis- tinction from other kinds of poetrj ? How is this remark illustrated? By what is it sufficiently distinguished from history; and from tragedy? What does it require ? How does it compart JS1 a QUESTIONS. [lect. XI. II -villi dramatic poetry? But, in order to give a more particular and critical view of it, under what three heads shall we consider it? What three pro- perties must the action, or subject of the epic poem, have ? To remark what, has our author had frequent occasion? With the highest reason, on what does Aristotle insist ; and why ? In a regu- lar epic, how will the effect be rendered more perfect ; and for this reason, what has Aristotle observed ? How is the re- mark fully illustrated, that in all the great epic poems, unity of action is sufficiently apparent ? What does not the unity of the epic exclude? What is it necessary here to observe? To what was the term originally applied ; and whence transferred? What did Aristotle understand by episodes, in an epic poem? What has been the effect of the obscurity of his meaning? But, dismissing so fruitless a controver- sy, what do we now understand by them ? Of this nature, what examples are given ? Of such episodes as these, what is observed? What is the first rule given, regarding them ? What episode is faulty, by transgressing this rule ; and of it, what is remarked ? In proportion to what, should episodes al- ways be the shorter? What cannot, with propriety, be called episodes ; and what are they? In the next place, what ought episodes to present to us ; and why ? In so long a work, what is their effect? What illustrations of this remark follow? What is the last direc- tion regarding the episode ; and what instances are mentioned ? What does the unity of the epic action necessarily suppose? By this, what is meant? What is the second property of the epic action? Of this, what is observed ? What contributes to the grandeur of the epic subject ? Who, in the choice of their subjects, have transgressed this rule : and what is the consequence ? To what is antiquity favourable ; and why ? When is this liberty abridged ; and what must he, consequently, do; or, if he goes beyond it, what disadvan- tage follows ? Why cannot these ob- servations be applied to dramatic wri- ting? Of such passions, what is ob- served ? What may, therefore, furnish very proper materials for tragedy? But, for epic poetry, what is the safest "egion and why ? What is the third property required in the epic poem t Why is it not sufficient for this purpose that it be great ? On what will much depend ; and what examples are men- tioned ? Of most of the great epic po- ems, what, in this respect, is observed I But what is the chief circumstance which renders an epic poem interest- ing? How is this fully illustrated ? What epic poets are the most happy in this respect ? On what, also, does much depend, for rendering the poem interesting? What effect must they produce ? What do these dangers, or obstacles, form; and in the judicious conduct of them, consists what? In what manner must he conduct it ? What is manifest ? What question has been moved ? To what opinion are most critics inclined? W r hy do they appear to have reason on their side ? What illustration of this remark fol- lows ? To this general practice, what two exceptions have we; and how do they conclude? With regard to the du- ration of the epic action, what is ob- served? Why is a considerable extent always allowed to it? What is the du- ration of the action of the Iliad, of the Odyssey, and of the iEneid ? How may the duration of two of these poems be brought into a much smaller compass ? Within what compass are they thus brought ? Having treated of the epic action, to what does our author next proceed ? As it is the business of the epic poet to copy after nature, and to form a probable and interesting talc, what must he study to do ? What does Aristotle call this? What is, by no means, necessary ? Though vicious characters may find a proper place, yet, what does the nature of epic poe- try seem to require ? But whatever the character of his actors be, about what must he take care ; and for what reason? Into what two kinds may poetic characters be divided? What are general characters; what are par- ticular characters ; and what do they exhibit? In drawing such particular characters, what is chiefly exerted ? What remark follows ? What is it at present sufficient to do ? What has been the practice of all epic poets? As this is considered essential to epic com- position, with what advantages is it attended? Wliat question has beer asked ; how answered ; and what re LECT. XLIII.] QUESTIONS. 481 I mark follows % Besides human actors, what other personages, usually, occupy no small place in epic poetry 1 To what does this bring us 1 On this sub- ject, what has been the opinion of French critics; and of this decision, what is observed? What did these [)oets do ; but what does not thence lbl- ow 1 How is this illustrated from Lu- ean, and from the author of Leonidas 1 But though our author cannot admit that machinery is essential to the epic plan, with what opinion can he not agree ; and why 1 What advantages does it afford 1 At the same time, how must this machinery be used ; and what must the poet always remem- ber? What remarks follow ? With re- gard to allegorical personages, what is observed ? Where are they sometimes allowable ? In what should they never be permitted to bear any part ; and why % In the narration of the poet, what is not material ; and why ? What is the chief advantage that arises from the latter method 1 When is this me- thod, therefore, preferable; and when is the former ? In the invocation of the muse, what is observed 1 What is per- fectly trifling; and why? What is of most importance in the tenour of the narration ; and what remark follows ? It is the region within which we look for what; and, therefore, what fol- lows? Of what kind must the orna- ments ^ofepk2poetryl2ej_a£d_wjiyj^ ANALYSIS. Epic poetry. 1. Bossu's definition. a. Illustrated. b. Criticised. 2. The author's definition. a. Its design. 3. The character of the epic poem. a. The action. a. Unity. (a.) Illustrated. (b.) Episodes not excluded. Their requisites. b. Greatness requisite. c. It must be interesting 1 . 4. The characters to be introduced in epic poetry. A. General and particular. b. The hero. c. The machinery. 5. The narration. LECTURE XLIII. HOMER'S ILIAD AND ODYSSEY.— VIRGIL'S ^ENEID. As the epic poem is universally allowed to possess the highest rank among poetical works, it merits a particular discussion. Having treated of the nature of this composition, and the principal rules relating to it, I proceed to make some observations on the most distinguished epic poems, ancient and modern. Homer claims, on every account, our first attention, as the father not only of epic poetry, but, in some measure, of poetry in general. Whoever sits down to read Homer, must consider that he is going to read the most ancient book in the world, next to the Bible. Without making this reflection, he cannot enter into the spirit, nor relish the composition of the author. He is not to look for the cor- rectness and elegance of the Augustan age. He must divest him- self of our modern ideas of dignity and refinement, and transport his imagination almost three thousand years back in the history of Jiankind. What he is to expect, is a picture of the ancient world. He must reckon upon finding characters and manners, that retain a considerable tincture of the savage state ; moral ideas, as yet imper- fectly formed ; and the appetites and passions of men brought under none of those restraints to which, in a more advanced state of society, they aie accustomed ; but bodily strength prized as one of the Wiief heroic endowments ; the preparing of a meal, and the appeas- 48L THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [lect. xlhi. ing the poet does not seem happy in the great anagnorisis, or the disco- very of Ulysses to Penelope. She is too cautious and distrustful, and we are disappointed of the surprise of joy, which we expected on that high occasion. After having said so much of the father of epic poetry, it is now time to proceed to Virgil, who has a character clearly marked, and quite distinct from that of Homer. As the distinguishing excellencies of the Iliad are simplicity and fire; those of the iEneid are, elegance and tenderness. Virgil is, beyond doubt, less animated and less svh lime than Homer; but, to counterbalance this, he has fewer negli- gences, greater variety, and supports more of a correct and regular dignity, throughout his work. When we begin to read the Iliad, we find ourselves in the region of the most remote, and even unrefined antiquity. When we open the iEneid, we discover all the correctness, and the improvements, of the Augustan age. We meet with no contentions of heroes about a female slave, no violent scolding, nor abusive language; but the poem opens with the utmost magnificence ; with Juno, forming de- signs for preventing iEneas's establishment in Italy, and iEneas him- self presented to us with all his fleet, in the middle of a storm, which is described in the highest style of poetry. The subject of the iEneid is extremely happy; still more so, in my opinion, than either of Homer's poems. As nothing could be more noble, nor carry more of epic dignity, so nothing could be more flattering and interesting to the Roman people, than Virgil's deriving the origin of their state from so famous a hero as iEneas. The object was splendid in itself; it gave the poet a theme, taken from the ancient traditionary history of his own country ; it allowed him to connect his subject with Homer's stories, and to adopt all his mythology; it afforded him the opportunity of frequently glancing at all the future great exploits of the Romans, and of describing Italy, and the very territory of Rome, in its ancient and fabulous state. The establishment of iEneas, constantly traversed by Juno, leads to a great diversity of events, of voyages, and wars; and fur- nishes a proper intermixture of the incidents of peace with martial exploits. Upon the whole, I believe, there is no where to be found so complete a model of an epic fable, or story, as Virgil's iEneid. I see no foundation for the opinion, entertained by some critics, that the iEneid is to be considered as an allegorical poem, which carries a constant reference to the character and reign of Augustus Caesar; r, that Virgil's main design in composing the iEneid, was to recon- cile the Romans to the government of that prince, who is supposed to be shadowed out under the character of iEneas. Virgil, indeed, like the other poets of that age, takes every opportunity which his subject affords him, of paying court to Augustus.* But, to imagine that he carried a political plan in his view, through the whole poem, appears to me no more than a fanciful refinement. He had sufficient * As particularly in that noted passage of the sixth book, 1. 792 Hie vir, hie est, tibi quern promitti scepius audis, Sic. -190 THE ^ENEID OF VIRGIL, [lect. xliii, motives, as ? poet, to determine him to the choice of his subject, from Us bei rg, in itself, both great and pleasing; from its being suited to his genius, and its being attended with the peculiar advan- tages, which I mentioned above, for the full display of poetical tal- ents. Unity of action is perfectly preserved ; as, from beginning to end, one main object is always kept in view, the settlement of /Eneas in Italy, by the order of the gods. As the story compre- hends the transactions of several years, part of the transactions are very properly thrown into a recitai made by the hero. The epi sodes are linked with sufficient connexion to the main subject; and the nodus, or intrigue of the poem, is, according to the plan of ancient machinery, happily formed. The wrath of Juno, who opposes herself to the Trojan settlement in Italy, gives rise to all the diffi- culties which obstruct iEneas's undertaking, and connects the hu- man with the celestial operations, throughout the whole work. Hence arise the tempest which throws iEneas upon the shore of Africa; the passion of Dido, who endeavours to detain him at Car- thage ; and the efforts of Turnus, who opposes him in war. Till, at last, upon a composition made with Jupiter, that the Trojan name shall be for ever sunk in the Latin, Juno foregoes her resent- ment, and the hero becomes victorious. In these main points, Virgil has conducted his work with great propriety, and shown his art and judgment. But the admiration due to so eminent a poet, must not prevent us from remarking some other particulars in which he has failed. First, there are scarce any characters marked in the iEneid. In this respect it is insipid, when compared to the Iliad, which is full of characters and life. Achates, and Cloanthus, and Gyas, and the rest of the Trojan heroes, who accompanied iEneas into Italy, are so many undistin- guished figures, who are in no way made known to us, either by any sentiments which they utter, or any memorable exploits which they perform. Even ./Eneas himself is not a very interesting hero. He is described, indeed, as pious and brave; but his character is not marked with any of those strokes that touch the heart; it is a sort of cold and tame character; and throughout his behaviour to Dido, in the fourth book, especially in the speech which he makes after she suspected his intention of leaving her, there appeals a certain hardness und want of relenting, which is far from rendering him amiable.* Dido's own character is by much the best supported in the whole iEneid. The warmth of her passions, the keenness of her indignation and resentment, and the violence of her whole cha- racter, exhibit a figure greatly more animated than any other which Virgil has drawn. Besides this defect of character in the iEneid, the distribution and management of the subject are, in some respects, exception- able. The iEneid, it is true, must be considered with the indul- * Nura fletu ingemuit nostro i num luniina flexit ? Num kcrynias victus dedit, aut miseratus amantem est ? JEn. iv. 369. lect. xliii.] THE ^ENEID OF VIRGIL. 491 gence due to a work not thoroughly completed. The six last books are said not to have received the finishing hand of the author; and for this reason, he ordered, bj r his will, the iEneid to be commit- ted to the flames. But though this may account for incorrectness of execution, it does not apologize for a falling off in the subject, which seems to take place in the latter part of the work. The wars with the Latins are inferior, in point of dignity, to the more inter- esting objects which had before been presented to us in the destruc- tion of Troy, the intrigue with Dido, and the descent into helL And in those Italian wars, there is, perhaps, a more material fault still, in the conduct of the story. The reader, as Voltaire has ob- served, is tempted to take part with Turnus against ^Eneas. Tur- nus, a brave young prince, in love with Lavinia, his near relation, is destined for her by general consent, and highly favoured by her mother. Lavinia herself discovers no reluctance to the match : when there arrives a stranger, a fugitive from a distant region, who had never seen her, and who, founding a claim to an establish- ment in Italy upon oracles and prophecies, embroils the country in war, kills the lover of Lavinia, and proves the occasion of her mother's death. Such a plan is not fortunately laid for disposing us to be favourable to the hero of the poem ; and the defect might have been easily remedied, by the poet's making iEneas, instead of distressing Lavinia, deliver her from the persecution of some rival who was odious to her, and to the whole country. But notwithstanding these defects, which it was necessary to re- mark, Virgil possesses beauties which have justly drawn the admi- ration of ages, and which, to this day, hold the balance in equili brium between his fame and that of Homer. The principal and distinguishing excellency of Virgil, and which, in my opinion, he possesses beyond all poets, is tenderness. Nature had endowed him with exquisite sensibility ; he felt every affecting circumstance in the scenes he describes ; and, by a single stroke, he knows how to reach the heart. This, in an epic poem, is the merit next to sublimity ; and puts it in an author's power to render his composi- tion extremely interesting to all readers. The chief beauty of this kind in the Iliad, is, the interview of Hector with Andromache. But in the iEneid, there are many such. The second book is one of the greatest masterpieces that ever was executed by any hand ; and Virgil seems to have put forth there the whole strength of his genius, as the subject afforded a variety ol scenes, both of the awful and tender kind. The images of horror, presented by a city burnt and sacked in the night, are finely mixed with pathetic and affecting incidents. Nothing, in any poet, is more beautifully described than the death of old Priam ; and the family -pieces of .(Eneas, Anchises, and Creusa, are as tender as can be conceived. In many passages of the jEneid, the same pathetic spirit shines; and they have been always the favourite passages in that work. The fourth book, for instance, relating the unhappy passion and death of Dido, has been always most justly admired, and abounds with beauties of the highest kind. The interview ol 4B 49« THE ^NEID OF VIRGIL. [lect. xliii ^Eneas with Andromache and Helenus, in the third book, the epi sodes of Pallas and Evander, of Nisus and Euryalus, of Lausus and Mezentius,in the Italian wars, are all striking instances of the poet's power of raising the tender emotions. For we must observe, that though the iEneid be an unequarpoem, and, in some places, languid, vet there are beauties scattered through it all ; and not a few, even n the last six books. The best and most finished books, upon the whole, are, the first, the second, the fourth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, and the twelfth. Virgil's battles are far inferior to Homer's, in point of fire and sublimity ; but there is one important episode, the descent into hell, in which he has outdone Homer in the Odyssey, by many degrees. There is nothing in all antiquity equal, in its kind, to the sixth book of the iEneid. The scenery, and the objects, are great and striking; and fill the mind with that solemn awe, which was to be expected from a view of the invisible world. There runs through the whole description a certain philosophical sublime ; which Vir- gil's Platonic genius, and the enlarged ideas of the Augustan age, enabled him to support with a degree of majesty, far beyond what the rude ideas of Homer's age suffered him to attain. With regard to the sweetness and beauty of Virgil's numbers, throughout his whole works, they are so well known, that it were needless to en- large in the praise of them. Upon the whole, as to the comparative merit of these two great pnnces of epic poetry, Homer and Virgil ; the former must, un- doubtedly, be admitted to be the greater genius; the latter, to be the more correct writer. Homer was an original in his art, and dis- covers both the beauties and the defects which are to be expected in an original author, compared with those who succeed him ; more boldness, more nature and ease, more sublimity and force ; but greater irregularities and negligences in composition. Virgil has, all along, kept his eye upon Homer ; in many places, he has not so much imitated, as he has literally translated him. The description of the storm, for instance, in the first iFneid, and iEneas's speech upon that occasion, are translations from the fifth book of the Odys- sey; not to mention almost all the similes of Virgil, which are no ether than copies of those of Homer. The pre-eminence in invention, therefore, must, beyond doubt, be ascribed to Homer. As to the pre- eminence in judgment, though many critics are disposed to give it to Virgil, yet, in my opinion, it hangs doubtful. In Homer, we discern all the Greek vivacity ; in Virgil, all the Roman stateliness. Ho- mer's imagination is by much the most rich and copious ; Virgil's, the most chaste and correct. The strength of the former lies in his power of warming the fancy; that of the latter, in his power of touch- ing the heart. Homer's style is more simple and animated ; Virgil's more elegant and uniform. The first has, on many occasions, a sub limity to which the latter never attains ; but the latter, in return, never sinks below a certain degree of epic dignity, which cannot so clearly be pronounced of the former. Not, however, to detract from the admiration due to both these great poets, most of Homer's de V4CT. XLIIT. QUESTIONS. 493 Lets may reasonably be imputed, not to his genius, but to the man- ners of the age in which he lived ; and for the feeble passages of the As!neid, this excuse ought to be admitted, that the iEneid was left an unfinished work. QUESTIONS. Why does the epic poem merit par- ticular discussion? Having treated of the nature of this composition, and of the principal rules relating to it, to what does our author proceed ? Who claims our first attention; and why? What must, whoever sits down to read Homer, consider 1 Why should he make this reflection? For what is he not to look ; and of what must he di- vest himself? What is he to expect ; and what must he reckon upon finding? What does the opening of the Iliad not possess ? Upon what does it turn ? Repeat the basis of the whole action of the Iliad, as illustrative of this remark. Hence, rise what ? What ought not to be a matter of surprise ; and why not ? How do they discover human nature ? To what do they give free scope ; and what do they show us ? From this state of manners, together with its attending circumstances, for what have we ground to look? And accordingly, what are the two great characters of Homeric poetry? Under what three heads do we now proceed to make some more particular observations on the Iliad ? Why must the subject of the Iliad be admitted to be a happy one ? 'Upon what traditions did Homer ground his poem ; and what remark follows ? What part of the Trojan war did Ho- mer select as his subject? From this management, what advantage did he derive? What has he gained; and what shown ? At the same time, what must be admitted ; and why ? What, in all ages, has, with the greatest rea- son, been given to Homer ? How is this illustrated? But the praise of what, is also equally his due ? How is this, also, illustrated ? In what does Homer ctand without a rival ? To what is his lively and spirited exhibition of charac- ters owing? What remark follows? W'hat Virgil informs us by two words of narration, Homer brings about by what? What, may we here observe ; and in what books have we a clear proof of this remark? Repeat the pas- sage from the book of Genesis, illustra- tive of this remark. Of this style, what is observed ? It is copying from what ; and what is it giving ? In progress ot time, what was thought more elegant? What are the advantages, and also the disadvantages, of the ancient dramatic method which Homer practised ? Ol his speeches, however, what is farther observed ; and to them, what do we owe ? How is this illustrated ? Of the extent to which he has pursued the sin- gle virtue of courage, what is remark- ed? How is this remark illustrated, in the manner in which the character of Helen is painted ? What presents her to us with much dignity ? What ex- hibit the most striking features of thai mixed female character, which- we partly condemn, and partly pity ? Ho- mer never introduces her without what; and, at the same time, about what is he careful ? How is Paris him- self characterized ? Repeat his parti- cular characteristics. For what has Homer been blamed ? But to what opinion is our author inclined ? What are Achilles' peculiar characteristics? Under the head of characters, what come v ider consideration; and of them, what is observed? Concerning ma- chinery in general, and concerning Homer's machinery in particular, what is remarked ? What did he follow l How is this illustrated ? In the hands of Homer, what is its effect; and of il, what remarks follow ? Of Homer'? gods, what must be confessed? What illustration of this remark follows ? In apology, however, for Homer, what ! must be remarked ? How is this re- mark illustrated ? At the same time, how does he frequently make them ap- pear ; and what instances are men- tioned ? With regard to Homer's style and marker of writing, what is re- marked ? By whom only will it be ad- mired ; and why ? Who can have no conception of his manner? Of that translation, what, character is given ? Why is it so difficult to do justice to '*ot be said ; on which he might tire his fancy, without the censure of ex ♦ravagance ' Dr. Johnson's Life of Milton. lect.xliv.] MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. 505 and the Son, was too bold and arduous, and is that wherein our poet, as was to have been expected, has been most unsuccessful. With re gard to his human characters, the innocence of our first parents, and their love, are finely and delicately painted. In some of his speeches to Raphael and to Eve, Adam is, perhaps, too knowing and refined for his situation. Eve is more distinctly characterized. Her gentle- ness, modesty, and frailty, mark very expressively a female character. Milton's great and distinguishing excellence is, his sublimity. In this, perhaps, he excels Homer ; as there is no doubt of his leaving Virgil, and every other poet, far behind him. Almost the whole of the first and second books of Paradise Lost, are continued instan- ces of the sublime. The prospect of hell and of the fallen host, the appearance and behaviour of Satan, the consultation of the in- fernal chiefs, and Satan's flight through chaos to the borders of this world, discover the most lofty ideas that ever entered into the con- ception of any poet. In the sixth book, also, there is much grandeur, particularly in the appearance of the Messiah ; though some parts of that, book are censurable; and the witticisms of the devils upon the effect of their artillery, form an intolerable blemish. Milton's sublimity is of a different kind from that of Homer. Homer's is generally accompanied with fire and impetuosity: Milton's pos- sesses more of a calm and amazing grandeur. Homer warms and hurries us along; Milton fixes us in a state of astonishment anc' elevation. Homer's sublimity appears most in the description o\ actions ; Milton's, in that of wonderful and stupendous objects. But though Milton is most distinguished for his sublimity, yet there is also much of the beautiful, the tender, and the pleasing, in many parts of his work. When the scene is laid in Paradise, the imagery is always of the most gay and smiling kind. His descrip- tions show an uncommonly fertile imagination ; and in his similes, he is, for the most part, remarkably happy. They are seldom im- properly introduced ; seldom either low or trite. They generally present to us images taken from the sublime or the beautiful class of objects ; if they have any faults, it is their alluding too frequent- ly to matters of learning, and to fables of antiquity. In the latter part of Paradise Lost, there must be confessed to be a falling off. With the fall of our first parents, Milton's genius seems to decline. Beauties, however, there are, in the concluding books, of the tra- gic kind. The remorse and contrition of the guilty pair, and their lamentations over Paradise, when they are obliged to leave it, are very moving. The last episode, of the angel's showing Adam the fate of his posterity, is happily imagined ; but, in many places, the execution is languid. Milton's language and versification have high merit. His style is full of majesty, and wonderfully adapted to his subject. His blank verse is harmonious and diversified, and affords the most complete example of the elevation which our language is capable of attaining Dy the force of numbers. It does not flow, like the French verse, in tame, regular, uniform melody, which soon tires the ear : but is 4D 64 506 QUESTIONS. [lect. xliv sometimes smooth and flowing, sometimes rough ; varied in its ca dence, and intermixed with discords, so as to suit the strength and freedom of epic composition. Neglected and prosaic lines, indeed, we sometimes meet with ; but, in a work so long, and in the main so harmonious, these may be forgiven. On the whole, Paradise Lost is a poem that abounds with beauties of every kind, and that justly entitles its author to a degree of fame not inferior to any poet ; though it must be also admitted to have many inequalities. It is the lot of almost every high and daring genius, not to be uniform and correct. Milton is too frequently theological and metaphysical ; sometimes harsh in his language ; often too tech- nical in his words, and affectedly ostentatious of his learning. Many of his faults must be attributed to the pedantry of the age in which he lived. He discovers a vigour, a grasp of genius, equal to every thing that is great ; if, at some times, he falls much below himself, at other times he rises above every poet of the ancient or modern world. Q,UESTIOXS. After Homer and Virgil, who is the next great epic poet of ancient times ? Why does he deserve atten- tion ? Of his Pharsalia, what is obser- ved ? What was formerly remarked ? What does the subject of the Pharsalia carry 1 What does it not want ? As it stands at present, what is said of it ; but what follows ? Of Lucan's subject, what is remarked ? Of its two defects, what is the first ? What furnish a more proper theme for the epic muse ? But of Lucan's genius, what must be con- fessed? What is the other defect of the subject ? Why is this always un- fortunate for a poet? What remark follows ? How are Lucan's characters drawn ? Of Pompey, what is observed ; and by whom is he always eclipsed ? What is said of Cato ; and of his speech to Labienus, what is observed? In the conduct of the story, to what has our author too much attached himself; and what is the effect of this ? From what does it appear that he is too digressive also ? What are there in the Pharsa- lia ; but in what does our author's chief strength lie ? Of his narration, and of his descript'ons, what is observed ? In what does his principal merit consist ; and what is said of them ? In what does Lucan surpass all the poets of antiqui- ty ; nnd of him, what is farther obser- ved ? What must we, also, observe ? How is this remark illustrated ? Hence, ,ii what does lie abound, and of them, J what is remarked ? But what is the fate of this poet ? How is this illustra- ted ? In what age did Lucan live, and what was the consequence ? On the whole, he is an author possessing what ? What atone for many of his defects ; and from him, what may be produced ? What instances are given, illustrative of this remark ? Repeat the passage in which Pompey is compared to the an- cient decaying oak. But when we con- sider the whole execution of his poem, what are we obliged to pronounce? What had his genius ; but of what was it destitute ? Of his style, what is ob- served? How does he compare with Virgil ? To whom does our author next proceed ; why ; and what is said of him ? When was his Jerusalem Deli- vered published ; and what is said of it ? What is the subject of it ; and of this enterprise, what is remarked? What forms an interesting contrast ? What does the subject not produce ; but what does it exhibit ? What is ob- served of the share which religion pos- sesses in the enterprise ; and of the ac- tion, also, what is remarked ? In the conduct of the story, what has Tasso shown ? How is this illustratea ? At the same time, of the whole work, what is observed ? What remark fol- lows ? What is remarked of the epi- sodes? With what is the poem enliven- ed ; and of them, what is remarked ? How is this remark illustrated? Oi LECT XLIV.] QUESTIONS. 506 Tasso, in the characteristical part, what is observed ? What is said of his machinery ? When is it noble ; and what instances are given ? But what act too great a part throughout the poem ; and form what ? What scenes, must it be confessed, carry the mar- vellous to a degree of extravagance ? In general, to what is Tasso most lia- ble to censure ? What illustration of this remark follows ? What apology, however, may be offered for him ? Be- tween them, what difference is there? With what beauties does Tasso re- markably abound ? Of both his de- scriptions and his style, what is obser- ved? How is this remark illustrated? What is said of both cf the descriptions which have been mentioned ? Of his battles, what is remarked ? In what is Tasso not so happy as in his descrip- tions ; and by what is it that he inte- rests us ? In what is he far inferior to Virgil ; and when is he apt to become artificial and strained ? What censure has been carried too far? What re- marks follow ; and what would fully clear it of all such exceptionable passa- ges ? What critics have decried Tas- so ? But what would one be apt to ima- gine ; and why ? In what may Tasso be held inferior to Homer, in what to Virgil, and in what to Milton? In what is he inferior to no poet; the three just mentioned excepted? Why cannot Ariosto, with propriety, be classed among epic writers ? What does Arios- to appear to have despised; and to have chosen what? At the same time, what does his poem contain ? Of Ari- osto. and of his Orlando Furioso, what is farther observed ? As the Italians make their boast of Tasso, of whom do the Portuguese boast, and of him, what is observed? What is the subject of it? Of the enter- prise, what is remarked ; and why was it interesting to Camoen's countrymen? How does the poem open ; and what follows ? Of this recital, what is obser- ved ; and what fill up the rest of the poem ? From what does it appear that the whole work is conducted according to the epic plan? Towards what is there no attempt; and who is the hero ? What is observed of the machinery of the Lusiad ; and how.does this appear ? What was one great scope of the expe- dition ; and what fohows ? What salvo does the author yive towards the end of the work, for his whole mythology ? What fine machinery, however, of z different kind, is there in the Lusiad ? But what is the noblest conceptions of this sort ? What does he tell him ? OS this piece of machinery, what is re- marked ? In reviewing the epic poets, to make no mention of whom, were un- just ? Why is his work entitled to be held a poem ? What is said of the plan of it? Into what has the author entered with much felicity; and in this, how does he compare with other modern poets ? Of his descriptions, what is observed ? Which is the best executed part of the work ; and why ? Of the last twelve books, and of the warlike adventures, what is remark- ed 1 From what does the chief objec- tion against this work being classed with epic poems, arise ; and of these, what, is observed ? What have several of the epic poets described ; and in the prospects they have given us of the invisible world, what may we observe ? Illustrate this remark from Homer ; from Virgil ; and from Fenelon ? What has Voltaire, in his Henriade, given us ? As in every performance of that celebrated writer, we may expect to find marks of genius, what follows ? Several of what, particularly, are both new and happy ? What remarks fol- low ? Why is French versification illy adapted to epic poetry ? Hence, what follows ? What does it not do ? What is the subject of the poem ? What does the action properly include ; and of it, what is observed ? But to what defects is it liable ; and how is this illustrated ? To remedy this last defect, what has Voltaire done, and what instance is given? What remark follows; and why was this episode contrived 1 But why was the imitation injudicious? What are the general remarks on the. machinery employed by Voltaire ? In justice, however, to our author, what must be observed ? Illustrate this re- mark. What is one reason why this poem makes a faint impression? Ot the strain of sentiment which runs through it, what is observed? How does religion appear, and what spirit does the author breathe? What has Milton done ? How it this illustrated ? Of his subject, what is remarked ; but what follows? What may be Ques- tioned ; and why ? But ine subject which he has chosen suited what ; g»d 50G b QUESTIONS [lect. xlv. in the conduct of it, what has he shown ? What is a matter of astonish- ment; and what remarks follow? What did not the nature of the subject admit ? Repeat the description of Sa- tan. Of Belzebub, Moloch, and Belial, what is remarked ; and, what is also said of the good angels? In what, however, has he been unsuccessful ? With regard to his human characters, what is observed ? Where is Adam too knowing, and too refined for his situa- tion ; but what is said of Eve ? Of Mil- ton's sublimity, what is remarked ? Al- most the whole of what books are con- tinued instances of the sublime ; and what examples are given ? What is said of the sixth book ? How does Mil ton's sublimity compare with that of Homer? What other excellences does Milton possess ? How is this remark il- lustrated ? Where is there a falling off; and with what does Milton's genius seem to decline? But what beauties of the tragic kind are there in the con- cluding books? Of the last episode, what is observed? What is the charac- ter of his style j and of his blank verse what is remarked ? Repeat the closing paragraph. ANALYSIS. 1. Lucan's Pharsalia. a. The subject defective. b. The characters spiritedly drawn. c. The narration considered. 2. Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered. a. The subject — the narration. b. The characters. a. The machinery. 3. Ariosto's Orlando Furioso. 4. Camoen's Lusiad. a. The subj :ct — the narration. b. The machinery considered. 5. Fenelon's Tclemachus. a. The character of the work. 6. Voltaire's Hcnriade. a. The subject — the narration. B. The machinery. 7. Milton's Paradise Lost. a. The subject — the characters. b. The sublimity — the tenderness. c. The style and versification. LECTURE XjLV. DRAMATIC POETRY.— TRAGEDY. Dramatic poetry has, among all civilized nations, been considered as a rational and useful entertainment, and judged worthy of careful and serious discussion. According as it is employed upon the light and the gay, or upon the grave and affecting incidents of human life, it divides itself into the two forms, of comedy or tragedy. But as great and serious objects command more attention than little and ludicrous ones ; as the fall of a hero interests the public more than the marriage of a private person ; tragedy has always been held a more dignified entertainment than comedy. The one rests upon the high passions, the virtues, crimes, and sufferings of mankind. The other on their humours, follies, and pleasures. Terror and pity ar? the great instruments of the former ; ridicule is the sole instrument of the latter. Tragedy shall, therefore, be the object of our fullest discussion. This and the following lecture shall be employed on it ; after which, I shall treat of what is peculiar to comedy. Tragedy, considered as an exhibition of the characters and beha- viour of men, in some of the most trying and critical situations of life, is a noble idea of poetry. It is a direct imitation of human manners and actions. For it does not, like the epic poem, exhibit characters by the narration and description of the poet ; but the poet disappears ; and the personages themselves are set before us, acting and speaking what is suitable to their characters. Hence, no kind of writing is so great a trial of the author's profound know- ledge of the human heart. No kind of writing has so much power, when happily executed, to raise the strongest emotions. T t is, or I.ECT. xlv.J TRAGEDY. 507 ought to be, a mirror in which we behold ourselves, and the evils to which we are exposed ; a faithful copy of the human passions, with all their direful effects, when they are suffered to become extrava- gant. As tragedy is a high and distinguished species of composition, so also, in its general strain and spirit, it is favourable to virtue. Such power hath virtue happily over the human mind, by the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, that as admiration cannot be raised in epic poetry, so neither in tragic poetry can our passions be strongly moved, unless virtuous emotions be awakened within us. Every poet finds, that it is impossible to interest us in any character, without representing that character as worthy and honourable, though it may not be perfect; and that the great secret for raising indignation, is to paint the person who is to be the object of it, in the colours of vice and depravity. He may, indeed, nay, he must, represent the virtuous as sometimes unfortunate, because this is often the case in real life ; but he will always study to engage our hearts in their behalf; and though they may be described as un- prosperous, yet there is no instance of a tragic poet representing vice as fully triumphant, and happy, in the catastrophe of the piece. Even when bad men succeed in their designs, punishment is made always to attend them ; and misery of one kind or other is shown to be unavoidably connected with guilt. Love and admiration of virtuous characters, compassion for the injured and the distressed, and indignation against the authors of their sufferings, are the senti- ments most generally excited by tragedy. And, therefore, though dramatic writers may sometimes, like other writers, be guilty of im- proprieties, though they may fail of placing virtue precisely in the due point of light, yet no reasonable person can deny tragedy to be a moral species of composition. Taking tragedies complexly, I am fully persuaded, that the impressions left by them upon the mind are, on the whole, favourable to virtue and good dispositions. And, therefore, the zeal which some pious men have shown against the entertainments of the theatre, must rest only upon the abuse of co- medy; which, indeed, has frequently been so great as to justify very severe censures against it. The account which Aristotle gives of the design of tragedy is, that it is intended to purge our passions by means of pity and ter- ror. This is somewhat obscure. Various senses have been put upon his words, and much altercation has followed among his com- mentators. Without entering into any controversy upon this head, the intention of tragedy may, I think, be more shortly and clearly defi- ned, to improve our virtuous sensibility. If an author interests us in behalf of virtue, forms us to compassion for the distressed, inspires us with proper sentiments on beholding the vicissitudes of life, and, by means of the concern which he raises for the misfortunes of others, leads us to guard against errors in our own conduct, he ac- complishes all the moral purposes of tragedy. In order to this end, the first requisite is, that he choose some moving and interesting story, and that he conduct it in a natural 503 TRAGEDY [lect. xlv and probable manner. For we must observe, that the natural and the probable must always be the basis of tragedy ; and are infinitely more important there, than in epic poetry. The object of the epic poet, is to excite our admiration by the recital of heroic adventures ; and a much slighter degree of probability is required when admira- tion is concerned, than when the tender passions are intended to be moved. The imagination, in the former case, is exalted, accommo- dates itself to the poet's idea, and can admit the marvellous with- out being shocked. But tragedy demands a stricter imitation ol the life and actions of men. For the end which it pursues is not so much to elevate the imagination, as to affect the heart; and the heart always judges more nicely than the imagination, of what is probable. Passion can be raised, only by making the impressions of nature and of truth upon the mind. By introducing, therefore, any wild or ro- mantic circumstances into his story, the poet never fails to check passion in its growth, and, of course, disappoints the main effect of tragedy. This principle, which is founded on the clearest reason, excludes from tragedy all machinery, or fabulous intervention of the gods. Ghosts have, indeed, maintained their place ; as being strongly found- ed on popular belief, and peculiarly suited to heighten the terror of tragic scenes. But all unravellings of the plot which turn upon the interposition of deities, such as Euripides employs in several of his plays, are much to be condemned ; both as clumsy and inartificial, and as destroying the probability of the story. This mixture of machinery with the tragic action is, undoubtedly, a blemish in the ancient theatre. In order to promote that impression of probability which is so necessary to the success of tragedy, some critics have required, that the subject should never be a pure fiction invented by the poet, but built on real history or known facts. Such, indeed, were generally, if not always, the subjects of the Greek tragedians. But I cannot hold this to be a matter of any great consequence. It is proved by experience, that a fictitious tale, if properly conducted, will melt the heart as much as any real history. In order to our being moved, it is not necessary, that the events related did actually happen, provided they be such as might easily have happened in the ordinary course of nature. Even when tragedy borrows its mate- rials from history, it mixes many a fictitious circumstance. The great- est part of readers neither know, nor inquire, what is fabulous or what is historical, in the subject. They attend only to whatis probable, and are touched by events which resemble nature. Accordingly, some of the most pathetic tragedies an entirely fictitious in the subject; such as Voltaire's Zaire and Alz'ne, the Orphan, Douglas, the Fair Penitent, and several others. Whether the subject be of the real or feigned kind, that on wmch most depends for rendering the incidents in a tragedy probable, and by means of their probability affecting, is the conduct or manage- ment of the story, and the connexion of its several parts. To re- gulate thh conduct, critics have laid down the famous rule of the lect. xlw] TRAGEDY. o,»9 three Unities; the importance of which it will he necessary to discuss. But, in order to do this with more advantage, it will be necessary that we first look backwards, and trace the rise and origin of tragedy, which will give light to several things relating to the subject. Tragedy, like other arts, was,in its beginning, rude and imperfect. Among the Greeks, from whom our dramatic entertainments are derived, the origin of tragedy was no other than the song which was wont to be sung at the festival of Bacchus. A goat was the sacrifice offered to that god; after the sacrifice, the priests, with the company that joined them, sung hymns in honour of Bacchus; and from the name of the victim, fgayos, a goat,joined with «&?, a song, undoubtedly arose the word tragedy. These hymns, or lyric poems, were sung sometimes by the whole company, sometimes by separate bands, answering alternately to each other; making what we call a chorus, with its strophes and an- tistrophes. In order to throw some variety into this entertainment, and to relieve the singers, it was thought proper to introduce a person who, between the songs, should make recitation in verse. Thespis, who lived about 536 years before the Christian era, made this innovation; and, as it was relished, iEschylus, who came 50 years after him, and who is properly the father of tragedy, went a step farther, introduced a dialogue between two persons, or ac- tors, in which he contrived to interweave someinterestingstor} , and brought his actors on a stage, adorned with proper scenery and de- corations. All that these actors recited, was called episode, or addi- tional song; and the songs of the chorus were made to relate no longer to Bacchus, their original subject, but to the story in which the actors were concerned. This began to give the drama a regulai form, which was soon after brought to perfection, by Sophocles and Euripides. It is remarkable in how short a space of time tragedy grew up among the Greeks, from the rudest beginnings to its most perfect state. For Sophocles, the greatest and most correct of all the tragic poets, flourished only 22 years after .ZEschylus, and was little more than 70 years posterior to Thespis. From the account which I have now given, it appears, that the -chorus was the basis or foundation of the ancient tragedy. It was not an ornament added to it; or a contrivance designed to render it more perfect; but, in truth, the dramatic dialogue was an addition to the chorus, which was the original entertainment. In process of time, the choras, from being the principal, became only the acces- sory in tragedy; till at last, in modern tragedy, it has disappear ed altogether; which forms the chief distinction between the ancient and the modern stage. This has given rise to a question, much agitated between the par tisans of the ancients and the moderns, whether the drama has gained, or has suffered, by the abolition of the chorus. It must be admitted, that the chorus tended to render tragedy both more magnificent, and more instructive and moral. It was always the most sublime and poetical part of the work ; and being carried on 510 TRAGEDY. [lect. xlv by singing, and accompanied with music, it must, no doubt, have diversified the entertainment greatly, and added to its splendour. The chorus, at the same time, conveyed constant lessons of virtue. It was composed of such persons as might most naturally be supposed present on the occasion; inhabitants of the place where the scene was laid, often the companions of some of the principal actors, and, therefore, in some degree, interested in the issue of the action. This company, which, in the days of Sophocles, was restricted to the number of fifteen persons, was constantly on the stage during the whole performance, mingled in discourse with the actors, entered into their concerns, suggested counsel and advice to them, moral- ized on all the incidents that were going on, and, during the inter- vals of the action, sung their odes, or songs, in which they address- ed the gods, prayed for success to the virtuous, lamented their mis- fortunes, and delivered many religious and moral sentiments.* But, notwithstanding the advantages which were obtained bv means of the chorus, the inconveniences, on the other side,are so great,as to render the modern practice of excluding the chorus, fai more eligible upon the whole. For if a natural and probable imi- tation of human actions be the chief end of the drama, no other persons ought to be brought on the stage, than those who are neces- sary to the dramatic action. The introduction of an adventitious company of persons, who have but a slight concern in the business of the play, is unnatural in itself, embarrassing to the poet, and, though it may render the spectacle splendid, tends, undoubtedly, to render it more cold and uninteresting, because more unlike a reaJ transaction. The mixture of music, or song, on the part of the cho- rus, with the dialogue carried on by the actors, is another unnatural circumstance, removing the representation still farther from the re- semblance of life. The poet, besides, is subjected to innumerable difficulties, in so contriving his plan, that the presence of the cho- * The office of the chorus is thus described by Horace : Actoris partes chorus, officiumque virile Defendat : neu quid medios intercinat actus, Quod non proposito conducat, et hsereat apte. Hie bonis faveatque et consilietur amice, Et regat iratos, et amet pacare tumentes : Hie dapes laudet mensre brevis ; ille sakibrcns Justitiam, legesque, et apertis otia portis : Ille tegat commissa, deosque precetur et oret, Ut redeat miseris, abeat fortuna superbis. Ds Art. PoBf . $0 The chorus must support ar> actor's part, Defend the virtuous, and advise with art; Govern the choleric, and the proud appease, And the short feasts of frugal tables praise ; Applaud the justice of well-governed states, And peace triumphant with her open gates. Intrusted secrets let them ne'er betray, But to the righteous gods with ardour pray, That fortune, with returning smiles, may bless Afflicted worth, and impious pride depress ; Yet let their songs with apt coherence join, Promote the plot, and aid the just design. Frabci* lect. xlv.] TRAGEDY. 511 rus, during all the incidents of the play, shall consist wit u "ny pro- Dability. The scene must be constantly, and often absurdly, laid in some public place, that the chorus may be supposed to have free access to it. To many things that ought to be transacted in private, the chorus must ever be witnesses ; they must be the confederates of both parties, who come successively upon the stage, and who are, perhaps, conspiring against each other. In short, the manage- ment of a chorus is an unnatural confinement to a poet; it requires too great a sacrifice of probability in the conduct of the action; it has too much the air of a theatrical decoration, to be consistent with that appearance of reality, which a poet must ever preset-, ?, in order to move our passions. The origin of tragedy, among the Greeks, we have seen, was a choral song, or hymn, to the gods. There is no wonder, therefore, that on the Greek stage it so long maintained possession. But it may confidently, I think, be assert- ed, that if, instead of the dramatic dialogue having been superadded to the chorus, the dialogue itself had been the first invention, the chorus would, in that case, never have been thought of. One use, I am of opinion, might still be made of the ancient chorus, and would be a considerable improvement of the modern theatre. Instead of that unmeaning, and often improperly cho- sen music, with which the audience is entertained in the intervals between the acts, a chorus might be introduced, whose music and songs, though forming no part of the play, should have a rela- tion to the incidents of the preceding act, and to the dispositions which those incidents are presumed to have awakened in the spec tators. By this means the tone of passion would be kept up with- out interruption; and all the good effects of the ancient chorus might be preserved, for inspiring proper sentiments, and for in- creasing the morality of the performance, without those inconve- niences which arose from the chorus forming a constituent part of the play, and mingling unseasonably, and unnaturally, with the personages of the drama. j, After the view which we have taken of the rise of tragedy, and of the nature of the ancient chorus, with the advantages and incon- veniences attending it, our way is cleared for examining, with more advantage, the three unities of action, place, and time, which have generally been considered as essential to the proper conduct of the dramatic fable. Of these three, the first, unity of action, is, beyond doubt, far the most important. In treating of epic poetry, I have already explained the nature of it; as consisting in a relation which all the incidents introduced bear to some design or effect, so as to combine naturally into one whole. This unity of subject is still more essen- tial to tragedy, than it is to epic poetry. For a multiplicity of plots, or actions, crowded into so short a space as tragedy allows must, of necessity, distract the attention, and prevent passion from rising to any height. Nothing, therefore, is worse conduct in a tragic poet, than to carry on two independent actions in the same play ; the effect of which is, that the mind being suspended and 512 TRAGEDY. [lect. xlv. divided between them, cannot give itself up entirely either to the one or the other. There may, indeed, be under-plots ; that is, the persons introduced may have different pursuits and designs ; but the poet's art must be shown in managing these so as to render them subservient to the main action. They ought to be connected with the catastrophe of the play, and to conspire in bringing it forward. If there be any intrigue which stands separate and independent, and which may be left out without affecting the unravelling of the plot, we may always conclude this to be a faulty violation of unity. Such episodes are not permitted here, as in epic poetry. We have a clear example of this defect in Mr. Addison's Cato. The subject of this tragedy is, the death of Cato : and a very noble personage Cato is, and supported by the author with much dignity. But all the love scenes in the play, the passion of Cato's two sons for Lucia, and that of Juba for Cato's daughter, are mere episodes ; have no connexion with the principal action, and no effect upon it. The author thought his subject too barren in incidents, and in order to diversify it, he has given us, as it were, by the by, a history of the amours that were going on in Cato's family; by which he hath both broken the unity of his subject, and formed a very unseason- able junction of gallantry, with the high sentiments and public spirited passions which predominate in other parts, and which the play was chiefly designed to exhibit. We must take care not to confound the unity of the action with the simplicity of the plot. Unity and simplicity import different things in dramatic composition. The plot is said to be simple, when a small number of incidents are introduced into it. But it may be implex, as the critics term it, that is, it may include a con- siderable number of persons and events, and yet not be deficient in unity ; provided all the incidents be made to tend towards the prin- cipal object of the play, and be properly connected with it. All the Greek tragedies not only maintain unity in the action, but are remarkably simple in the plot; to such a degree, indeed, as some- times to appear to us too naked, and destitute of interesting events. In the ffidipus Coloneus, for instance, of Sophocles, the whole sub- ject is no more than this : CEdipus, blind and miserable, wanders to Athens, and wishes to die there : Creon, and his son Polynices, arrive at the same time, and endeavour, separately, to persuade the old man to return to Thebes, each with a view to his own interest: he will not go : Theseus, the king of Athens, protects him ; and . the play ends with his death. In the Philoctetes of the same author, the plot, or fable, is nothing more than Ulysses, and the son of Achilles, studying to persuade the diseased Philoctetes to leave his uninhabited island, and go with them to Troy; which he refuses t do, till Hercules, whose arrows he possessed, descends from hea- ven and commands him. Yet these simple, and seemingly barren subjects, are wrought up with so much art by Sophocles, as to be- come very tender and affecting. Among the moderns, n. .ch greater variety of events has been admitted into tragedy. It has become more the theatre of passion lect. xlv.] TRAGEDY. 513 than it was among the ancients. A greater display of characters i? attempted; more intrigue and action are carried on; our curiosity is more awakened, and more interesting situations arise. This varie ty is, upon the whole, an improvement on tragedy : it renders the entertainment both more animated and more instructive; and when kept within due bounds, may be perfectly consistent with unity of subject. But the poet must, at the same time, beware of not devia- ting too far from simplicity, in the construction of his fable. For if he overcharges it with action and intrigue, it becomes perplexed and embarrassed; and, by consequence, loses much of Us effect. Congreve's Mourning Bride, a tragedy, otherwise far from being void of merit, fails in this respect; and may be given as an instance of one standing in perfect opposition to the simplicity of the ancient plots. The incidents succeed one another too rapidly. The play is too full of business. It is difficult for the mind to follow and com- prehend the whole series of events; and, what is the greatest fault of all, the catastrophe, which ought always to be plain and simple, is brought about in a manner too artificial and intricate. Unity of action must not only be studied in the general construc- tion of the fable or plot, but must regulate the several acts and scenes, into which the play is divided. The division of every play into five acts, has no other foundation than common practice, and the authority of Horace : Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu Fabula.* De Art. Poet. v. 189. It is a division purely arbitrary. There is nothing in the nature of the composition which fixes this number rather than any other; and it had been much better if no such number had been ascertained, but every play had been allowed to divide itself into as many parts, or intervals, as the subject naturally pointed out. On the Greek stage, whatever may have been the case on the Roman, the division by acts was totally unknown. The word act, never once occurs in Aristo- tle's Poetics, in which he defines exactly every part of the drama, ^ind divides it into the beginning, the middle, and the end; or, in his own words, into the prologue, the episode, and the exode. The Greek tragedy was, indeed, one continued representation, from be- ginning to end. The stage was never empty, nor the curtain let fall. But at certain intervals, when the actors retired, the chorus continu- ed and sung. Neither do these songs of the chorus divide the Greek tragedies into five portions, similar to our acts; though some of the commentators have endeavoured to force them into this office. But it is plain, that the intervals at which the chorus sung, are extremely unequal and irregular, suited to the occasion and the subject; and would divide the play sometimes into three, sometimes into seven or eight acts.t As practice has now established a different plan on the modern * If you would have your play deserve success, Give it five acts complete, nor more, nor less. Francis t See the dissertation prefixed o Franklin's translation of Sophocles. 35 514 TRAGEDY. [lect. xlv stage, has divided every play into five acts, and made a total pause in the representation at the end of each act, the poet must be care- uil that this pause shall fall in a proper place; where there is a natu- ral pause in the action ; and where, if the imagination has any thing to supply, that is not represented on the stage, it may be supposed to have been transacted during the interval. The first act ought to contain a clear exposition of the subject. 1 ought to be so managed as to awaken the curiosity of the spectators and, at the same time, to furnish them with materials for understand- ing the sequel. It should make them acquainted with the personages who are to appear, with their several views and interests, and with the situation of affairs at the time when the play commences. A striking introduction, such as the first speech of Almeria, in the Mourning Bride, and that of Lady Randolph, in Douglas, produces a happy effect; but this is what the subject will not always admit. In the ruder times of dramatic writing, the exposition of the subject was wont to be made by a prologue, or by a single aclor appearing, and giving full and direct information to the spectators. Some of JEschy- lus's and Euripides's plays are opened in this manner. But such an introduction is extremely inartificial, and therefore is now totally abolished, and thesubject made to open itself by conversation among the first actors who are brought upon the stage. During the course of the drama, in the second, third, and fourth acts, the plot should gradually thicken. The great object which the poet ought here to have in view, is, by interesting us in his story, to keep our passions always awake. As soon as he allows us to lan- guish, there is no more tragic merit. He should, therefore, introduce no personages but such as are necessary for carrying on the action. He should contrive to place those whom he finds it proper to introduce, in the most interesting situations. He should have no scenes of idle conversation, or mere declamation. The action of the play ought to be always advancing; and as it advances, the suspense, and the concern of the spectators, to be raised more and more. This is the great excellency of Shakspeare, that his scenes are full of sentiment and action, never of mere discourse; whereas, it is often a fault of the best French tragedians, that they allow the action to languish for the sake of a long and artful dialogue. Sentiment, passion, pity, and terror, should reign throughout a tragedy. Every thing should be full of movements. A useless incident, or an unnecessary con- versation, weakens the interest which we take in the action, and ren- ders us cold and inattentive. The fifth act is the seat of the catastrophe, or the unravelling of the plot, in which we always expect the art and genius of the poet to be most fully displayed. The first rule concerning it is, that it be brought about by probable and natural means. Hence all unrav- ellings which turn upon disguised habits, rencounters by night, mis- Lakes of one person for another, and other such theatrical and roman- tic circumstances, are to be condemned as faulty. In the uext place, the catastrophe ought always to be simple ; to depend on few events, and to include but few persons. Passion never rises so high when lect. xlv.] TRAGEDY 515 it is divided among many objects, as when it is directed tow ards one, or a few. And it is still more checked, if the incidents be so com- plex and intricate, that the understanding is put on the stretch to trace them, when the heart should be wholly delivered up to emotion. The catastrophe of the Mourning Bride, as I formerly hinted, offends against both these rules. In the last place, the catastrophe of a tra- gedy ought to be the reign of pure sentiment and passion. In pro- portion as it approaches, every thing snould warm and glow. No long discourses ; no cold reasonings ; no parade of genius, in the midst of those solemn and awful events, that close some of the great reso- lutions of human fortune. There, if any where, the poet must be sim- ple, serious, pathetic ; and speak no language but that of nature. The ancients were fond of unravellings, which turned upon what is called an 'Anagnorisis,' or a discovery of some person to be different from what he was taken to be. When such discoveries are artfully conducted, and produced in critical situations, they are ex- tremely striking ; such as that famous one in Sophocles, which makes the whole subject of his CEdipus Tyrannus, and which is, undoubt- edly, the fullest of suspense, agitation, and terror, that ever was ex- hibited on any stage. Among the moderns, two of the most dis- tinguished Anagnorises, are those contained in Voltaire's Merope, and Mr. Home's Douglas; both of which are great masterpieces of the kind. It is not essential to the catastrophe of a tragedy, that it should end unhappily. In the course of the play, there may be sufficient agitation and distress, and many tender emotions raised by the suf- ferings and dangers of the virtuous, though in the end, good men are rendered successful. The tragic spirit, therefore, does not want scope upon this system ; and, accordingly, the Athalie of Racine, and some of Voltaire's finest plays, such as Alzire, Merope, and tht> Orphan of China, with some few English tragedies likewise, have 9 fortunate conclusion. But, in general, the spirit of tragedy, espe cially of English tragedy, leans more to the side of leaving the im pression of virtuous sorrow full and strong upon the heart. A cpiestion intimately connected with this subject, anu which has employed the speculations of several philosophical critics, naturally occurs here: how it comes to pass that those emotions of sorrow which tragedy excites, afford any gratification to the mind? For, is not sorrow in its nature a painful passion? Is not real distress often occasioned to the spectators, by the dramatic rcproeniations at which they assist? Do we not see their tears flow? and yet, while the impression of what they have suffered remains upon then minds, they again assemble in crowds to renew the same distresses. The question is not without difficulty, and various solutions of it have been proposed by ingenious men.* The most plain and satisfactory * See Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric, Book i. ch. xi. where an account is given ef the hypothesis of different critics on this subject; and where one is proposed, with which, in the main, I agree. See also Lcrd Kaimes's Essays on the Principles of Mo- rality, Es&ay i., and Mr David Hume's Essay on Tragedy. 516 TRAGEDY. [lect. xlv. account of ihe matter, appears to me to be the following. By the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, the exercise of all the social passions is attended with pleasure. Nothing is more pleasing and grateful, than love and friendship. Wherever man takes a strong interest in the concerns of his fellow creatures, an internal satisfaction is made to accompany the feeling. Pity, or compassion, in particu- lar, is, for wise ends, appointed to be one of the strongest instincts of our frame, and is attended with a peculiar attractive power. It is an affection which cannot but be productive of some distress, on ac- count of the sympathy with the sufferers, which it necessarily in- volves. But as it includes benevolence and friendship, it partakes, at the same time, of the agreeable and pleasing nature of those affec- tions. The heart is warmed by kindness and humanity, at the same moment at which it is afflicted by the distresses of those with whom it sympathizes: and the pleasure arising from those kind emotions, prevails so much in the mixture, and so far counterbalances the pain, as to render the state of the mind, upon the whole, agreeable. At the same time, the immediate pleasure, which always goes along with the operation of the benevolent and sympathetic affections, de- rives an addition from the approbation of our own minds. We are pleased with ourselves, forfeelingas we ought, and for entering, with proper sorrow, into the concerns of the afflicted. In tragedy, be- sides, other adventitious circumstances concur to diminish the pain ful part of sympathy, and to increase the satisfaction attending it. We are, in some measure, relieved, by thinking that the cause of our distress is feigned, not real ; and we are also gratified by the charms of poetry, the propriety of sentiment and language, and the beauty of action. From the concurrence of these causes, the plea- sure which we receive from tragedy, notwithstanding the distress it occasions, seems to me to be accounted for in a satisfactory manner. At the same time, it is to be observed, that, as there is always a mix- ture of pain in the pleasure, that pain is capable of being so much heightened, by the representation of incidents extremely direful, as to shock our feelings, and to render us averse, either to the reading of such tragedies, or to the beholding of them upon the stage. Having now spoken of the conduct of the subject throughout the acts, it is also necessary to take notice of the conduct of the several scenes which make up the acts of a play. The entrance of a new personage upon the stage, forms what is cal- led a new scene. These scenes, or successive conversations, should be closely linked and connected with each other; and much of the art. of dramatic composition is shown in maintaining this connexion. Two rules are necessary to be observed for this purpose. The first is, that, during the course of one act, the stage should never be left vacant, though but for a single moment; that is, all the persons who have appeared in one scene, or conversation, should never go off together, and be succeeded by a new set of persons ap pearing in the next scene, independent of the former. This makes a gap, or total interruption in the representation, which, in effect, puts an end to that act. For, whenever the stage is evacuated. *ect. xlv.] TRAGEDY. v~ the act is closed. This rule is, very generally, observed by the French tragedians; but the English writers, both of comedy and tragedy, seldom pay any regard to it. Their personages succeed one another upon the stage with so little connexion ; the union of their scenes is so much broken, that, with equal propriety, their plays might be divided into ten or twelve acts, as well as into five. The second rule, which the English writers also observe little better than the former, is, that no person shall come upon the stage, or leave it, without a reason appearing to us, both for the one and the other. Nothing is more awkward, and contrary to art, than for an actor to enter, without our seeing any cause for his appearing in that scene, except that it was for the poet's purpose he should enter precisely at such a moment; or for an actor to go away without any reason for his retiring, farther than that the poet had no more speeches to put into his mouth. This is managing the personee dramatis exactly like so many puppets, who are moved by wires, to answer the call of the master of the show. Whereas the per- fection of dramatic writing requires that every thing should be con- ducted in imitation, as near as possible, of some real transaction; where we are let into the secret of all that is passing, where we bo- hold persons before us always busy ; see them coming and going ; and know perfectly whence they come, and whither they go, and about what they are employed. All that I have hitherto said, relates to the unity of the dra- matic action. In order to render the unity of action more com- plete, critics have added the other two unities of time and place. The strict observance of these is more difficult, and, perhaps, not so necessary. The unity of place requires, that the scene should never be shifted ; but that the action of the play should be contin- ued to the end, in the same place where it is supposed to begin. The unity of time, strictly taken, requires, that the time of the action be no longer than the time that is allowed for the represen- tation of the play ; though Aristotle seems to have given the poet a little more liberty, and permitted the action to comprehend the whole time of one day. The intention of both these rules is, to overcharge, as little as possible, the imagination of the spectators with improbable circum- stances in the acting of the play, and to bring the imitation more close to reality. We must observe, that the nature of dramatic ex- hibitions upon the Greek stage, subjected the ancient tragedians to a more strict observance of these unities than is necessary in modern theatres. I showed, that a Greek tragedy was one uninter- rupted representation, from beginning to end. There was no di- vision of acts ; no pauses or interval between them ; but the stage was continually full ; occupied either by the actors or the chorus. Hence, no room was left for the imagination to go beyond the pre- cise time and place of the representation ; any more than is allowed during the continuance of one act, on the modern theatre. But .he practice of suspending the spectacle totally for some little time between the acts, has made a great and material change; 51 S TRAGEDY. [lect. xlv gives more latitude to the imagination, and renders the ancient strict confinement to time and place less necessary. While the acting of the play is interrupted, the spectator can, without any great or violent effort, suppose a few hours to pass between every act; or can suppose himself moved from one apartment of a palace, or one part of a city, to another : and, therefore, too strict an observ- ance of these unities ought not to be preferred to higher beauties of execution, nor to the introduction of more pathetic situations, which sometimes cannot be accomplished in any other way, than by the transgression of these rules. On the ancient stage, we plainly see the poets struggling with many an inconvenience, inorder to preserve those unities which were then so necessary. As the scene could never be shifted, they were obliged to make it always lie in some court of a palace, or some public area, to which all the persons concerned in the action might have equal access. This led to frequent improbabilities, by representing things as transacted there, which naturally ought to have been trans- acted before few witnesses, and in private apartments. The like im- probabilities arose, from limitingthemselves so much in pointof time. Incidents were unnaturally crowded ; and it is easy to point out seve- ral instances in the Greek tragedies, where events are supposed to pass during a song of the chorus, which must necessarily have em- ployed many hours. But though it seems necessary to set modern poets free from a strict observance of these dramatic unities, yet we must remember there are certain bounds to this liberty. Frequent and wild changes of time and place ; hurrying the spectator from one distant city, or country, to another ; or making several clays or weeks to pass dur- ing the course of the representation, are liberties which shock the imagination, which give to the performance a romantic and unnatu- ral appearance, and, therefore, cannot be allowed in any dramatic writer who aspires to correctness. In particular, we must remember that it is only between the acts, that any liberty can be given for going beyond the unities of time and place. During the course of each act, they ought to be strictly observed ; that is, during each act the scene should continue the same, and no more time should be gupposed to pass, than is employed in the representation of that act. This is a rule which the French tragedians regularly observe. To violate this rule, as is too often done by the English ; to change the p-lace, and shift the scene in the midst of one act, shows great incor- rectness, and destroys the whole intention of thedivision of a play into acts. Mr. Addison's Cato is remarkable beyond most English trage- dies, for regularity of conduct. The author has limited himself, in time, to a single day ; and in place, has maintained the most rigorous unity. The scene is never changed ; and the whole action passes in the hall of Cato's house, at Utica. In general, the nearer a poet can bring the dramatic represen tation, in all its circumstances, to an imitation of nature and real life, the impression which he makes on us will always be the more perfect LECT. XLV.] QUESTIONS. 519 Probability, as I observed at the beginning of the lecture, is highly essential to the conduct of the tragic action, and we are always hurt by the want of it. It is this that makes the observance of the dra- matic unities to be of consequence, as far as they can be observed without sacrificing more material beauties. It is not, as has been sometimes said, that by the preservation of the unities of time and place, spectators are deceived into a belief of the reality of the ob- jects which are set before them on the stage ; and that, when those unities are violated, the charm is broken, and they discover the whole to be a fiction. No such deception as this can ever be accomplished. No one ever imagines himself to be at Athens, or Rome, when a Greek or Roman subject is presented on the stage. He knows the whole to be an imitation only ; but he requires that imitation to be conducted with skill and verisimilitude. His pleasure, the enter- tainment which he expects, the interest which he is to take in the story, all depend on its being so conducted. His imagination, there- fore, seeks to aid the imitation, and to rest on the probability ; and the poet, who shocks him by improbable circumstances, and by awkward, unskilful imitation, deprives him of his pleasure, and leaves him hurt and displeased. This is the whole mystery of the theatrical illusion. QUESTIONS. How has dramatic poetry, among all civilized nations, been considered, and of what has it been judged worthy? According to what, does it divide into die two forms of comedy or tragedy ? Why has tragedy always been consi- dered a more dignified entertainment than comedy ? Upon what do they respectively rest ; and what are their respective instruments ? Which, there- fore, shall be the object of our fullest discussion? When is tragedy a noble idea of poetry ? Of what is it a direct imitation ; and why ? Hence, what fol- lows ? What is it, or what ought it to be ? As tragedy is a high species of composition, so also, in its general strain and spirit, to what is it favourable? How is this remark illustrated ? What does every poet find ? Why must he sometimes represent the virtuous un- fortunate ; but what will he always study to do ? Though they may be de- scribed asunprospeious, yet of what is there no instance? Even when bad men puccecd in their designs, what follows? What sentiments are most generally excited by tragedy ; and therefore, what must be acknowledged ? Taking .rajjedies complexly, of what is our author fully persuaded ; and, there- fore, upon what must the zeal which Borne pious men have shown against 4F the entertainments of the theatre, rest? What account does Aristotle give of the design of tragedy ? Of this defini- tion, what is observed ; and what may be considered a better one ? When does an author accomplish all the moral purposes of tragedy? In order to this end, what is the first requisite ; and why ? What is the object of the epic poet, and what follows? How is this illustrated? From what does it appear that tragedy demands a stricter imitation of the lite and actions of men? How, only, can passion be raised ? What, therefore, fol- Ioavs? What does this principle exclude from tragedy? Why have ghosts main- tained their place ? But what is to be condemned ; and why ? Of this mix- ture of machinery with the tragic ac- tion, what is observed? In order to promote that impression of probability which is so necessary for the success ot* tragedy, what have some critics re- quired ? Of what tragedies were such the subjects ? But why cannot our au- thor hold this to be a matter of any great consequence ? In order to our be- ing moved, what is not necessary? How is this position farther illustrated, and what instances are mentioned? Whether the subject be real or feigned, on what does most depend for render- ing the incidents in a tragedy proba 519 a QUESTIONS. [lect. xlv hie? To regulate this conduct, what famous rule have critics laid down; and of them, what is observed ? But in order to do this with more advantage, what is first necessary ? What was the state of tragedy, in its beginning? What was its origin among the Greeks? How were these poems sung ? In or- der to throw some variety into this en- tertainment, what was thought proper? Who made this innovation ; of him, what is observed ; and what is said of iEschylus ? Of what these actors reci- ted, what is remarked ? What did this begin to give the drama, and by whom was it soon perfected ? What is remark- able j and how is this illustrated ? From this account, what appears ; and of it, what is further observed? To what question has this given rise ? What must be admitted ; and why ? The chorus, at the same time, conveyed what ; and of" what persons was it composed ? Of this company, what is further remarked ? What illustration of this remark is given ? But, notwith- standing the advantages of the chorus, yet what is observed ; and why ? How is this remark fully illustrated ? What may be confidently asserted? What use might still be made of the ancient chorus ? What would be the effect of this? After the view which we have taken of the rise of tragedy, &c. for examining what, is our way cleared ? Of these three, which is the most im- portant? When was its nature explain- ed ; and in what does it consist ? Why is this unity of subject still more essen- tial to tragedy, than it is to epic poetry? What, therefore, follows; and why? What may there be? With what ought they to be connected; and for what reason ? Where have we a clear ex- ample of this defect ? What is the sub- ject of this tragedy ; and what is said of Cato himself? But what are mere episodes ; why did the author intro- duce them ; and what follows ? Of what must we take care ? What do unity and simplicity respectively import in dramatic composition? Of the Greek tragedies, what is here ob- served ? How is this remark illustrated from the GSdipus and Philoctetes of Sophocles ? Yet of these simple sub- jects, what is observed? Among the moderns, what has been admitted into traet wants to make us believe that he so received it. How does ne express these feelings? Fix'd in astonishment, I gaze upon thee, Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav'n Who pants for breath, and stiffens yet alive In dreadful looks ; a monument of wrath lect. xlvi.J TRAGEDY. 523 This makes his whole reply to Lucia. Now did any person, who was of a sudden astonished and overwhelmed with sorrow, ever since the creation of the world, express himself in this manner? This is indeed an excellent description to be given us by another, of a person who was in such a situation. Nothing would have been more proper for a bystander, recounting this conference, than to have said, Fix'd in astonishment, he gaz'd upon her Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav'n, Who pants for breath, &.C. But the person, who is himself concerned, speaks on such an oc- casion in a very different manner. He gives vent to his feelings: he pleads for pity ; he dwells upon the cause of his grief and aston- ishment; but never thinks of describing his own person and looks, and showing us, by a simile, what he resembles. Such represen- tations of passions are no better in poetry than it would be in paint- ing, to make a label issue from the mouth of a figure, bidding as remark, that this figure represents an astonished or a grieved person. On some other occasions, when poets do not employ this sort of descriptive language in passion, they are too apt to run into forced and unnatural thoughts, in order to exaggerate the feelings of persons, whom they would paint as very strongly moved. When Osmyn, in the Mourning Bride, after parting with Almeria, re- grets, in a long soliloquy, that his eyes only see objects that are present, and cannot see Almeria after she is gone; when Jane Shore, in Mr. Rowe's tragedy, on meeting with her husband in ner extreme distress, and finding that he had forgiven her, calls on the rains to give her their drops, and the springs to give her their streams, that she may never want a supply of tears ; in such pas- sages, we see very plainly, that it is neither Osmyn, nor Jane Shore, that speak; but the poet himself in his own person, who, instead of assuming the feelings of those whom he means to exhibit, and speaking as they would have done in such situations, is straining his fancy, and spurring up his genius, to say something that shall be uncommonly strong and lively. If we attend to the language that is spoken by persons under the influence of real passion, we shall find it always plain and simple; abounding indeed with those figures which express a disturbed and impetuous state of mind, such as interrogations, exclamations, and apostrophes; but never employing those which belong to the mere embellishment and parade of speech. We never meet with any subtilty or refinement, in the sentiments of real passion. The thoughts which passion suggests, are always plain and obvious ones, arising directly from its object. Passion never reasons, nor specu- lates, till its ardour begins to cool. It never leads to long discourse or declamation. On the contrary, it expresses itself most commonly in short, broken, and interrupted speeches ; corresponding to the vio- lent and desultory emotions of the mind. When we examine the French tragedians by these principles, 5°<> TRAGEDY. [lect. xlvi which seem clearly founded in nature, we find them often deficient Though in many parts of tragic composition, they have great merit • though in exciting soft and tender emotions, some of them are very successful ; yet, in the high and strong pathetic, they generally fail. Their passionate speeches too often run into long declamation. There is too much reasoning and refinement ; too much pomp and studied beauty in them. They rather convey a feeble impres sion of passion, than awaken any strong sympathy in the reader's mind. Sophocles and Euripides are much more successful in this part of composition. In their pathetic scenes, we find no unnatural refine- ment ; no exaggerated thoughts. They set before us the plain and direct feelings of nature, in simple expressive language ; and there- fore on great occasions, they seldom fail of touching the heart.* This too is Shakspeare's great excellency j and to this it is princi- pally owing, that his dramatic productions, notwithstanding their many imperfections, have been so long the favourites of the public. He is more faithful to the true language of nature, in the midst of passion, than any writer. He gives us this language, unadulterated by art ; and more instances of it can be quoted from him, than from all other tragic poets taken together. I shall refer only to that admi- rable scene in Macbeth, where Macduff receives the account of his ^vife, and all his children, being slaughtered in his absence. The emotions, first of grief, and then of the most fierce resentment rising against Macbeth, are painted in such a manner, that there is no heart but must feel them, and no fancy can conceive any thing more ex- pressive of nature. With regard to moral sentiments and reflections in tragedies, it is clear that they must not recur too often. They lose their effect, when unseasonably crowded. They render the play pedantic and declamatory. This is remarkably the case with those Latin trage dies which go under the name of Seneca, which are little more than a collection of declamations and moral sentiments, wrought up with a quaint brilliancy, which suited the prevailing taste of that age. I am not, however, of opinion, that moral reflections ought to b€ altogether omitted in tragedies. When properly introduced, they give dignity to the composition, and on many occasions, they are extremely natural. When persons are under any uncommon dis- tress : when they are beholding in others, or experiencing in them- selves, the vicissitudes of human fortune ; indeed, when they are placed in any of the great and trying situations of life, serious and * Nothing, for instance, can be more touching and pathetic than the address which Medea, in Euripides, makes to her children, when she had formed the r* olution o putting them to death, and nothing more natural than the conflict whici» ?he is d* jcribeu as suffering on that occasion : $«u, Geo* Tl 7rpof pas» sion, what follows? What is a preroga- tive of genius given to few ? What does it require ; and why ? How is this re- mark illustrated ? Of a person in what situation, is this the language? Yet what remark follows ? What instance have we of it ? Repeat the passage. Oi it, what is observed? How does the person who is himself concerned, speak on such an occasion? Such representa- tions of passion in poetry, are no better than what ? On some other occasions, into what are poets too apt to run ; and why ? By what examples is this re- mark illustrated ; and in such passages, what do we see ? What is the charac- ter of language spoken under the in- fluence of real passion ? In the senti- ments of real passion, with what do we never meet; and why? Of passion, what is farther observed ? When we examine the French tragedians by these principles, what do we find ; and what remark follows? How is this il- lustrated ? Of Sophocles and Euripides, what is here observed; and also of Shakspeare ? To what scene does our author refer, in support of this remark? What is said of it ? With regard to moral sentiments and reflections in tra- gedies, what is observed; and why? With what tragedies is this remarkably the case ; and what are they ? Of what, however, is our author not of opinion ; and why ? When do serious and moral reflections naturally occur to persons of all descriptions ? Why is almost every human being, then, disposed to be seri- ous; and, therefore, what follows? What instance is here given to illus- trate this remark ; and of Addison's Cato, what is here observed? What should the style and versification oi tragedy be ? Why is our blank verse happily suited to this purpose? Why should monotony, above all things be avoided by a tragic poet ? Into wnat should he not sink ; and what should his style always have? What should it assume ? What is one of the areatesl misfortunes of French tragedy? What requires this ; and why ? What is its effect? What does Voltaire maintain? What does he say? Of this idea, what is observed? With regard tc what, need nothing be said ; only that they were what ? Having thus treated of all the diffe- rent kinds of tragedy, with what does 532 6 QUESTIONS. [LECT. XLYi our author conclude the subject. ? Re- pea* the distinguishing characters of the Greek tragedy, which have been mentioned. From what were most of their plots taken ? What instances are given? What does iEschylus exhibit? What are his characteristics ? Why is he obscure and difficult ? With what doe.-i he abound ; what does he possess ; and in what does he delight ? What are beautiful in their kind, and strongly expressive of his jrenius? What is said of Sophocles? What evidence have we or* the eminence of his descriptive ta- lent? How does he compare with Eu- ripides ? What merits do they both pos- sess, as tragic poets? Of theatrical representation on the stages of Greece and Rome, what is observed ? What has the Abbe du Bos proved ? What has he farther attempted to prove ? Of the actors in tragedy, what is obser- ved ? What is said of these masks ? When different emotions were to ap- pear in the same person, how was the change expressed ? With what disad- vantages was this contrivance attend- ed ? In defence of them, what, at the same time, must be remembered ? In whose hands has tragedy appeared with much lustre and dignity? How have they improved upon the ancients? In what have they studied to imitate them ? To what are they attentive ? In them, what is an English taste most apt to censure? How is this defect il- lustrated? What, does Voltaire admit; and what does he very candidly give as his judgment? By what is Cor- neille distinguished? Of his genius, what is observed ; and why ? How does he compare with other French trage- dians? What, did he write ; and in what, also, did he resemble them? What has he composed ; and which are his best ? How does Racine com- pare with Corneille? Of his tenderness, what is observed ; and of what per- formances, what is remarked ? What is said of his language and versifica- tion ? In what has he excelled all the French au'hors? What evidence of this is given ; and what is said of it ? Upon whose plans has Racine formed two ol nis plays ; and of them, what is remarked ? Of Voltaire, what is obser- ved ? In what has he outdone them all ? From what is he not exempt ; but how are his characters drawn ? Which are four excellent tragedies ? In the strains of his sentiments, what do we unexpectedly find? What is said of the musical dramas of Metastasiot For what are they eminent ; and m what do they abound ? Of the dialogue, what is observed? What remark fol- lows ? To speak of what do we now pro- ceed ; and what is their general cha- racter ? As the pathetic is the soul of tragedy, what follows ? What is the first object which presents itself to us, on the English theatre? What are his merits ; and what are his faults ? What are his two chief virtues? How is this illustrated ? What, therefore, is no matter of wonder? What merit does Shakspeare likewise possess? How is this illustrated ? Which are his two masterpieces? Of his historical plays, what is observed ? After the age of Shakspeare, what can we produce ; but what have we not ? Of Dryden and Lee, and of Lee's Theodosius, what is observed? With what was Otway en- dowed, and where does it appear to great advantage? Of theae, what is farther remarked ? What does he pos- sess? In what does his want of morali- ty appear ; of what is he the opposite ; and what has he contrived to do ? How do Rowe's tragedies compare with those of Otway ? To this remark, what twc exceptions are there ; and what is said of them ? What is said of Dr. Young's Revenue ; and of Congreve's Mourn ing Bride ? Of Mr. Thompson's trage- dies, what is remarked ? Which far ex- cels the rest, and what is said of it ? On reviewing the tragic compositions of different nations, what conclusions arise ? In what did the ancients and in what do the moderns excel ? How do the French and the English compare ; and what illustration follows? What deserves remark ; and on what are they respectively founded ? !•' ANALYSIS. Tragedy. a. The characters. a. Aristotle's oDservaticr.3 en them. b. The subjects of Greek tragedies. c. Love pi edouninant on the modem - stage. b. The sentiment?. a. The natural language ct passion to be observed. 6. Moral reflections considered. c. The style and versification. a. The disadvantages Df Krenchrhym* Greek tragedy. a. JEschyiue — Sophocles — Euripides. b. Peculiarities in the representation. Fiench tragedy. a. Corneille — Racine — Voltaire. English tragedy. a. Shakspeare — Dryden — Otway, &c, Tlic conclusion. ( 533 ) LECTURE XLVII. COMEDY....GREEK AND ROMAN....FRENCH....ENGLISH COMEDY. Comedy is sufficiently discriminated from tragedy, by its general spirit and strain. While pity and terror, and the other strong pas- sions,form the province of the latter, the chief or rather sole instru- ment of the former is ridicule. Comedy proposes for its object neither the great sufferings nor the great crimes of men ; but their follies and slighter vices, those parts of their character which raise in beholders a sense of impropriety, which expose them to be cen- sured and laughed at by others, or which render them troublesome in civil society. This general idea of comedy, as a satirical exhibition of the im- proprieties and follies of mankind, is an idea very moral and useful. There is nothing in the nature, or general plan of this kind of com- position, that renders it liable to censure. To polish the manners of men, to promote attention to the proper decorums of social be- haviour, and above all, to render vice ridiculous, is doing real service to the world. Many vices might be more successfully exploded, by employing ridicule against them, than by serious attacks and argu- ments. At the same time it must be confessed, that ridicule is an instrument of such a nature, that when managed by unskilful, or im- proper hands, there is hazard of its doing mischief, instead of good, to society. For ridicule is far from being, as some have maintained it to be, a proper test of truth. On the contrary, it is apt to mis- lead, and seduce, by the colours which it throws upon its objects-, and it is often more difficult to judge, whether these colours be na- tural and proper, than it is to distinguish between simple truth and error. Licentious writers, therefore, of the comic class, have too often had it in their power to cast a ridicule upon characters and ob- jects which did not deserve it. But this is a fault, not owing to the nature of comedy, but to the genius and turn of the writers of it. In the hands of a loose, immoral author, comedy will mislead and cor- rupt ; while, in those of a virtuous and well-intentioned one, it will be not only a gay and innocent, but a laudable and useful entertain- ment. French comedy is an excellent school of manners; while English comedy has been too often the school of vice. The rules respecting the dramatic action, which I delivered in the first bcture upon tragedy, belong equally to comedy ; and hence, of course, our disquisitions concerning it are shortened. It is equally necessary to both these forms of dramatic composition, that there be a proper unity of action and subject, that the unities of time and place be, as much as possible, preserved ; that is, that the time of the action be brought within reasonable bounds; and the place of the action never changed, at least, not during the course of each 534 COMEDY. [lect. xlvii act ; that the several scenes or successive conversations be properly linked together; that the stage be never totally evacuated till the -ct closes ; and that the reason should appear to us, why the pe» sonages who fill up the different scenes, enter and go off the stage, at the time when they are made to do so. The scope of all these rules, I showed, was to brhid ihe imitation as near as possible to probability ; which is always necessary, in order to any imitation giv- ing us pleasure. This reason requires, perhaps, a stricter observance of the dramatic rules in comedy, than in tragedy. For the action of comedy being more familiar to us than that of tragedy, more like what we are accustomed to see in common life, we judge more easi- ly of what is probable, and are more hurt by the want of it. The probable and the natural, boih in the conduct of the story, and in the characters and sentiments of the persons who are introduced, are the great foundation, it must always be remembered, of the whole beauty of comedy. The subjects of tragedy are not limited to any country, or to any age. The tragic poet may lay his scene in whatever region he pleases. He may form his subject upon the history, either of his own, or of a foreign country; and he may take it from any period that is agreeable to him, however remote in time. The reverse of this holds in comedy, for a clear and obvious reason. In the great vices, great virtues, and high passions, men of all countries and ages resemble one another; and are therefore equally subjects for the tra- gic muse. But those decorums of behaviour, those lesser discrimi- nations of character, which afford subject for comedy, change with the differences of countries and times; and can never be so well un- derstood by foreigners, as by natives. We weep for the heroes of Greece and Rome, as freely as we do for those of our own country; but we are touched with the ridicule of such manners and such cha- racters only, as we see and know ; and therefore the scene and subject of comedy, should always be laid in o ir own country, and in our own times. The comic poet who aims at correcting improprieties and follies of behaviour, should study 'to catch the manners living as they rise.' It is not his business to amuse us with a tale of the last age, or with a Spanish or a French intrigue, but to give us pictures taken from among ourselves; to satirize reigning and present vices; *o exhibit to the age a faithful copy of itself, with its humours, its follies, and its extravagances. It is only by laying his plan in this manner, that he can add weight and dignity to the entertainment which he gives us. Plautus, it is true, and Terence, did not follow this rule. They laid the scene of their comedies in Greece, and adopted the Greek laws and customs. But it must be remembered, that comedy was, in their age, but a new entertainment in Rome-, and that then they contented themselves with imitating, often with translating merely, the comedies of Menander, and ether Greek writers. In after times, it is known that the Romans had the ' Co- moedia Togata,' or what was founded on their own manners, as well as the 'Comcedia Palliata,' or what was taken from the Greeks. Comedy may be divided into two kinds: comedy of character. tECT. xlvii.J COMEDY. 535 and comedy of intrigue. In the latter, the plot, or the action of the play, is made the principal object. In the former, the display of some peculiar character is chiefly aimed at; the action is contri- ved altogether with a view to this end. and is treated as subordinate to it. The French abound most in comedies of character. Al! Moliere's capital pieces are of this sort; his Avare, for instance, Misanthrope, Tartuffe; and such are Destouches' also, and those of the other chief French comedians. The English abound more in comedies of intrigue. In the plays of Congreve, and, in general, in all our comedies, there is much more story, more bustle, and ac- tion, than on the French theatre. In order to give this sort of composition its proper advantage, these two kinds should be properly mixed together. Without some interesting and well-conducted story, mere conversation is apt to be- come insipid. There should be always as much intrigue as to give us something to wish, and something to fear. The incidents should so succeed one another, as to produce striking situations, and to fix our attention; while they afford at the same time a proper field for the exhibition of character. For the poet must never forget, that to exhibit characters and manners, is his principal object. The ac- tion in comedy, though it demands his care, in order to render it animated and natural, is a less significant and important part of the performance, than the action in tragedy: as in comedy, it is what men say, and how they behave, that draws our attention, rather than what they suffer. Hence it is a great fault to overcharge it with too much intrigue; and those intricate Spanish plots that were fashion- able for a while, carried on by perplexed apartments, dark entries, and disguised habits, are now justly condemned and laid aside: for oy such conduct, the main use of comedy was lost. The attention of the spectators, instead of being directed towards any display of characters, was fixed upon the surprising turns and revolutions of the intrigue; and comedy was changed into a mere novel. In the management of characters, one of the most common faults of comic writers, is the carrying of them too far beyond life. Where- ever ridicule is concerned, it is indeed extremely difficult to hit the precise point where true wit ends, and buffoonery begins. When the miser, for instance, in Plautus, searching the person whom he suspects for having stolen his casket, after examining first his right hand, and then his left, cries out * Ostende etiam tertiam,' < show me your third hand,' (a stroke too which Moliere has copied from him) there is no one but must be sensible of the extravagance. Certain degrees of exaggeration are allowed to the comedian ; but there are limits set to it by nature and good taste; and supposing the mi- ser to be ever so much engrossed by his jealousy and his suspicions, it is impossible to conceive any man in his wits suspecting another of having more than two hands. Characters in comedy ought to be clearly distinguished from one another; but the artificial contrasting of characters, and the intro- ducing them always in pairs, and by opposites, give too theatrical anc' s 536 COMEDY. [lect. xlvii. affected an air to the piece. This is become too common a resource of comic writers, in order to heighten their characters, and display .hem to more advantage. As soon as the violent and impatient per son arrives upon the stage, the spectator knows tha*, in the next scene, he is to be contrasted with the mild and good-natured man ; or if one of the lovers introduced be remarkably gay and airy, we are sure that his companion is to be a grave and serious lover; like Frankly and Bellamy, Clarinda and Jacintha, in Dr. Hoadly's Sus- picious Husband. Such production of characters by pairs, is like the employment of the figure antithesis in discourse, which, as I for- merly observed, gives brilliancy indeed upon occasions, but is too ap- parently a rhetorical artifice. In every sort of composition, the per- fection of art is to conceal art. A masterly writer will, therefore, give us his characters, distinguished rather by such shades of diversity as are commonly found in society, than marked with such strong op positions, as are rarely brought into actual contrast in any of the circumstances of life. The style of comedy ought to be pure, elegant, and lively; very seldom rising higher than the ordinary tone of polite conversation, and, upon no occasion, descending into vulgar, mean, and gross ex- pressions. Here the French rhyme, which in many of their come- dies they have preserved, occurs as an unnatural bondage. Certain- ly, if prose belongs to any composition whatever, it is to that which imitates the conversation of men in ordinary life. One of the most difficult circumstances in writing comedy, and one, too, upon which the success of it very much depends, is to maintain, throughout, a current of easy, genteel, unaffected dialogue, without pertness and flippancy; without too much studied and unseasonable wit ; without dulness and formality. Too few of our English comedies are dis- tinguished for this happy turn of conversation; most of them are liable to one or other of the exceptions I have mentioned. The Careless Husband, and, perhaps, we may add the Provoked Husband, and the Suspicious Husband, seem to have more merit than most of them, for easy and natural dialogue. These are the chief observations that occur to me, concerning the general principles of this species of dramatic writing, as distinguish- ed from tragedy. But its nature and spirit will be still better under- stood, by a short history of its progress ; and a view of the manner in which it has been carried on by authors of different nations. Tragedy is generally supposed to have been more ancient among the Greeks than comedy. We have fewer lights concerning the origin and progress of the latter. What is most probable is, that, like the other, it took its rise accidentally from the diversions pecu- liar to the feast of Bacchus, and from Thespis and his cart: till, by degrees, it diverged into an entertainment of a quite different na- ture from solemn and heroic tragedy. Critics distinguish three stages of comedy among the Greeks ; which they call the ancient, the middle, and the new. The ancient comedy consisted in direct and avowed satire against particular known persons, who were brought upon the stage H <.ect xlvii.] ANCIENT COMEDY. 537 name. Of this nature are the plays of Aristophanes., eleven of which are still extant; plays of a very singular nature, and wholly different from all compositions which have, since that age, home the name of comedy. They show what a turbulent and licentious republic that of Athens was, and what unrestrained scope the Athe- nians gave to ridicule, when they could suffer the most illustrious personages of their state, their generals, and their magistrates, Cleon, Lamachus, Nicias, Alcibiades, not to mention Socrates the philoso- pher, and Euripides the poet, to be publicly made the subject of comedy. Several of Aristophanes' plays are wholly political satires upon public management, and the conduct of generals and states- men, during the Peloponnesian war. They are so full of political allegories and allusions, that it is impossible to understand them with- out a considerable knowledge of the history of those times. They abound, too, with parodies of the great tragic poets, particularly oi Euripides; to whom the author bore much enmity, and has written two comedies, almost wholly in order to ridicule him. Vivaeity, satire, and buffoonery, are the characteristics of Aristo- phanes. Genius and force he displays upon many occasions; but his performances, upon the whole, are not calculated to give us any high opinion of the Attic taste of wit, in his age. They seem, indeed, to have been composed for the mob. The ridicule employed in them is extravagant ; the wit, for the most part, buffoonish and farci- cal; the personal raillery, biting and cruel; and the obscenity that reigns in them, is gross and intolerable. The treatment given by this comedian, to Socrates the philosopher, in his play of 'The Clouds,' is well known ; but however it might tend to disparage So- crates in the public esteem, P. Brumoy, in his Theatre Gree, makes it appear, that it could not have been, as is commonly sup- posed, the cause of decreeing the death of that philosopher, which did not happen till twenty-three years after the representation of Anstophanes' Clouds. There is a chorus in Aristophanes' plays; bui altogether of an irregular kind. It is partly serious, partly comic; sometimes mingles in the action, sometimes addresses the spectators, deiends the author, and attacks his enemies. Soon after the days of Aristophanes, the liberty of attacking per- sons on the stage by name, being found of dangerous consequence to the public peace, was prohibited by law. The chorus also was, at this period, banished from the comic theatre, as having been an instrument of too much license and abuse. Then, what is called the middle comedy, took rise ; which was no other than an elusion of >.he law. Fictitious names, indeed, were employed; but living peuons were still attacked ; and described in such a manner as to be sufficiently known. Of these comic pieces, we have no remains. To them succeeded the new comedy; when the stage being oblig- ed «.o desist wholly from personal ridicule, became, what it is now, the picture of manners and characters, but not of particular persons. Menander was the most distinguished author, of this kind, among the Greeks ; and both from the imitations of him by Terence, and 68 5 SPANISH COMEDY. [lect. xlvij the account given of him by Plutarch, we have much reason to re gret that his writings have perished ; as he appears to have reform- ed, in a very high degree, the public taste, and to have set the model of correct, elegant, and moral comedy. The only remains which we now have of the new comedy, among the ancients, are the plays of Plautus and Terence ; both of whom were formed upon the Greek writers. Plautus is distinguished lor very expressive language, and a great degree of the vis comica As he wrote in an early period, he bears several marks of the rude- ness of the dramatic art among the Romans, in his time. He opens his plays with prologues, which sometimes pre-occupy the sub- ject of the whole piece. The representation too, and the action of the comedy, are sometimes confounded •, the actor departing from his character and addressing the audience. There is too much low wit and scurrility in Plautus; too much of quaint conceit, and play upon words. But withal, he displays more variety and more force than Terence. His characters are always strongly marked, though sometimes coarsely. His Amphytrion has been copied both by Mo Here and by Dryden; and his Miser also, (in the Audularia ) is the foundation of a capital play of Moliere's, which has been once and again imitated on the English stage. Than Terence, nothing can be more delicate, more polished, and elegant. His style is a mode] of the purest and most graceful Latinity. His dialogue is alwaysde- cent and correct ; and he possesses, beyond most writers, the art of relating with that beautiful picturesque simplicity, which never fails to please. His morality is, in general, unexceptionable. The situations which he introduces are often tender and interesting*, and many of his sentiments touch the heart. Hence, he may be consider- ed as the founder of that serious comedy, which has of late years been revived, and of which I shall have occasion afterwards to speak. If he fails in any thing, it is in sprightliness and strength. Both in his characters, and in his plots, there is too much sameness and uni- formity throughout all his plays; he copied Menander, and is said not to have equalled him.* In order to form a perfect comic author, an union would be requisite of the spirit and fire of Plautus, with the grace and correctness of Terence. When we entei un the view of modern comedy, one of the first objects which presents itself, is, the Spanish theatre, which has been remarkably fertile in dramatic productions. Lopez de Vega, Guillin, and Calderon,are the chief Spanish comedians. Lopez de Vega, who is by much the most famous of them, is said to have written above a "housand plays; but our surprise at the number of his productions will be diminished, by being informed of their nature. From the ** Julius Caesar has given us his opinion of Terence, in the following lines,, which ai« preserved in the life of Terence, ascribed to Suetonius : Tu quoque, tu in suramis, o dimidiate Menander, Poneris, et merito puri sermonis amaior; Lenibus atque utinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis Comica, ut oequato virtus polleret honore Cum Graecis, neque in hac despectus parte Jaceres ; Unum hoc maceror et doleo tibi deesse Terenti y lect. xLvn.l FRENCH COMEDY. 53b account which M. Perron de Castera, a French writer, gives ol them, it wouia seem that our Shakspeare is perfectly a regular and methodical author, in comparison of Lopez. He throws aside all regard to the three unities, or to any of the established forms of dra- matic writing. One play often includes many years, nay, the whole life of a man. The scene, during the first act, is laid in Spain, the next in Italy, and the third in Africa. His plays are mostly of the historical kind, founded on the annals of the country; and they are generally, a sort of tragic-comedies ; or a mixture of heroic speeches, serious incidents, war and slaughter, with much ridicule and buf- foonery. Angels and gods, virtues and vices, christain religion and pagan mythology, are all frequently jumbled together. In short, they are all plays like no other dramatic compositions ; full of the ro- mantic and extravagant. At the same time, it is generally admitted, that in the works of Lopez de Vega, there are frequent marks of genius, and much force of imagination ; many well drawn charac- ters; many happy situations; many striking and interesting surpri- ses ; and from the source of his rich invention, the dramatic writers of other countries are said to have frequently drawn their materials. He himself apologizes for the extreme irregularity of his composi- tion, from the prevailing taste of his countrymen, who delighted in a variety of events, in strange and surprising adventures, and a laby- rinth of intrigues, much more than in a natural and regularly con- ducted story. The general characters of the French comic theatre are, that it is correct, chaste, and decent. Several writers of considerable note it has produced, such as Regnard, Dufresny, Dancourt, and Marivaux ; but the dramatic author, in whom the French glory most, and whom they justly place at the head of all their comedians, is the famous Moliere. There is, indeed, no author in all the fruitful and distin- guished age of Louis XIV. who has attained a higher reputation than Moliere, or who has more nearly reached the summit of perfection in his own art, according to the judgment of all the French critics. Voltaire boldly pronounces him to be the most eminent comic poet of any age or country ; nor, perhaps, is this the decision of mere par- tiality ; for,taking him upon the whole, I know none who deserves to be preferred to him. Moliere is always the satirist only of vice or folly. He has selected a great variety of ridiculous characters peculiar to the times in which he lived, and he has generally placed the ridicule just- ly. He possessed strong comic powers ; he is full of mirth and plea- santry ; and his pleasantry is always innocent. His comedies in verse, such as the Misanthrope and Tartufle, are a kind of dignified comedy, fn which vice is exposed in the style of elegant and polite satire. In his prose comedies, though there is abundance of ridicule, yet there is never any thing found to offend a modest ear, or to throw con tempt on sobriety and virtue. Together with those high qualities, Moliere has also defects which Voltaire, though his professed pa- negyrist, candidly admits. He is acknowledged not to be happy in the unravelling of his plots. Attentive rm re to the strong exhi bition of characters, than to the conduct of the intrigue, his unravel 41 340 ENGLISH COMEDY. [lect xlvii ling is frequently brought on with too little preparation, and in an im probable manner. In his verse comedies, he is sometimes nrt suffi ciently interesting, and too full of long speeches; and in his more risible pieces in prose, he is censured for being too farcical. Few writers, however, if any, ever possessed the spirit, or attained the true end of comedy so perfectly, upon the whole, as Moliere. His Tar- tuffe, in the style of grave comedy, and his Avare, in the gay, are accounted his two capital productions. From the English theatre, we are naturally led to expect a greater variety of original characters in comedy, and bolder strokes of wit and humour, than are to be found on any other modern stage. Hu- mour is, in a great measure, the peculiar province of the English na- tion. The nature of such a free government as ours; and that un- restrained liberty which our manners allow to every man, of living entirely after his own taste, afford full scope to the display of singu- larity of character, and to the indulgence of humour in all its forms. Whereas, in France, the influence of a despotic court, the more es- tablished subordination of ranks, and the universal observance of the forms of politeness and decorum, spread a much greater uniformity over the outward behaviour and characters of men. Hence,comedy has a more ample field, and can flow with a much freer vein,in Bri- tain than in France. But it is extremely unfortunate, that, togethei with the freedom and boldness of the comic spirit in Britain, there should have been joined such a spirit of indecency and licentiousness, as has disgraced English comedy beyond that of any nation, since the days of Aristophanes. The first age. however, of English comedy, was not infected by this spirit. Neither the plays of Shakspeare, nor those of Ben Jonson, can be accused of immoral tendency. Shakspeare's gen- eral character, which I gave in the last lecture, appears with as great advantage in his comedies as in his tragedies; a strong, fertile, and creative genius, irregular in conduct, employed too often in amusing the mob, but singularly rich and happy in the description of charac- ters and manners. Jonson is more regular in the conduct of his pieces, but stiff and pedantic; though not destitute of dramatic ge- nius. In the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, much fancy and in- vention appear, and several beautiful passages may be found. But, in general, they abound with romantic and improbable incidents, with overcharged and unnatural characters, and with coarse and gross al- lusions. These comedies of the last age, by the change of public .manners, and of the turn of conversation, since their time, are now become too obsolete to be very agreeable. For we must observe, that comedy, depending much on the prevailing modes of external behaviour, becomes sooner antiquated than any other species of wri- ting; and, when antiquated, it seems harsh to us, and loses its power of pleasing. This is especially the case with respect to the comedies of our own country, where the change of manners is more sensible and striking, than in any foreign production. In our own country, the present mode of bp'.iaviour is always the standard of politeness nd whatever departs from it appears uncouth ; whereas, in the writ I£ct. xlvii.] ENGLISH C0MED1. 541 ings of foreigners, we are less acquainted with any standard of this kind, and, of course, are less hurt by the want of ft. Plautus appear- ed more antiquated to the Romans, in the age of Augustus, than he does now to us. It is a high proof of Shakspeare's uncommon genius, that, notwithstanding these disadvantages, his character of Falstaffis to this day admired, and his "Merry Wives of Windsor" read with pleasure. It was not till the era of the restoration of King Charles II. that the licentiousness which was observed, at that period, to infect the court, and the nation in general, seized, in a peculiar manner, upon comedy as its province, and, for almost a w'hole century, retained possession of it. It was then, first, that the rake became the pre- dominant character, and, with some exceptions, the hero of every comedy. The ridicule was thrown, not upon vice and folly, but much more commonly upon chastity and sobriety. At the end of the play, indeed, the rake is commonly, in appearance, reformed, and professes that he is to become a sober man ; but throughout the play, he is set up as the model of a fine gentleman; and the agree- able impression made by a sort of sprightly licentiousness, is left upon the imagination, as a picture of the pleasurable enjoyment of life ; while the reformation passes slightly away, as a matter of men form. To what sort of moral conduct such public entertain ments as these tend to form the youth of both sexes, may be easily imagined. Yet this was the spirit which prevailed upon the comic stage of Great Britain, not only during the reign of Charles II. but throughout the reigns of King William and Queen Anne, and down to the days of king George II. Dryden was the first considerable dramatic writer after the resto- ration; in whose comedies, as in all his works, there are found many strokes of genius, mixed with great carelessness, and visible marks of hasty composition. As he sought to please only, he went along with the manners of the times ; and has carried through all his come- dies, that vein of dissolute licentiousness which was then fashiona- ble. In some of them, the indecency was sc gross, as to occasion, even in that age, a prohibition of being brought upon the stage.* Since his time, the writers of comedy, of greatest note, have been Cibber, Vanburgh, Farquhar, and Congreve. Cibber has written a great many comedies; and though in several of them there be much sprightliness, and a certain pert vivacity peculiar to him, yet they are so forced and unnatural in the incidents, as to have gene- rally sunk into obscurity, except two which have always continued in high favour with the public, ' The Careless Husband,' and 'The Provoked Husband.' The former is remarkable for the polite and easy turn of the dialogue; and, with the exception of one indelicate scene, is tolerably moral, too, in the conduct and in the tendency. * | The mirth which he excites in comedy will, perhaps, be found not so much to arise from any original humour, or peculiarity of character, nicely distinguished, and diligently pursued, as from incidents and circumstances, artifices and surprises, from jests of action, rather than sentiment. What he had of humorous or passionate, he 6eems to have had, not from nature, but from other poets: if not always a plagiary yet, at least, an imitator.' Johnson's Life of Dryden 542 ENGLISH COMEDY. [lect. xlvh The latter, 'The Provoked Husband,' (which was the joint produc- tion of Vanburgh and Cibber,) is, perhaps, on the whole, the best comedy in the English language. It is liable, indeed, to one critical objection, of having a double plot; as the incident of the Wrong- head family, and those of Lord Townley's, are separate and inde- pendent of each other. But this irregularity is compensated by the natural characters, the fine painting, and the happy strokes of hu- mour with which it abounds. We are, indeed, surprised to find so unexceptionable a comedy proceeding from two such loose authors ; for, in its general strain, it is calculated to expose licentiousness and folly ; and would do honour to any stage. Sir John Vanburgh has spirit, wit, and ease ; but he is, to the last degree, gross and indelicate. He is one of the most immoral of all our comedians. His ' Provoked Wife' is full of such indecent sentiments and allusions, as ought to explode it out of all reputable society. His 'Relapse' is equally censurable ; and these are his only two considerable pieces. Congreve is, unquestionably, a wri- ter of genius. He is lively, witty, and sparkling ; full of character, and full of action. His chief fault, as a comic writer, is, that he overflows with wit. It is often introduced unseasonably; and, al- most every where, there is too great a proportion of it for natural well-bred conversation.* Farquhar is a light and gay writer ; less cor- rect and less sparkling than Congreve ; but he has more ease ; and perhaps fully as great a share of the vis comica. The two best and least exceptionable of his plays, are the ' Recruiting Officer,' and the ' Beaux Stratagem.' I say, the least exceptionable ; for, in general, the tendency of both Congreve and Farquhar's plays is immoral. Throughout them all, the rake, the loose intrigue, and the life of licentiousness, are the objects continually held up to view ; as if the assemblies of a great and polished nation could be amused with none but vicious objects. The indelicacy of these writers, in the female characters which they introduce, is particularly remarkable. No- thing can be more awkward than their representations of a woman of virtue and honour. Indeed, there are hardly any female charac- ters in their plays except two : women of loose principles ; or, when a virtuous character is attempted to be drawn, women of affected manners. The censure which I have now passed upon these celebrated co- medians, is far from being overstrained or severe. Accustomed to the indelicacy of our own comedy, and amused with the wit and humour of it, its immorality too easily escapes our observation. But all foreigners, the French especially, who are accustomed to a better regulated, ar»d more decent stage, speak of it with surprise and astonishment. Voltaire, who is, assuredly, none of the most austere moralists, plumes himself not a little upon the superior bien- * Dr. Johnson says of him, in his Life, that ' his personages are a kind of intellectna. gladiators; every sentence is to ward, or to strike; the contest of smartness is never inteimitted ; his wit is a meteor, playitigto and fro, with alternate corruscations.' lect. xlvii.J ENGLISH COMEDY. 543 stance of the French theatre ; and says, that the language of Eng lish comedy is the language of debauchery, not of politeness. M. Moralt, in his letters upon the French and English nations, ascribes the corruption of manners in London to comedy, as its chief cause. Their comedy, he says, is like that of no other country; it is the school in which the youth of both sexes familiarize themselves with vice, which is never represented there as vice, but as mere gayety. As for comedies, says the ingenious M. Diderot, in his observations upon dramatic poetry, the English have none; they have in their place, satires, full, indeed, of gayety and force, b"* without morals, and without taste ; sans mceurs, et sans gout. Tnere is no wonder, therefore, that Lord Kaimes, in his Elements of Criticism, should have expressed himself upon this subject, of the indelicacy of Eng lish comedy, in terms much stronger than any that I have used ; concluding his invective against it in these words: 'How odious ought ihose writers to be, who thus spread infection through their native country, employing the talents which they have received from their Maker most traitorously against himself, by endeavouring to corrupt and disfigure his creatures. If the comedies of Congreve did not rack him with remorse, in his last moments, he must have been lost to all sense of virtue.' Vol. II. 479. I am happy, however, to have it in my power to observe, that ot tale years, a sensible reformation has begun to take place in English comedy. We have, at last, become ashamed of making our public entertainments rest wholly upon profligate characters and scenes; and our later comedies, of any reputation, are much purified from the licentiousness of former times. If thpy hive not the spirit, the ease, and the wit of Congreve and Farquhar, in which respect they must be confessed to be somewhat deficient; this praise, however, they justly merit, of being innocent and moral. For this reformation, we are, questionless, much indebted to the French theatre, which has not only been, at all times, more chaste and inoffensive than ours, but has, within these few years, produced a species of comedy, of a still graver turn than any that I have yet mentioned. This,which is called the serious, or tender comedy, and was termed by its opposers, La Comedie Larmoyante, is not altoge ther a modern invention. Several of Terence's plays, as the Andria, in particular, partake of this character; and as we know that Terence copied Menander, we have sufficient reason to believe that his come- dies, also, were of the same kind. The nature of this composition does not by any means exclude gayety and ridicule ; but it lays the chief stress upon tender and interesting situations; it aims at being sentimental, and touching the heart by means of the capital incidents; it makes our pleasure arise, not so much from the laughter which it excites, as from the tears of affection and joy which it draws forth. In English, Steele's Conscious Lovers is a comedy which ap- proaches to this character, and it has always been favourably receiv- ed by the public. In French, there are several dramatic composi- tions of this kind, which possess considerable merit and reputation * 644 ENGLISH COMEDY. [lect. jclvii such as the Melanide, and Prejuge a la Mode, of La Chaussee; the Pere de Famille, of Diderot; the Cenie, of Mad. Graffigny ; and the Nanine, and L'Enfant Prodigue, of Voltaire. When this form of comedy first appeared in France, it excited a great controversy among the critics. It was objected to, as a dan- gerous and unjustifiable innovation in compositon. It is not tragedy, for it does not involve us in sorrow. By what name then can it be called? or what pretentions hath it to be comprehended under dra- matic writing? But this was trifling, in the most egregious manner, with critical names and distinctions, as if these had invariably fixed the essence, and ascertained the limits of every sort of composition Assuredly, it is not necessary that all comedies should be formed on one precise model. Some may be entirely light and gay ; others may incline more to the serious; some may partake of both, and all of them, properly executed, may furnish agreeable and useful enter- tainment to the public, by suiting the different tastes of men.* Serious and tender comedy has no title to claim to itself the posses- sion of the stage, to the exclusion of ridicule and gayety. But when it retains only its proper place, without usurping the province of any other, when it is carried on with resemblance to real life, and without introducing romantic and unnatural situations, it may cer- tainly prove both an interesting and an agreeable species of drama- tic writing. If it become insipid and drawling, this must be impu ted to the fault of the author, not to the nature of the composition, which may admit much liveliness and vivacity. In general, whatever form comedy assumes, whether gay or seri- ous, it may always be esteemed a mark of society advancing in true politeness, when those theatrical exhibitions, which are designed for public amusement, are cleared from indelicate sentiment, or immo- ral tendency. Though the licentious buffoonery of Aristophanes amused the Greeks for a while, they advanced by degrees to a chas ter and juster taste ; and the like progress of refinement may be con- cluded to take place among us, when the public receive with favour, dramatic compositions of such a strain and spirit as entertained the Greeks and Romans, in the days of Menander and Terence. * 'II y a beaucoup de tres-bonnes pieces, oil il ne regne que de la gaiet6: d'autres (outes sericuses; d'autres n;elang6es; d'autres, ou Kattei;drissement va jusqu'aux larmea. 11 ne laut donner exclusion a aucun genre; et si Ton mc demandoit, quel genre est le meilleur ? je i6pondrois, celuiqui est le rsieux traite.' voltaibk. ( 544 a ) QUESTIONS. By what is cmcVy sufficiently dis- criminated frotc tuv,tidy? What form ihe province of the lUrer; and what is the sole insirumen. of the former? What does comedy pvo>pose for its ob- ject ? Of the general idea of oomedy, what is observed ; ami why ? What is doing real service to the world ; and what remark follows 1 At the same time, what must be confessed; and why ? What, therefoie, have licentious writers of the comic class, too often had in their power ? Of this fault, what is observed ? How is this illustrated ? Of French, and of English comedy, what is here observed ? How are our disqui- sitions concerning comedy shortened? To both these forms of dramatic com- position, what is equally necessary? What was shown to be the scope of all these rules ; and why is this necessary? Why does this require a stricter obser- vance of the dramatic rules in comedy, than in tragedy; and what are the great foundation of the whole beauty of comedy? Of the subjects of tragedy, what is here observed ? Why does the reverse of this hold in comedy ? How is this illustrated? At what should the comic poet aim ? What is not his busi- ness; what should he give us; and why? Of Plautus and Terence, what is here remarked ; but what must be re- membered ? In after times, what had the Romans? Into what two lands may comedy be divided ; and of them, re- spectively, what is observed? In which do the French most abound ; and what Instances are given ? In which do the English ; and what remark follows ? In order to give this sort of composition its proper advantage, what is requisite ? How is this remark fully illustrated ? Of the action in comedy, what is re- marked ; and why ? Hence, what is a great fault ? What are now justly con- demned and laid aside ; and why ? What remark follows? In the manage- ment of characters, what is one of the most common faults of comic writers ? Wherever ridicule is concerned, what is very difficult? What instance is mentioned; an,! of it, what is remarked? Of the characters in comedy, what is observed; but what give too theatrical and affected an air to the piece? Why has this become too common a resource nf comic writers ? How is this illustra- ted ? What instances are mentioned ; *3k\ «>uch production of characters by pairs, is like what ? As in every sort of composition, the perfection of art is to conceal art, how will a masterly writer give us his characters? What should the style of comedy be? Of the French rhyme, what is here observed ; and what remark follows? What is one of the most difficult and one of the most impor- tant circumstances in writing comedy ? What is here observed of our English comedies ; what ones are mentioned, and what is said of them ? What remark follows; buthowwil'litsnatureand spirit be better understood? With what re- mark does our author commence ; and how is it probable comedy took its rise ? What three stages of comedy do critics distinguish among the Greeks? In what did the ancient consist? Of this nature, are whose plays, and what is said of them ? What do they show ? What are several of Aristophanes's plays? Of what are they full ; what is the conse- quence; and with what do they abound? What are his characteristics? On many occasions, what does he display ; but ol his performances, what remark follows? Why do they seem to have been com- posed for the mob? Of the treatment given by this comedian to Socrates, what is observed ? What is remarked of the chorus in his plays ? Soon af- ter the days of Aristophanes, what took place? Why was the chorus also banished? Then what arose, and what was it? How was it conducted; and what remark follows? To them suc- ceeded what, and what did the stage then become ? Of Menander what is observed ? What are the only remains which we now have of the new come- dy? For what is Plautus distinguished? As he wrote at an early period, what is the consequence? How does he open his plays; and what are sometimes con- founded ? Of him, what is farther re- marked? Which of his plays have been copied ; and by whom ? What is said of Terence? Of what is his style a model ? What is observed of his dia- logue ; and what does he, beyond most writers, possess ? What is the general character of his morality; and what remark follows? Hence, of what may he be considered the founder ? In what, if in any thing, does he fail ? How is this illustrated ? In ordei to form a per- fect comic author, what would be ri e- quisite ? When we enter on the view of mo- 544 6 QUESTIONS. [lect. xlvii dern comedy, what is one of the first objects which presents itself; and of it, what is observed ? Who are the chief Spanish comedians ? Of Lopez de Vega, what is remarked ? Of these plays, what is the nature ? At the same time, what is generally admitted? What apology does he himself give, for the extreme irregularity of his com- |>ositions ? What are the general cha- racters of 1 he French comic theatre? What writers of note has it produced ? Of Moliere, what .b .arther observed? What does Voltaire boldly pronounce him? Of this decision, what is obser- veu? Of what is Moliere always the satirist ; and what has he done ? What does he possess, and of what is he full ? Of his comedies in verse, what is ob- served ; and also of those in prose, what is remarked? Together with those high qualities what defects has he ? Few writers, however, have done what, so perfectly as he has ? Which are accounted his two capital productions? From the English theatre, what are we naturally led to expect ; and why ? What afford full scope to the display of singu- larity of character, and to the indulgence of humour ? What is the casein France? Hence, what follows ; but what is ex- tremely unfortunate ? How does it ap- pear that the first age of Euglisii come- dy was not infected by this spirit? Of Shakspeare's general character, par- ticularly, what is observed? What is also said of Jonson ? What is remarked of the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher; but in general, with what do they abound? How have these comedies be come too obsolete to be very agreeable; and why ? With what comedies is this especially the case; and for what reason? Of Plautus, what is here observed ; and what is a high proof of Shakspeare's genius ? When did licentiousness seize on comedy for its province ? Who then became the hero of every comedy ; and upon what was the ridicule thrown ? At the end of the play, what common- ly took place 1 But for what is he set up throughout it, and what is the conse- quence? What remark follows ; and how long did this spirit prevail upon the comic stage? What is said of Dry- den? As he sought to please only, what was the consequence? Since his time, who have been the writers of greatest note ? Of Cibber, what is re- marked? Of the former, what is ob- served ; and what is said of the latter? To what is i* liable; anil wbv.? 5->it hrw is this irregularity compensated? At what are we surprised; and why? What is said of Sir John Vanburgh ? How is this illustrated? Of Congreve, what is observed ; and what is his chief fault? How is this illustrated? What kind of a writer is Farquhar ? Which are his two best plays ? Why does our author say the least exceptionable? How is this fully illustrated ? Of the censure which our author has now passed, what is observed; and why? How do foreigners speak of this? How is this illustrated ? Of what, therefore, is there no wonder, and what does he say ? To have what in his power, how- ever, is our author happy ; and of what have we at last become ashamed ? What remark lbllows ? For this refor- mation, to what are we indebted ; and of it what is observed ? From what does it appear that this is not altoge- ther a modern invention ? Of the na- ture of this composition, what is obser- ved? What comedy have we in Eng- lish that approaches this character; and what is said of it? In French, what are there ; and name them ? When this form of comedy first ap- peared in France, how was it received? Why was it objected to ; and what was said of it ? But of this, what is ob- served ? Why should not all comedies be formed on one precise model ? Of serious and tender comedy, what is far- ther remarked? But when may it prove both an interesting and an agree- able species of dramatic writing? If it become insipid and drawling, to what must this be imputed ? What may aW ways be esteemed a mark of society advancing in true politeness? Repeat the closing remark. ANALYSIS. Comedy. 1. The nature of comedy. 2. Rules respecting' it. 3. The scene and subjects. 4. The different kinds of comedy. 5. The characters. 6. The style. 7. The origin of comedy. 8. Greek comedy. a. The different stages of it. 9. Spanish comedy. a. Lopez de Vega. 10. French comedy. A. Moliere. 11. English comedy. a. Shakspeare — Beaumont — Fletchflft b. Drydcn— Cibber— Vanburgh— Cod n-rovc. c. A ni-w species of comedy. INDEX. Accents, thrown farther back from the ter- that mountain, 46. And on that by 3k minaiion in the English than in any oth- Richard Blackmore, ibid. rr language, 99. Seldom more than Affectation, the disadvantages of, in public one in English words, 368. Govern the measure of English verse, 430. Achilles, his character in the Iliad examin- ed, 485. Action, much used to assist language in an imperfect state, 63. And by ancient ora- tors and players, 64. Fundamental rule of propriety in, 374. Caution with res- pect to, 376. In epic poetry, the requi- sites of, 474. Acts, the division of a play into five, and arbitrary limitation, 513. These pauses in representation ought to fall proper- ly, 614. Adam, his character in Milton's Paradise Lost, 504. Addison, general view of his Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagination, 31. His invocation of the muse in his Campaign censured, 48. Blemishes in his style, 1 15, 1 16, 124. Ease aud perspicuity of, speaking, 376. Ages, four, peculiarly fruitful in learned men, pointed out, 388. Akenside, his comparison between sublimi- ty in natural and moral objects, 36, note. Instance of his happy allusion to figures, 155. Characters of his Pleasures of the Imagination, 449. Alphabet of letters, the consideration which led to the invention of, 76. Remote ob scurity of this invention, ibid. The al- phabets of different nations derived from one common source, 77. Allegory, explained, 168. Anciently a fa- vourite method of conveying instruc- tions, 169. Allegorical personages im- proper agents in epic poetry, 172, 230. Ambiguity in style, from whence it pro- ceeds, 1 14. Amplification in speech, what, 191. Its principal instrument, ibid. 127, 128, 130. His beautiful description American languages, the figurative style of light and colours, 155. Instance of of, 67, 152. his use of metaphor, 165. Improper Anagnorisis, in ancient tragedy explained, use of similes, 184. His general cha- 515. racter as a writer, 208. Character of Annals and history, the distinction be- his Spectator, 216. Critical examina- tween, 408. tion of some of those papers, ibid. Re- Ancients and moderns distinguished, 388. marks on his criticism of Tasso's Amin- ta, 441, note. His tragedy of Cato cri- tically examined, 511, 518,522,524. Adjectives, common to all languages, 88. How they came to be classed with nouns, ibid. idverbs, their nature and use defined, 93. Importance of their position in a sen- tence illustrated, 115. JEneid, of Virgil, critical examination of The merits of ancient writers are now finally ascertained, 389. The progress of knowledge favourable to the moderns, in forming a comparison between them, 390. In philosophy and history, ibid. The efforts of genius greater among the ancients, 391. A mediocrity of genius now more diffused, 392. Antithesis, in language explained, 188. The too frequent use of, censured, ibid. that poem, 489. The subject, ibid. Ac- Apostrophe, the nature of this figure ex tion, 490. Is deficient in characters, plained, 179. Find one from Cicero. ibid. Distribution and management of 290, note. the subject, ibid. Abounds with awful Arabian Nights Entertainments, a charac- and tender scenes, 491. The descent ter of those tales, 418. of jEneas into hell, 492. The poem left Arabian poetry, its character, 425. unfinished by Virgil, 493. JEsthines, a comparison between him and Demosthenes, 272. AZsrJiylus, bis character as a tragic writer, 526. BZtna, remarks on Virgil's description of 4K 6S Arbuthnol, character of his epistolary writ- ing, 416. Architecture, sublimity in, whence it arises, 35. The sources of beauty in, 54. Argument*, the proper management of in a discourse, 353. Analytic and synthe- 546 INDEX. tic methods, 354. Arrangement of, 355. Are not to be too much multiplied, 357. Ariosto, character of his Orlando Furioso, 419, 498. Aristotle, his rules for dramatic and epic composition, whence derived, 27. His definition of a sentence, 112. His ex- tended sense of the term metaphor, 159. Character of his style, 197, 201. His in- stitutions of rhetoric, 270, 386. His de- finition of tragedy considered, 507. His observations on tragic characters, 520. Aristophanes, character of his comedies, 537. Arithmetical figures, universal characters, 75. Ark of tl.e covenant, choral service per- formed in the procession of bringing it back to Mount Zion, 461. Armstrong, character of his Art of Preserv- ing Health, 449. Art, « orks of, considered as a source of beauty, 54. Artichs, in language, the use of, 81. Their importance in the English language il- lustrated, ibid. Articulation, clearness of, necessary in public speaking, 367. ■Associations, academical, recommended, 384. Instructions for the regulation of, 385. Athenians, ancient character of, 266. Elo- quence of, ibid. Atterbury, a more harmonious writer than Tillolson, 142. Critical examination of one of his sermons, 326. His exordium to a 30th of January sermon, 345. Mtici and Asiani, parties at Rome, account of, 275. Authors, petty, why no friends to criticism, 28. Why the most ancient afford the most striking instances of sublimity, 39. Must write with puritv to gain esteem, 100, 101. B. Bacon, his observations on romances, 417. Ballads, have great influence over the man- ners of a people, 417. Were the first vehicles of historical knowledge and in- struction, 423. Bar, the eloquence of defined, 263 Why more confined than the pleadings before ancient tribunals, 283. Distinction be- tween the motives of pleading at the bar, and speaking in popular assemblies, 299. In what respect ancient pleadings differ from those of modern times, ibid. Instructions for pleaders, 301, 350. Bards, ancient, the first founders of law and civilization, 424. Barrow, Dr. character of his style, 199. Character of his sermons, 325. Beaumont and Fletcher, their characters ns dramatic poets, 540. ieauly, the emotion raised by, distinguish- ed from that of sublimity, 49. Is a term of vague application, 50. Colours, ibid Figures, 51. Hogarth's line of beauty and line of grace considered, 51. The hum*n countenance, 53. Works of art, ibid. The influence of fitness and de- sign in our ideas of beauty, 54. Beauty in literary composition, ibid. Novelty 55. Imitation, ibid. Bergerus,a German critic, writes a treatii* on the sublimity of Cssar s Commenta- ries, 38. Berkeley, bishop, character of his Dia- logues on the existence of Matter, 413 Biography, as the class of historical com- position, characterized, 409. Blackmore, Sir Richard, remarks on his description of Mount ^Etna, 46. Blackwell, his character as a writer, 210. Boileau, his character as a didactic poet, 451. Bolingbroke, instances of inaccuracy in hw style, 121, 132. A beautiful climax from, 129. A beautiful metaphor from, 159. His general character as a politi- cian and philosopher, 160. His general character as a writer, 211, 383. Bombast, in writing described, 48. Bossu, his definition of an epic poem, 470. His account of the composition of the Iliad, 471. Bossuet, M. instances of apostrophes to personified objects, in his funeral ora- tions, 179, note. Conclusion of his fu- neral oration on the Prince of Conde,364. Britain, Great, not eminent for the study of Eloquence, 280. Compared with France in this respect, 281. Bruyere, his parallel between the elo quence of the pulpit and the bar, 313, note. Buchanan, his character as an historian, 407. Building, how rendered sublime, 35. C. Cadmus, account of his alphabet, 76. Cottar's commentaries, the style of charac- terized, 38. Is considered by Bergerug as a standard of sublime writing, ibid Instance of his happy talent in historical painting, 404, note. His character ol Terence the dramatist, 538. Cameons, critical examination of his Lusv- ad, 499. Confused machinery of, ibid. Campbell, Dr. his observations on English particles, 87, note. Carmel, Mount, metaphorical allusions to in Hebrew poetry, 464. Casimir, his character as a lyric poet, 446. Catastrophe, the proper conduct of, in dra- matic representations, 514. Caudine Forks, Livy's happy descriptioa dfthedisgraceof the Roman armythere, 402. Celtic language, its antiquity and charac- ter, 95 The remains of it where to bt found, ibid, Poetry, its character, 424 INDEX. 547 Characters, the dangers of labouring them too much in historical works, 405. The due requ. sites of, in tragedy, 519. Chinese language, character of, 64. And writing, 74. Chivalry, origin of, 418. Chorus, ancient, described, 609. Was the origin of tragedy, ibid. Inconveniences of, ibid. How it might properly be in troduced on the modern theatre, 503. Chronology, a due attention to, necessary to historical compositions, 397. Chrysostom St. his oratorical character, 280. Cibber, his character as a dramatic writer, 541. Cicero, his ideas of taste, 17, note. His dis- tinction between amare and diligere, 108. His observations on style, 113. Very attentive to the beauties of climax, 129. Is the most harmonious of all writers, 135. His remarks on the power of mu- sic in orations, 137. His attention to harmony too visible, 141. Instance of his happy talent of adapting sound to sense, 113. His account of the origin of figurative language, 152. His obser- vations on suiting language to the sub- ject, lr»l. His rule for the use of meta- phor, 162. Instance of antithesis in, 187. The figure of speech called vision, y>J. His caution against bestowing profuse ornaments on an oration, 193. His dis- tinction of style, 196. His own charac- ter as a writer, 197. His character of the Grecian orators, 268. His own cha- racter as an orator, 274. Compared with Demosthenes, 276. Masterly apos- trophe in, 290, note. His method of studying the judicial causes he under- took to plead, 301. State of the prose- cution of AvitiisCluentius,305. Analysis of Cicero's oration for him, ibid. The ex- ordiumof hissecond oration against Rul- lus, 343. His method of preparingintro- ductions to his orations, 344. Excelled in narration, 351. His defence of Milo. ibid. 357. Instance of the pathetic in his last oration against Verres, 362. Character of his treatise de Oratore, 389. Character of his dialogues/112 His epistles, 415. Clarendon, Lord, remarks on his style, 120. His character as an historian, 407. Clarke, Dr. the style of his sermons cha- racterized, 324. Classics, ancient, their merits now finally 6ettleil beyond controversy, 388. The study of them recommended, 393. Climax, a great beauty in composition, 129. In what it consists, 191. Cluenlhis, Avitus, history of his prosecu- tion, 305. in* cause undertaken by Ci- cero, ibid. Analysis of Cicero's oration for him, ibid. Colours, considered as the foundation of beauty, 60. Comedy, how distinguished from tragedy, 506, 533. Rules for the conduct of, ibid. The characters in, ought to be of our own country and our own time, 634. Two kinds of, ibid. Characters ought to be distinguished, 535. Style, 636. Rise and progress of comedy, ibid. Spa- nish comedy, 538. French comedy, 539. English comedy, 640. Licentiousness of, from the era of the restoration, 541. The restoration of, to what owkig, 543. General remarks, 544. Comparison, distinguished from metaphor, 15B. The nature of this figure explain- ed, 181. Composition. See Literary composition. Congreve, the plot of his Mourning Bride embarrassed, 513. General character of his tragedy, 532. His comedies, 641. Conjugation of verbs, the varieties of, 90. Conviction, distinguished from persuasion, 262. Copulatives, caution for the use of them, 124. Corneille, his character as a tragic writer, 528. Couplets, the first introduction of, into English poetry, 432. Cowley, instances of forced metaphors in his poems, 162. His use of similes cen- sured, 186. His general character as a poet, 446. Crevier, his character of several eminent French writers, 382, note. Criticism, true and pedantic distinguished, 13. Its object, 27. Its origin, 28. Why complained of by petty authors, ibid. May sometimes decide against the voice of the public, ibid. Cyphers, or arithmetical figures, a kind of universal character, 75. D. David, King, his magnificent institutions for the cultivation of sacred music and poetry, 460. His character as a poet, 468. Debate in popular assemblies, the eloquence of, defined, 262. More particularly cou sidered, 285. Rules for, 287. Declamation, unsupported by sound rea- soning, false eloquence, 286. Declension of nouns considered in various languages, 84. Whether cases or pre- positions were most anciently used, 85 Which of them are most useful arnl beautiful, 86. Deities, heathen, probable cause of the number of, 173. Deliberative orations what, 284. Delivery,the importanceof,in public speak- ing, 292, 365. The four chief requisites in* 363. The powers of voice, ibid. Articulation, 367. Pronunciation, 36S. Empaasis, 369. Pauses, 370. Decla matory delivery, 374. Action ibid. At fectation 376. 548 INDEX. Demetrius, Phalerus, the rhetoiician, his character, 273. Demonstrative orations, what, 284. Demosthenes, his eloquence characterized, 267. His expedients to surmount the disadvantages of his person and address, 271. His opposition to Philip of Ma- cedon, ibid. His rivalship with iEs- chines, 272. His style and action, ibid. Compared with Cicero, 276. Why his orations still please in perusal, 286. Extracts from his Philippics, 293. His definition of the several points of orato- ry, 365. Description, the great test of a poet's ima- gination, 452. Selection of circum- stances, ibid. Inanimate objects should be enlivened, 455. Choice of epithets, 456. Description and imitation, the distinction between, 56. Des Brosses, his speculations on the ex- pressive power of radical letters and syllables, 61, note. Dialogue writing, the properties of, 411. Is very difficult to execute, 412. Mo- dern dialogues characterized, ibid. Didactic poetry, its nature explained, 447. The most celebrated productions in this class specified, ibid. Rules for composi- tions of this kind, 448. Proper embel- lishments of, ibid. Diderot, M. his character of English Co- medy, 543. Dido, her character in the jEneid examin- ed, 490. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, his ideas of excellency in a sentence, 136 His His- tinction of style, 196. Character of his treatise on Grecian oratory, 269. His comparison between Lysias and Tso- crates, 270, note. His ci iticisin on Thu- cydides, 397. Discourse. See Oration. Dramatic poetry, the origin of, 425. Dis- tinguished by its objects, 505. See Tra- gedy and Comedy. Dryden, one of the first reformers of our style, 200. Johnson's character of his prose style, ibid, note. His character as a poet, 432. His character of Shak- speare, 530, note. His own character as a dramatic writer^ 531, 541. Du Bos, Abbe-, his remark on the theatri- cal compositions of the ancients, 137. E. Education, liberal and essential requisite for eloquence, 380. Egypt, the style of the hieroglyphical writ- ing of, 73. This an early stage of the art of writing, ibid. The alphabet pro- bably invented in that country, 76. Emphasis, its importance in public speak- ing, 369. Rule for, ibid. Eloquence, tht> several objects of considera- tion under this head, 261. Definition of the teim, 262, 377. Fundamental max- ims of the a>t, 262. Defended against the objection of the abuse of the art ol persuasion, ibid. Three kinds of elo quence distinguished, 263. Oratory, thv highest degree of, the offspring of pas- sion, 264. Requisites for eloquence, ibid. French eloquence, 265. Grecian, 266 Rise and character of the rhetoricians of Greece, 268. Roman, 274. The attici and asiani, 276. Comparison between Cicero and Demosthenes, ibid. The schools of the declaimers, 279. The eloquence of the primitive fathers of the church, 280. General remarks on mod- em eloquence, ibid. Parliament, 283. The bar and pulpit, ibid. The three kinds of orations distinguished by the ancients, 284. These distinctions how far corres- pondent with those made at present, 285. Eloquence of popular assemblies considered, ibid The foundation of elo- quence, 286. The danger of trusting to prepared speeches at public meetings, 287. Necessary premeditation pointed out, ibid. Method, 288. Style and ex- pression, ibid. Impetuosity, 289. At- tention to decorums, 290. Delivery, 292, 366. Summary, 292. See Cicero, Demosthenes, Oration, and Pulpit. English language, the arrangement of words in, more refined than that of an- cient languages, 70. But more limited, ibid. The principles of general grammar seldom applied to it, 78. The important use of articles in, 81. All substantive nouns of inanimate objects of the neuter gender, 82. The place of declension in, supplied by prepositions, 85. The va- rious tenses of English verbs, 91. His- torical view of the English language, 95. The Celtic the primitive language ol Britain, ibid. The Teutonic tongue the basis of our present speech, 96. Its ir- regularities accounted for, ibid. Its copiousness, ibid. Compared with the French language, 97. Its style charac- terized, ibid, its flexibility, 98. Is more harmonious than is generally allowed, ibid. Is rather strong than graceful, 99. Accent thrown farther back in English words, than in those of any other lan- guage, ibid. General properties of the English tongue, ibid. Why so loosely and inaccurately written, 100. The fundamental rides of syntax, common both to the English and Latin, ibid. No author can gain esteem if he does not write with purity, 101. Grammati- cal authors recommended, ibid, note. Epic poetry, the standards of, 393. Is the highest effort of poetical genius, 470. The characters of, obscured by critics, ibid. Examination of Bossu's account of the formation of the Iliad, ibid. Epic poetry considered as to its moral tenden- INDEX. 549 ey, 472. Predominant character of, 473. Action of, ibid. Episodes, 474. The subject should be of remote date, 475. Modern history more proper for dramatic writing than for epic poetry, ibid. The story must be interesting and skilfully managed, 476. The intrigue, 477. The question considered whether it ought to end successfully, ibid. Duration for the action, ibid. Characters of the personages, 478. The principal hero, ibid. The machinery, 479 Narration, 480. Loose observations, 481. Episode, defined with reference to epic poetry, 474. Rules for conduct of, 475. Epistolary writing, general remarks on, 413. Eve, her character in Milton's Paradise Lost, 504. Euripides, instance of his excellence in the pathetic, 524, note. His character as a tragic writer, 527. Exclamations, the proper use of, 189. Mode of their operation, ibid. Rule for the employment of, 190. Exercise improves both bodily and mental powers, 18. Exordium of a discourse, the objects of, 342. Rules for the composition of, 343. Explication of the subject of a sermon, ob- servation on, 352. F. Face, human, the beauty of, complex, 53. Farquhar, his character as a dramatic writ- er, 542. Fathers, Latin, character of their style of eloquence, 279. Fenelon, archbishop, his parallel between Demosthenes and Cicero, 277. His re- marks on the composition of a sermon, 347. Critical examination of his Ad- ventures of Telemachus, 500. Fielding, a character of his novels, 420. Figurative style of language defined, 146. Is not a scholastic invention, but a natu- ral effusion of imagination, 147. How described by rhetoricians, 148. Will not render a cold or empty composition in- teresting, 149. The pathetic and sub- lime reject figures of speech, ibid. Ori- gin of, 150. How they contribute to the beauty of style, 153. Illustrative des- cription, 154. Heightened emotion, ibid. The rhetorical names and classes of fig- ures frivolous, 156. The beauties of composition not dependant on tropes and figares, 192. Figures must always rise naturally from the subject, 193. Are not to be profusely used, 194. The talent of using derived from nature, and not to be created, ibid. If improperly intro- duced, are a deformity, ibid,note. See Metaphor. Figure, considered as a source of beauty, 61. Figurts of speech, the origin ef, 66 Figures of thought among rhetoricians, de- fined, 148. Fitriess and design, considered as sources of beauty, 54. Fleece, a poem, harmonious passage from, 145. Fonlenelle, character of his dialogues, 413. French, Norman, when introduced into England, 95. French writers, general remarks on their style, 198. Eloquence.265,280. Frendi and English oratory compared, 282. Frigidity in writing characterized, 48. G. Gay, a character of his pastorals, 411. Gender of nouns, foundation of, 82. Genius distinguished from taste, 29. Its import, ibid. Includes taste, 30. The pleasures of the imagination, a striking testimony of Divine berevoience, 31. True, is nursed by liberty, 265. In arts and writing, why displayed more in one age than another, 291. Was more vi- gorous in the ancients than in the mod- erns, 391. A general mediocrity of, how diffused, ibid. Gesner, a character of his Idyls, 440. Gestures in public oratory. See Jlction. Gil Bias of Le Sage, character of that no- vel, 419. Girard, abb6, character of his Synonymts Francois, 111. Gordon, instances of his unnatural disposi- tion of words, 56. Gorgius of Leontiura, the rhetorician, his character, 268. Gothic poetry, its character, 424. Gracchus, C. his declamations regulated by musical rules, 137. Grammar, general, the principles of, titles attended to by writers, 78. The divi- sion of the several parts of speech, 79. Nouns substantive, 80. Articles, bl. Number, gender, and case of nouns, 82. Prepositions, 85. Pronouns, 88. Ad- jectives, ibid. Verbs, 90. Verbs the most artificial complex of all the parts of speech, 92. Adverbs, 93. Prepo- sitions and conjunttii ns, ibid. Impor- tance of the study of grammar, 94. Grandeur. See Sublimity. Greece, short account of Ihe ancient repub- lics of, 266. Eloquence carefully stu- died there, 287. Characters of the dis tinguished orators of, ibid. Rise and character of the rhetoricians, 268. Greek, a musical language, 64, 136. Iti flexibility, 93. Writers distinguished •or simplicity, 207. Guarini, character of his Pastor Fido, 441 Guicciardini, his character as an historian 406. H. Habakkuk, sublime representation of tht Deity in, 40. Harris, explanatory simile cited from, 183 550 IJNDEX. Hebrew poetry, in what points of view to be considered, 459. The ancient pro- nunciation of lost, 460. Music and poe- try, early cultivated among the He- brews, ibid. Construction of Hebrew poetry, ibid. Is distinguished by a con- cise strong figurative expression, 463. The metaphors employed in, suggested by the climate and nature of the land of Judea, 463, 465. Bold and sublime instances of personification in, 466. Book of proverbs, 467. Lamentations of Jeremiah, ibid. Book of Job, 468. Helen, her character in the Iliad examin- ed, 484. Hell, the various descents into, given by epic poets, show the gradual improve- ment of actions concerning a future state, 501. Henriade. See Voltaire. Herodotus, his character as an historian, 397. Heroism, sublime instances of pointed out, 35. Harvey, character of his style, 204. Hieroglyphics, the second stage of writing, 73. Of Egypt, ibid. Historians, modern, their advantages over the ancient, 390. Ancient models of, 393. The objects of their duty, 394. Character of Polybius, 396. Of Thucy- dides, ibid. Of Herodotus and Thuanus, 397. Primary qualities necessary in an historian, 398. Character of Livy and Sallust, 399. Of Tacitus, ibid. Instruc- tions and cautions to historians, 400. How to preserve the dignity of narra- tion, 401 . How to render it interesting, 402. Danger of refining too much in drawing characters, 404. Character of the Italian historians, 406. The French •*nd English, 407. iislory, the proper object and end of, 394. True, the characters of, ibid. The dif- ferent classes of, 395. General history, the proper conduct of, ibid. The ne- cessary qualities of historical narration, 401. The propriety of introducing ora- tions in history, examined, 405. And characters, ibid. The Italians the best modern historians, 406. See Annals, Biography, Memoirs, and Novels. Hogarth, his analysis of beauty consider- ed, 6i. Homer, not Acquainted with poetry as a systematic art, 27. Did not possess a refined taste, 30. Instances of sublimi- ty in, 41. Is remarkable for the use of Dersonification, 175. Story of the Iliad, 482. Remarks on, ibid. His inven- tion and judgment in the conduct of the poem, 483. Advantages and de- fects arising from his narrative speeches, ibid. His character, 484. His machi- nery, 485. His style, 48C. His skill in narrative description, 487. His simi- les, ibid. General chara 361. Poets address themselves to the passions, 423. Pastoral poetry, inquiry into its origin, 433. A threefold view of pastoral life, 434. Rules for pastoral writing, ibid. Its scenery, 435. Characters, 437. Sub- jects, 438. Comparative merit of an- cient pastoral writers, 439. And of moderns, 440. Pathetic, the proper management of, in a discourse, 358 Fine instance of from Cicero, 362. Pauses, the due use of, in public speaking, 370. In poetry, 371,430. Pericles, the first who brought eloquence to any degree of perfection, 368. His general character, ibid. Period. See Sentence. Personification, the peculiar advantages of the English language in, 83. Limitations of gender in, 84. Objections against the practice of, answered, 172. The dis- position to animate the objects about us, natural to mankind, 173. This dispo- sition may account for the number of heathen divinities, ibid. Three degrees of this figure, 174. Rules lor the man- agement of the highest degree of, 177. Cautions for the use of in prose compo- sitions, 178. See Apostrophe. Perseus, a character of his satires, 450. Perspicuity, essential to a good style, 102. Not merely a negative virtue, 103. The three qualities of, ibid. Persuasion, distinguished from conviction, 262. Objection brought from the abuse of this art, answered, ibid Rules for, 286. Peruvians, their method of transmitting their thoughts to each other, 74. Pecronius Arbiter, his address to the de- claimers of his time, 279. Pharsalia. See Lucan. Pherecydes of Sycros, the first prose wri- ter, 68. Philips, character of his pastorals, 441. Philosophers, modern, tlieir superiority over the ancient, unquestionable, 390. Philosophy, the proper style of writing adapted to, 410. Proper embellishment for, ibid. Pictures, the first essay toward writing, 72. Pindar, his chai acter as a lyric poet, 445. Pilcairn, Dr. extravagant hyperbole cited from, 172. Plato, character of his dialogues, 412. Plautus, his character as a dramatic poet, 538. Pleaders at the bar, instruction to, 301, 350. Plinil's letters, general character of, 415. 4L Plutarch, his character as a biographer, 409. Poetry, in what sense descriptive, and in what imitative, 57. Is more ancient than prose, 67. Source of the pleasure we receive from the figurative style of, 176. Test of the merit of, 185. Whence the difficulty of reading poetry arises, 371. Compared with oratory, 377. Epic, the standards of, 393. Definition of poetry, 421. Is addressed to the ima- gination and the passions, 422. Its ori- gin, ibid. In what sense older than prose, 422. Its union with music, 423 Ancient history and instructions first conveyed in poptry, 424. Oriental, more characteristical of an age than of a country, ibid. Gothic, Celtic, and Grecian, 425. Origin of the different kinds of, 426. Was more vigorous in its first rude essays than under refine- ment, 427. Was injured by the separa- tion of music from it, ibid. Metrical feet, invention of, 428. These measures not applicable to English poetry, 429. English heroic verse, the structure of, 430. French poetry, ibid. Rhyme and blank verse compared, 431. Progress of English versification, 432. Pastorals, 433. Lyrics, 443. Didactic poetry, 447. Descriptive poetry, 452. Hebrew poetry, 459. Epic poetry, 470. Poetic characters, two kinds of, 478. Dramat- ic poetry, 507. Pointing cannot correct a confused sen tence, 121. Politics, the science of, why ill understood among the ancients, 398. Polybius, his character as an historian, 396. Pope, criticism on a passage in his Homer, 43. Prose specimen from, consisting of short sentences, 113. Other specimens of his style, 127, 132. Confused mix tures of metaphorical and plain Ian guage in, 163. Mixed metaphor in, 166 Confused personification, 178. Instanri of his fondness for antithesis, 183 Character of his epistolary writings, 4 16 Criticism on, ibid. Construction of 1m verse, 430. Peculiar character of his versification, 432. His pastorals, 438, 440. His ethic epistles, 451. The merit of his various poems examined, ibid. Character of his translation of Homer, 486. Precision in language, in what it consists, 104. The importance of, ibid, 114. Re- quisite to, 111. Prepositions, whether more ancient than the declension of nouns by cases, 85 Whether more useful and beautiful, 86. Dr. Campbell's observations on, 87, Their great use in speech, 94. Prior, allegory cited f.oin, 168. Pronouns, their use, varieties, and cases, 70 554 INDEX. 87. Relative instances illustrating the importance of their proper position in a sentence, 1 16. Pronunciation, distinctness of, necessary in public speaking, 367. Tones of, 372. Proverbs, book of, a didactic poem, 497. Psalm xviii. sublime representation of the Deity in, 39. lxxxth, a fine allegory from, 168. Remarks on the poetic con- struction of the Psalms, 461, 464. Pulpit, eloquence of the. defined, 263. English and French sermons compared, 281. The practice of reading sermons in England, disadvantageous to oratory, 283. The art of persuasion resigned to the Puritans, ibid. Advantages and dis- advantages of pulpit eloquence, 312. Rules for p*.eaching, 313. The chief characteristics of pulpit eloquence, 316. Whether it is best to read sermons or deliver them extempore, 321. Pronun- ciation, 322. Remarks on French ser- mons, ibid. Cause of the dry argumen- tative style of English sermons, 324. General observations, 325. Pisistratus, the first who cultivated the arts of speech, 267. Q. Quintilian,his ideas of taste, 17, note. His account of the ancient division of the several parts of speech, 79, note. His remarks on the importance of the study of grammar, 94. On perspicuity of style, 102, 108. On climax, 129. On the structure of sentences, 131. Which ought not to offend the ear, 134, 140. His caution against too great an atten- tion to harmony, 141. His caution against mixed metaphor, 164. His fine apostrophe on the death of his son, 180. His rule for the use of similes, 186. His direction for the use of figures of stylo, 193. His distinction of style, 196, 203. His instructions for good writing, 213. His character of Cicero's oratory, 204. His instructions to public speakers for preserving decorum, 291. His instruc- tions to judicial pleaders, 301. His ob- servarions on exordiums to replies in de- bate, 347. On the proper division of an oration, 348. His mode of addressing the passions, 357. His lively represen- tations of the effects of depravity, 379. Is the best ancient writer on oratory, 386. R Murine, his character as a tragic poet, 528. Ramsay, Allan, character of his Gentle Shepherd, 442. Rapin, P. remarks on his parallels be- tween Greek and Roman writers, 277. Retz, Cardinal de, character of his Me- moirs, 408. Rhetoricians, Grecian, rise »nd character of, 268. Rh\me, in English verse, unfavourable to sublimity, 43. And blank verse com parad, 431. The former, why improper in the Greek and Latin languages, ^32. The first introduction of couplets hi English poetry, ibid. Richardson, a character of his novels, 420. Ridicule, an instrument often misapplied, 533. Robinson Crusoe, a character of that no vel, 420. Romance, derivation of the term, 418. See Novels. Romans, derived their learning from Greece, 273. Comparison between them and the Greeks, 274 Historical view of their eloquence, ibid. Oratorical character of Cicero, 274. Era of the decline of eloquence among, 278. Rosseau, Jean Baptiste, his character as a lyric poet, 446. Rowe, his character as a tragic poet, 532. S. Sallust, his character as an historian, 399. Sanazarius, his piscatory eclogues, 440. Satan, examination of his character in Milton's Paradise Lost, 504. Satire, poetical, general remarks on the style of, 449. Saxon language, how established in Eng- land, 95. Scenes, dramatic, what, and the proper conduct of, 516. Scriptures, sacred, the figurative style of, remarked, 67. The translators of, hap- py in suiting their numbers to the sub- ject, 143. Fine apostrophe in, 180. Presents us with the most ancient monu- ments of poetry extant, 459. The di- versity of style in the several books of, ibid. The Psalms of David, 460. No other writings abound with such bold and animated figures, 463. Parables 466. Bold and sublime instances of per sonification in, tbid. Book of Proverbs, 467. Lamentations of Jeremiah, ibid Scuderi, Madam, her romances, 419. Seiieca, his frequent antithesis censured, 187. Character of his general style, 198. His epistolary writings, 41 1. Sentence, in language, definition of, 112. Distinguished into long and short, 113. A variety in, to be studied, ibid. The properties essential to a perfect sentence, 114. A principal rule for arranging the members of, 115. Position of ad- verbs, ibid. And relative pronouns, 116. Unity of a sentence, rules for pre serving, 119. Pointing, 121. P:iren thesis, ibid. Should always be brought to a perfect close, 122. Strength, 123. Should be cleared of redundancies, ibid. Due attention to particles recommend ed, 124. The omission of particles sometimes connects objects closer to- gether, 126. Directions for placing the important words, ibid. Climax, 129 INDEX. 555 A like order necessary to be observed in all assertions of propositions, 130. Sentence ought not to conclude with a feeble word, ibid. Fundamental rule in the construction of, 133. Sound not to be disregarded, 134. Two circumstan- ces to be attended to, for producing har- mony in, 134, 139. Rules of the ancient rhetoiieians for this purpose, 135. Why harmony much less studied now than formerly, 136. English words cannot be so exactly measured by metrical feet, as those of Greek and Latin, 139. What required for the musical close of a sen- ten'"p 141. Unmeaning words introduc- ed merely to round a sentence, a great blemish, ibid. Sounds ought to be adapt- ed to sense, 142. Sermons, English compared with French, 281. Unity an indispensable requisite in, 316. The subject ought to be precise and particular, 317. The subject ought not to be exhausted, ibid. Cautions against dryness, 318. And against con- forming to fashionable modes of preach- ing, 319. Style, 320. Quaint expres- sions, 321. Whether best written or delivered extempore, ibid. Delivery, 322. Remarks on French sermons, ibid. Cause of the dry argumentative style of English sermons, 325. General ob- servations, ibid. Remarks on the pro- per division of, 347. Conclusion, 364. Delivery, 365. Sevignd, Madame de, character of her let- ters, 416. Shaftesbury, Lord, observations on his style, 106, 113, 120, 127, 129, 142, 166. His general character as a writer, 209. Shakspeare, the merit of his plays exam- ined, 28. Was not possessed of refined taste, 29. Instance of his improper use of metaphors, 161, 164, 165. Exhibits passions in the language of nature, 524. His character as a tragic poet, 530. As a comic poet, 541. Shenstone, his pastoral ballad, 441. Shepherd, the proper character of, in pas- toral description, 437. S!ieridan,h\s distinction between ideas and emotions, 373, note. Sherlock, Bishop, fine instance of personi- fication cited from his sermons, 174. A happy allusion cited from his sermons, 320. note. Silius Italicus. his sublime representation of Hannibal, 36, note. Simile, distinguished from metaphor, 158, 182. Sources of the pleasure they afford, ibid. Two kinds of, ibid. Requisites m, 183. Rules for, 185. Local proprie- ty to be adhered to in, 213. Simplicili/ applied to style, different senses of the term, 382. Smollett, improper use of figurative style, cited from nim, 126, note. Solomon's song, descriptive beauties of, 456 Songs, Runic, the origin of Gothic history ibid. Sophists of Greece, rise and character of, 269. Sophocles, the plots of his tragedies re- markably simple, 512. Excelled in the pathetic, 524. His character as a tra- gic poet, 526. Sorrow, why the emotions of, excited by tragedy, communicate pleasure, 515. Sounds, of an awful nature, affect us with sublimity, 32. Influence of, in the for- mation of words, 61. Speaker, public, must be directed more by his ear than by rules, 138. Spectator, general character of that publi- cation, 216. Critical examination of those papers that treat of the pleasures of the imagination, 217. Speech, the power of, the distinguishing privilege of mankind, 9. The grammati- cal division of, into eight parts, not lo- gical, 79. Of the ancients, regulated by musical rules, 136. Strada, his character as an historian, 406. Style, in language, defined, 101. The dif- ference of, in different countries, ibid. The qualities of a good style, 102. Per spicuity, ibid. Obscurity, owing to in- distinct conceptions, 103. Three requi- site qualities in perspicuity, ibid. Pre cision, 104. A loose style, from what it proceeds, 105. Too great an atten- tion to precision, renders a style dry and barren, 111. French distinction of style, 113. The characters of, flow from peculiar modes of thinking, 195. Dif- ferent subjects require a different style, ibid. Ancient distinctions of, 196. The different kinds of, ibid. Concise and diffusive, on what occasions proper, 196. Nervous and feeble, 199. A harsh style, from what it proceeds, ibid. Era of the formation of our present style, 200. Dry manner described, 201. A plain style, ibid. Neat style, 202. Elegant style, 203. Florid style, 203. Natural style, 205. Different senses of the term simplicity, ibid. The Greek writers dis- tinguished for simplicity, 207. Vehe- ment styb, 211. General directions how to attain a good style, 212. Imita- tion dangerous, 214. Style not to be studied to the neglect of thoughts, 215. Critical examination of those papers in the Spectator that treat of the pleasures of imagination, 217. Critical examina- tion of a passage in Swift's writings, 250. General observations, 259. See Elo- quence. Sublimity of external objects, and sublimi- ty '.n writing distinguished 32. Its im- pressions, ibid. Of space, ib. Of sounds, 32. Violence of the elements, 32. So- lemnity, bordering on the terrible, ibid. c>56 INDEX. Obscurity, not unfavourable to, 34. In buildings, 35. Heroism, ibid. Great virtue, 36. Whether there is any one fundamental quality in the sources of sublime, ibid. Sublimity in writing, 310. Errors in Lon ginus pointed out, ibid. The most an- cient writers afford the most striking in- stances of sublimity, 311. Sublime re- presentation of the Deity in Psalm xviii. 39. And in the prophet Habakkuk, 40. In Moses and Isaiah, ibid. Instances of sublimity in Homer, ibid. In Ossian, 42. Amplification injurious to sublimi- ty, ibid. Rhyme in English verse unfa- vourable to, 43. Strength essential to sublime writing, 44. A proper choice of circumstances essential to sublime description, 45. Strictures on Virgil's description of Mount JEtna, 46. The proper sources of the sublime, 47. Sub- limity consists in the thought, not in the words, 48. The faults opposed to the sublime, ibid. Sully, Duke de, character of his memoirs, 408. Superstition, sublime representation of its dominion over mankind, from Lucretius, 34, note. Swift, observations on his style, 104, 111, 120, 131, 142. General character of his style, 202. Critical examination of th; beginning of his proposals for correct- ing, &.c. the English tongue, 250. Con- cluding observations, 25P. His lan- guage, 383. Character of his epistola- ry writing, 416. Syllables, English, cannot be exactly mea- sured by metrical feet, as those of Greek and Latin, 139. Synecdoche, in figurative style, explained. 157. Synonymous words, observations on, 108. T. Tacitus, character of his style, 197. His character as an historian, 402. His hap- py manner of introducing incidental ob- servations, ibid. Instance of his success- ful talent in historical painting, 406 His defects as a writer, 408. Tasso, a passage from his Gierusalemme distinguished by the harmony of num- bers, 145. Strained sentiments in his pastorals, 443. Character of his Auain- ta, 487. Critical examination of his poem, 496. Taste, true, the uses of in common life, 14. Definition of, 16. Is more or less com- mon to all men, 17. Is an improvable faculty, 18. How to be refined, 19. Is assisted by reason, 19. A good heart requisite to a just taste, 20. Delicacy and correctness the characters of perfect tnste, ibid. Whether there be any stan- dard of taste, 22. The diversity of, in different men. no evidence of their tastes being corrupted, xbid. The test of, re ferred to the concurring voice of the pol ished part of mankind, 25. Distinguish- ed from genius, 29. The sources of pleasure in, 30. The powers of, enlarge the sphere of our pleasures, 31. Imi tations as a source of pleasure, 55. Mu sic, ibid. To what class the pleasures received from eloquence, poetry, and fine writing, are to be referred, 56. Telemachus. See Fenelon. Temple, Sir William, observations of his style, 106. Specimens, 113, 120, 122, 125, 139. His general character as a writer, 208. Terence, beautiful instance of simplicity from, 209. His character as a dramatic writer, 538. Terminations of words, the variation of, in the Greek and Latin languages, fa- vourable to the libertv of transposition, 70. Theocritus, the earliest known writer cl pastorals, 434. His talents in painting rurai scenery, 435. Character of his pastorals, 439. Thomson; fine passage from, where he animates all nature, 176. Character of his Seasons, 453. His eulogium by Dr. Johnson, '.bid, note. Thuar.us, his character as an historian, 398. Thucydides, his character as an historian, 395. Was the first who introduced ora- tions in historical narration, 405. Tillolson, Archbishop, observations on his style. 106, 118, 139, 161. General cha- racter of as a writer, 208. Tones, the due management of, in public speaking, 373. Topics, among the ancient rhetoricians, explained, 353. Tragedy, how distinguished from comedy, 506. More particular definition of, 507. Subject and conduct of, 508. Rise and progress of, 509. The three dramatic unities, 511. Division of the represen- tation into acts, 513. The catastrophe, 514. Why the sorrow excited by tra- gedy communicates p"easures, ibid. Proper iden of scenes, and how to be conducted, 516. Characters, 520. High- er degrees of morality inculcated by mo- dern than by ancient tragedy, 521. Too great use made of the passion of love on the modern stages, ibid. All trage- dies expected to be pathetic, 522. The proper use of moral reflections in 524. The proper style and versification, 525. Brief view of the Greek stage, 526. French tragedy, 528. English tragedy, 530. Concluding observations, 532. Tropes, a definition of, 148. Origin of, 150 The rhetorical distinctions among frivo Ions, 156. Turnus, the character of, not favourablj treated in the iEneid, 491 INDEX. 537 Turpin, archbishop of Rheiras, a romance writer, 419. Typograji/tical figures of speech, what, 189. V. Vanburgh, his character as a dramatic writer, 6-12. Verbs, their nature and office explained, 89. No sentence complete without a verb, expressed cr implied, 90. The tenses, ibid. The advantage of English over the Latin, in the variety of tenses, 91. Active and passive, ibid. Are the . ranter as a tragic poet, 529. Vossius, Joannes Gerardus, character or' his writings on eloquence, 385. W. Waller, the first English poet who broKgiii couplets into vogue, 432. Wit, is to be very sparingly used at tht bar, 304. Words, obsolete, and new coined, incon- gruous with purity of style, 103. Bad consequences of their being ill chosen; 104. Observations ;>n those termed sy nonymous, 108. Considered with refer ence to sound, 134. Words, and things, instances of the ana- logy between, 61. Writers of genius, why they have bee* more numerous in one age than another, 387. Four happy ages of, pointed ou\, 388. Writing, two kinds of, distinguished, 72. Pictures, the first essay in, ibid. Hiero- glyphic, the second, 73. Chinese cha- racters, 74. Arithmetical figures, 76. The considerations which led to the in- vention of an alphabet, ibid. Cadmus's alphabet the origin of that now used, 76. Historical account of the materials used to receive writing, 77. General remarks, ibid. See Grammar. Y. Young, Dr. his poetical character, 167 Too fond of antithesis, 188. The raerf; of his works examined, 451. His cha racter as a tragic poet, 632. THE sim« KAY'S INFANT AND PRIMARY SCHOOL SERIES. IN THREE VOLUMES. Ray's Infant and Primary School Reader and Definer, No. 1, contain* no word of more than Three Letters, and comprises all the words of Two and Three Letters in the English language. Every Syllable which occurs in it, or the Two next Volumes, is a Complete Word. The Lessons are strictly, and by very gradual steps, Progressive. Each single Object occurring in the Lessons is represented by a large and handsome Engraving — upwards of 100 in number. 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We would call the especial attention of Parents and Teachers of young children to hese books. — National Gazette. We pronounce the plan good, and the xecution excellent. — U. S. Gazette. The arrangement is simple, natural and efficient, and the first volume suited to the early dawn of infancy. — Inquirer. We are bound to consider these as the best set of Primary books yet issued. — Metcalfe's Star. We do not see how it is possible to pre- pare a more admirable system for the pur- pose intended. It appears to have been, compiled by a master hand. — Sat. Courier. This Series is beautifully executed .... So various and comprehensive a series, and one so cleverly got up, has not ) before made its appearance. — Messenger. Mr J. Orville Taylor, of New York so well known as the zealous and eloquent advocate of National Education, has given these books his strong approval, and re- commends them, in preference to all others, in his Public Lectures. Excerpts from Critiques by 50 Teachers. The following are Excerpts from the Testimonials of Teachers now in tfca possession of the Publishers, which are printed in eztenso, with the names and residences a. je gentlemen, in a Prospectus which will be given to all who may apply for it. ' ' Some of its features are as novel as they are valuable ; and it combines more, for the size and price, than any thing of the kind which has fallen under my notice." " I have looked through the Series with great satisfaction. The progressive theory which you have adopted is excellently suited to lead on the young mind by sure and not too laborious steps. The carrying out of the plan is generally successful." "I consider them, in all points, to be superior to any books for the like purpose with which I am acquainted." " I take pleasure in pronouncing on them a most favourable opinion better adapted to the purpose for which they were designed, than any other school book with which I am familiar." " To Teachers of Primary Schools this Series will be a valuable auxiliary The hope is cordially expressed, that the enterprise of the Publishers may be re- warded according to the merits of the work alone, which, in the opinion of the Sub- scriber, will amply repay them." " I confidently pronounce them superior to any books of the kind I have ever seen." " I am entirely satisfied of their superi- ority to any books having a similar purp jse, with which I am acquainted." " I have had actual proof of their practi- cal utility in creating an interest in the vo- latile minds of children, and securing their attention On the whole, not to be tedious, I most heartily approve the plan, and recommend the adoption of your Series." " Esteeming it decidedly the best ele- mentary work which I have seen, I hope it will be generally introduced into the schools for which it is designed." " I beg leave to say that I have not mel with any book of the kind so well adapted to the capacities of young children." (559) " I have been exceedingly gratified by a perusal of them I consider your books superior to any now in use." "I believe them to be much better Adapted for the purpose, than any work with which I am acquainted." ' ' Both the plan and arrangement I highly ipprove." " The Series is, in my opinion, the best lhat has fallen under my notice." " I consider it the best work for the pur- pose that I have seen." " I believe them to be remarkably well calculated for the instruction of the begin- ner." " I find in them a progressive and well- chosen series of lessons, happily adapted to the capacity of young learners." "I believe them to be better calculated to expedite the education of children than any works that have come under my notice." "I feel no hesitation in recommending it [the Series] as the best work for promot- ing the object intended with which I am acquainted." "Kay's Infant and Primary School Series appears to me to be a work in every respect adapted to the wants of children who are just entering on the study of writ- ten language In these little vo- lumes, words are truly the signs of ideas. Here the child may not only be taught to ead with facility, but, almost unaided, to understand what he reads So nume- rous and important are the advantages pre- sented to both teacher and pupil, that a more extended acquaintance with the work cannot fail to secure its general adoption in Primary Schools " "I have most carefully read over and examined ' Kay's Infant and Primary School Series,' and have no hesitation in eaying they are most admirably adapted for Vfceir intended and professed object." Kay's Infant and Primary School Readers and Definers. "I should predict many benefits will result from the general introduction of these works into schools, in which, I trust, my own will share." " Having critically examined these beau- tiful little works, I cheerfully recommend them to teachers." "I have no hesitation in pronouncing them to be by far the best books of the kind for young persons in our language." " Having used them, I am convinced that every one who will give them a trial, will find them to interest their pupils, and advance their progress, more than anything of the kind that has yet appeared." " Upon the whole, I am constrained to believe it to be the best work of the kind with which I am acquainted." " I consider the plan well calculated to bring forward the younger class of Scholars. Accordingly, I have introduced it into my schools." "Parents and Teachers who wish for books both attractive and interesting, will find these to be just what they require." "The designer of 'Kay's Series' has produced a work, in my opinion, superior, in very many respect? o the works of those who have gone befo. him." "They are, in my judgment, better, much better calculated lor the purpose for which they are intended, than all put toge- ther that have preceded them ; and I trust that the public will join me in this opinion." " I should have no hesitancy in at once placing them in the hands of beginners, in preference to all others." " I have carefully examined them. ... I consider them extremely well adapted to improve those for whom they are intended." "The design is excellent, and has been executed most successfully." " I consider them exceedingly well adapted to the purposes of Primary edu- cation." "I have carefully examined 'Kay's Series,' and feel no hesitation in saying that I consider them superior to any series of the kind now extant." "I have just finished a careful exami- nation of ' Kay's Series,' and rarely, if ever, have I met with a work for children which made so favourable an impression on my mind. The author seems to possess the happy art of converting what was deemed labour to pastime, and pain to pleasure Henceforth children may be taught to speak their first words from his books. The author has, in my judgment, discovered and adopted the true simplicity of nature. I can but regard its publication as an era in American education — indeed in the English language." " I have diligently examined ' Kay's Series,' and think it superiorly well adapted to the improvement of the infant mind." " I have given them as full an examina- tion as time and circumstances would per- mit ; sufficient, however, to satisfy myself of their intrinsic merits, and entire adapta- tion to the class of students for which they are intended." "The theory of teaching written lan- guage, as exemplified in ' Kay's Progres- sive Series' of Reading Books, is, in my opinion, the true one ; and the practice upon it must lead to the happiest issues. It is nature's method of teaching written language. I shall lose no time in intro ducing them into my school." " I have examined them with attention, and believe them to be quite superior to any thing of the kind, for the purpose in- tended, which has met my view." " I conceive them to be the best, of the kind, with which I am acquainted, and intend using them in my school." " I feel no hesitation in saying that they are decidedly better adapted lor training the Infant mind, than any work with whicE I am acquainted." " The admirable manner in which they are ' gotten up,' the introduction of tb.6 Script characters, and the Elementary Exercises in Drawing, give them a supe- riority over all works of the kind that have fallen under my observation." "From a critical examination of them, I believe that they are well adapted to the end they propose to subserve. ... I will do whatever lies in my power to introduce them to public attention." " I have carefully examined ' Kay's Pro- gressive Series.' I think they are admirably adapted to the capacity of children. I shah introduce them into my Primary School." "Their advantage over other works of the kind consists in their conducting the child st^p by step, by easy and pleasant gradations, through the incipient stages of its study." " Having carefully examined 'Kay's Se- ries,' I recommend it, as, in my judgment, the best work for the purpose intended with which I am acquainted." " I can recommend them to those who instruct young children as valuable aux- iliaries." " Having examined them, I have been much pleased with the new and valuable features introduced into them, and recom- mend them to the public as better adapteu to the purpose of Elementary instruction, than any series which I have seen." "Having for a length of time experienced the want of some introductory work, suited to the capacity of the child — one by which his ideas 'might be taught to assume i tangible form, from the matter presented tc his mind — we have carefully and atten- tively examined ' Kay's Infant and Frimary School Reader, in three volumes,' a work purporting to supply the deficiency com- plained of, and we have no hesitation in giving it our decided and unqualified ap- proval. The works heretofore in use have presented a mass of matter, without anj adaptation to the comprehension of those for whom they were intended; the inteliec- j tual food was too gross for the delicate con- stitution of the infant mind, and tendec I rather to injure than improve its tone. . . . J The best evidence of our approval, is the ! introduction of the work into oar school." m 4T '«%.«