University of Virginia Library PE1402 .B6 1839 ALD Lectures on rhetoric and belle YXx _e ear. ar LJ a pata i Me igrestenrire| eit Ry ve bn PULL Ill el ne ee fal Pr AINA Le Aled ad i perish J Pane ny i Fe a ae 4 lessen ahh ¥ Hs fi i ctf) Les 41 etiabas Ged grb etre ene tel aL Pala ape LIBRARY OF THE | UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA PRESENTED BY DR. EDGAR WOODS, JR. a lanaeone 4 i ee et c berry tees ayeL tay M Ata ert ey et tbe tie! dk Hy at bbHie 9 Soe si pintedsisiiie aes Peers) e° ESE eee ae ta eeresgisiy ae Sho Leer res ee e iesCees eh eal aes we reyes: e EPCRA 3 CRM : aoe 5 ry a far UTES rer IMIR Ate } ey a eet ere renee eee Ma UaGL en ct A en mt i Abad ea tage ie Lahde sels Cs tipi irre ea ke of BY peg fies Sa f oe o SUIS LAL Aad peda 4 iA ee Le Se) Lee Laie - : , rma Mia uatad a ee Cat en Ct Te SSPE Minium stigur gown: ; eaoo) ee re ae ee el eee Say SAF US Servers eo . 2 7 + a ay *, J Ps Pa iz = eer et rs Peer aa he ts ee Stetetererit L3 caer reer aTee ae ag WoT Limit eth Ute Laeciias i acta AS Ais i ) . ) peer ate ke ede Saeed J fod alee ei aeKy is Pere ariel ee ieteheieee etre tah tt ee feds a8 . oka Pires . e, ka fo Ja ae Se Pa Ss CU. MA. pli Cke ae. & heft Pere eo) sGuddbeiesesedudiiejeieiadetete sty titcesere st cagastseridsgategdd deesene date Site te a dtr yr Pet ee 7 Far hve acelin Carpet ge ~ . Atel fare | re ae ee) tak 7 & Pe ere a ee toe ee Se 4 Urata ce J 3s 4. . B . a op Loe gael? St tai ha cp Alia hase he Rd Cee elle BO cd hl a be : ce rs eet oon eer it ea pat al Od hate teh re els lela bed it i Hated delta e - eer th ee Pe ee ba ea tha betrabery oe ea ei REPORT TY rarest ris LP ba, ed eh ade Foals cd condi bind ren Tadd eee is 3 — feat i Sadia eed itp 4 aha ier 3 5 My ae Muti 1 eden sinen han acoattr is tetrd Cae paras Teh bk Aad Rushed hetLECTURES. cot lp : ag RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES. Va. Makley A} Hes at Pog rer agaLed o des ee | Ll 2 ome a ae SY AF C/T o Ath f es he ihe HUGH BLAIR, D.D. F.RS., PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES_IN THE UNIVERSITY, AND MINISTER OF THE HIGH CHURCH, OF EDINBURGH. WITH A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. Atereotype eK: outtion. 7 fag ot peg ES on) PHILADELPHIA; JAMES .KAY, JUN. & BROTHER, 122 CHESTNUT STP. PITTSBURGH: C. H. KAY & CO. 1839: Pec bisdetoged deata te Fase Pere rere? esehs i neeres ce Pegs eerie ee Re a Le Pee ee eer eS ee ee go gedieaye ss PL tr tt Ful hd bh oe bs Poe ee oe Oe riegetedes et aTe es Petter ett Paria tie ella Lada aeaeriew ress, in the year 1833, by Jame ] Cle district court of the United St or 5 e Entered, according to the act of con Brother, in the office of the clerk of th the eastern district of Pennsylvania.PREFACE, THE following LEcTUREsS were read in the university of Edinburgh, for twenty-four years. ‘The publication of them, at present, was not altogether a matter of choice. Imperfect copies of them, in manuscript, from notes taken by students who heard them read, were first privately handed about; and 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 theyshould 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 in these Lecturts is entirely his own. At the same time he availed himself of the ideasand reflections of others, as far as he thought them proper to be -adopted. 'To proceed in this manner, was his duty asa public professor. It was incumbent on him to convey to his pupils all the knowledge ] could improve them; to deliver not merely what was new, but what migh 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 respect fully submit to the judgment of the public. Retaining the simp] licity of the lecturing style, as best fitted for conveying nstruction. he has aimed, in his language, at no more than perspicuity. Jf, 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 shail thought open to reprehension, all that he can say, 1s, 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. rr “ Biographia Pritanica. Article AppIson. ae, LF esos ood gaceDese ta de Pe decess 5 Cer = es retire ett at Cetera te ere he ce ot Ge ee as Ce ee ptisaeiete: Pe ree ee ere re eee eee er ee ‘eT eS She eae Pet te a oe Sgtgtetetetereretetece +s oe 3re ra Tata)CONTENTS. Dy Pet ORION oc coca c feos uses: oc gia ig 2 ate at ee @ ee ereereeeseseve eeeonmeeseseeepeeeeeesesenvnecvegeaeeeneeseesesoce ill. Criticism—-Genius—Pleasures of Taste—Sublimity in Objects,. [V. The sublime in Writing dian nis a ele\e. 0/8 Se eis’ ainuata wiakincme wl V. Beauty and other pleasures of taste, YVI. Rise and progress cf language,.......see+ee- VU. Rise and progress of language and of writing,. VHIL. Structure. of language,.<: «0... 5. IX. Structure of language English tongue,...... X. Style—Perspicuity and precision,..........-. Al. Structure of sentences... 0 sececs oss on. Dtvuctore Of SCULERCES,. . o5e ccs ve evan ce obs XIIL. Structure of sentences—Harmony,......... XIV. Origin and Nature of Figurative Language,...... A AE nao ces och cee li wan XVI. Hyperbole —Personification—Apostrophe soveveosrereeeaeeeree Pronunciation ar Delivery,.. . eeeeesee PAGS XVII. Comparison, Antithesis, Interrogation, Exclamation, and other figures igurative Language—General Characters of Style—Diffuse, Concise —Feeble, Nervous—Dry, Plain, Neat, Elegant, Flowery,........ [X. General characters of Style—Simple, Affected, Vehement—Directions for forming a proper style,......... XX. Critical Examination of the Style of M PNCCIRION, cos cee nes sa XX{. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 412 of the Spectator,....... XXII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 413 of the Spectator,...... XXII[. Critical Examination of the Stvle in No. 414 of the Spectator,...... XXIV. Critical Examination of the Style in a Passage of Dean SwHt’s writ- eeoeveereereeeseee Addison, in No. 411 of the XXY. Eloquence, or Public Speaking—History of Eloquence—Grecian Elo- quence—Demosthenes, opie wale eal XXVI. History of Eloquence continued—Roman Eloquence—Cicero—Mo- dern Mipguesice, ceeds cpr adiccs Jule gangs bac omens cee ue ee tae XXVII. Different kinds of Public Speaking—Eloquence of Popular Assemblies —=Wxtracts from Demosthenes, :..2 ce acs acu s eee cs cca esas + « XXVIII. Eloquence of the Bar—Analysis of Cicero’s Oration for Cluentius,... RMA. Eloquence of the Pulpityecs. cece deceiécivdacevesdecduaiss a wsiae must XXX. Critical Examination of a Sermon of Bishop Atterbury’s,.......+56. XXXI. Conduct of a Discourse in al] its Parts—Introduction—-Division—Nar- Pation, ANd WXPliCation,.s.cccesvccat ect cncstccssanesse nus edae “KX KI. Conduct of a Discourse—The Argumentative Part—The Pathetie Part : —The Peroration,.. oeeeeeoree 16 205 216 226 235 249 250 PHOS ESTSBSSs ory pei ates rere ei eee, eg PE SSF PU ere eee er tr te erate Ce ee were Pte ee sere rs eee hess) td) errr. rere ore trend as toe Steratereretete cee scsiseds Meee Petar se ke bs i ane ha . A be 4vi CONTENTS. XXXIV. Means of improving in Eloquence,.......cseseeceeecsceeercetes XXXY. Comparative Merit of the Ancients and the Moderns—Historical Writ- NXXKVES Historical Writing,« .«i:2% peels dc cpipwe bes crcccccscecsccosccenecesse XXXVLL. Philosophical Writing—Dialozue—Epistolary Writing—Fictitious HUStOry,..ccesecsvcccscccenccaccccccccrssscccesseesseseences XXXVILL. Nature of Poetry—Its Origin and Progress—Versification,......... XXXIX. Pastoral Poetry—Lyric Poetry,.. ..cccscccccccvcescsssccsccscecs XL. Didactic Poetry—Descriptive Poetry,....c...cccccscsceuevesccecs MEL Dhe Poetry of the Hebrews,....ccc.cccc cnccccocecsccescvassvabe INIT MOE RO GURY,, ais cles to S cinta sleidc clei sic enics eis en eesccsscsnecssecs seem XLIUL Homer's Iliad and Odyssey—Virgil’s Aineid,..cccesccccseccececces XLIV. Lucan’s Pharsaiia—Tasso’s Jerusalem—Camoén’s Lusiad—Fenelon s Telemachus~-Voltaire’s Henriade— Milton’s Paradise Lost,....... Debye: rnradtie 1 OCI Y—“"L FAP CU, «.. 5 cue coepege rescence ences cesses REV is-Fragedy—Greek, French; Brigtish Tragedy ,e..cseccvccc-sncsasece XLV. Comedy—Greek and Roman—Frencl.—English Comedy,........m meh ro} ed tee, or a a ra = 5d 2 Sad . Laat & eri tt LECTURE I. tase Pe hecsess 5 | oe 6098 G64 549% BARA age SP LR INTRODUCTION. Pca aes es $ess55 One of the most distinguished privileges which Provides«e has conferred upon mankind, is the power of communicating their tnoughts to one another. JDestitute of this ower, reason would be a solitary, and, in some measure, an unavallable 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 4uman 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. + eras It is obvious, then, that writing and discourse are objects entitled 7" ?~ to the highest attention. Whether the influence of the speaker, or the entertainment of the hearer, be consulted; whether utility or pleastre be the principal aim in view, we are prompted, by the strongest motives, to study how we may communicate our thoughts to one anothcr 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 with more care, than that of language, style, and composition. The attention paid to it may, indeed, be assumed as one mark of the progress of 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 Sed ad BC Ng Bl Pee eee ee eee ee ot a PP PeeR Stree eer ete rere Oe See eer ee eer Tea tere ere es be ee 2 5 oa ry Meer ee at hehe be52 INTRODUCTION. [LECT. I. per models for imitation. They bring into wiew. os ebiet ns that ought to be studied, and the principal thoughts that ought to a8 avoided; and thereby tend to enlighten taste, and to lead genius from unnatural deviations, into its proper channel. What would not avail for the production of great excellencies, may at least serve to prevent the commission of considerable errors. ‘a tit All that regards the study of eloquence and composition, merits the higher attention upon this account, that it 1s intimately connect- ed with the improvement of 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, eaches to think as well as tospeak 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 1s 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 tumes, 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 what 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 minute 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 »e deficient in elegance or ornament in times when they are in such uigh estimation, it is still more requisite to attain the power of distinguishing false ornament from true, in order to prevent oui being carried away by that torrent of false and frivolous taste, which never fails, when it 1s prevalent, to sweep along with it the raw and the ig- norant. They who have never studied eloquénce in.its principles, nor have been trained to attend to the genuine and manly beauties of good writing, are always ready to be caught by the mere glare of language: and when they come to speak in public, or to compose, have no other standard on which to form themselves, except what chances to be fashionable and popular, how corrupted soever, or er- roneous, that may be. But as there are many who have no such objects as either com- |LECT. 1. ] 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 of these lectures. To them, rhetoric is not so much 4 practical art as a speculative science; and the same instructions which assist others in composing, will assist them in discerntag 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 respec? 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 technizal 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 diseernmen: of the real merit of authors. It promotes a lively relish of their beauties, while it preserves us from that blind and implicit veneration which would confound their beauties and faults in our esteem. It teaches us, In a word, to 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 intoa 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 doubved, 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 serry if we could not rest the merit of such stu- dies on somewhat of solid and intrinsical use, independent of appear- ance and show. Tho-exercise of-taste and of sound criticism is, In truth, one of the most improving employments of the understanding, To apply the principles of good sense to composition and discourse ; to examine what is beautiful and why it is so; to employ curselves 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 acauaintance 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 and criti- Peete ca erat: Ne est FS ae ee ee itit ote stesee be decsas > ety terete etecesetates 5% See ee heey: Ee PERE: FOSS SSeS Fe sbogelaieiviscesobiiajesecegeietests bitvete tei cacdarser sees roe td Shyer ses eh ae rtd Ce ae a ee ee eT OS is ta be ee ek Pe ee ee Se ae’ ei Pia aT heh rs ca £ = 3=> re ~ 4 yr rere sess tretie 14 INTRODUCTION. fine. cism chiefly consider him as a being endowed with those powers of iaste and imagination, which were intended to embellish his mind, and to supply him with rational and useful entertainment. They open afield 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 light various springs of action, which, without their aid, might have passed unobserved; and which, though of a delicate nature, fre- quently exert a powerful influence on several departments of human life. : Such studies have also this peculiar advantage, that they exercise our reason without fatiguing it. They lead to inquiries acute, but not painful ; profound, but not dry nor abstruse. ‘They strew flowers in the path of science; and while they keep the mind bent, in some degree, and active, they relicve 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 hay 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 bz 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 amuse- 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 of loose pleasures, in order to cure the tediousness of existence. Providence seems plainly to have pointed out this useful purpose to which the pleasures of taste may be applied, by interposing them in a middle station between the pleasures of sense, and those of pure intellect. We were not designed to grovel always among objects so Jow as the former; nor are we capable of dwelling coustantly 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 abstract study;..and they gradually raise it above the attachments of sense and prepare it for the enjoyments of virtue. So eonsonant is this to experience, that in the edueation of vocth no cyject has in every age appeared more umportant to wise men,LECT. I. | INTRODUCTION. 15 than to tincture them early with a relish for the entertainments of taste. The transition is commonly made with ease from these to the discharge of the higher and more important duties of life. Good hopes may be 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, nec 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 ot virtue is the same; or that they may always be expected to co-exist in an equal degree. More powertul 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 cannot but be admitted, that the exercise of taste is, in its native tendency, moral and purifying. From reading the most admired productions of genius, whether in poetry or prose, almost every one rises with some good impressions left on his mind; and though these may not always be durable, they are at least to be ranked among the means of disposing the heart to virtue. One thing is certain, and I shall heieafter 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 must 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 of genius, and call up into the mind those high ideas, which attract the admiration of ages; and if this spirit be necessary to produce the most dist.nguished 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 nes * These polish’d arts have humaniz’d mankind, Soften'd the rude, and calm’d the boist’reus mind rs deb dy tattle hl ae) Terre sere tT TT Tae a re. Fea has git kh ES Lk by ed Peet Pa Ware ee ee te oe a ee Oe os a ek a Oe oo oe oe 4 RE YE #3 es Pee ee re ne - be Se Tees hie cin Fo Eh her wT SSA g hk BT ea ae eee ee et ee gases f : ee CitHtaretecete ster eteteceseay Bs * PF Pe ea aa aa geek Ps . ~ ’16 INTRODUCTION. fuecr. 11 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 publicspeaking in itsdifferentkinds. Lastly, a critical examination of the most distinguished species of composition, both in prose and verse. LECTURE II. =e TASTE. Tue nature of the present undertaking leads me to begin with some inquiries concerning taste, as it is this faculty which is always appealed to, in disquisitions concerning the merit of discourse 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, shal! 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 most perfect state. I shall then examine the various fluctuations to which it is liable, and inquire whether there be any standard to which we can bring the different tastes of men, in order to distinguish the corrupted from the true. Taste may be defined “The power of receiving pleasure from the beauties of nature and of art.”’ The first question that occurs 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- ed. For nothing can be more clear, than that taste is not resoly- 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. II.] 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 the 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 aredelighted 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.t 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’s Reflections on the use and abuse of Philosophy in matters which relate to Taste :-—Reflections Critiques sur la Poésie et sur la Peinture, tome ii. ch. 22-31 :—Elements of Criticism, chap. 25:—Mr. Hume’s Essay on the Standard of Taste :—/{ntroduction to the Essay on the Sublime and Beau- tiful. + On the subject of taste, considered as a power or faculty of the mind, much less is to be found among the ancient, than among the modern rhetorical and critical wri- ters. The following remarkable passage in Cicero serves, however, to show that his ideas on this subject agree perfectly with what has been said above. He is speaking of the beauties of style and numbers. “ Tllud autem nequis admirerur, quonam modo hec vulgus imperitorum in audiendo notet ; cum in omni genere, tum in hoc ipso, mag na quedam est vis, incredibilisque nature. Omnes enim tacito quodam sensu, sine ulla arte aut ratione, que sint in artibus ac rationibus recta et prava dijndicant : idque cum faciunt in picturis, et in signis, et in aliis operibus, ad quorum intelligentiam a na tura minus habent instrumenti, tum multo ostendunt magis in verborum, numerorum vocumque judicio ; quod ea sunt in communibus infixa sensibus ; neque are toe quenquam funditus natura voluit esse expertem. Cic. de Orat lib. iti. 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, med quidem opinione adeo partibus hujus operis omni bus connectus ac mistus est, ut ne a sententiis quidem aut verbis saltem singulis possit separari- nec magis arte traditur quam gustus aut odor.-—Ut contraria vitemus et communia, ne quid in eioquendo corruptum obscurumque sit, referatur oportet ad sensus qui non docentur.” Institut. lib. vi. cap. 3. edit, Obrechti. 3 2 td th dh ehhh ach hhh hee eek TO As ed BS eo PrP eee te ee ee ek ee tS i ee. ase: : TF ier a ee eye Syren Se Peer rur ete revere TS to to Pore re Coes See Te eee See re a a se a Sth eGte retell ete tecessisst7 a Stab Selest aT So18 TASTE. fimer a confused impression; while in others, taste rises to an acute dis- cernment, 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. Shehath 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 an 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 this we have one clear proof in that part of taste, which is called an ear for music. Experience every day shows, that nothing is moreRECT] TASTE. 19 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 works of the best masters. 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 with the original. In reading, for instance, such a poem as the Adneid, a great part of our pleasure arises from the plan or story being well conducted, and all the parts joined together with probability and due connexion ; from the characters being taken from nature, the sentiments 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 yleasure. 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 ey et ate se Pye iri tty { Chebatterisdse tweed feta te Sate Metal ete? frie ses q ‘ +7 ES Pee Pte he . e eee ee eee Te Perey Cree ey be ee Oe ee a ry Lan’ Shtgtgegt eta tere ete te cesta EERE eTFE stele —?. - a A stae a es 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 afiections, 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 proper sympathetic sense of what is soft and tender, must have a very imperfect relish of the highes+ beauties of eloquence and poetry. The characters of taste, when brought to its mostimproyed state, ‘are-all_reducible to.two,Delicacy and Correctness. Delicacy of taste respects principally the perféction of that natu- ral sensibility on which taste is founded. It implies those finer or- gans or powers which enable us to discover beauties that lie hid from a vulgar eye. One may have strong sensibility, and yet be deficient in delicate taste. He may be deeply impressed by such beauties as he perceives; but he perceives only what is in some degree coarse, what is bold and palpable; while chaster and simpler ornaments escape his notice. [{n this state, taste generally exists among rude and unrefined nations. But a person of 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 of the smallest blemish. Delicacy of taste 1s judged of by the same marks that we use in judging of the delicacy of an externalsense. As the goodness of the palate is not tried by ,ret a7. | TASTE: 21 strong flavours, but by a mixture ofingredients, 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. A man of correct taste is one who is never imposed on by counterfeit beauties ; who carries always in his mind that standard of good sense which he employs in judging of every thing. He estimates with propriety the comparative merit of the several beauties which he meets with inany 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 isahigh example of delicate taste ; Dean Swift, had he written on the subject of criticism, would perhaps have afforded the example of a correct one. Having viewed taste in its most improved and perfect state, I come next to consider its deviations from that state, the fluctuations and changes to which it is liable; and to inquire whether, in the midst of these, there be any means of distinguishing a true from a corrupted taste. This brings us to the most difficult part of our task. For it must be 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 asuspicion 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 inquiries 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 the Grecian taste revived in all its vigour, and engrossed the publicadmiration. Ineloquence 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- ed only chaste and simple beauties, and despised the Asiatic osten- tation. In our own country, how many writings that were greatly extolled two o: three centuries ago, are now fallen into entire disre- pute and oblivion? Without going back to remote imstunces, now lh doe dh Scat anit adh tal a eee trees eT PE Seer erere Tes eT STDS SDFLF SSL STE ELIF ead Pade aed A {fardgiterisesategad etetatele ty Fete? ee eee e eer eT Tere ete eee shite gmieSedeiavesty bisie ve reer es +s Pet cA aed ee Ts +o Sheit Hegre eaters etetese ess + Peat Pal ae ira.) Sin 3at ea ae fea. a ee ete 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 king 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 love poetry ; and such writers as Suckling and Etheridge were held in esteem for dramatic composition ? The question is, what conclusion we are to form from such 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 1S, which we are now to discuss. I begin by observing, that if there be no such thing as any standard of taste, this consequence must immediately follow, that all tastes are equally good; a position, which, though it may pass unnoticed in slight matters, and when we speak of the lesser differences among the tastes of men, yet when we apply it to the extremes, 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 orincapacity 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 considerabry as to their object, and yet none of them be wrong One man relishes poetry most; another takes pleasure in nothing but history. One prefers comedy ; another, tragedy. One admires the simple ; another, the ornamented style. The young are amused with gay and sprightly compositions. The elderly are more entertained with those of a graver cast. Some nations delight in bold pictures of manners, and strong representations of passion. Others 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 js theSECT. 11: J TASTE. g7 object of taste,is manifold. Taste, therefore, admits of latitude and diversity of objects, in sufficient consistency with goodness or just ness of taste. But then, to explain this matter thoroughly, I must observe farther that this admissible diversity of tastes can only have place where the objects of taste are different. Where it is with respect to the same object that men disagree, when one condemns that as ugly, which another admires as highly beautiful; then it is no longer diversity, but direct opposition of taste that takes place; and therefore one must be in the right, and another in the wrong, unless that absurd paradox were allowed to hold, that all tastes are equally good and true. One man prefers Virgil to Homer. Suppose that I, on the other hand, admire Homer more than Virgil. I have as yet no 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 iong 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. Butifthe 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 socn 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 ‘s 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 no doubt, thatin all cases where an imitation is intended of some object that exists in nature, as in representing human characters or actions, confornrity 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 this rule cannot be at all applied ; and conformity to nature, 1s 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, 1s ultimately founded on an inter- nal sense of beauty, which is natural to men, and which, in its application to particular objects, 3s 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 Payer tt; ree tar adel ie Seer sar eseee ag Gt hay ae a or rare ert ‘ SPIE Ee ETE Se Ry ee PELE TS oe er ee ee Pers sgesete rt CeedeeserisesatdPad UES SE TE Ze te FATS Sra PAA SSSI Ce LLG REL CS ord . Seer tases 2 - he24 TASTE: [ HOF .H was unerring and sure, the determinations of such a person mites cerning beauty, would, beyond doubt, be a perfect standard for the taste of allothers. 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 of men? Most certainly there is nothing but the taste, as far as it can be gathered, of human 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 from the taste of the species to which he belongs. In like manner, with regard to the objects of sentiment or internal taste, the common feelings of men carry the same authority, and haye a title to regulate the taste of every individual. But have we then, it will be said, no other criterion of what is beautiful, than the approbation of the majority? Must we collect the voices of others, before we form any 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 bein 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 carry 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 of conduct in a tragedy, or an epic poem. Just reasonings on the sub- ject will correct the caprice of unenlightened taste, and establish principles for judging of what deserves praise. But, at the same time, these reasonings appeal always in the last resort, to feeling. The foundation upon which they rest, is what has been found from experience to please mankind universally. Upon this ground we prefer a simple and natural, to an artificial and affected style; a regular and well connected story, to loose and scattered narratives ; a catastrophe which is tender and pathetic, to one which leaves us 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.* were Ly EE ee a, eee eeerhmereemenoesmer ¢ "The difference between the authors who found the standard of common feelings of human nature ascertained by g taste upon the : : eneral approbation, and thoseLECT. II. | TASTE. 25 When we refer to the concurring sentiments of menas 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 flourishing nations; when arts are cultivated and manners refined; when works of genius are subjected to free discussion, and taste is improved by science and philosophy. Ixven 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 every particular instance, we can resort for clear and immediate determination. Where, indeed, 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 chiefly on modes ef 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 the 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 wellas 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 conclusions con- cerning objects of taste, can have any just authority, if they be found to contradict the general sentiments of men. These two systems, therefore, differ in reality very little from one another, Sentiment and reason enter into both ; and by al- lowing to each of these powers its due place, both systems may be rendered con- sistent. Accordingly, it is in this light that I have endeavoured to place the sub- ject. 4 Preece eee ee a eer pr gees te Cece te ere fl ct 2) be od ee AE eh Pe Peae ST Pe Peer ee errata ere titers tite pet tore t gee CZRtgeGreratersle ts Bete ve sisi sede Mee s ’ fs Wwrere | Seeeteerit ta aed a ad a oe hate aie af Fe PReees tT See as a Py oe26 TASTE. [ LECT. II. 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 1s 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 of mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please concerning the caprice and the uncertainty of taste, it is found, by experience, that there are beauties, which, if they be displayed in a proper light, have power to command lasting and general admiration. In every composition, what interests the imagination, and touches the heart, pleases all ages and all nations. There is a certain string to which, when properly struck, the human heart is so made as to answer. Hence the universal testimony which the most improved nations of the earth have conspired, throughout, a long tract of ages, to give to some few works of genius; such as the Iliad of Homer, and the /Eneid 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 ; “nature judicia confirmat.”? Time overthrows the illusions of opinion, but establishes the decisions of nature.(27) LECTURE III. CRITICISM....GENIUS....PLEASURES OF TASTE... SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. Taste, criticism, and genius, are words currently employed, with- out distinet ideas annexed to them. In beginning a course of lec- tures where such words must often occur, it is necessary to ascertain theirmeaning withsome 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- euish what is beautiful and what is faulty in every performance ; from particular instances to ascend to veneral 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 prior2, 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 fhe 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, ‘on to be so consonant to reason and to the were found on examinatl 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 1s tr in such a manner as shall be ue, will of hiraself, untaught, compose agreeable to the most material rules of criticism. for as these rules are founded in nature, nature will often suggest them in practice. Homer, itis 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 thisis no argument against the usefulness of criticism asanart. Jor as no human genius is perfect, there is no writer but may receive assistance from critical observations upon the beauties and faults of those who have gone before him. No observations or rules can indeed supply the defect of genius, or inspire it where it veer re t flere Reseed aes) Ware Otte ee ere ee a od be re ae] PA eee eee ee eS oe ee pecedegitegesssadaretesaghiscenece: = 4 Se Pr SaDoreored le fe Pe Pecess Pe oe feo ts eS a pe 4 CERES Sates rete tesesese2t? ate tadeted re Pes Dna rs . 1 Whrieisis bas .Se he ter A ee rite ts a ok St 28 CRITICISM. [Lee mm. 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 to show the faults that ought to be avoided. ‘T’o nature we must be indebted for the producticn 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 very favourable ideas of the genius of the author. For every good writer will be pleased to have his work examined by the principles vf 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 umber of bad philosophers or reasoners affords against reason and philosophy. An objection more plausible may be formed against criticism, from the applause that some performances have received from the public, which, when accurately considered, are found to contradict the rules established by criticism. Now, according to the principles laid down in the last 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 toallmen. Butwith 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 anda small, apt to be eatched and dazzled by very superficial beau- 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 w é orks that contain gross transgressions of the laws of cr iticism, acquiring, nevertheless, aLECT. IL. ] 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, that they have ‘gained the public admiration, not by their being irregular, not by their transgressions of the rules of art, but in spite of such 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 sometimes employs. These we consider as blemishes, and impute them to the grossness of the age in whichhe 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 ne 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 havea 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.themiitidthan taste. Genius always imports something inventive or creative; which does not rest in mere sensibility te 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 zood 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 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 artand 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, 1t 1s ever, according to tne usual frugality of nature, more limited in-thesphere ofits.opera- tions. Itisnot uncommon to méet with persons who have an excel- thd hae tok T* Peete ert at, Pee Fo bl rere rr rat ere tr nr os to ee as eet Fe Sa aE 4 ee eS ea a . ie pee st ee re Pee repre rerer ete C Vere re re eee Serer Tiere S RIPeIe re tis eas ke bs te ok et ek as Poh eee £ Phe Ry :30 PLEASURES OF TASTE. [LECT. III. 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 excelin 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 ina 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 correct. Thisis 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 ¢o all the lesserand more refined graces that belong to the exact perfection of his work: while, on the other hand, a thorough taste for those inferior graces is for the most part, accompanied with a diminution of sublimity and force. Having thus explained the nature of taste, the nature and impor- tance of criticism, and the distinction betwecn taste and genius; J am now toconsider 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 fully ; the pleasure which we receive from discourse, or writing, being the main object of them. All that I propose is to give some openings into the pleasures of taste in general ; and to insist more particularly upon sublimity and beauty.LHGT a. | PLEASURES OF TASTE. 3] ; We are far from having yet attained to any system concerning Unis subject. Mr. Addison was the first who attempted a regular in- quiry, 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-novelty.. His specula- tions on this subject, ifnot 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 hold of them, and subject them to a regular discussion, they are always ready to elude our grasp. It is.difficult to make a full enumeration. of the several objects that give pleasure to taste: itis more difficult to define all those which have been dis¢overed, and to reduce them under pro- per classes ; and, when we would go farther, and investigate the efh 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 regularity of some figures, and the graceful variety of others, are the foundation of the beauty which we discern in them; but when we attempt to go a step beyond this, and inquire 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 been abundantly answered, though our senses of seeing and hearing had only served to distinguish external objects, without conveying to us any of those refined and delicate sensations of beauty and 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 his poem on the Pleasures of the Imagination, has happily pursued. daawcs ie oes ee Not content With every food of life to nourish man, ot kind illusions of the wondering sense, hou mak’st all nature beauty to his eye, Cx music to his ear. E Peeei yer Nee ahem nnn Ss oe ee ee pile etch dh home teehee bee hl ? + I 3 BS ESE LS, eee sd a pa ce te tid PRs ge ate athe od a —_ § aes E32 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. [LmOT Tit. 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 lecture. 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. Ifthere 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 producesa 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 awfulness 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, yeta 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 oreat 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. lhe burst of thunder or of cannon, the roaring of winds, the shout- Teen 4 See a Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful :—Dr. Gerard on Taste, section ii. :—Elements of Criticism, chap. iv.LECT. Tit. | SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 35 ing of multitudes, the sound of vast cataracts of water, are all incontestably 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 mostsublime. 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 ofthesun. The deep sound ofa great bell, or the striking of a great clock, are at any time grand; but when heard amid the silence and stillness of the night, they become 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: Stel gie'igswiel «..+-How oft, amidst Thick clouds and dark, does heaven’s all-ruling Sire Choose to reside, his glory unobscur’d, And with the majesty of darkness round Circles his throne...... Book II. 263. 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, umbreque silentes, Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia laté, Sit mihi fas audita loqui; sit numine vestro Pandere res altA terra et caligine mersas. {bant obscuri, sola sub nocte, per umbram, aH ate X a in ae a see etatesy PET 2+ FP Se Se SeBsePeory po pt BE deal Pre be errr teers tt Pe eg fe Rs “ nf Li eee eae errr nee ra td ces bere a SESE SEL Pe POP eee rer ey ore trae tere eee tos ee ce ts bee rere ae a 7 SZPHLTET Se THTST ETH Bese ess + Patsi Tie od =a a Res Pore esSUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. [LECT. II 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 sub- 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 unfayourable 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 sway The gliding ghosts and silent shades obey : O Chaos, hear ! and Phlegethon 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 ef the dead ; As wander travellers in woods by night, ' By the moon’s doubtful and malignant light, DRYDEN. +The picture which Lucretius has drawn of the dominion of superstition over 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 jaceret In terris, oppressa gravi sub religione, Que caput celi rezionibus ostendebat, Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans, Primum Graius homo mortales tollere contra Est oculos ausus....0e.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, entire, and undivided upon the mind. oe bs eee eee tt wee here re ie ee eee ee ee et eee ces bee ih aie rte ae a SUPPLIES T eT eT eee Teese ese 2 yest T tad bs ee Re fore + e254:cakscie eh bak tae Bok oe SE a eb a oak Pits gop eC ee ee oe ol maiteen fiie po 46 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 sublime : From their foundations loos’ning to and fro, They pluck’d the seated hills, with all their load, Rocks, waters, woods ; and by the shaggy tops Uplifting, bore them in their hands. Whereas Claudian, in a fragment upon the wars of the giants, has contrived to render this idea of their throwing the mountains, which is in itself so grand, burlesque and ridiculous; by this single cireum- 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. Itis that of the burning mountain Afitna; a subject certainly very proper to be worked up by a poet into a sub lime description : Horrificis juxta tonat Atna ruinis. Interdumque atram prorumpit ad ethera nubem, Turbine fumantem piceo, et candente favilla; Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera lambit. Interdum scopulos, avulsaque viscera montis Erigit eructans, liquefactaque saxa sub auras Cum gemitu glomerat, fundoque exestuat imo.* EN. 111.571. 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 ‘tna; 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, howhugesoever. 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 Blackmore’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 in a fit ofthe cholic. Etna, and all the burning mountains, find Their kindled stores with inbred storms of wind x Ths port capacious, and secure from wind, Is to the foot of thundering 4#tna join’d. By turns a pitchy cloud she rolls on high, By turns hot embers from her entrails fly, And flakes of mounting flames that lick the sky, Oft from her bowels massy rocks are thrown, And shiver’d by the force, come piece-meal down. Oft liquid lakes of burning sulphur flow, Fed from the fiery springs that boi! below. DRYDEN. In this transiation of Dryden’s, the debasing circumstance to which I object in the eriginal, is, with propriety, omitted.LECT. Iv. ] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. Blown up to rage, and roaring out complain, As torn with inward gripes, and torturing pain ; Labouring, they cast their dreadful vomit round, And with their melted bowels spread the ground. Such instances show how much the sublime depends upon a just selection of circumstances; and with how great care every circum- stance must be avoided, which by bordering in the least upon the mean or even upon the gay or the trifling, alters the tone of the emotion. {fit shall now be inquired, what are the proper sources of the sublime ? my answer is, that they are to be looked for every where in nature. ~ It is not by hunting after tropes, and figures, and rhetori. cal assistances, that we can expect to produce it. No: it stands clear, for the most part, of these laboured refinements of art.’ It afte aan tae Selenite toe at reer ee ets _ STFS Fe tetste —— TVs out tx ee 54 BEAUTY. [LECT. v. 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 ofthe 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. Letthe 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 6f to support any part of a building that is massy, and that seems to require a more substantial prop. Wecannot 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 designandend. When their propriety is clearly discerned, the work seems always to have some beauty; but when there is a total want of propriety, it never fails of 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 itis of the utmost importance, that all who-study composition should carefully attend to it. For, in amepic poem, a history,’ay oration, or any work of ge- nlus, we always ‘require; as we do in other works, a fitness, or adjust- ment of meahs ‘to thé end which the author is supposed to have in view. Lethis deseriptidns 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 dis- course; a term commonly used in a sense altogether loose and unde- termined. For itis 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 word isalLECT. 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 itis 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 thissense, 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. Addisonis.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 oaly by appearing under the forms of sublime or oeautiful, 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 cur 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 pleasu:e to taste. This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms, the secondary pleasures of imagination ; which for:m, doubtless, a very extensive class. For all imitation affords some pleasure; not only the imitation of beauti- fal or great objects, by recalling the original ideas of beauty or grandeur which sueh objects themselves exhibited ; but even objects which have neither beauty nor grandeur, nay, some which are terri- ile or deformed, please us in a secondary or represented view. ST eee PAR Ee ae ST | Peete td etree he he PeSpetreesaseseteres wee tates seeseteite peers 2 ois + = 3 >< FES ys read eee ee eee re Ors eS eee eo tee) PL eae a ha! 4 PLTSLCST OTe Te Tere Tew se es Fs esis ots bd Ps a, ees rh Pe 346 IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. [LECP. ¥. The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to taste : there is no agreeable sensation we receive either from beauty or sublimity, but what is capable of being heightened by the power of musical sound. Hence the delight of poetical numbers, and even of the more 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 of the pleasures of taste. I have opened some of the general princi- ples; it is time now to make the application to our chief subject. If the question be put, to what class of those pleasures of taste which I have 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 themaill. 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 ofimita- 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 whichis 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 strongand lively. Hence it isusual 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 must 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 is performed by means of somewhat that has « 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, understeod only by those who agree in the institution ofneers v.] IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. 57 them; such are words and writing... Words have no natural re- semblance to the ideas or objects which they.are.employed to sig- nify ; but a statue or a picture has a natural likeness to the original. And therefore imitation and description differ considerably in their 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 their mouths, represents the discourse which they might be supposed to hold ; so far his art may more accurately be called imitative; and this is the case in all dramatic composition. But, in narrative or descriptive works, it can with no propriety be called so. Who, for instance, would call Virgil’s description of a tempest, in the first /Hineid, an imitation ofa storm? If we heard of the imitation of a battle, we might naturally think of some mock fight, or representa- tion of a battle on the stage, but would never apprehend, that it meant one of Homer’s descriptions in the Iliad. I admit, at the same time, that imitation and description agree in their principal effect, of recalling, by external signs, the ideas of things which we do not see. But though in this they coincide, yet it should not be forgotten, that the terms themselves are not synonymous; that they import different means of effecting the same end; and of course make different impressions on the mind.” Whether we consider poetry in particular, and discourse in 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 this 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, in 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, or such scenes, as though they never had a being, yet might have existed ; and which, therefore, by their probability, bear a resemblance to nature. It was 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 by Mr. Harris, in his treatise on music, painting, and poetry. ‘The chief advantage which poetry, or discourse in general, enjoys, 1S, that whereas, by 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‘suhject of his picture, he may be said to exhibit with more advantage than the poet or orator ; inas- much as he sets berore 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 s while discourse is obliged to exhibit them in succession, and by means of a cetail which is in danger of becoming tedious, in order to be clear ; or, if not tedious, is in danger of being obscure. But to that point of time which he has chosen, the painter being entirely confined, he cannot exhibit vartous stages of the same action or event ; and he is subject to this farther defect, that he can only exhibit objects as they appear to the eye, and can very imperfectly delineate characters and sentiments, which are the noblest subjects of imitation or description. The power of representing these with full advantage, gives a high superiority to discourse end writing, above all other jmitatiye arts. eee rietst e weet ke kee, iil di Seiten Ey Ps eg = ie Sees Rees ees LP Mee ee oe tase a ate + ieee Stee ee er ree Sy ewer breate tC rete ners fal cx ot ka Lapetesepesobija jussosndureyes? rere Re i. 4 ae cw ie eatgegteteterereteBecertas 5) ra ha Ped 3 ae eerie ks a a © te Be ete : : telat e ts : Sa 3 eee eee ee rer ee Ee ee ke Se ad Pee agad ree - be a peetgedse eee esegetedeSesratatetet eteleretetecestss eo ar, a S2%%.: heeDSesSosebeletSze teas 68 RISE AND PROGRESS [LEcT. VE. 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 instructers of men; and in their reasonings on all different subjects, introduced that plainer and simpler style of composition which we now call prose. Among the Greeks, Pherecydes of Scyros, the master of Pythagoras, is 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 whichornament 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 m by tones and gestures, anner of uttering or pro- nouncing words; and in the style and character of speech. I have yet to considerit 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. LECTURE VII. oe iis RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AND OF WRITING. Wuen 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, and uttering at the same time a passionate cry. Supposing him to have acquired words, the first word which he uttered would, of course, be the name of that object. He would not express himself, according to our English order of construction, “ give me fruit;’’ but according to the Latin order, “fruit give me ;?? “¢fructum da mihi;” for this plain reason, that his attention was wholly directed towards fruit, the desired object. This was the exciting idea; the object which moved him to speak; and of course would be the first named. Such’ an arrangement is precisely putting into words the gestureLECT: VII. | OF LANGUAGE. 69 which nature taught the savage to make, before he was acquainted with words; and therefore it may be depended upon as certain, that he would fall most readily into this arrangement. 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 objectin 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 the principal 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: “ Animiimperio, corporis servitio, magis utimur,”’? which order certainly renders the sentence more lively andstriking, than when it isarranged according to our English construction ; “ we make most use of the direction of the soul, and of the service of the body.”? The Latin order 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: Justum et tenacem propcsiti 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; 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 varieties in the arrangement, that it is not easy to reduce them to any one principle. But, in general, this was the genius and character of most of the ancient ate ee eee SP Sers a ge Piss he rs Tee et NT. bat ce eee eas 1 gedit seciseceteees acetate lity ag reeee Spey Hi SR ReT Ces L SEA TEC ES: EE PEELE: = Pee TE Se RESET TON Sere Ter ete rete ere to eee See eet) Te eee egZeatareterete rere tetecestss2ie + 3 a re ea aa o 4 ~ +s rf Sse)Lie a re te es Seer 70 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. 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. / AN 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 order 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 impossil‘e 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 ;’’ 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 mansuetudmem, tam inusitatam inauditamque ‘‘clementiam, tantumque in summapotestate rerum omniummodum, ‘“tacitus nullo modo preterire 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. VII. | 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 isan alteration in the structure of language, of which I shall have oceasion 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 by placing them close to one another in the period. For instance; the Romans could, with propriety, express themselves thus : Extinctum nymphe crudeli funere Daphnim TWiohentgicg 8 ost scea us 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 ‘“nymphez”’ 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 becomea perfect riddle, in which it is impossible to find any meaning. It was by means of this contrivance, which obtained in almost all the ancient languages of varying the termination of nouns and verbs, and thereby pointing out the concordance and the government of the words ina 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 of verbs, with the more ease, because they placed no great value upon the advantages arising from such a structure of language. s. "They were attentive only to clearness, and copiousness of expression.— hey neither regarded much the harmony of sound, nee sought to gratify the imagination by the collocation of words. ‘tf hey studied solely to express themselves in such a manner as should exhibit their :deas to others in the most distinct and intelligible order. And hence,~ : i arrangement of its words if our language, by reason of the simple 7 ang eb ea oo nossesses less harmony, less beauty, and tess force, than ree a . CJ . - or Latin; it is, however, in its meaning, mere obvious and plain. Thus I have shown what the natural progress of janguage has been, in several material articles: and this account Ted oo 7 ny observations and progress of language, lays a foundation for ai i Aah s i both curious and usefu:. From what has been said in this, anc the pd St gacdgecerisesatltad atetaetelaty Peta re? $$ bisavierce Pe eee St Teer a ere Te ey eee eee re ae re ss Tee SURGE LET OTE TETEL eT eBece ese SP oss eGeBssePoorece BEd ae ae hd cant Lagat othe a oe £ ¥ 9. ‘72 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. viE. 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- fuland lively. Itappears, that, 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 ripens. Thus language, proceeding from sterility to copiousness, hath, at the same time, proceeded fram 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. 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 of marks or characters presented to the eye, which we call writing. Written characters are of two sorts. They are either signs for things, or signs for words. Of the former sort, signs of things, are the pictures, hieroglyphics, and symbols, employed by the ancient nations ; of the latter sort, signs for words, are the alphabetical characters now employed by all Europeans. These two kinds ot writing are generically and essentially distinct. “fractures 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. vrr. | OF WRITING. 73 torical pictures, the Mexicans are said to have transmitted the 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 was 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, bya 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- pertiés 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 hieroglyphies were an invention of the Egyptian priests, for concealing their learning from common view ; and that, upon this account, \t 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 necessity, not from choice or refinement; and would never have been thought of, 10 ESE RC SLAC eer te a S dotgh de bteetetnesitie dd ded 4 ae Spey titatehet S2gSs esters: Ht egegstetedFteseteged eeeba tes ST pee ee ys Peron Stee ee rr ete rete ree re ee Se ee te OL 4 ae A ea :* eee is ts bh oe ek Pk ee Fs rea ohs 5 hs ce ate € Pn a mA §To Sa eee oe 2. eae Se ee ed 74 RISE AND PROGRESS [LEcT. VH. if alphabetical 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 methcd 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, asa 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- «ly phics, or symbols of things invisible; from these latter, it advanc- ed, among some nations, to simple arbitrary marks which stood for objects, though without any resemblance or analogy to the objects signified. Of this nature was the method of writing practised among the Peruvians. They made use of small cords, of different colours ; and by knots upon these, of various sizes, and differently ranged, they contrived signs for giving information, and communicating their thoughts to one another. Of this nature also, are the written characters, which are used to this day throughout the great empire of China. The Chinese have no 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 isa 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 Corceans, who speak different languages from one another, and from the in~ habitants of China, use, however, the same written characters with» them; and, hy this means,correspond intelligibly with each other inLECT. 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: aresigns 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. They 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- nerfection, 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 themselves, 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 he practicable to express, In writing, the whole combinations ofsounds which our words require. ' The first step, in this new progress, was the invention of an al- phabet of syllaoles, which probably preceded the invention ofan al- phabet of letters, among some of the ancient nations; and which is said to be retained to this day in A%thiopia, and some countries of India. By fixing upona 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 Ss Pe Ssgesesereaid eve loss B Setede tdbcessce ceeseurdeietes SesePPlsIHsESTErsS Se rceSe see I2F* abl es ere ee re fale oS as ee ae Fae eat eRe SN Stree er eee Teo OTS ee ee ee Prk Cr a ae eiedesedeSearatgreteteterei oe et eee eee ee yo . et ee os F id ¢76 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. VII. their most simple elements, reduced them to a very few vowels and consonants; and, by affixing to each of these, the signs which we now call letters, taught men how, by their combinations, to put in writing all the different words, or combinations of sound, which they 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 state, 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 by Cadmus the Phenician; 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. Asthe Phenicians 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 hieroglyphiecs are known to have been intermixed with abbreviated symbols, and arbitrary marks; whence, at last, they caught the idea of contriving marks, not for things merely, butfor sounds. Accordingly Plato (in Pheedo) 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 have 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, witha 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, havea remarkable con formity with the Hebrew or Sama- ritan characters, which, it is agreed, are the same with the Pheenician, or the alphabet of Cadmus. Invert the Greek characters from lefi to right, according to the Pheenician and Hebrew manner of wriLECT. Vit. ] OF WRITING. 77 ting, and they are nearly the same. Besides the conformity of figure, thenames or denominations ofthe 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 anew method, writing their lines alternately from the right to the left, and from the left to the right, which was called Boustro- phedon ; or, writing after the manner in which oxen plough the eround. 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 this direction, prevailed throughout all the countries of Europe. Writing was long a kind of engraving. Pillars, and tables of stone, were first employed for this purpose, and afterwards plates of the softer metals, such as lead. In proportion as writing became 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. Letus conclude the subject, with comparing ina few words, spoken language, and written language; or words uttered in our hearing, with words represented to the eye; where we shall find several advantages and disadvantages to be balanced on boih sides. The advantages of writing above speech are, that writing is both the moreextensive,andamore permanent method of communication. More extensive, as it isnot 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 sent ments to futurity, and of perpetuating the instructive memory of eeieretes Je ee ie te et ee Pest eS eee ee tre tee era oe ce os Gee bd Sate ee ee ete re Oe ee ot i fe jm so tegege¥esty bets | ne agade tecwt + eee Te tie be be oe be 84 oe ee ee ae» b Fe. nal oes a ee Pe ee ei a78 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. §[xecr. vii past transactions. It likewise affords this advantage to such as read, above such as hear, that, having the written characters before their eyes, they can arrest the sense of the writer. They can pause, and revolve, and compare, at their leisure, one passage with another: whereas, the voice is fugitive and passing; 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 onus 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. LECTURE VIII. STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. Arrer having given an account of the rise and progress of lan- 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 ourearliest youth. But what was then inculeated before we could comprehend its principles, would abundantly repay our study in maturer years; and to the ignorance of it, must be attribut- ed 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, orLECT. vi.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 72 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 substantiyes, attributives,.and connectives.* Sub- stantives are all the words which express the names of ohyects, 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; nots, 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 better 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 soon as men had got beyond simple interjections, or exclamations of * Quintilian informs us, that this was the most ancient division. “Tum videbit quot Quanquam de numero parum convenit. Veteres ¢¢ enim, quorum fuerant Aristoteles atque Theodictes, verba modo, et eee: et con- <<‘ vinctiones tradiderunt. Videlicet, quod in verbis vim sermonis, im nominibus mate i i i ur) In Convinctionibus “ riam, (quia alterum est quod loquimur, alterum de quo eee elie wie pho “ autem complexum eorum esse judicarunt ; quas conjunctiones a } que . ‘sed hec videtur ex cuyderu2 magis propria translatio. Paulatim a philosophicis ae ‘ maximé a stoicis, auctus est numerus , ac primim convinctionibus articuli adjecti ; pronomen ; deinde mistum verbo ‘ post prepositiones ; nominibus, appellatio, deinde | : mE : eo ‘¢ participium ; Ipsis verbis, adverbia.” Lib. 1. cap. lv, “et que sunt partes orationis. Tei aie thee ee ] Paever eres. —_2iee = Seer se cr er e* Sbtesese?r S2sseM Ea ta J Water cet eet fed ros et te ee ree er Pe treaty es ey eee ere ee ee ek ee 7 Sesegtgtetare tere rete tese yess Pea Tatts ae -, £34 oer ia as epee ee eee Peart en 80 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, [zect. vu. 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 (rom 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 aroot, 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 Cesar, 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, some of 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 produces instances from se- veral of the American languages; and it is, undoubtedly, suitable to the natural course 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 part, long words, and full of vowels. : This is the consequence of their being formed upon the natural sounds which the voice utters with most ease, a little varied and distinguished by articulation: and oe shows this to hold, in fact, dmong most of the barbarous languages which are nown.LECT. vi.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 8i of individual objects, but of very extensive genera, or species of objects; as man, lion, house, river, &c. We are not, however, te imagine that this invention of general, or abstract terms, requires any great exertion of metaphysical capacity: for, by whatever steps the mind proceeds in it, it is certain that, when men have once ob- served resemblances among objects, they are naturally inclined te call all those which resemble one another, by one common name; and, of course, to class them under one species. We may daily ebserve 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 véry 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. .@ is much the same with one, and marks only any one individual of a species; that individual deing either unknown or left undetermined; as, a lion, a king.— Lhe, 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, 6 470, 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, BaciAsus signifies a king ; 6 BassAeus, the king. The Latins have no article. In the room of it, they employ pronouns; as, hic, ile, 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 inthe Latin tongue: as articles contribute much to the clearness and pre- cision of language. . “hi 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 @ 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, psaomargete of several words Pe eesaeteDserraeyoe Syreszey De ed ged eked Pees ce te ne eee etre te bere ae ce ot ee ee a a ks shy R54 4 Pee ° i , Ségeteco iF Sees ee er ee ets eee PRs eee eS ke ee ee Sesegestetetatecere te tecesessFes cs Peest Tt he bd bts x es eh ‘gb * ; 2 = ~“Pitas 1a) oe ee ese ee ce fe Me oe Ee Wats 82 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LeEctT. vur 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 @ man,” is a very general and harmless position ; but, “thou art ¢he man,” is an assertion capable, we know, of striking terror and remorse into the heart. These observations illustrate the foree 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 erammarians 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 ant- 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; sagi¢ta, 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 ofa 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 all of them ought to have been, under the neuter gender; as, Zemplum,a church; sedile, a seat. But the genius of the French and Italian tongues differs, in thisLECT. vill.] 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 Ja; 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 77 and Jo, for the masculine; and de 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 tf, in speaking of any object where there is no sex, or where the sex is not known. The Ene- 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, “itis the law of ‘our nature.” But ifI choose te 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 the metaphorical use of genders, in the English lan- guage, are taken from Mr. Harris’s Hermes. Fp PP HP FASS De Poses jp evee tpardaieerssesarterad etetateSaty Fate lets? Peer steerer rte rere ers ars ote See ee eee oe ee Pr a ae a eS Pre e_egegtete et elere tet seses Fs Pea ge at ete es a ‘ab. * aes ee ‘€ct 84 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LeEcT. vin upon no occasion, be changed; ager, for instance, in Greek, virtus in Latin, and da 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 of reasoning, or that of declamation: whereas, 1n English, we can ei- ther 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 lan- euage 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, er 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 have more of the passive in their nature, than of the active; 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 cireum- 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 particularizedLect. vi.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 85 them by means of the article, and distinguished them by number and gender, still their language remained extremely imperfect, till they had devised some method of expressing the relations which those objects bore, one towards another. They would find it of lit- tle use te 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. Alllanguages, however, do not agree in this mode of expression. The Greek, Latin, and several other languages, use declension. The English, French, and Italian, do not; or, at most, use it very imper- fectly. In place of the-variations of cases, the modern tongues ex- press the relations 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, Z, me; he, him; who, whom. There is nothing, then, or at least very little, in the grammar of our lan- guage, which corresponds to declension in the ancient languages. T'wo questions, respecting this subject, may be put. First, Which of these methods of expressing relations, whether that by declen- sion, or that by prepositions,.was the most ancient usage in lan- guage? Andnext, 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 evaployed 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 antiquity of cases, although they may, on first view, seem to constitute a more artificial method than the other, of denoting relations, yet there are strong reasons for think- ing that this was the earliest method practised by men. We find, in fact, that deciensions and cases are used in most of what are called the mother tongues, or original languages, as well as in the Greek ERI eed ee ee be Bea) hats ee Rada ta ge pi Pare yey as te ae Neer ee tee ee fee oe 2 Gee el PEE Se a bk oe Pede+ chsthssivfudw gw lepese sep esegs jw gwissegerere eee Pete 4 ee vk ‘ . +4 5 _- * 4 bo es * + 23 7 4 GMa othe be Se od oe eS ~86 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [zecr. vur. and Latin? And a very natural and satisfying account can be given why this usage should have early obtained. Relations are the most abstract and metaphysical ideas of any which men have occasion to form, when they are considered by themselves, and separated from the related object. It would puzzle any man, as has been well ob- served by an author on this subject, to give a distinct account of what is meant by sucha word as of or from, when it stands 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 aman; homzni,to a man; homine, with a man, &c. But though this method of declension was, probably, the only method which menemployed, 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 eases 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, al Roma di Carthago, al Carthago, than to remember all the variety of terminations, Rome, Romam, Carthaginis, Carthaginem, which the use of deelensions 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 sides. There is no doubt that, by abolishing cases, we have rendered the structure of modern languages more simple. We have disembarrassed it of all the intricacy which arose from the different forms of declension, of which the Romans had no fewer than five; and from all the ir- regularities in these several declensions. Wehave thereby rendered our languages more easy to be acquired, and less subject to the perplexity of rales. But, though the simplicity and éase 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 itto the side of antiquity.LECT. vi.] STRUCTURE OF 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 cneryated its force. In the second place, we have certainly rendered the sound of language less agreeable to the ear, by de- priving it ofthat 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. ‘ {n 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 words 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 inthe period. The meaning ofthe 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 cenceived to be more intimately connected with the term which they serve to lengthen, than the additional, detached, and in themselves insignificant particles, which we are obliged to employ as connectives to our significant words. Our method gives almost the same exposure to the one as to the other, making the 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- bel], vol. ii. p. 412. Aris te te eee oe Bt Spee be eecess o RP eae 4 Peaet ss rae ed ss te ea tfaedae PFU ST PUP ee eee rere tee ore seer Serer tee tee ohh ee a SbseeisectSiaigi gs? Fetetatelete terete + re —: Se a Ps Pret SERHEGT ET eT eT eT eT eRe sees NTS ea bes ce ee . eee ee ee a Sea Sar. pe ae oe Phe oer Se rere 88 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. _ [ieecv. vrrr. Pronouns are the class of words most nearly related to substantive nouns; being, as the name imports, representatives, or substitutes, of nouns. Jf, thou, he, 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 ease. Only, with respect to gender, we may observe, that the pronouns of the first and second person, as they are called, fand thou, do not appear to have had the distinctions of gender given them in any language; for this plain reason, that, as they always refer to persons who are present to each other when they speak, their sex must appear, and therefore needs not be marked by amasculine 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. In English, most uf our grammarians hold the personal pronouns to have two cases, besides the nominative; a genitive, and accusative; J, mine, me; thou, thine, thee; he, his, him; who, whose, whom. In the first stage of speech, it is probable that the places of those 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. J, 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- ees. JZ, is the most general term that can possibly be conceived, as it may stand for any one thing in the universe, of which we speak. At the same time, these pronouns have this quality, that in the cir- eumstances 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, sreat, 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 haying the same form given them with substantive nouns; being declined, likeEROP. ix. STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 89 them, by cases, and subjected to the like distinctions of number and gender. Hence it has happened, that grammarians have made them to 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 fener, 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- euish: they made the adjective depend on its substantive, and re sembie 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, according to the grammatical style, should show their concordance. When I say in English, the “Beautiful wife of a brave man,” the juxtaposition of the words prevents all ambiguity. But when I say in Latin, “ For- mosa fortis viri uxor;”’ itis only the agreement, in gender, number, and case, of the adjective “formosa,” which is the first word of the sentence, with the substantive “wzxor,”’ which is the last word that declares the meaning. LECTURE Ix. ee STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE.—ENGLISH TONGUE. Or 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, 1n examining the na- ture and different variations of the verb, there might be room for 12 eae eed ee oe ing2s: ae cote togehatsecttesetd tad ee kate laty. Jav= Ee pivingeisieiesesesogiingesosegererest ee eee ee ee eee 4 5 Ce. 4 oe a ke SADE EST et ath TeT ete tece sss 2 PLT Teai Thebes A ae 4 steete Pezaiei it pk oe Bk ee ee ee een 90 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [acres ample discussion. But as I am sensible that such grammatical dis- cussions, when they are pursued far, become intricate and obscure, I shall avoid dwelling any longer on this subject than seems abso- lutely necessary. a 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 say, ‘the sun shineth;’ shining is the attribute ascribed to the sun; the present time is marked; and an affirmation is included, that this property of shining belongs, at that time, to the sun. The 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.? Butas, 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,’ &e. the affirmation seems to be that which chiefly distinguishes the verb from the other parts of speech, and gives it its most conspicuous power. Hence there can be no sentence, or complete proposition, without a verb either expressed or implied. For, whenever we speak, we always mean to assert, that something Is, or is not; and the word which carries this assertion, or affirmation, isa verb. From this sort of eminence belonging to it, this part of speech hath re- ceived its name, verb, from the Latin verbwm, or the word, by way of distinction. Verbs, therefore, from their importance and necessity in speech, must have been coéval with men’s first attempts towards the forma- tion of language; though, indeed, it must have been the work of long time, to rear them up to that accurate and complex structure which they now possess. It seems very probable, as Dr. Smith has suggested, that the radical verb, or the first form of it, in most lan- guages, would be, what we now call the impersonal verb. ‘It rains; it thunders; it is light; it is agreeable;’ and the like; as this is the very simplest form of the verb, and merely affirms the existence of an event, or of a state of things. 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,LECI Ux. | STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 91 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 wasneedtful. But language proceeds with much greater subtilty. It splits time into its several moments. It considers time as never 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, lam writing; scribe.” 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- st;’? 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. Thisis the plusquamperfect. ‘I had writ- ten; seripseram. I had written before I received his letter.”’ Here we observe with some pleasure, that we have an advantage over the Latins, who have only three varieties upon the past time. They have no proper perfect tense, or one which distinguishes an action just now finished, from an action that was finished some time ago. In both these cases they must say, “scripsi.’”? ‘Though there be a manifest 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 mate ; I have written;’ the imperative requires, commands, threatens, ‘ write thou; let him write.’ The subjunctive expresses the proposition * On the tenses of the verbs, Mr. Harris’s Hermes may be Cott shee such as ne sire to see them scrutinized with metaphysical accuracy ; and also the Treatise on the -2 a Origin and Progress of Language, vol, ii. p. 120. Te ee et Paes: ited. Ls Pee Se De Pe gee ere. tees ce a2 el ed Per ee ress ot tee RP ed ea as ePereses 1fqeeattectiesaterug seta tesete tits? ge - : ae a res : tite e F Peee Gos go ee PR Pee Stee eee Pee re OTe ere oe ee) he oe ee P etre ir oa oe od Oh a ee ee ek Ae 2 Tish ae 7 . . a Feros tt ena rhs es ae 4 re aoe es ee ee Se ee ee ee ee See cee — >So oes a ee ee ee ee es 92 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [ LECT: Ix. under tle form of a condition, or in subordination to some other thing, to which a reference is made, ‘I might write, I could write, I should write, if the case were so and so.” This manner of ex- pressing an affirmation, under so many different forms, together also with the distinction of the three persons, /, fhow, and he, con- stitutes what is called the conjugation of verbs, which makes so great a part of the grammar of all languages. It now clearly appears, as I before observed, that, of all the parts of speech, verbs are, by far, the most artificial and complex. Con- sider only, how many things are denoted by this single Latin word ‘amavissem, 1 would have loved.’ First, The person who speaks, ‘1.’ Secondly, An attribute or action of that person, ‘loving.’ Third- ly, An affirmation concerning that action. Fourthly, The past time denoted in that affirmation, ‘have loved?’ and, Fifthly, A con- dition, on which the action is suspended, ‘ would have loved.’ It appears curious and remarkable, that words of this complex import, and with more or less of this artificial structure, are to be found, as far as we know, in all languages of the world, Indeed,the form of conjugation, or the manner of expressing all these varieties in the verb, differs greatly in different tongues. Con- jugation is esteemed most perfect in those languages which,by vary- ing either the termination or the initial syllable of the verb,express the greatest number of important circumstances, without the help of auxiliary words. In the oriental tongues, the verbs are said to have few tenses, or expressions of time; but then their modes are so con- ‘rived as to express a great variety of circumstances and relations. In the Hebrew, for instance, they say, in one word, without the help of any auxiliary, not only ‘I have taught,’ but, ‘I have taught exactly, or often; I have been commanded to teach; I have taught myself? The Greek, which is the most. perfect of all the known tongues, is very regular and complete in all the tenses and moods, The Latin is formed on the same model, but more imperfect ; es- pecially in the passive voice, which forms most of the tenses by the nelp of the auxiliary ‘ sa.’ In all the modern European tongues, conjugation is very defec- tive. They admit few varieties in the termination of the verb it- self; but have almost constant recourse to their auxiliary verbs, throughout all the moods and tenses, both active and passive. Lan- guage has undergone a change in conjugation, perfectly similar to that which J showed in the last lecture, it underwent with respect to declension. As prepositions, prefixed to the noun, superseded the use of cases; so the two great auxiliary verbs, to have, and to be, with those other auxiliaries which we use in English, do, shall, will, may, and can, prefixed to the participle, supersede, in a great measure, the different terminations of moods and tenses, which form- ed the ancient conjugations. The alteration, in both cases, was owing to the same cause, and will be easily understood, from reflecting on what was formerly ob- served. The auxiliary verbs are, like prepositions, words of a very general and abstract nature. They imply the different modificationsLECT. Ex. ] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 93 of simple existence, considered alone, and without reference to any particular thing. In the early state of speech, the import of them would be incorporated, with every particular verb in its tenses and moods, long before words were invented for denoting such abstract conceptions of existence, alone, and by themselves. But after those auxiliary verbs came, in the progress of language, to be invented and known, and to have tenses and moods given to them like other verbs; it was found, that as they carried in their nature the force of that affirmation which distinguishes the verb, they might, by being joined with the participle which gives the meaning of the verb, supply the place of most of the moods and tenses. Hence, as the modern tongues began to rise out of the ruins of the ancient, this method established itself in the new formation of speech. Such words, for instance, as am, was, have, shall, being once familiar, it appeared more easy to apply these to any verb whatever; as, Jam loved ; I was loved ; I have loved ; than to remember that variety of terminations which were requisite in conjugating the ancient verbs, amor, amabar,amavi,&c. Two or three varieties only in the termi- nation of the verb, were retained, as, Jove, loved, loving ; and all the rest were dropt. The consequence, however, of this practice, was the same as that of abolishing declensions. It rendered language more simple.and_easy in its structure; but withal, more prolix, and less graceful. This finishes all that seemed most necessary to be observed with respect to verbs. The remaining parts of speech, which are called the indeclinable parts, or that admit of no variations, will not detain us long. Adverbs are the first that occur. These form a very numerous class of words in every language, reducible, in general, to the head of attributives; as they serve to modify, or to denote some circum- stance ofan.action.or.of a quality, relative to its time, place, order, degree, and the other properties of it, which we have occasion to specify.—They are, forthe most part, no more than an abridged mode of speech, expressing, by one word, what might, by a circumlocu- tion, be resolved into two or more words belonging to the other parts of speech. ‘Exceedingly,’ for instance, is the same as ‘in a high degree;’ ‘bravely,’ the same as, ‘with bravery or valour;’ ‘here,’ the same as, ‘in this place;’ ‘often, and seldom,’ the same as, ‘for many and for few times,’ and so of the rest. Hence, adverbs may be conceived as of less necessity, and of later introduction into the system of speech, than many other classes of words; and accordingly, the great body of them are derived from other words formerly es- tablished in the language. Prepositions and conjunctions, are words more essential to dis- course than the greatest part of adverbs. They form that class of words, called connectives, without which there could be no fan- guage ; serving to express the relations which things bear to one another, their mutual influence, dependencies, and coherence; thereby joining words together into intelligible and significant pro- positions. Conjunctions are generally employed for connecting sen- tences, or members of sentences; as, and, because, although, and * et tae erie ¥ ERee eed te ee thei leks 4 See cseeeee zi gi sss ses ease eee ce Noe fa Weert te rer rt ee a) stg tisgeseres ‘ Sieseoes aS hs EE PeC ESE ESS Ree SE er a ae Seer Poet. 4. ee a ett a? ok be at oh a ee ee 3 edtei ciesetet? as *< = ¢( uuOT. ia 94 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. the like. Prepositions are employed for connecting words by show- ing the relation which one substantive noun bears to another ; as, gf, from, to, above, below, Sc. Of the force of these I had occasion to speak before, when treating of the cases and declensions of sub- stantive nouns. “It is abundantly evident, that all these connective particles must be of the greatest use in speech; seeing they point out the relations and transitions by which the mind passes from one idea to another. They are the foundation of all reasoning, which is no other thing than the connexion of thoughts. And, therefore, though among barbarous nations, and in the rude uncivilized ages of the world, the ' stock of these words might be small, it must always have increased, as mankind advanced in the arts of reasoning and reflection. ‘The more that any nation is improved by science, and the more perfect their language becomes, we may naturally expect that it will abound more with connective particles; expressing relations of things, and transitions of thought, which had escaped a grosser view. Accord- ingly, no tongue is so full of them as the Greek, in consequence of the acute and subtile genius of that refined people. In every lan- guage, much of the beauty and strength of it depends on the pro- per use of conjunctions, prepositions, and those relative pronouns, which also serve the same purpose of connecting the different parts of discourse. It isthe right, or wrong management of these, which chiefly makes discourse appear firm and compacted, or disjointed and loose; which carries it on its progress with a smooth and even pace, or renders its march irregular and desultory. I shall dwell no longer on the general construction of language. Allow me, only, before I dismiss the subject, to observe, that dry and intricate as it may seem to some, it is, however, of great importance, and very nearly connected with the philosophy of the human mind. For, if speech be the vehicle, or interpreter of the conceptions of our minds, an examination of its structure and progress~cannot but unfold many things concerning the nature and progress of our con- ceptions themselves, and the operations of our faculties; a subject that is always instructive to man. ‘Nequis,’ says Quintilian, an au- thor of excellent judgment, ‘nequis tanquam parva fastidiat ¢ram- matices elementa. Non quia magne sit opere consonantes a vocali- bus discernere, easque in semivocalium numerum, mutarumque par- tiri, sed quia interiora velut sacri hujus adeuntibus, apparebit multa rerum subtilitas, quae non modo acuere ingenia puerilia, sed exercere altissimam quoque eruditionem ac scientiam possit.’* i, 4, Let us now come nearer to our own language. [In this, and the preceding lecture, some observations have already been made on it aa Let no man despise, as inconsiderable, the elements of grammar, because seem to him a matter of small consequence, to show the distincticn betwee consonants, and to divide the latter into liquids and mutes. But they who penetrate into the innermost parts of this temp Je of science, will there discover such refihement and subtilty of matter, as is not only proper to sharpen the understandings of young men, but sufficient to give exercise for the most profound knowledge and erudition Bay it may n vowels andLECT. TXi] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 95 structure. But it is proper that we should be a little moe particu- lar in the examination of it. The language which is, at present, spoken throughout Great Bri- tain, is neither the ancient primitive speech of the island, nor de- rived from it; but is altogether of foreign origin. The language of the first inhabitants of our island, beyond doubt, was the Celtic, or Gaelic, common to them with Gaul; from which country it appears, by many circumstances, that Great Britain was peopled. This Celtic tongue, which is said to be very expressive and copious, and is, pro- bably, one of the most ancient languages in the world, obtained once in most of the western regions of Europe. Itwas the languageofGaul, of Great Britain, of Ireland, and, very probably, of Spain also; till, in the course of those revolutions which, by means of the con- quests, first, of the Romans, and afterwards, of the northern nations, changed the government, speech, and, in a manner, the whole face of Europe, this tongue was gradually obliterated ; and now subsists only in the mountains of Wales, in the Highlands of Scotland, and among the wild Irish. For the Irish, the Welch, and the Erse, are no other than different dialects of the same tongue, the ancient Celtic.. This, then, was the language of the primitive Britons, the first inhabitants that we know of in our island; and continued so till the arrival of the Saxons in England, in the year of our Lord 450; who, having conquered the Britons, did not intermix with them, but expelled them from their habitations, and drove them, together with their language, into the mountains of Wales. The Saxons were one of those northern nations that overran Europe; and their tongue, a dialect of the Gothic or Teutonic, altogether distinct from the Celtic, laid the foundation of the present English tongue. With some intermixture of Danish, a language, probably, from the same root with the Saxon, it continued to be spoken throughout the southern part of the island, till the time of William the Conqueror. He introduced his Norman, or French, as the language of the court, which made a considerable change in the speech of the nation; and the English which was spoken afterwards, and continues to be spo- ken now, is a mixture of the ancient Saxon, and this Norman French, together with such new and foreign words as commerce and learning have, in progress of time, gradually introduced. The history of the English language can, in this manner, be clearly traced. The language spoken in the Low Countries of Scot- land, is now, and has been for many centuries, no other than a dia- lect of the English. How, indeed, or by what steps, the ancient Celtic tongue came to be banished from the Low Country in Scot- land, and to make its retreat into the Highlands and islands, can- not be so well pointed out, as how the like revolution was brought about in England. Whether the southernmost part of Scotland was once subject to the Saxons, and formed a part of the kingdom of Northumberland; or whether the great number of English exiles that retreated into Scotland, upon the Norman conquest, and upon other occasions, introduced into that country their own language, Tih a tas si ewe ee a ae od BS ee eee re Le ee pee eee hee tera fel a ot os ee pe a le : <3 ae Th; 35% PIE V ESP Tye Pee See eee et Tete Oe eee Boe ee tee ie : ee ha eee ge eee arse yr SLe tReet erate Tele te Bete esisegade Mes lt =? Pets Tht he ol Ps Pat ones Pid oNes 96 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. finery mm. which afterwards, by the mutual intercourse of the two nations, prevailed over the Celtic, are uncertain and contested pcints, the discussion of which would lead us too far from our subject. From what has been said, it appears that the Teutonic dialect is the basis of our present speech. It has been imported among us in three different forms, the Saxon, the Danish, and the Norman ; all which have mingled together in our language. A very great num- ber of our words, too, are plainly derived from the Latin. These we had not directly from the Latin, but most of them, it is probable, entered into our tongue, through the channel of that Norman French, which William the Conqueror introduced. For, as the Romans had long been in full possession of Gaul, the language spoken in that eountry, when it was invaded by the Franks and Normans, was a sort of corrupted Latin, mingled with Celtic, to which was given the name of Romanshe: and as the Franks and Normans did not, like the Saxons in England, expel the inhabitants, but, after their victo- ries, mingled with them; the language of the country became a compound of the Teutonic dialect imported by these conquerors, and of the former corrupted Latin. Hence, the French language has always continued’ to have a very considerable affinity with the Latin; and hence, a great number of words of Latin origin, which were in use among the Normans in France, were introduced into our tongue at the conquest; to which, indeed, many have since been added, directly from the Latin, in consequence of the great diffusion of Roman literature throughout all Europe. From the influx of so many streams, from the junction of so many dissimilar parts, it naturally follows,that the English, like every compounded language, must needs be somewhat irregular. We cannot expect from it that correspondence of parts, that complete analogy in structure, which may be found in those simpler langua- ges, which have been formed in a manner within themselves, and built on one foundation. Hence, as I before showed, it has but small remains of conjugation or declension ; and its syntax is narrow, as there are few marks in the words themselves, that can show their relation to each other, or, in the grammatical style, point out either their concordance, or their government in the sentence. Our words having been brought to us from several different regions, straggle, if we may so speak, asunder from each other; and do not coalesce so naturally in the structure of a sentence, as the words in the Greek and Roman tongues. But these disadvantages, if they be such, of a compound lan- euage, are balanced by other advantages that attend it; particularly, by the number and variety of words with which such a language is likely to be enriched. Few languages are, in fact, more copious than the English. In all grave subjects especially, historical, criti- eal, political, and moral, no writer has the least reason to complain of the barrenness of our tongue. The studious reflecting genius of the people, has brought together great store of expressions, on such subjects, from every quarter. We are rich too in the language of poetry. Our poetical style differs widely from prose, not in pointLECT. x ] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 07 of numbers only, but in the very words themselves; which shows what a stock and compass of words we have it in our power to se- lect and employ, suited to those different occasions. Herein we are infinitely superior to the French, whose poetical language, if it were not distinguished by rhyme, would not be known to differ from their ordinary prose. It is chiefly, indeed, on grave subjects, and with respect to the stronger emotions of the mind,-that-ourlanguage displays its power of expression... We are said to have thirty words, at least, for de- noting all the varieties of the passion of anger.” But, in describing the more delicate sentiments and emotions, our tongue is not so fer- tile. Itmust be confessed, that the French language far surpasses ours, inexpressing the nicer shades of character ; especially those varieties of manner, temper, and behaviour, which are displayed in our social intercourse with one another. Let any one attempt to translate into English, only a few pages of one of Marivaux’s novels, and he will soon be sensible of our deficiency of expression on these subjects. indeed, no language is so copious as the French for whatever is deli- cate, gay, and amusing. Itis, perhaps, the happiest language for con- versation, in the known world; but on the higher subjects of com- position, the English may be justly esteemed to excel it considerably. Language is generally understood to receive its predominant tincture from the national character of the people who speak it. We must not, indeed, expect that it will carry an exact and full impres- sion of their genius and manners; for among all nations, the original stock of words which they received from their ancestors, remain as the foundation of their speech throughout many ages, while their manners undergo, perhaps, very great alterations. National charac- ter will, however, always have some perceptible influence on the turn of language; and the gayety and vivacity of the French, and the gravity and thoughtfulness of the English, are sufficiently 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. Weseldom can express so much by one word as was done by the verbs, and by the nouns, in the Greek and Roman languages. Our style 1s less compact; our conceptions being spread out among more words, and split, as it were, into more parts, make a fainter impression when we utter them. Notwithstanding this defect, by our abounding in terms for expressing all the strong emotions of the mind, and by the — which we enjoy, in a greater degree than oe naticns, de ied pounding words, our language may be esteemed to possess consider : ‘ s, animosity, choler * Anger, wrath, passion, rage, fury, outrage, fierceness, sar EEE AMS a kindle” esentment, heat, heart-burning ; to fume, storm, ae pre es ves i = res ? / - to be sullen, hasty, hot, rough, sour irritate, enrage, exasperate, provoke, fret; : - a peevish, &c Preface to Greenwood’s Grammar. ; ? § 13 se heve fais es Peeieiei ts od reer re ee et ert ted 22 os a a ee ee Se Sete rss 3 t re ee, i SF cee: as ea ve MR PPeN Sree ere ere rere eS es ree ee ee PPT Te ee: Cees he Ce “ze eiegtaeGtatetereretetecesed a Pea ea Tat he a a a? a) a Pt ss anoes ee ee ee eee Ean ier [LECT. IX. 98 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. able force of expression ; comparatively, at least, with the other modern tongues, though much below the ancient. The style of Milton alone, both in poetry and prose, is a sufficient proof, that the English tongue is far from being destitute of nerves and energy. The flexibility of a language, or its power of accommodation to different styles and manners, so as to be either grave and strong, or easy and flowing, or tenderand 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 things; the -copiousness ofa 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 somould, 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. Ithas more of a fixed character of stateliness and gravity. It is always firm and masculine in the 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 English has 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 far. 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.IEOT.: X55] 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 az, 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 borrow from the Latin, as orator, spectacle, theatre, liberty, and such like. Agreeable to this, is a remarkable peculiarity of English pronunciation, the throwing the accent farther hack, that. is, nearer the beginning of the word than is done by any other nation. Tn 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 syllable from the end, as, mémorable, convéniency, ambulatory, préfitableness. 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 very musical, tone to the whole pronunciation of a people. The English tongue possesses, undoubtedly, this property, that it is the most simple in its form and construction, of all the European dialects. Itis free from all intricacy of cases, declensions, moods, and tenses. Its words are subject to fewer variations from their original form than those of any other language. Its substantives have no distinction of gender, except what nature has made, and but one variation in case. Its 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 fevr prepositions and auxiliary verbs, all the purposes of significancy in meaning are accomplished; while the words, for the most part, preserve their form unchanged. The disadvantages In point of ele- gance, brevity, and fo rce, 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 ou r language less laborious, the arrangement of our words more plain and obvious, the rules of our syntax fewer and more simple. wePrT Tit Tite teas Pitt eed te weet ol Seen, J eB Soa eee ge ted BF Perr ee] Sete tntale i cacdgirecttesate ted ateta tee basivtare® PEN ST eS PUP eer eer er eres eee Ale eres Thee rt UT ate) ok oe ok ee, $7. he dee 5 Py Fs , tae ~ .eS oT. ee ee ee ee ee ee ee OS eat eee ae ee ee ape Pe =$Spsssis ore [LECT..IX. i00 THE. ENGLISH LANGUAGE. I e¢ree, 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- cy. 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. - Ladmit, 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 determining every controverted point in language and style. But it will not follow from this, that grammatical rules are superseded as useless. In every language, which has been in any degree cultivated, there prevails a certain structure and analogy of parts, which is understood to give foundation to the most reputable usage of speech; and which, in all cases, when usage is loose or du- bious, possesses considerable authority. Inevery language, there are rules of syntax which must be inviolably observed by all who would either write or speak withany propriety. Forsyntax is noother than that arrangement of words, inasentence, which renders themeaning 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 ease. But, abstracting from these peculiarities, it is to be always remembered, that the chief and fundamental rules of syntax_are common to the Englishas well as the Latin tongue; and, indeed, be- long equally to all languages. For in all languages, the parts which compose speech are essentially the same; substantives, adjectives, verbs, and connecting particles: and wherever these parts of speech are foun, there are certain necessary relations among them, which regulate their syntax, or the place which they ought to possess.ina sentence. Thus, in Mnglish, 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 pluralLECT, X.] PERSPICUITY. 101 number; otherwise, 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 sucha language as ours, is absolutely requisite for writing or speaking with any propriety. Whatever the advantages or defects of the English language be, 4s it is our own language, it deserves a high degree of our study anu attention, both with regard to the choice of words which we employ, and with regard to the syntax, or the arrangement of these words ina 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 be 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 au- thors, they will find themselves much disappointed. The many ° errors, even in point of grammar, the many offences against purity of language, which are committed by writers who are far from being contemptible, demonstrate, that a careful study of the language is previously requisite, in all who aim at writing it properly.* LECTURE X. STYLE.—PERSPICUITY AND PRECISION. Havine finished the subject of language, I now enter on the con- sideration of style, and the rules that relate to it. It is not easy to give a precise idea of what is meant by style. The best definition I can give of it, is, the peculiar manner in which * On this subject the reader ought to peruse Dr. Lowth’s Short Introduction to English Grammar, with Critical Notes; which is the grammatical performance of nighest authority that has appeared in our time, and in which he will see what I have said concerning the inaccuracies in language of some of our best writers, fully verified In Dr. Campbell’s Philosophy of Rhetoric, he will likewise find many acute and ae - nious observations, both in the English language, and on style in general. And Dr Priestley’s Rudiments of English Grammar wiil also be useful, by pointing out several of the errors into which writers are apt to fall. eee. eee reas eGePesoeorseiev sist LD . es Ng ae J revere errr errr tr erie * : Phe tes ete Tee 3) eye Se Stee Per re ere rere ere ts terre oe he ee eee aie td aL can StetateTel et eteses ese ie se “h segeeedssratetst pe Soe aS 3 3feeb eas Oes tae ese wd ite wear pe By Ske ss a bh hid ei es ia => 5 4s€e2553=2 era es a ee 102 PERSPICUITY. [LECT. x. a man expresses his conceptions, by means of language. It 1s dif- ferent from mere language, or words. The words which an author employs, may be proper and faultless; and his style may, neverthe- less, have great faults: it may be dry, or stiff, or feeble, or affected. Style has always some reference to an author’s manner of thinking. It is a picture of the ideas which arise in his mind, and of the man- ner in which they rise there; and hence, when we are examining an author’s composition, it is, in many cases, extremely difficult to se- parate the style from the sentiment. No wonder these two should ; be so intimately connected, as style is nothing else than that sort of expression which our thoughts most readily assume. Hence, differ- ent countries have been noted for peculiarities of style, suited to their different temper and genius. The eastern nations animated their style with the most strong and hyperbolical figures. The Athenians, a polished and acute people, formed a style accurate, clear, and neat. The Asiatics, gay and loose in their manners, affected a style florid and diffuse. The like sort of characteristical differences are com- monly remarked in the style of the French, the English, and the Spaniards. In giving the general characters of style, it is usual to talk of a nervous, a feeble, ora spirited style; which are plainly the characters of a writer’s manner of thinking, as wellas of expressing himself: so difficult it is to separate these two things from one another. Of the general characters of style, Iam afterwards to dis- course ; but it will be necessary to begin with examining the more simple qualities of it; from the assemblage of which, its more com- plex denominations, in a great measure, result. All the qualities of good style may be ranged under two heads, \ perspicuity and ornament.) For all that can possibly be required ot language is, to convey our ideas clearly to the minds of others, and, at the same time, in such a dress, as by pleasing and interesting them, shall most effectually strengthen the impressions which we seek to make. When both these ends are answered, we certainly accom- plish every purpose for which we use writing and discourse. Perspicuity, it will be readily admitted, is the fundamental quality of style;* a quality so essential in every kind of writing, that for the want of it, nothing can atone. Without this, the richest orna- ments of style only glimmer through the dark ; and puzzle, instead of pleasing the reader. This, therefore, must be our first object, to make our meaning clearly and fully understood, and understood with- out the least diffculty. ‘Oratio,’ says Quintilian, ‘debet negligen- ter quoque audientibus esse aperta; ut in animum audientis, sicut sol in oculos, etiamsi in eum non intendatur, occurat. Quare non solum ut intelligere possit, sed ne omnino possit non intelligere cu- randum.’t If we are obliged to follow a writer with much care, to *“ Nobis prima sit virtus, perspicuitas, propria verba, rectus ordo, non in longum dilata conclusio ; nihil neque desit, neque superfluat.”’ QuinTiL. lib. viii. t “ Discourse ought always to be obvious, even to the most careless and negligent hearer : so that the sense shall strike his mind, as the light of the sun does our eyes, though they are-not directed upwards to it. We must study not only that every hearer may understand us, but that it shall be impossible for him not to understand us.”LEOD. x: ] PERSPICUITY. 103 pause, and to read over his sentences a second time, in order to comprehend them fully, he will never please us long Mankind are too indolent to relish so much labour. They may pretend to ad- mire the author’s depth, after they have discovered his meaning ; but they will seldom be inclined to take up his work a second time. Authors sometimes plead the difficulty of their subject as an ex- cuse for the want of perspicuity. But the excuse can rarely, if ever, be admitted. For whatever a man conceives clearly, that, it is in his power, if he will be at the trouble, to put into distinct propositions, or to express clearly to others: and upon no subject ought any man to write, where he cannot think clearly. His ideas, indeed, may, very excusably, be on some subjects incomplete or inadequate; but still, as far as they go, they ought to be clear; and wherever this is the case, perspicuity in expressing them is always attainable. The obscurity which reigns so much among many metaphysical writers, is, for the most part, owing to the indistinetness of their own con- ceptions. They see the object but in a confused light; and, of course,can never exhibit it in a clear one to others. Perspicuity in writing, is not to be considered as merely a sort of negative virtue, or freedom from defect. It has higher merit: it is a degree of positive beauty. We are pleased with an author, we consider him as deserving praise, who frees us from all fatigue of searching for his meaning; who carries us through his subject without any embarrassment or confusion; whase style flows always like a limpid stream, where we see to the very bottom. The study of perspicuity requires attention, first, to single words and phrases, and then to the construction of sentences. I begin with treating of the first, and shall confine myself to it in this lec- ture. Perspicuity, considered with respeet to words and phrases, re- quires these three qualities in them, purity, propriety, and precision. Purity and propriety of language, are often used indiscriminately for each other; and, indeed, they are very nearly allied. A distinc- tion, however, obtains between them. Purity is the use of such words, and such constructions, as belong to the idiom of the lan- suage which we speak ; in opposition to words and phrases that are imported from other languages, or that are obsolete, or new coined, or used without proper authority. Propriety is the selection of such words in the language, as the best_and most established usage has appropriated to those ideas which we intend to express by them. It implies the correct and happy application of them, according to that usage, in opposition to vulgarisms or low expressions ; and te words and phrases, which would be less significant of the ideas that we mean to convey. Style may be pure, that is, it may all be strict- ly English, without Scoticisms or Gallicisms, or ungrammatical irre- gular expressions of any kind, and may, nevertheless, be deficient in propriety. ‘I'he words may be ill chosen; not adapted to the subject, nor fully expressive of the author’s seuse. He has taken all his words and phrases from the general mass of English language ; but he has made his selection among these wordsunhappily. Where- eee eee ee ae fede St Ge ee oi. § ee a ea Iii lee Le eee SEF a S55. = ~-3 ee ee ‘a Ee. r= Seer pPglaes~e da. SHIASLS LHF who Ge LSysce sss epehicegmsesegeretesty bitsele te SZTURTST ST ETE TELE Te Recess <> # Pees Theis bd as it at» ar 2: oF - at aee eo te a Gol ee eee 104 PRECISION IN STYLE. [LEcT. x. as, style cannot be proper without being also pure; and where both purity and propriety meet, besides making style perspicuous, they also render it graceful. There is no standard, either of purity or of propriety, but the practice of the best writers and speakers. in the country. When I mentioned obsolete or new coined words, as incongruous with purity of style, it will be easily understood, that some excep- tions are to be made. On certain occasions, they may have grace. Poetry admits of greater latitude than prose, with respect to coin- ing, or, at least, new compounding words; yet, even here, this li- berty should be used with a sparing hand. In prose, such innova- tions are more hazardous, and have a worse effect. They are apt to give style an affected and conceited air; and should never be ven- tured upon, except by such, whose established reputation gives them some degree of dictatorial power over language. The introduction of foreign and learned words, unless where ne- cessity requires them, should always be avoided. Barren languages may need such assistances; but ours is not one of these. Dean Swift, one of our most correct writers, valued himself much on using no words but such as were of native growth: and his lan- guage may, indeed, be considered as a standard of the strictest-pu- rity and propriety, in the choice of words. At present, we seem to be departing from this standard. A multitude of Latin wordshave, of late, been poured in upon us. On some occasions, they give an appearance of elevation and dignity to style. But often, also, they render it. stiff and forced : and, in general, a plain, native style, as it is more inteiligible to all readers, so, by a proper management of words, it may be made equally strong and expressive with this La- tinised English. Let us now consider the import of precision in language, which, as it is the highest part of the quality denoted by perspicuity, me- rits a full explication; and the more, because distinct ideas are, per- haps, not commonly formed about it. The exact import of precision, may be drawn from the etymolo- gy of the word. It comes from ‘ precidere,’ to cut off: it imports retrénching all superfluities, and pruning the expression, so as to ex- hibit neither more nor less than an exact copy of his idea who uses it. I observed before, that it is often difficult to separate the quali- ties of style from the qualities of thought; and it is found so in this instance. For, in order to write with precision, though this be pro- perly a quality of style, one must possess a very considerable de- gree of distinctness and accuracy in his manner of thinking. The words which a man _uses to express his ideas, may be fauity in three respects; they may either not express that idea which the author intends, but some other which only resembles, or is akin to it; o1, they may express that idea, but not quite fully and complete- ly ; or, they may express it, together with something more than he intends. Precision stands opposed to all these three faults; but ehiefly to the last. In an author’s writing with propriety, his being free from the two former faults seems implied. The wards which hePERI S| PRECISION IN STYLE. 105 uses are proper; that is, they express that idea which he intends, and they express it fully; but to be precise, signifies, that they ex- press that idea, and no more. There is nothing in his words which introduces any foreign idea, any superfluous unseasonable accessory, so as to mix it confusedly with the principal object, and thereby to render our conception of that object loose and indistinct. This re- quires a writer to have, himself, a very clear apprehension of the ob- ject he means to present to us; to have laid fast hold of it in his mind ; and never to waver in any one view he takes of it; a perfec tion to which, indeed, few writers attain. The use and importance of precision, may be deduced from the nature cf the human mind. It never can view, clearly and distinct- ly, above one object at a time. If it must look at two or three to- gether, especially objects among which there is resemblance or con- nexion, it finds itself confused and embarrassed. It cannot clearly perceive in what they agree, and in what they differ. Thus, were any object, suppose some animal, to be presented to me, of whose structure I wanted to form a distinct notion, I would desire all its trappings to be taken off, I would require it to be brought before me hy itself, and to stand alone, that there might be nothing to distract my attention. Thesame is the case with words. If, when you would inform me of your meaning, you also tell me more than what conveys it; if you join foreign circumstances to the principal object; if, by unnecessarily varying the expression, you shift the point of view, and make me see sometimes the object itself, and sometimes another thing that is connected with it; you thereby oblige me to look on several objects at once, and I lose sight of the principal. You load the animal you are showing me, with so many trappings and collars, and bring so many of the same species before me, somewhat resem- bling, and yet somewhat differing, that I see none of them clearly. This forms what is called a loose style; and is the proper oppo- site to precision. It generally arises from using a superfluity of words. Feeble writers employ a multitude of words to make them- selves understood, as they think, more distinctly; and they only confound the reader. They are sensible of not having caught the precise expression, to convey what they would signify ; they do not, indeed, conceive their own meaning very precisely themselves ; and therefore help it out, as they can, by this and the other word, which may, as they suppose, supply the defect, and bring you somewhat nearer to their idea: they are always going about it, and about it, but never just hit the thing. The image, as they set dso you, is alwaysseen double; and no double image is distinct. Whenan author tells me of his hero’s courage in the day of battle, the expression is precise, and I understand it fully. But if, from the desire of multi- plying words, he will needs praise his courage and fortitude ; at the moment he joins these words together, my idea begins to waver. He means to express one quality more strongly; but he is, in truth, expressing two. Courage resists danger; fortitude supports pain. The occasion of exerting each of these qualities 1s different; and Q 14 bseeeereis Po ee Pd ce eo es eC rere ra har es bee ae a ge ‘ Re: PEPE SSE Eran +e eee n eee et er rere ee re er ee Ee Ne eee oe te eee Cee ee ee ee ee ed were rt) Tee ah a (ee Sea Perc tt ee =o SUtRtglSt are teTeretetecevesidiqact eds Pier at ht aes c Fo ca ats 3Pee et et Ee ee ee Te ee 106 PRECISION IN STYLE. [iECT. x being led to think of both together, when only one of them should be in my view, my view is rendered unsteady, and my conception of the-object indistinct. From what I have said, it appears that an author may, in a qualifi- ed sense, be perspicuous, while yet he is far from being precise. He uses proper words, and proper arrangement; he gives you the idea as clear as he conceives it himself; and so far he is perspicu- ous: but the ideas are not very clear in his own mind; they are loose and general; and, therefore, cannot be expressed with preci- sion. All subjects do not equally require precision. It is sufficient, on many occasions, that we have a general view of the meaning. The subject, perhaps, is of the known and familiar kind; and we are in no hazard of mistaking the sense of the author, though every word which he uses be not precise and exact. Few authors, for instance, in the English language, are more clear and perspicuous, on the whole, than Archbishop Tillotson, and Sir William Temple; yet neither of them are remarkable for precision. They are loose and diffuse; and accustomed to express their mean- ing by several words, which show you fully whereabouts it lies, ra- ther than to single out those expressions, which would convey clear- ly the idea which they have in view, and no more. Neither, indeed, is precision the prevailing character of Mr. Addison’s style; although he is not so deficient in this respect as the other two authors. Lord Shaftesbury’s faults, in point of precision, are much greater than Mr. Addison’s; and the more unpardonable, because he is a professed philosophical writer ; who, as such, ought, above all things, to have studied precision. His style has both great beauties and great faults; and,on the whole, is by no means a safe model for imitation. Lord Shaftesbury was well acquainted with the power of words ; those which he employs are generally proper and well sounding; he has great variety of them; and his arrangement, as shall be afterwards shown, is commonly beautiful. His defect, in precision, is not owing so much to indistinct or confused ideas, as to perpetual affectation. He is fond, to excess, of the pomp and pa- rade of language; he is never satisfied with expressing any thing clearly and simply; he must always give it the dress of state and majesty. Hence perpetual circumlocutions, and many words and phrases employed to describe somewhat, that would have been de- scribed much better by one of them. If he has occasion to men- tion any person or author, he very rarely mentions him by his pro- per name. In the treatise, entitled, Advice to an Author, he des- eants for two or three pages together upon Aristotle, without once naming him in any other way, than the master critic, the mighty genius and judge of art, the prince of critics, the grand master of art, and consummate philologist. In the same way, the grand poetic sire, the philosophical patriarch, and his disciple of noble birth and lofty genius, are the only names by which he conde- scends to distinguish Homer, Socrates, and Plato, in another pas- sage of the same treatise. This method of distinguishing persons is extremely affected; but it is not so contrary to precision, as theLECT. xX. | PRECISION IN STYLE. 107 frequent circumlocutions he employs for all moral ideas; attentive, on every occasion, more to the pomp of language, than to the clear- ness which he ought to have studied as a philosopher. The moral sense, for instance, after he had once defined it, was a clear term ; but, how vague becomes the idea, when, in the next page, he calls it, ‘That natural affection, and anticipating fancy, which makes the sense of right and wrong?’ Self examination, or reflection on our own conduct, is an idea conceived with ease; but when itis wrought into all the forms of ‘A man’s dividing himself into two parties, becoming a self-dialogist, entering into partnership with himself, forming the dual number practically within himself; we hardly know what to make of it. On some occasions, he so adorns, or ra- ther loads with words, the plainest and simplest propositions, as, if not to obscure, at least, to enfeeble them. In the following paragraph, for example, of the inquiry concern- ing virtue, he means to show, that, by every ill action we hurt our mind, as much as one who should swallow poison, or give himself a wound, would hurt his body. Observe what a redundancy of words he pours forth: ‘ Now if the fabric of the mind or temper appeared to us such as it really is; if we saw it impossible to remove hence any one good or orderly affection, or to introduce any ill or disor- derly one, without drawing on, in some degree, that dissolute state which,at its height, is confessed to be so miserable; it would then, zndoubtedly, be confessed, that since no ill, immoral, or unjust ac- tion, can be committed, without either a new inroad and breach on the temper and passions, or a further advancing of that execution already done: whoever did ill,or acted in prejudice to his integrity, good nature, or worth, would, of necessity, act with greater cruelty towards himself, than he who scrupled not to swallow what was poi sonous, or who, with his own hands,should voluntarily mangle or wound his outward form or constitution, natural limbs, or body.’* Here, to commit a bad acticn, is, first, “To remove a good and orderly affection, and to introduce an ill or disorderly one;’ next, it is, ‘To commit an action that is ill, immoral, and unjust;’ and in the next line, it is, ‘To do ill, or to act in prejudice of integrity, good nature, and worth;’ nay, so very simple a thing as a man’s wound ing himself, is, ‘To mangle, or wound, his outward form or consti tution, his natural limbs or body.’ Such superfluity of words is dis gustful te every reader of correct taste ; and serves no purpose but to embarrass and perplex the sense. _ This sort of style 1s elegantly described by Quintilian: ‘Est in quibusdam turba inanium verbo- rum, qui dum communem Joquendi morem reformidant, ducti specie nitoris, circumeunt omnia copiosa loquacitate quee dicere volunt.’} Lib. vii. cap. 2. * Characterist. Vol. il. p. 85. ' $A crowd of unmeaning words is brought together by some authors, who, afraid of expressing themselves after a common and ordinary manner, and allured by an appear- ance of splendour, surround every thing which they mean to say with a certain copious loquacity.”’ stp hess re 4 oe A ee ea Poa re Feat ’ << PP ese SeDsProrucri® pee Ctra ee ara el ce bore os Be ee endce s a 3 “i = - - ? t - - 3 = es 2s eum Pee ote Te ere rere Ore es ree ee eee oe a SLRS STS a Te Tele Teese ess +s So Seleresetete or.108 PRECISION IN STYLE. [pEcT. +x. The great source of a loose style, in opposition to precision, 1s the injudicious use of those words termed synonymous. ‘They are called synonymous, because they agree in expressing one principal idea; but, for the most part, if not always, they express it with some diversity in the circumstances. They are varied by some ac- cessary idea which every word introduces, and which forms the dis- tinction between them. Hardly, in any language, are there two words that convey precisely the same idea; a person thoroughly conversant in the propriety of the language, will always be able to observe something that distinguishes them. As they are like differ- ent shades of the same colour, an accurate writer can employ them to great advantage, by using them, so as to heighten and to finish the picture which he gives us. He supplies by one, what was want- ing in the other, to the force, or to the lustre of the image which he means to exhibit. But, in order to this end, he must be ex- tremely attentive to the choice which he makes of them. For the bulk of writers are very apt to confound them with each other; and to employ them carelessly, merely for the sake of filling up a pe- riod, or of rounding and diversifying the language, as if their signifi- cation were exactly the same, while, in truth, it is not. Hencea certain mist and indistinctness is unwarily thrown over style. In the Latin language, there are no two words we should more readily take to be synonymous, than amare and diligere. Cicero, however, has shown us, that there is a very clear distinction betwixt them. ‘Quid ergo,’ says he, in one of his epistles, ‘tibi commen- dem eum quem tu ipse diligis? Sed tamen ut scires eum non a me diligi solum, verum etiam amari, ob eam rem tibi hee scribo.’* In the same manner ¢wfus and securus, are words which we should readily confound; yet their meaning is different. Tutus, signifies out of danger; securus, free from the dread of it. Seneca has ele- gantly marked this distinction; ‘Tuta scelera esse possunt, secura non possunt.’t In our own language, very many instances might be given of a difference in meaning among words reputed synonymous; and, as the subject is of importance, I shall now point out some of these. The instances which I am to give, may themselves be of use; and they will serve to show the necessity of attending, with care and strictness, to the exact import of words, if ever we would write with propriety or precision. Austerity, severity, rigour. Austerity, relates to the manner of living; severity, of thinking; rigour, of punishing. To austerity, is opposed effeminacy; to severity, relaxation; to rigour, clemen- cy. A hermit, is austere in his life; a casuist, severe in his applica- tion of religion or law; a judge, rigorous in his sentences. Custom, habit. Custom, respects the action; habit, the actor. By custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the same act; by habit, the effect which that repetition produces on the mind or body. By the custom of walking often the streets, one acquires a habit of idleness. * Ad. Famil. 1. 13. Ep. 47. t Epis. 97LECTx. | PRECISION IN STYLE. 109 Surprised, astonished, amazed, confounded. Yam surprised, with what is new or unexpected; I am astonished, at what is vast or great, Iam amazed, with what is incomprehensible; I am confounded, by what is shocking or terrible. : Desist, renounce, quit, leave off. Each of these words imply some pursuit or object relinquished; but from different-motives. We desist, from the difficulty of accomplishing. We renounce, on ac- count of the disagreeableness of the object, or pursuit. We quit, for the sake of some other thing which interests us more; and we leave off, because we are weary of the design. A politician desists from his designs, when he finds they are impracticable; he renoun- ces the court, because he has been affronted by it; he quits ambition for study or retirement; and leaves off his attendance on the great, as he becomes old and weary of it. Pride, vanity. Pride, makes us esteem ourselves; vanity, makes us desire the esteem of others. It is just to say, as Dean Swift has done, that a man is too proud to be vain. Haughtiness, disdain. Haughtiness, is founded on the high opin- ion we entertain of ourselves; disdain, on the low opinion we have of others. To distinguish, to separate. We distinguish, what we want not to confound with another thing; we separate, what we wanttoremove from it. Gbjects are distinguished from one another, by their qual- ities. They are separated, by the distance of time or place. To weary, to fatigue. The continuance of the same thing wea- ries us; labour fatigues us. I am weary with standing; I am fatigued with walking. A suitor wearies us by his perseverance; fatigues us by his importunity. To abhor, to detest. To abhor, imports, simply, strong dislike; to detest, imports aiso streng disapprobation. One abhors being in debt; he detests treachery. To invent, to discover. We invent things that are new; we dis- cover what was before hidden. Galileo invented the telescope; Har- vey discovered the circulation of the blood. Only, alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the same kind; alone, imports being accompanied by no other. An only child, is one who has neither brother nor sister; a child alone, is one whois left by itself. There isa difference, therefore, in precise language, betwixt these two phrases, ‘ virtue only makes us happy ;’ and ‘virtue alone makes us happy.’ Virtue only makes us happy, imports, that nothing else can doit. Virtue alone makes us happy, imports, that virtue, by itself, or unaccompanied with other advanta- ges, is sufficient to do it. oa é Entire, complete. A thing is entire, by wanting none of its parts; complete, by wanting none of the appendages that belong to it. A man may have an entire house to himself; and yet not have one complete apartment. As uber Tranquillity, peace, calm. Tranquillity, respects a situation free from trouble, considered in itself; peace, the same situation with respect to any causes that might interrupt it; calm, with regard to Seer teetehtce si iki le beh ie snee os aed Stee ha ae ee ee ed rot ee ee Oe 22 Se ee ey r n * — ~ 4 t - - 5 - cd = x ae Pee ee PE PERN See Tere ere ee ee ee : F ne 4 ee a er OTST Te earner ce Ls 2 ok oe ee See 5t #y. ts * s a << 2a ee ee ee Pr nity eae Ree Eh Pe fale a 7 ar cos Seegecasseseess [Se eos Stetetste? 110 PRECISION IN STYLE. [aROT.M. a disturbed situation going before, or following it. A good man enjoys tranquillity in himself; peace, with others ; and calm, after the storm. A difficulty, an obstacle. A difficulty, embarrasses; an obstacle, stops us. We remove the one; wesurmount the other. Generally, the first expresses somewhat arising from the nature and circum- stances of the affair ; the second, somewhat arising from a foreign cause. Philip found difficulty in managing the Athenians from the nature of their dispositions; but the eloquence of Demosthenes was the greatest obstacle to his designs. Wisdom, prudence. Wisdom, leads us to speak and act what is most proper. Prudence, prevents our speaking or acting impro- perly. A wise man employs the most proper means for success; a. prudent man, the safest means for not being brought into danger. Enough, sufficient. Enough, relates to the quantity which one wishes to have of any thing. Sufficient, relates to the use that is to be made of it. Hence, enough, generally imports a greater quan- tity than sufficient does. The covetous man never has enough ; although he has what is sufficient for nature. To avow, to acknowledge, to confess. Each of these words im- ports the affirmation of a fact, but in very different circumstances. ‘To avow, supposes the person to glory in it; to acknowledge, supposes a small degree of faultiness, which the acknowledgment compen- sates; to confess, supposes a higher degree of crime. aes % t eee hagasovat eed cE ss FS ee Pit eee pa Pe eS ee D 114 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. x1 in the same manner, and with the same number of members, whe- ther long or short, should never be allowed to succeed one another. However musical each of them may be, it has a better effect to in- troduce even a discord, than to cloy the ear with the repetition of similiar sounds: for, nothing is so tiresome as perpetual uniformity. In this article of the construction and distribution of his sentences, Lord Shaftesbury has shown great art. In the last lecture, I observ- ed, that he is often guilty of sacrificing precision of style to pomp of expression; and that there runs through his whole manner, 2 stiffness and affectation, which render him very unfit to be con- sidered as a general model. Butas his ear was fine, and as he was extremely attentive to every thing that is elegant, he has studied the proper intermixture of long and short sentences, with variety and harmony in their structure, more than any other English author; and for this part of composition he deserves attention. From these general observations, let us now descend to a more particular consideration of the qualities that are required to make a sentence perfect. So much depends upon the proper construction of sentences, that, in every sort of composition, we cannot be too strict in our attentions to it. For, be the subject what it will, if the sentences be constructed in a clumsy, perplexed, or feeble manner, it is impossible that a work, composed of such sentences, can be read with pleasure, or even with profit. Whereas, by giving atten- tion to the rules which relate to this part of style, we acquire the ha- bit of expressing ourselves with perspicuity and elegance ; and, if a disorder chance to arise in some of our sentences, we immediately see where it lies, and are able to rectify it.* The properties most essential to a perfect sentence, seem to me the four following: 1. Clearnessand precision. 2. Unity. 3. Strength. 4. Harmony. Each of these I shall illustrate separately, and at some length. The first is, clearness and precision, The least failure here, the least degree of ambiguity, which leaves the mind in any sort of sus- pense as to the meaning, ought to be avoided with the greatest care; nor is itso easy a matter to keep always clear of this, as one might, at first, imagine. Ambiguity arises from two causes: either from a wrong choice of words, or a wrong collocation of them.) Of the choice of words, as far as regards perspicuity, I treated fully in the last lecture. Of the collocation of them, I am now to treat. The first thing to be studied here, is, to observe exactly the rules of grammar, as far as these can guide us. But as the grammar of our language is not extensive, there may often be an ambiguous colloca- * On the structure of sentences, the ancients appear to have bestowed a.great deal of attention and care. The Treatise of Demetrius Phalereus, eg: Egunverec, abounds with observations upon the choice and collocation of words, carried to such a degree of nicety, as would frequently seem to us minute. The Treatise of Dy onysius of Halicarnas- sus, 7egt cuvOerew@s ovoUeTaY, is more masterly; but is chiefly confined to the musical structure of periods ; a subject for which the Greek language afforded much more as- sistance to their writers, than our tongue admits. On the arrangement of words in English sentences, the xviiith chapt. of Lord Kaims’s Elements of Criticism, ought to be consulted ; and also the 2d volume of Dr, Campbell’s Philosophy of Rhetoric.LECT: 2] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 115 tion of words, where there is no transgression of any grammatical rule. The relations which the words, or members of a period, bear to one another, cannot be pointed out in English, as in the Greek or Latin, by means of termination; it is ascertained only by the po- sition in which they stand. Hence a capital rule in the arrangement of sentences is, that the words or members most nearly related, should be placed in the sentence, as near to each other as possible ; so as to make their mutual relation clearly appear. This is a rule not always observed, even by good writers, as strictly as it ought! to be. It will be necessary to produce some instances, which will both show the importance of this rule, and make the application of it understood. First, in the position of adverbs, which are used to qualify the signification of something which either precedes or follows them, there is often a good deal of nicety. ‘By greatness,’ says Mr. Ad- dison, in the Spectator, No. 412, ‘I do not only mean the bulk of any single object, but the largeness of a whole view.’ Here the place of the adverb only, renders it a limitation of the following word mean. ‘Ido not only mean.? The question may then be put, What does be morethan mean? Hadhe placed it after bulk, still it would have heen wrong. ‘I donot mean the bu/k only of any single object.? For we might then ask, What does he mean more than the bulk? Isitthe colour? Or any other property? Its proper place, undoubtedly, is, after the word object. ‘By great- ness, I do not mean the bulk of any single object only ;? for then, when we put the question, What more does he mean than the bulk of a single object? The answer comes out exactly as the author intends, and gives it; ‘The largeness of a whole view.’ ‘Theism,’ says Lord Shaftesbury, ‘can only be opposed to polytheism, or athe- ism.’ Does he mean that theism is capable of nothing-else, except being opposed to polytheism or atheism? This is what his words literally import, through the wrong collocation ofonly. He should have said, ‘Theism can be opposed only to polytheism or atheism.’ In like manner, Dean Swift, (Project for the advancement of Reli- gion,) ‘The Romans understood liberty, at least, as well as we. These words are capable of two different senses, according as the emphasis, in reading them, is laid upon Zderty, or upon at least. In the first case, they will signify, that whatever other things we may un- derstand better than the Romans, /iberty, at least, was one thing, which they understood as wellas we. In the second case, they will import, that liberty was understood, a¢ /east as well by them as by ts; meaning that by them it was better understood. If this last, as I make no doubt, was Dean Swift’s own meaning, the ambiguity would have been avoided, and the sense rendered independent of the manner of pronouncing, by arranging the words thus: ‘The Romans understood liberty as well, at least, as we.’ The fact is, with respect tosuch adverbs, as only, wholly, at least, and the rest of that tribe, that in common discourse, the tone and emphasis we jks in pronouncing them, generally serves to show their reference, an to make the meaning clear; and hence we acquire a habit of throw SS etree 2presetepadecetarelet et i eee Ne Ad e4seghrte : x e tobod : i eT ETE ee eee Been eee nee a ee Hy PS Siok ee Dae ar Beret gts Seer re riety cok oe el ee 3 >a al - 7Se Tk ee ee Pee Pe ee et ew SS ESSA SSS SLT eS te tates: eS et E16 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LEctT. x1. ing them in leosely in the course of a period. But, in writing, where a man speaks. to the eye, and not to the ear, he ought to be more accurate; and so to connect those adverbs with the words which they qualify, as to put his meaning out of doubt, upon the first inspection. Secondly, when a circumstance is interposed in vhe middle of a sentence, it sometimes requires attention how to place it, so as to divest it of all ambiguity. For instance; ‘ Are these designs,’ says Lord Bolingbroke, Dissert. on Parties, Dedieat. ‘ Are these designs, which any man, who is born a Briton, m any cireumstances, in any situation, ought to be ashamed or afraid to avow?? Here we are left at a loss, whether these words, ‘in any corcumstances,in any situation, are connected with, ‘a man born in Briton, in any eir- cumstances, or situation,’ or with that man’s ‘avowing his designs, im any circumstances, or situation, into which he may be brought?’ If the latter, as seems most probable, was intended to be the mean- ing, the arrangement ought to have been conducted thus; ‘ Are these designs, which any man who is born a Briton, ought to be ashamed or afraid, in any cireumstances, in any situation, to avow?’ But, Thirdly, still more attention is required to the proper disposition of the relative pronouns, who, which, what, whose, and of all those particles which express the connexion of the parts of speech with one another. As all reasoning depends upon this connexion, we. cannot be too accurate and. precise- here. A .small error may over- cloud the meaning of the whole sentence; and even where the meaning is intelligible, yet where these relative particles are out of their proper place, we always find something awkward and disjoint- ed in the structure of the sentence. ‘Thus, in the Spectator, (No. 54.) ‘This kind of wit, says Mr. Addison, ‘was very much in vogue among our countrymen, about an age or two ago, who did not practise it for any oblique reason, but purely for the sake of be- ing witty.? Weare at noloss about the meaning here; but the con- struction would evidently be mended by disposing of the cireum- stance, ‘about an age or two ago,’ in sucha manner as not to sepa- rate the relative who, from its antecedent our countrymen; in this way: ‘ About an age or two ago, this kind of wit was very much in vogue among our countrymen, who did not practise it for any ob- lique reason, but purely for the sake of being witty.’ Spectator, No. 412, ‘Weno where meet with a more glorious and pleasing show in nature, than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, which is wholly made up of those different stains of light, that show themselves in clouds of a different situation.’ Which is here designed to connect with the word show, as its antecedent; but it stands so wide from it, that without a careful attention tothe sense, we would be naturally led, by the rules of syntax, to refer it to. the rising and setting of the sun, or to the sun itself; and, hence, an indistinctness is thrown over the whole sentence. The following passage in Bishop Sherlock’s sermons, (vol. ii. serm. 15.) is still mere censurable: ‘It 1s folly to pretend to arm ourselves againstLECT. XI. | STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 117 the accidents of life, by heaping up treasures, which nothing ean protect us against, but the good providence of our heavenly Father.’ Which, always refers grammatically to the immediately preceding substantive, which is here ‘treasures ;’? and this would make non- sense of the whole period. Every one feels this impropriety. The sentence ought to have stood thus: ‘ It is folly to pretend, by heap- ing up treasures, to arm ourselves against the accidents of life, which nothing can protect us against but the good providence of our heavenly Father.’ Of the like nature is the following inaccuracy of Dean Swift’s. He is recommending to young clergymen, to write their sermons fully and distinetly. ‘Many,’ says he, ‘act so directly contrary to this method, that, from a habit of saving time and paper, which they acquired at the university, they write in so diminutive a manner, that they can hardly read what they have written.” He certainly does not mean, that they had acquired time and paper at the uni- versity, but that they had acquired this habit there; and therefore his words ought to have run thus: * From a habit, which they have acquired at the university, of saving time and paper, they write in so diminutive a manner.’ In another passage, the same author has left his meaning altogether uncertain, by misplacing arelative. It is in the conclusion of his letter to a member of parliament, con- cerning the sacramental test: ‘Thus I have fairly given you, Sir, my own opinion, as well as that of a great majority of both houses here, relating to this weighty affair; upon which I am confident you may securely reckon.? Now I ask, what it is he would have his correspondent to reckon upon, securely ? The natural construction leads to these words, ‘ this weighty affair.” But, as it would be dif- ficult to make any sense of this, it is more probable he meant that the majority of both houses might be securely reckoned upon; though certainly this meaning, as the words are arranged, is obscurely ex- pressed. The sentence would be amended by arranging it thus : ‘Thus, Sir, I have given you my own opinion, relating to this weighty affair, as well as that of a great majority of both houses here; upon which I am confident you may securely reckon.’ Several other instances might be given; but I reckon those which I have produced sufficient to make the rule understood; that, in the construction of sentences, one of the first things to be attended to, is the marshalling of the words in such order as shali most clearly mark the relation of the several parts of the sentence to one another ; particularly, that adverbs shall always be made to adhere closely to the words which they are intended to qualify ; that, where a cir- cumstance is thrown in, it shall never hang loose in the midst of a period, but be determined by its place to one or other member of it and that every relative word which is used, shall instantly present its antecedent to the mind of the reader, without the least obscurity. I have mentioned these three cases, because I think they are the most frequent occasions of ambiguity creeping Into sentences. With regard to relatives, I must further observe, that obscurity often arises from the too frequent repetition of them, particularly of SFP feVeteis Gaia tee it ete Caddo de ta eel PErerre sere: ttt rT eT or! SSESEFOS SSS EP SSIS ITTF ab Perrys ce ge Pad cit ae) err tree ras fe ce ot Ga sty hitaeteres TE PeaN Stee er PC eet rere ete Taree re oe eet te eZRgraegteteTeTereteBecd se sedisede feces roe ots i eRe Pee eeda tr aes ¢118 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LEOT. xI the pronouns who, and they, and them, and theirs, when we have occasion to refer to different persons; as, in the following sentence of Archbishop Tillotson; (vol. 1. serm. 42.) ‘Men look with an evil eye upon the good that is in others; and think that their reputa- tion obscures them, and their commendable qualities stand in their light; and therefore they do what they can to cast a cloud over them, that the bright shining of their virtues may not obscurethem.’ This is altogether careless writing. Itrendersstyle often obscure, alwaysem- barrassed and inelegant. When we find these personal pronouns crowding too fast upon us, we have often no method left, but to throw the whole sentence into some other form, which may avoid those frequent references to persons who have before been mentioned. All languages are liable to ambiguities. “Quintilian gives us some instances in the Latin, arising from faulty arrangement. A man, he tells us, ordered by his will, to have erected for him, after his death, ‘Statuam auream hastam tenentem;? upon which arose a dis- pute at law, whether the whole statue, or the spear only, was to be of gold? The same author observes, very properly, that a sentence is always faulty, when the collocation of the words is ambiguous, though the sense can be gathered. If any one should say, § Chre- metem audivi percussisse Demeam,’ this is ambiguous, both in sense and structure, whether Chremes or Demea gave the blow. But if this expression were used, ‘ Se vidisse hominem librum seribentem,’ although the meaning be clear, yet Quintilian insists that the ar- rangement is wrong. ‘Nam,’ says he, ‘etiamsi librum ab homine scribi pateat, non certé hominem a libro, malé tamen composuerat, feceratque ambiguum quantum in ipso fuit.’ Indeed, to have the relation of every word and member of a sentence marked in the most proper and distinct manner, gives not clearness only, but grace and beauty to a sentence, making the mind pass smoothly and agreeably along all the parts of it. I proceed now to.the second quality of a well-arranged sentence, which I termed its unity. This isa capital property. In every composition, of whatever kind, some degree of unity is required, in order to render it beautiful. There must be always some con- necting principle among the parts. Some one object must reign and be predominant. This, as I shall hereafter show, holds in history, in epic and dramatic poetry, and in all orations. But most of all, in a single sentence, is required the strictest unity. For the very na- ture of a sentence implies one proposition to be expressed. It may consist of parts, indeed; but these parts must be so closely bound together, as to make the impression upon the mind, of one object, not of many. Now, in order to preserve this unity of a sentence the following rules must be observed :— ; In the first place, during the course of the sentence, the scene should be changed as little as possible. We should not be hurried by sudden transitions from person to person, nor from subject to subject. There is commonly, in every sentence, some person or thing, which is the governing word. This should be continued so, if possible, from the beginning to the end of it. Should J expressLecT. x1.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 119 myself thus: ‘After we came to anchor, they put me on shore, where I was welcomed by all my friends, who received me with the greatest kindness.’ In this sentence, though the objects contained in it have a sufficient connexion with each other, yet, by this man- ner of representing them, by shifting so often both the place and the person, we, and they, and‘, and who, they appear in such a disunited view, that the sense of connexion is almost lost. The sentence is restored to its proper unity, by turning it after the following man- ner: ‘ Having come to an anchor, I was put on shore, where I was welcomed by all my friends, and received with the greatest kind- ness.’?. Writers who transgress this rule, for the most part transgress, at the same time, A second rule; never to crowd into one sentence, things which have so little connexion, that they could bear to be divided into two or three sentences. The violation of this rule never fails to hurt and displease a reader. Its effect, indeed, is so bad, that of the two, it is the safer extreme, to err rather by too many short sentences, than by one that is overloaded and embarrassed. EXxamples abound in au- thors. I shall produce some to justify what I now say. ‘¢ Archbs- shop Tillotson,’ says an author of the History of England, ‘died in this year. He was exceedingly beloved both by king William and queen Mary, who nominated Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Lincoln, to succeed him.’ Who would expect the latter part of this sentence to follow, in consequence of the former? ‘He was exceedingly beloved by both king and queen,’ is the proposition of the sen- tence: we look for some proof of this, or at least something related to it to follow; when we are on a sudden carried off to a new pro- position, ‘who nominated Dr. Tennison to succeed him.’ The following is from Middleton’s Life of Cicero: ‘In this uneasy state, both of his public and private life, Cicero was oppressed by a new and cruel affliction, the death of his beloved daughter Tullia; which happened soon after her divorce from Dolabella; whose manners and humours were entirely disagreeable to her.’ The principal ob- ject in this sentence is, the death of Tullia, which was the cause of her father’s affliction; the date of it, as happening soon after her di- vorce from Dolabella, may enter into the sentence with propriety ; but the subjunction of Dolabella’s character is foreign to the main object; and breaks the unity and compactness ef the sentence to- tally, by setting a new picture before the reader. The following sentence, from a translation of Plutarch, is still. worse: ‘ Their march,’ says the author, speaking of the Greeks under Alexander, ‘their march was through an uncultivated country, whose savage inhabitants fared hardly, having no other riches than a breed of lean sheep, whose fiesh was rank and unsavoury, by reason of their conti- nual feeding upon sea-fish.’? Here the szene !s changed upon us again and again. ‘The march of the Greeks, the description of the inhabitants through whose country they travelled, the aceount of their sheep, and the cause of their sheep being ill-tasted feod, form a jumble of objects, slightly related to each other, which the reader eannot, without much difficulty, comprehend under one view. Se wv PA Pees eaeseweroorehev slates eet a hel oe es te ee bs ee ee Pee SEES er et rete ere eee oe et es ee! Spee ty RE a ae a ke Daag! SLTHtESEt OTe TE Te etre es Fs pee destT hak a Fae ed Las 3+Sesehete SS ks ieee ee eee ee ey 120 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. = ([xecvr. xz. These examples have been taken from sentences of no great length, yet over-erowded. Authors whe deal in long sentences, are very apt to be faulty in this article. Qne need only open Lord Cla- rendon’s history, to find examples every where. The long, involv- ed, and intricate sentences of that author, are the greatest blemish of his composition ; though, in other respects, as a historian, he has considerable merit. In later, and more correct writers than Lord Clarendon, we find a period sometimes running out so far, and com- preheiding so many particulars, as to be more properly a discourse thanasentence. Take, for an instance, the following, from Sir Wil- liam Temple, in his Essay upon Poetry: ‘The usual acceptation takes profit and pleasure for two different things; and not only calls the followers or votaries of them by the several names of busy and idle men; but distinguishes the faculties of the mind, that are con- versant about them, ealling the operations of the first, wisdom; and of the other, wit; which is a Saxon word, used to express what the Spaniards and Italians call ingenio, and the French, esprit, both from the Latin; though I think wit more particularly signifies that of poetry, as may oceur in remarks on the Runic language.’ When one arrives at the end of such a puzzled sentence, he issurprised to find himself got to so great a distance from the object with which he at first set out. Lord Shaftesbury, often betrayed into faults by his love of magni- ficence, shall afford us the next example. It is in his rhapsody where he is describing the cold regions: ¢ At length,’ says he, ‘the sun approaching, melts the snew, sets longing men at liberty, and affords them means and time to make provision against the next re- turn of cold;’ This first sentence is correct enough; but he goes on: ‘It breaks the icy fetters of the main, where vast sea-monsters pierce through floating islands, with arms which can withstand the crystal rock; whilst others, who of themselves seem great as islands, are by their bulk alone armed against all but man, whose superiority over creatures of such stupendous size and foree, should make him mindful of his privilege of reason, and force him humbly to adore the great composer of these wondrous frames, and the author of his own superior wisdom.” Nothing can be more unhappy or embar- rassed than this sentence; the worse, too, as it is intended to be de- scriptive, where every thing should be clear. It forms no distinct image whatever. The 7¢, at the beginning, is ambiguous, whether 1 mean the sun or the cold. The object is changed three times in the sentence ; beginning with the sun, which breaks the icy fetters of the main; then the sea-monsters become the principal person- ages; and lastly, by a very unexpected transition, man is brought into view, and receives a long and serious admonition, before the sentence closes. Ido not at present insist on the impropriety of such expressions as, God’s being the composer of frames; and the sea-monsters having arms that withstand rocks. Shaftesbury’s strength lay in reasoning and sentiment, more than in description ; however muich his descriptions have been sometimes admired. I shall only give one instance more on this head, from Dean Swift :LECT) xa, ] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 121 in his proposal, too, for correcting the English language: where, in place of a sentence, he has given a loose dissertation upon several subjects. Speaking of the progress of our language, after the time of Cromwell: ‘To this succeeded, says he, ‘that licentiousness which entered with the restoration, and from infecting our religion and morals, fell to corrupt our language; which last was not likely to bemuch improved by those, whoat that time made up the court of king Charles the Second; either such as had followed him in his banish- ment, or who had been altogether conversant in the dialect of these fanatic times; or young men who had been educated in the same country ; so that the court, which used to be the standard of correct- ness and propriety of speech, was then, and I think has ever since continued, the worst school in England for that accomplishment; and so will remain, till better care be taken in the education of our nobility, that they may set out into the world with some foundation of literature, in order to qualify them for patterns of politeness.’-— How many different facts, reasonings, and observations, are here presented to the mind at once! and yet so linked together by the author, that they all make parts of a sentence, which admits of no greater division in pointing, than a semicolon between any of its members? Having mentioned pointing, I shall here take notice, that it is in vain to propose, by arbitrary punctuation, to amend the defects of a sentence, to correct its ambiguity, or to prevent its con- fusion. For commas, colons, and points, do not make the proper divisions of thought; but only serve to mark those which arise from the tenour of the author’s expression ; and, therefore, they are proper or not, just according as they correspond to the natural division of the sense. When they are inserted in wrong places, they deserve, and will meet with, no regard. I proceed to a third rule, for preserving the unity of sentences, which is, to keep clear of all parenthesesin the middle of them On some occasions, these may have a spirited appearance; as prompted by a certain vivacity of thought, which can glance happily aside, as it is going along. But, for the most part, their effect is ex- tremely bad; being a sort of wheels within wheels; sentences in the midst of sentences; the perplexed method of disposing of some thought, which a writer wants art to introduce in its proper place It were needless to give many instances, as they occur so ofter among incorrect writers. I shall produce one from Lord Boling- broke; the rapidity of whose genius, and manner of writing, betrays him frequently into inaccuracies of this sort. — It is in the introduc- tion to his idea of a patriot king, where he writes thus: ‘It seems te me, that, in order to maintain the system of the world, at a certain point, far below that of ideal perfection, (for we are made capable of conceiving what we are incapable of attaining) but, however, suff- cient, upon the whole, to constitute a state easy and happy, or, at the worst, tolerable; I say, it seems to me, that the Author of Nature has thought fit tomingle, from time to time, among the societies of men, 2 few, and but a few, of those on whom he is graciously pleased to 16 reer its oe tata et) easGixegegessaee Peay Bit Raa be as a apeess oe = eeIire se Fosse oe Ng Re er ee ee ee ee ed ee ee - sheelere ERE TEIN SEES POP rr err ret ore rere re oe een ee peeedsSedeatgegreterezereterecestasserese Mess Fo ~~ a. . L4 $ a SIS TGSe ees ee ee a eT eS ae FE Ea pe Te Pe ea oe ee oe ea 4 4 cS . ae 122 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [recrt. x1 vestow a larger portion of the ethereal spirit, than is given, in the ordinary course of his government, to the sons of men.’ A very bad sentence this; into which, by the help of a parenthesis, and other interjected circumstances, his lordship had contrived to thrust so many things, that he is forced to begin the construction again with the phrase, J say: which, whenever it occurs, may be always assumed as a sure mark of a clumsy, ill-constructed sentence ; excusable in speaking, where the greatest accuracy is not expected, but in polished writing, unpardonable. I shall add only one rule more for the unity of a sentence, which is, to bring it always to a full and perfect close. Every thing that is one, should have a beginning, a middle, and anend. I need not take notice, that an unfinished sentence is no sentence at all, ac- cording to any grammatical rule. But very often we meet with sentences that are, so to speak, more than finished. When we have arrived at what we expected was to be the conclusion, when we have come to the word on which the mind is naturally led, by what went before, to rest; unexpectedly, some circumstance pops out which ought to have been omitted, or to have been disposed of else- where; but which is left lagging behind, like a tail adjected to the sentence; somewhat that, as Mr. Pope describes the Alexandrian line, “ Like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.” All these adjections to the proper close, disfigure a sentence ex- tremely. They give it a lame, ungraceful air, and, in particular, they break its unity. Dean Swift, for instance, in his Letter to a Young Clergyman, speaking of Cicero’s writings, expresses himself thus: ‘ With these writings, young divinesare more conversant than with those of Demosthenes, who, by many degrees, excelled the other; at least as an orator.’ Here the natural close of the sentence is at these words, ‘excelled the other.’ These words conclude the proposition; we look for no more; and the circumstance added, ‘at least as an orator,’ comes in. with a very halting pace. How much more compact would the sentence have been, if turned thus: ‘With these writings, young divines are more conversant than with those of Demosthenes, who, by many degrees, as an orator at least, excelled the other.’ In the following sentence, from Sir William Temple, the adjection to the sentence is altogether foreign to it. Speaking of Burnet’s Theory of the Earth, and Fontenelle’s Plura- lity of Worlds: ‘The first,’ says he, ‘could not end his learned trea- tise without a panegyric of modern learning, in comparison of the ancient; and the other, falls so grossly into the censure of the old poetry, and preference of the new, that I could not read either of these strains without some indignation; which no quality among men is so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency.” The word < indig- nation,’ concluded the sentence; the last member, ‘ which no quali- ty among men is so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency,’ is a pro- position altogether new, added after the proper close,( 123 ) LECTURE XII. ip STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. Havine treated of perspicuity and unity, as necessary to be studi- ed in the structure of sentences, I proceed to the third quality ofa correct sentence, which I termed strength. By this, I mean, such a disposition of the several words and members, as shall bring out the sense to the best advantage; as shall render the impression, which the period is designed to make, most full and complete; and give every word, and every member, their due weight and force. The two former qualities of perspicuity and unity, are, no doubt, absolutely necessary to the production of this effect; but more is still requisite. Fora sentence may be clear enough; it may also be compact enough, in all its parts, or have the requisite unity; and yet by some unfavourable circumstance in the structure, it may fail in that strength or liveliness ox impression, which a more happy ar- rangement would have produced. The first rule which I shall give, for promoting the strength of a sentence,is, tu divest it of all redundant words. These may, some- times, be consistent with a considerable degree both of clearness and unity; but they are always enfecbling. ‘They make the sentence move along tardy and encumbered : Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, non se Impediat verbis, lassas onerantibus aures.* It is a general maxim, that any words which do not add some im- portance to the meaning of a sentence, always spoil it. They can- not be superfluous, without being hurtful. ¢ Obstat,’ says Quintil- lan, ‘quicquid non adjuvat.’ All that can be easily supplied in the mind, is better left out in the expression. Thus: ‘Content with de- serving a triumph, he refused the honour of it,’ is better language than to say, ‘Being content with deserving a triumph, he refused the honour of it.’ I consider it, therefore, as one of the most useful exercises of correction, upon reviewing what we have written or composed, to contract that round-about method of expression, and to lop off those useless excrescences which are commonly found ina first draught. Here a severe eye should be employed; and we shall always find our sentences acquire more vigour and energy when thusretrenched: provided always that we run not into the extreme of pruning so very close, as to give a hardness and dryness to style. For here, as in all other things, there isa due medium. Some regard, though not the principal, must be had to fulness and swelling of sound. Some leaves must be left to surround and shelter the fruit. As sentences should be ¢leared of redundant..words, so also of redundant members. As every word ought to present a-new idca, * <¢ Concise your diction, let your sense be clear, ‘¢ Nor with a weight of words, fatigue the ear.” Francis Peete trite PPE TSTO ETS Fb oa Fatt ys Starnes teckstsdaterud ecesa tele te Rs et ed eeee Sere Pere Pe ret Tere ers oor ae ee tee = Pea, eae a es SAtHA Stat eTeceCe te Pesesss rs Paes The he bt a ele a eta Se ee eee a ee ee ieee ee ee Ee ee ih et PR ee toe Bake consulted; where several niceties of the language are well wwinted out. 124 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. — [xect. xu. so every member ought te contain a new thought. Opposed to this, stands the fault we sometimes meet with, of the last member of a period, being no other than the echo of the former, or the repeti- tion of it in somewhat a different form. For example; speaking of beauty, ‘The very first discovery of it,? says Mr. Addison, ‘strikes the mind with inward joy, and spreads delight through all its faculties.” (No. 412.) And elsewhere, ‘It is impossible for us to behold the divine works with coldness or indifference, or to survey so many beauties, without a secret satisfaction and complacency.’ (No. 413,) In both these instances little or nothing is added by the second member of the sentence to what was already expressed in the first ; and though the free and flowing manner of such an author as Mr. Addison, and the graceful harmony of his period, may palliate such negligences; yet, in general, it holds, that style, freed from this prolixity, appears both more strong and more beautiful The attention becomes remiss, the mind falls into inaction, when words are multiplied without a corresponding multiplication of ideas. Aiter removing superfluities, the second direction I give, for promoting the strength ofa sentence, is to attend particularly to the use of copulatives, relatives, and all the particles employed for transitionand connexion. These little words, but, and, which, whose, where, &c. are frequently the most important words of any; they are the joints or hinges upon which all sentences turn, and of course, much, both of their gracefulness and strength, must depend upon such particles. The varieties in using them are, indeed, so infinite, that no particular system of rules respecting them ean be given. Attention to the practice of the most accurate writers, joined with frequent trials of the different effects produced by a different usage of those particles, must here direct us.* Some observations, I shall mention, which have occurred to me as useful, without pre- tending to exhaust the subject. What is called splitting of particles, or separating a preposition from the noun which it governs, is always to be avoided. As if I should say, ‘Though virtue borrows no assistance from, yet it may often be accompanied by, the advantages of fortune.’ In such in- stances, we feel a sort of pain, from the revulsion, or violent separa- tion of two things, which, by their nature, should be closely united. We are put to a stand in thought; being obliged to rest fora little on the preposition by itself, which, at the same time, carries no sig- nificancy, till it is joined to its proper Substantive noun. Some writers needlessly multiply demonstrative and relative par- ticles, by the frequent use of such phraseology as this: ‘There is nothing which disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of language.’ In introducing a subject, or laying down a proposition, to which we demand particular attention, this sort of style is very proper; but, in the ordinary current. of discourse, it is better to express ourselves more simply and shortly: ‘Nothing disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp ef language.’ * On this head, Dr. Lowth’s short Introduction to English Grammar deserves to beLECT. xu-}] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES, £25 Other writers make a practice of omitting the relative, in a phrase of a different kind from the former, where they think the meaning can be understood withoutit. As, ‘The manI love. ‘The domi- nions we possessed, and the conquests we made.’ But though this eliptical style be intelligible, and is allowable in conversation and epistolary writing, yet in all writings of a serious or dignified kind, it isungraceful. There, the relative should always be inserted in its proper place, and the construction filled up: ‘The man whom I love.’ ‘The dominions which we possessed, and the conquests which we made.’ With regard to the copulative particle, and, which oceurs so fre quently in all kinds of composition, several observations are to be made. First, it is evident, that the unnecessary repetition of it en- feebles style. It has the same sort of effect, as the frequent use of the vulgar phrase, and so, when one is telliag a story in common conversation. We shall take a sentence from Sir William Temple, for an instance. He is speaking of the refinement of the French language: *The academy set up by Cardinal Richelieu, to amuse the wits of that. age and country, and divert them from raking inte his polities and ministry, brought this into vogue; and the French wits have, for this last age, been wholly turned to the refinement ot their style and language ; and, indeed, with such success, that it can hardly be equalled, and runs equally through their verse and their prose.’ Here are nofewer than eight ands in one sentence. This agreeable writer too often makes his sentences drag in this manner, by acareless multiplication of copulatives. It is strange how a wri- ter, so accurate as Dean Swift, should have stumbled on so impro- per an application of this particle, as he has made in the following sentence; Essay on the Fates of Clergymen. ‘There is no talent so useful towards rising in the world, or which puts men more out of the reach of fortune, than that quality generaliy possessed by the dullest sort of people, and is, in common language, called disere- tion: a species of lower prudence, by the assistance of which, &c. By the insertion of, ands, in place of, which is, he has not only clog- ged the sentence, but even made it ungrammatical. But, in the next place, it is worthy of observation, that though the natural use of the conjunction and, be to join objects together, and thereby, as one would think, to make their connexion more close; yet, in fact, by dropping the conjunction, we often mark a cleser connexion, a quicker succession of objects, than when it is inserted between them. Longinus makes this remark ; which, {from many instances, appears to be just: ‘Veni, vidi, viei,’* expresses with more spirit, the rapidity and quick succession of conquests, than if connzcting particles had been used. So, in the following descrip- tion of a rout, in Czsar’s Commentaries: ‘ Nostri, emisis pilis, gla- diis rem gerunt; repente post tergum equitatus cernitur ; cohortes alize appropinquant. Hostes terga vertunt; fugientibus equites oc- currunt; fit magna cedes.’t Bel. Gal. 1. 7. * «7 came, I saw, J conquered.” a ¢ ‘Our men, after having discharged their javelins, attack with sword in hand; Setateserresqostesssre: iowa te ee ee er ted 2 tee ee saeidre faeee ot ee rere: Peer erer ey er. (oto rl ire Ser See teres) eg pa.) on ae Re eieaegegtererecérit steer sass Pe Test Tati aes ats ‘J ‘ oe 4 2126 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [xecr. xm. 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 objects should appear as distinct from each other as possible, and that the mind should rest, fora 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, Cesar describes an engagement with the Nervil: ‘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 toaggravate. ‘The reason seems to be, that, in the former case, the 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 of 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 ofa sentence, of asudden, the cavalry make their appearance behind ; other bodies of men are seen drawing near; the enemies turn their backs; the horse meet them in their fight; a great slaughter ensnes.” * « The enemy, having easily beat off, and scattered this body of horse, ran down «ith incredible celerity to the river; so that, almost at one moment of time, they ap- eared to be in the woods, and inthe river, and in the midst of our troops.” ’LECT. x11.} STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 127 which is, to dispose of the capital word or words, in that place of the sentence, where they will make the fullest impression. That such capital words there are in every-sentence, on which the meaning principally rests, every one must see; and that these words should possess 4 conspicuous and distinguished place, is equally plain} In- deed, that place of the sentence where they will make the best figure, whether the beginning, or the end, or sometimes even in the middle, cannot, as far as I know, be ascertained by any precise rule. This must vary with the nature of the sentence. Perspicuity must ever be studied in the first place; and the nature of our language allows no great liberty in the choice of collocation. - For the most part,with us, the important words are placed in the beginning of the sentence. So Mr. Addison: ‘The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the understanding.’ And this, indeed, seems the most plain and natural order, to place that in the front which is the chief object of the proposition we are laying down. Sometimes, however, when we intend to give weight toa sentence, it is of advan- tage to suspend the meaning for a little, and then bring it out full at the close: ‘Thus,’ says Mr. Pope, ‘on whatever side we contem- plate Homer, what principally strikes us, is, his wonderful invention.’ (Pref. to Homer.) The Greek and Latin writers had a considerable advantage above us, in this part of style. By the great liberty of inversion, which their languages permitted, they could choose the most advantageous situation for every word; and had it thereby in their power to give their sentences more force. Milton, in his prose works, and some other of our old English writers, endeavoured to imitate them in this. But the forced constructions which they employed, produced obscurity ; and the genius of our language, as it is now written and spoken, will not admit such liberties. Mr. Gordon, who followed this inverted style, in his translation of Tacitus, has sometimes done such violence to the language, as even to appear ridiculous; as in this expression ; ‘ Into this hole thrust themselves, three Roman sen- ators.’ He has translated so simple a phrase as, ‘ Nullum ea tem- pestate bellum,’ by, ‘ War at that time there was none.’ However, within certain bounds, and to a limited degree, our language does admit of inversions; and they are practised with success by the best writers. So Mr. Pope, speaking of Homer, ‘The praise of judg- ment Virgil has justly contested with him, but his invention remains yet unrivalled.’ It is evident,that, in order to give the sentence its due force, by contrasting properly the two capital words, ‘ judgment and invention,’ the arrangement is happier than if he had follow- ed the natural order, which was, ‘ Virgil has justly contested with him ihe praise of judgment, but his invention remains yet unri- valled.’ : ; 4 Some writers practise this degree of inversion, which our language bears, much more than others; Lord Shaftesbury, for instance, much more than Mr. Addison; and to this sort of arrangement is owing, in a great measure, that appearance of strength, dignity, and +e Ah da hh bb kee eek Pes PY ess eeeDeren = ; Stes, 2 eee # Ee Wa ee ee te ae a ed a os ee ed Ee - : eee teers et Seer iia jmiecededetestyiisavivte- eeRLee PT eR Sto er eee Ore ee ee s 44 ejegeaegtecetereretetece ssisice = Ste eseieiet? “—?. 7 £ Sa 2s §,i28 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [xecr. xu. varied harmony, which Lord Shaftesbury’s style possesses. This will appear from the following sentences of his Inquiry into Vir- tue; where all the words are placed, not strictly in the natural or- der, but with that artificial construction, which may give the period most emphasis and grace. He is speaking of the misery of vice. ‘This, as to the complete immoral state, is, what of their own ac- cord men readily remark. Where there is this absolute degenera- cy, this total apostacy from all candour, trust, or equity, there are few who do notsee and acknowledge the misery which is consequent Seldom is the case misconstrued, when at worst. The misfortune is, that we look not on this depravity, nor consider how it stands, in less degrees. As if, to be absolutely immoral, were, indeed, the greatest misery ; but, to be so in a little degree, should be no misery or harm at all. Which to allow, is just as reasonable as to own, that ’tis the greatest ill of a body to be in the utmost manner maim- ed or distorted; but that to lose the use only of one limb, or to be impaired in some single organ or member, is no ill worthy the least notice.’ (Vol. ii. p. 82.) Here is no violence done to the language, though there are many inversions. Allis stately and arranged with art; which is the great characteristic of this author’s style. We need only open any page of Mr. Addison, to see quite a dif- ferent order in the construction of sentences. ‘Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses. It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in action, without being tired, or satiated with its proper enjoyments. The sense of feeling can, indeed, give usa 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,’ &c. (Spectator, No. 411.) In this strain he always proceeds, following the most natural and obvious order of the language: and if, by this means, he has less pomp and majesty than Shaftesbury, he has, in return, more nature, more ease and simplicity; which are beauties of a higher order. But whether we practise inversion or not, and in whatever part of the sentence we dispose of the capital words, it is always a point of great moment, that these capital words shall stand clear and disen- tangled from any other words that would clog them. Thus, when there are any circumstances of time, place, or other limitations, which the principal object of our sentence requires to have connect- ed with it, we must take especial care to dispose of them, so as not to cloud that principal object, nor to bury it under a load of ecir- cumstances. This will be made clearer by an example. Observe the arrangement of the following sentence in Lord Shaftesbury’s Advice to an Author. He is speaking of modern poets, as compared with the ancient: ‘ If, whilst they profess only to please, they secretly advise, and give instruction, they may now, perhaps, as well as for- merly, be esteemed, with justice, the best and most honourable among authors.’ This is a well constructed sentence. It contains a great many cireumstances and adverbs, necessary to qualify theLECT, X1I. | STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 129 meaning; only, secretly, as well, perhaps, now, with justice, for- merly ; yet these are placed with so much art, as neither to embar- rass nor weaken the sentence; while that which is the capital object in it, viz. ‘ Poets being justly esteemed the best and most honourable among authors,’ comes out in the conclusion clear and detached, and possessesits proper place. See,now, what would have been the effect of a different arrangement. Suppose him to have placed the mem- bers of the sentence thus : ‘If, whilst they profess to please only, they advise and give instruction secretly, they may be esteemed the best and most honourable among authors, with justice, perhaps, now as well as formerly.’ Here we have precisely the same words and the same sense: but, by means of the circumstances being so in« termingleéd as to clog the capital words, the whole becomes perplex- ed, withcut grace, and without strength. A fourth rule, for constructing sentences with proper strength, is, to make the members of them go on rising and growing in their im- portance above one another. This sort of arrangement is called a climax, and is always considered as a beauty in composition. From what cause it pleases, is abundantly evident. In all things, we na- turally love to ascend to what is more and more beautiful, rather than to follow the retrograde order. Having had once some con- siderable object set before us, itis with pain we are pulled back to attend to an inferior circumstance. ‘Cavendum est,’ says Quintili- an, whose authority I always willingly quote, ‘ne decrescat oratio, et fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius; sicut, sacrilego, fur; aut Jatroni petulans. Augeri enim debent sententize et insurgere.’* Of this beauty, in the construction of sentences, the orations of Cice- ro furnish many examples. His pompous manner naturally led him to study it; and, generally, in order to render the climax perfect, he makes both the sense and the sound rise together, with a very magnificent swell. So, in his oration for Milo, speaking of a design of Clodius’s for assassinating Pompey: ‘ Atqui si res, si vir, si tem- pus ulium dignum fuit, certeé heec in illa causa summa omnia fuerunt. Insidiator erat in Foro collocatus, atque in vestibulo ipso Senatus ; ei viro autem mors parabatur, cujus in vita nitebatur salus civitatis ; eo porro reipublice tempore, quo siunus ille occidisset, non hac solum eivitas, sed gentes omnes concidissent.’ The following instance, from Lord Bolingbroke, is also beautiful: ‘This decency, this grace, this propriety of manners to character, is so essential to princes in particular, that, whenever it is neglected, their virtues lose a great degree of lustre, and their defects acquire much aggravation. Nay, more; by neglecting this decency and this grace, and for want of a sufficient regard to appearances, even their virtues may betray them into failings, their failings into vices, and their vices into habits un- worthy of princes, and unworthy ofmen.’ (Idea ofa Patriot King.) * «Care must be taken, that our composition shall not fatl off, and that a weaker ex pression shali not follow ene of more strength ; as if, after sacrilege we should bring in theft; or, having mentioned a robbery, we should subjoin petulance. Sentences ought always to rise and grow.’ £ I eres. 2 =, s945e re ee re ete et fe ce ee ee ee edd aut es ree ere rere re eS ts ee ee eS cea jmie Se geietests Ritgetere- ey ed ee eee eee Spee ti Ce ry we 2a 5 Per 4 a2 a he) Sejestgteteteteceretetece ices e Pia dasi Tht hs od Ps ae ‘ teae aS eS eet ss eo | yes ees BSEsesie Eerst 130 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. — [xecr. xt. I must observe, however, that this sort of full and oratorical elimax, can neither be always obtained, nor ought to be always sought after. Only some kinds of writing admit such sentences ; and, to study them too frequently, especially if the subject require not so much pomp, is affected and disagreeable. But there is some- thing approaching to a climax, which it is a general rule to study; ‘ne decrescat oratio,’ as Quintilian speaks, ‘et ne fortiori subjun- gatur aliquid infirmius.? A weaker assertion or proposition should never come after a stronger one; and when our sentence consists of two members, the longest should, generally, be the concluding one. There is a twofold reason for this last direction. Periods, thus di- vided, are pronounced more easily; and the shortest member be- ing placed first, we carry it more readily in our memory as we proceed to the second, and see the connexion of the two more clearly. Thus to say, ‘when our passions have forsaken us, we flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken them,’ is both more graceful and more clear, than to begin with the longest part of the proposition: ‘we flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken our passions, when they have forsaken us.’ In gen- eral, it is always agreeable to find a sentence rising upon us, and growing in its importance to the very last word, when this con- struction can be managed without affectation, or unseasonable pomp. ‘If we rise yet higher,’ says Mr. Addison, very beautifully, ‘and consider the fixed stars as so many oceans of flame, that are each of them attended with a different set of planets; and still discover new firmaments and new lights, that are sunk farther in those unfathom- able depths of ather; we are lost in such a labyrinth of suns and worlds, and confounded with the magnificence and immensity of Nature.’ (Spect. No. 420.) Hence follows clearly, A fifth rule for the strength of sentences, which is, to avoid con- cluding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any inconsiderable word. Such conclusions are always enfeebling and degrading. There are sentences, indeed, where the stress and significancy rest chiefly upon some words of this kind. In this case, they are not to be considered as circumstances, but as the capital figures; and ought, in propriety, to have the principal place allotted them. No fault, for instance, ean be found with this sentence of Bolingbroke’s: ‘In their prosperity, my friends shall never hear of me; in their adversity, always.’ Where never and always, being emphatical words, were to be so placed, as to make a strong impression. But I speak now of those inferior parts of speech, when introduced as circumstances, or as qualifications of more important words. In such case, they should always be disposed of in the least conspicuous parts of the period; and so classed with other words of greater dig- nity, as to be kept in their proper secondary station. Agreeably to this rule, we should always avoid concluding with any of those particles, which mark tke cases of nouns, of, to, from, with, by. For instance, it is a great deal better to say, ‘ Avarice is a crime of which wise men are often guilty,’ than to say, ‘ Avarice is acrime which wise men are often guilty of. Thisisa phraseologyLECT. x11.]| STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 131 which all correct writers shun, and with reason. For besides the want of dignity which arises from those monosyllables at the end, the imagination cannot avoid resting, for a little, on the import of the word which closes the sentence: and, as those prepositions have no import of their own, but only serve to point out the rela- tions of other words, it is disagreeable for the mind to be left pausing on a word, which does not, by itself, produce any idea, nor form any picture in the fancy. For the same reason, verbs which are used in a compound sense, with some of these prepositions, are, though not so bad, yet still not so beautiful conclusions of a period; such as, bring about, lay hold of, come over to, clear wp, and many other of this kind ; instead of which, if we can employ a simple verb, it always terminates the sentence with more strength. Even the pronoun 7¢, though it has the import of a substantive noun, and indeed often forces itself upon us unavoidably, yet, when we want to give dignity to a sentence, should, if possible, be avoided in the conclusion; more especially, when it is joined with some of the prepositions, as, with it, in it, to it. In the following sentence of the Spectator, which otherwise is abundantly noble, the bad effect of this close is sensible: ‘There is not in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant consideration in religion, than this, of the perpetual progress which the soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a period init.’ (No. 111.) How much more graceful the sentence, if it had been so constructed as to close with the word perzod. Besides particles and pronouns, any phrase which expresses a circumstance only, always brings up the rear of a sentence with a bad grace. We may judge of this, Sy the following sentence from Lord Bolingbroke: (Letter on the State of Parties at the Accession of King George I.) ‘Let me, therefore, conclude by repeating, that division has caused all the mischief we lament; that union alone can retrieve it; and that a great advance towards this union, was the coalition of parties, so happily begun, so successfully carried on, and of late so unaccountably neglected; to say no worse.’? Thislast phrase, fo say no worse, occasions a sad falling off at the end; so much the more unhappy, as the rest of the period is conducted after the manner of a climax, which we expect to find growing to the last. ; The proper disposition of such circumstances in a sentence, 1s often attended with considerable trouble, in order to adjust them so, as shali consist equally with the perspicuity and the grace of the period. Though necessary parts, they are, however, like unshapely stones in a building, which try the skill of‘an artist, where to place them with the least offence. ‘ Jungantur,’ says Quintilian, ‘quo congruunt maximée; sicut in structura saxorum rudium, etiam ipsa enormitas invenit cui applicari, et in quo possit insistere.’* = = < Let them be inserted wherever the happiest place for them can be found; as ina structure composed of rough stones, there are always places where the most irregular and unshapely may find some adjacent one to which it can be joined, and some basis on which it may rest.’ Pereer eT. | eas ee Bh as ns Cee hee ad eS ee ieee oo Pan ie ed eter a ee tt eee od eee ey ese ghe PEFU ST ET PUP eer iret ey ere eee oe ee Seca t it agade P c SLSR Peter etereretetesesessz s x ee eke é ots eae bd ni es ss132 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. — [Lect. xu. The close is always an unsuitable place for them. When the sense admits it, the sooner they are despatched, generally speaking, the better; that the more important and significant words may pos- sess the last place, quite disencumbered. It is a rule, too, never to crowd too many circumstances together, but rather to intersperse them in different parts of the sentence, joined with the capital words on which they depend; provided that care be taken, as I before directed, not to clog those capital words with them, or instance, when Dean Swift says, ‘What I had the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some time ago, in conversation, was not a new thought.’ (Letter to the Earl of Oxford.) ‘These two circumstan- ces, some time ago, and inconversation, which are here put together, would have had a better effect disjoined thus: ‘What I had the honour, sometime ago,of mentioning to your Lordship in conyer- sation.? And in the following sentence of Lord Bolingbroke’s: (Remarks on the History of England.) ‘A monarchy, limited like ours, may be placed, for aught I know, as it has been often repre- sented, just in the middle point, from whence a deviation leads, on the one hand, to tyranny, and on the other, to anarchy.’ The arrangement would have been happier thus: ‘A monarchy, limited like ours, may, for aught I know, be placed, as it has often been represented, just in the middle point,’ &c. I shall give only one rule more, relating to the strength of a sentence, which is, that in the members of a sentence, where two things are compared or contrasted to each other; where either a re- semblance or an opposition is intended to be expressed; some re- semblance, in the language and construction, should be preserved. For when the things themselves correspond to each other, we naturally expect to find the words corresponding too... We are dis- appointed when it is otherwise; and the comparison, or contrast, appears more imperfect. Thus, when Lord Bolingbroke says, ‘The laughers will be for those who have most wit ; the serious part of mankind, for those who have most reason on their side;? (Dis- sert. on Parties, Pref.) the opposition would have been more com- plete, if he had said, ‘The laughers will be for those who have most wit; the serious, for those who have most reason on their side.’ The following passage from Mr. Pope’s preface to his Homer, fully exemplifies the rule I am now giving: ‘Homer was the greater genius; Virgil, the better artist; in the one, we most admire the man; in the other, the work. Homer hurries us with a command- ing impetuosity; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. Ho- mer scatters with a generous profusion; Virgil bestows with a care- ful magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches with a sudden overflow; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with a constant stream. And when we look upon their machines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter, in his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and firing the heavens; Virgil, like the same power, in his benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying plans for empires, and ordering his whole creation.’ Periods thus constructed, when introduced with propriety, and not returning too often, have a sen-LECT. x11.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 133 sible beauty. But we must beware of carrying our attention to this beauty too far. It ought only to be oceasionally studied, when comparison or opposition of objects naturally leads to it. If such a construction as this be aimed at in all our sentences, it leads to a disagreeble uniformity; produces a regularly returning clink in the period, which tires the ear; and plainly discovers affectation. Among the ancients, the style of Isocrates is faulty in this respect; and on that account, by some of their best critics, particularly by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, he is severely censured. This finishes what I had to say concerning sentences, considered, with respect to their meaning, under the three heads of perspicuity, unity, and strength. It is a subject on which I have insisted fully, for two reasons: First, because it is a subject which, by its nature, can be rendered more didactic, and subjected more to precise rule, than many other subjects of criticism: and next, because it appears to me of considerable importance and use. For, though many of those attentions which I have been recom- mending, may appear minute, yet their effect, upon writing and style, is much greater than might at first be imagined. A senti- ment which is expressed in a period, clearly, neatly, and happily arranged, makes always a stronger impression on the mind, than one that is feeble or embarrassed. Every one feels this upon a comparison: and if the effect be sensible in one sentence, how much more in a whole discourse, or composition, that is made up of such sentences ? The fundamental rule of the construction of sentences, and into which all others might be resolved, undoubtedly is, to communi- eate, in thé ¢learest and most natural order, the ideas which.we mean to transfuse into the minds of others. Every arrangement that doés most justice to the sense, and expresses it to most advan- iage, strikes us as beautiful. To this point have tended all the rules I have given. And, indeed, did_men always think clearly, and were they, at the same time, fully masters of the language in which they write, there would be occasion for few rules, Their sentences would then, of coursé, acquire all those properties of precision, unity, and strength, which I have recommended. For_we.may rest assured, that, whenever we express ourselves ill, there is,besides the mismanagement of language, for the most part, some mistake in our manner of conceiving the subject. embarrassed, obscure, and feeble sentences, are generally, if not always, the result of em- barrassed, obscure, and feeble thought. Thought and_ language act and re-act upon each other.mutually... Logic and rhetoric have here, as in many other cases, a strict connexion; and he. that is learning to arrange his sentences with accuracy and order, is learn- ing, at the samé time, to think with accuracy and order; an obser- vation which alone will justify all the care and attention we have bestowed on this subject. U Fe FeoaeseseDsProey serv se 5 Pee teeta he see eee fac {et tas tcqcdertecdtesa tetas cesta te lats ote See re 2 ryan 2 Pe es - SCstrr: SFE Eye Pea ee ee cd ba pa ee ee eek ee Se Ree ee oer al ree Se ee ee ee er ee ee ee Seitatgtetete eget athe ] ere # a *Se et eee ee eee a as ( 134 ) LECTURE XIII. STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES....HARMONY. Hiruerro we have considered sentences, with respect to their 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 convey- ance for our ideas, there wi!l 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 asithears them uttered. ‘ Nihil,’ says Quintilian, ‘potest intrare in affectum, quod in aure, velut quodam vestibulo, statim offendit.’* Music has naturally a great power over all 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 medulation 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 not much to be said, unless I were to descend into a tedious and frivo- Jous 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 offen ding the ear.’Lect. xu1.} HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 135 are most agreeable to the ear which are composed of smooth and liquid 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 music of language’ requires a just proportion of both; and will be hurt, will be rendered either grating or effeminate,by an excess of either. Long words are commonly more agreeable to the ear than mono- syllables. They please 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 ofthem; 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 laboribus fundatum imperium, quanta virtute stabilitam liberta- tem, quanta Deorum benignitate auctas exagyeratasque 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 colloeation of any one of them, we should, present- iy, be sensible of the melody suffering. For, let us observe, how anely 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, -s 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 ctructure is formed, what are the principles of it, and by what laws ARSE eh hAGt eek tee ts Ps 2 Poy a rit. she Ds REE RS ew we etecb taser tad etetattle te eS = rn ta tae PU ST Te POP RC eee rere ete tetera rere Ate eer te Ce ee eg HAG CLSRRe Rt et ete rere Te Bese ts = Y ae s_? Pert oF eso sa seoPee eek en De ae kb Pg ee de hh ak aes ee ee eT peppered tte ¥36 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [Leer x1. 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 “gunctura et numerus,’ the medulation 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 longerand 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 their languages allowed, gave them the power of pla- cing their words in whatever order was most suited toa 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 than it is with us; more generally studied, and applied to a greater varietyuecT. x11.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 137 of objects. Several learned men, particularly the Abbé du Bos, in his Reflections on Poetry and Painting, have clearly proved, that the theatrical compositions of the ancients, both their tragedies and comedies, were set to a kind of music. Whence the modos Jectt, and the tibiis dextris et sinistris, prefixed to the editions of Terence’s plays. All sort of declamation and public speaking; was carried on by them in a much more musical tone than it is among us. It approached to a kind of chanting or recitative. Among the 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 concludunt.’ 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- fences, 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, ‘Conciones seepe exclamare vidi, cum verba apte cecidissent. Id enim expectant aures.2* 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, ‘Patris dictum sapiens temeritas fili comprobavit.’ By means of the sound of which, alone, he tells us, ‘Tantus clamor concionis * ¢J have often been witness to bursts of exclamation in the public assemblies, when gentences closed musically ; for that is a pleasure which the ear expects. md Both ooh deo tecbntet etna dh dad aes Ese sere ren pts erbtecatereg ecetetelete? cee Fo SaaS PEPER SE eee ree ee Oe ee Teves rae a) « ae @ eS eed = ont TL. e eegregegtereteceietetecestss = east athe od —_ ae 3 z138 : HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [xecr. xi. excitatus est, ut prorsus admirable esset.’ He makes us remark the feet of which these words consist, to which he ascribes the power of the melody; and shows how, by altering the collocation, the whole effect would be lost; as thus: ‘Patris dictum sapiens com- probavit temeritas filii.2 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 isin 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 this head, has misled some to imagine, that it might be equally apphed to our tongue; and that our prose writing might be regulated by spondees and trochees, and iambus’s and peeons, 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, ee our plainer method of pronouncing all sorts of He course, the effect would not be at all so sensible to the ea1, 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 rules concerning this matter, in any language; as all prose composition must be allowed to run loose in its numbers; and according as the tenour of & discourse varies, the modulation of sentences must vary infinitely. * F ; : 3 . 1 «. PP PRR ee a ee ro 3 rs SZepegegresesesere te tence sede secs acer reese eit3 e.? aa 7 nt a &ee ae oe CAFE OS Ce ee ee ee ee ee 150 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT. XIV. of solid thought and natural sentiment; when they are inserted in heir proper place; and when they rise, of themselves, from the suyject without being sought after. Having premised these observations, I proceed to give an account of the origin and nature of figures; principally of such as have their dependence on language; including that numerous tribe which the rhetoricians call tropes. At the first rise of language, men would begin with giving names to the different objects which they discerned, or thought of. This nomenclature would, at the beginning, be very narrow. According as men’s ideas multiplied, and their acquaintance with objects in- creased, their stock of names and words would increase also. But to the infinite variety of objects and ideas, no language is adequate. No language is so copious, as to have a separate word for every se- parate idea. Men naturally sought to abridge this labour of multi- plying words zz infinitum ; and, in order to lay less burden on their memories, made one word, which they had already appropriated toa certain idea or object, stand also for some other idea or object; between which and the primary one, they found, or fancied, some relation. Thus, the preposition, 7, was originally invented to express the cir- cumstance of place: ‘The man was killed iz the wood.’ In pro- gress of time, words were wanted to express men’s being connected with certain conditions of fortune, or certain situations of mind; and some resemblance, or analogy, being fancied between these, and the place of bodies, the word in, was employed to express men’s being so circumstanced ; as, one’s being én health, or in sickness, 77 pros- perity or zn adversity, in joy orin grief, 7 doubt, or in danger, or in safety. Here we see this preposition, in, plainly assuming a tropical signification, or carried off from its original meaning, to signify some- thing else which relates to, or resembles it. Tropes of this kind abound in all languages, and are plainly ow- ing to the want of proper words. The operations of the mind and affections, in particular, are, in most languages, described by words taken from sensible objects. The reason is plain. The names of sensible objects were, in all languages, the words most early introduced; and were, by degrees, extended to those mental ob- jects, of which men had more obscure conceptions, and to which they found it more difficult to assign distinct names. They borrow- ed, therefore, the name of some sensible idea, where their imagina- tion found some affinity. Thus, we speak of a piercing judgment, and a cleur head; a soft or a hard heart; a rowgh or a smooth beha- viour. We say, inflamed by anger, warmed by love; sewedled with {Incolumem Pallanta mihi, si fata reservant, Si visurus eum vivo, et venturus in unum, Vitam oro; patiar quemvis durare laborem! Sin aliquem infandum casum, Fortuna, minaris, Nunc, O nunc liceat crudelem abrumpere vitam ! Dum cure ambigue, dum spes incerta futuri ; Dum te, chare Puer ! mea sera et sola voluptas ? Amplexu teneo; gravior ne nuncius aures Vulneret fin. VII. 678.LECT. rv. ] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 151 pride, melted into grief; and these are almost the only significant words which we have for such ideas. But, although the barrenness of languages, and the want of words, be doubtless one cause of the invention of tropes ; yet it is not the only, nor, perhaps, even the principal source of this form ofspeech. Tropes have arisen more frequently, and spread themselves wider, from the in- fluence which imagination possesses over language. The train on which this has proceeded among all nations, I shall endeavour to explain. Every object which makes any impression on the human mind, is constantly accompanied with certain circumstances and relations, that strike us at the same time. It never presents itself to our view zsolé, as the French express it; that is; independent on, and sepa- rated from, every other thing; but always occurs as somehow related to other objects; going before them, or following them ; their effect or their cause: resembling them, or opposed to them; distinguished by certain qualities, or surrounded with certain circum- stances. By this means, every idea or object carries in its train some other ideas, which may be considered as its accessories. These accessories often strike the imagination more than the principal idea ‘itself. They are, perhaps, more agreeable ideas; or they are more familiar to our conceptions; or they recall to our memory a greater variety of important circumstances. The imagination is more dis- posed to rest upon some of them; and therefore, instead of using the proper name of the principal idea which it means to express, it employs in its place the name of the accessory or correspondent idea; although the principal have a proper and well known name of itsown. Hence avast variety of tropical or figurative words obtain currency in all languages, through choice, not necessity; and men of lively imaginations are every day adding to their number. Thus, when we design to intimate the period at which a state en- joyed most reputation or glory, it were easy to employ the proper words for expressing this; but as this is readily connected, in our imagination, with the flourishing period of a plant or a tree, we lay hold of this correspondent idea, and say, ‘ The Roman empire flourished most under Augustus.’ The leader of a faction is plain language: but because the head is the principal part of the human body, and is supposed to direct all the animal operations, resting upon this resemblance, we say, ‘ Catiline was the head of the par- ty.2 The word voice, was originally invented to signify the arti- culate sound, formed by the organs of the mouth ; but, as by means of it men signify their ideas and their intentions to each other, voice soon assumed a great many other meanings, all derived from this primary effect. ‘To give our voice’ for any thing, signified, to give our sentiment in favour of it. Not only SO 5 but voice was transferred to signify any intimation of will or judgment, though given without the least interposition of voice in its literal sense, or any sound uttered at all. Thus we speak of listening to the vorce of conscience, the voice of nature, the voice of God. This usage takes place, not so much from barrenness of language, or want ot a proper word, as from an allusion which we choose to make to TeeET CTs tao Ae Bee Se Ba oe oes Paes re ee a ee et oe ee ee ie Wed es EPR ST ee eer rer Ore ee oe 4 a edegtaegtareterhieretecd se aisegans fed ieee ete e Es 5} { { 152 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT. xIv: voice in its primary sense, in order to convey our idea, connected with a circumstance which appears to the fancy to give it more sprightliness and force. The account which I have now given, and which seems to be a full and fair one, of the introduction of tropes into all languages, coincides with what Cicero briefly hints, in his third book, De Oratore. ‘ Modus transferendi verba laté patet ; quam necessitas primum genuit, coacta inopia et angustia ; post autem delectatio, Jucunditasque celebravit. Nam ut vestis, frigoris depellendi causa reperta primo, post adhiberi capta est ad ornatum etiam corporis et dignitatem, sic verbi translatio instituta est inopie causa, frequentata delectationis.’* From what has been said, it clearly appears how that must come to pass, which I had occasion to mention in a former lecture, that all languages are most figurative in their early state. Both the cau- ses to which I ascribed the origin of figures, concur in producing this effect at the beginnings of society. Language is then most bar- ren: the stock of proper names which have been invented for things, is small; and, at the same time, imagination exerts great influence over the conceptions of men, and their method of uttering them ; so that, both from necessity and from choice, their speech will, at that period, abound in tropes ; for the savage tribes of men are always much given to wonder andastonishment. Every new object surprises, terrifies, and makes a strong impression on their mind ; they are governed by imagination and passion, more than by rea- son; and of course, their speech must be deeply tinctured by their genius. In fact, we find, that this is the character of the American and Indian languages: bold, picturesque, and metaphorical; full of strong allusions to sensible qualities, and to such objects as struck them most in their wild and solitary life. An Indian chief makes a harangue to his tribe, in a style full of stronger metaphors than an European would use in an epic poem. As language makes gradual progress towards refinement, almost every object comes to have a proper name given to it, and perspi- cuity and precision are more studied. But still, for the reasons before given, borrowed words, or as rhetoricians call them, tropes, must continue to occupy a considerable place. In every language, too, there are a multitude of words, which, though they were figu- rative in their first application to certain objects, yet, by long use, lose their figurative power wholly, and come to be considered as simple and literal expressions. In this case,-are the terms which I remarked before, as transferred from sensible qualities to the ope- rations or qualities of the mind, a piercing judgment, a clear head. *¢The figurative usage of words is very extensive ; an usage to which necessity first gave rise, On account of the paucity of words, and barrenness of language ; but which the pleasure that was found in it afterwards rendered frequent. Fo: as gar- ments were first contrived to defend our bodies from the cold, and afterwards were employed for the purpose of ornament and dignity, so figures of speech, introduced by want, were cultivated for the sake of entertainment,’reer. “xiv: | FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. a hard heart, and the like. There are other words which remain ina sort of middle state ; which have neither lost wholly their figurative application, nor yet retain so much of it as to imprint any remarka- ble character of figured language on our style; such as these phrases, ‘apprehend one’s meaning :’ ‘enter on a subject:’ ‘follow out an argu- ment:’ ‘stir upstrife :’ and agreatmany more, of which our language isfull. In the use of such phrases, correct writers will always preserve aregard to the figure or allusion on which they are founded, and will be careful not to apply them in any way that is inconsistent with it. One may be‘ sheltered under the patronage ofa great man:’ butit were wrong to say, ‘sheltered under the mask of dissimulation,’ as a mask, conceals, but does not shelter. An object, in description, may be ‘clothed,’ if you will, ‘with epithets ;’ but itis not so proper to speak of its being ‘clothed with circumstances :’ as the word ‘circumstances’ alludes to standing round, not to clothing. Such attentions as these to the propriety of language are requisite in every composition. What has been said on this subject, tends to throw light on the na- ture of language in general, and will lead to the reasons, why tropes or figures contribute to the beauty and grace of style. First, They enrich language, and render it more copious. By their means, words and phrases are multiplied for expressing all sorts of ideas; for describing even the minutest differences; the nicest shades and colours of thought ; which no language could pos- sibly do by proper words alone, without assistance from tropes. Secondly, They bestow dignity upon style. The familiarity of common words, to which our ears are much accustomed, tends to degrade style. When we want to adapt our language to the tone of an elevated subject, we should be greatly at a loss, if we could not borrow assistance from figures; which, properly employed, have a similar effect on language, with what is produced by the rich and splendid dress of a person of rank; to create respect, and to give an air of magnificence to him who wears it. Assistance of this kind, is often needed in prose compositions; but poetry could not subsist without it. Hence figures form the constant language of po- etry. To say, that ‘the sun rises,’ is trite and common; but it becomes a magnificent image when expressed, as Mr. Thomson has done: But yonder comes the powerful king of day, Rejoicing in the east.— To say that ‘all men are subject alike to death,’ presents only a vul- gar idea; but it rises and fills the imagination, when painted thus by Horace: Pallida mors equo pulsat pede, pauperum tabernas Rezumque turres.™ r v ' Omnes eodem cogimur ; omnium Versatur urna, serius ocyus, Sors exitura, et nos in eternum F:xilium impostura cymbe. —— + er * With equal pace, impartial fate Knocks at the palace, as the cottage gate. ge ot ha ee ee ee ~ erties era cre eee ee Bees ie; IPE ey ee eerste as me Pe etree gs 4 Pe ake hs $45: es eDeReSP SSS Tata Pet er ete Ter ete Retest sees @: be biPee ea See ree e+ aw> tees teh +2 cay 154 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT. XIV. In the third place, figures give us the pleasure of enjoying two objects presented together to our view, without confusion; the prin- eipal idea, which is ‘the subject of the discourse, along with its ac- cessory, which gives it the figurative dress. We see one thing in another, as Aristotle expresses it; which is always agreeable to the mind. For there is nothing with which the fancy is more delighted, than with comparisons, and resemblances of objects; and all tropes are founded upon some relation or analogy between one thing and another. When, for instance, in place of ‘ youth,’ I say the ‘morning of life;? the fancy is immediately entertained with all the resembling circumstances which presently occur between these two objects. At one moment, I have in my eye a certain period of human life, and a certain time of the day, so related to each other, that the imagination plays between them with pleasure, and contem- plates two similar objects, in one view, without embarrassment or confusion. Not only so, but, In the fourth place, figures are attended with this farther advan- tage, of giving us frequently amuch clearer and more striking view of the principal object, than we could have of it were it expressed in simple terms, and divested of its accessory idea. This is, indeed, their principal advantage, in virtue of which, they are very properly said to illustrate a subject, or to throw a light upon it. For they ex- hibit the object, on which they are employed, in a picturesque form ; they can render an abstract conception, in some degree, an object of sense; they surround it with such circumstances, as enable the mind to lay hold of it steadily, and to contemplate it fully. ‘Those persons,’ says one, ‘who gain the hearts of most people, who are chosen as the companions of their softer hours, and their reliefs from anxiety and care, are seldom persons of shining qualities, or strong virtues: it 1s rather the soft green of the soul, on which we rest our eyes, that are fatigued with beholding more glaring objects.’ Here, by a happy allusion to colour, the whole conception is con- veyed clear and strong to the mind in one word. By a well chosen figure, even conviction is assisted, and the impression of 2 truth upon the mind made more lively and forcible than it would otherwise be. As in the following illustration of Dr. Young’s: ‘ When we dip too deep in pleasure, we always stir a sediment fing renders it impure and noxious;’ or in this, ‘A heart boiling with vio- lent passions, will always send up infatuating fumes to the head.’ An image that presents so much congruity between a moral and a sen- sible idea, serveslike an argument from analogy, to enforce what the other asserts, and to induce belief. Besides, whether we are endeavouring to raise sentiments of plea- sure or aversion, we can always heighten the emotion by the figures which we introduce; leading the imagination to a train, either of Qr, We all must tread the paths of fate; And ever shakes the mortal urn ; Whose lot embarks us, soon or late, On Charon’s boat; ah! never to return, FRANCIs.LECT. XIV. | FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 155 agreeable or disagreeable, of exalting or debasing ideas, correspon- dent to the impression which we seek to make. When we want to render an object beautiful, or magnificent, we borrow images from all the most beautiful or splendid scenes of nature; we thereby na- turally throw a lustre over our object ; we enliven the reader’s mind, and dispose him to go along with us, in the gay and pleasing impres- sions which we give him of the subject. This effect of figures is happily touched in the following lines of Dr. Akenside, and illustrat- ed by a very sublime figure : Then th’ inexpressive strain Diffuses its enchantment. Fancy dreams Ofsacred fountains and Elysian groves, And vales of bliss; the intellectual power, Bends from his awful throne, a wond’ring ear, And smiles. Pleas. of Imaginat. I. 124, What I have now explained, concerning the use and effects of figures, naturally leads us to reflect on the wonderful power of lan- guage; and, indeed, we cannot reflect on it without the highest ad- miration. What a fine vehicle isit now become for all the concep- tions of the human mind; even for the most subtile and. delicate workings of the imagination! What a pliable and flexibleinstrument in the hand of one who can employ it skilfully; prepared to take every form which he chooses to give it! Not content with a simple communication of ideas and thoughts, it paints those ideas to the eye; it gives colouring and relievo, even to the most abstract con- ceptions. In the figures which it uses, it sets mirrors before us, where we may behold objects, a second time, in their likeness. It enter- tains us, as with a succession of the most splendid pictures; disposes in the most artificial manner, of the light and shade, for viewing eve- ry thing to the best advantage: in fine, from being a rude and im- perfect interpreter of men’s wants and necessities, it has now passed into an instrument of the most delicate and refined luxury. To make these effects of figurative language sensible, there are few authors in the English language to whom I can refer with more advantage than Mr. Addison, whose imagination is at once remark- ably rich, and remarkably correct and chaste. Whenhe is treating, for instance, of the effect which light and colours have to entertain the fancy, considered in Mr. Locke’s view of them as secondary qualities, which have no real existence in matter, but are only ideas of the mind, with what beautiful painting has he adorned this philo- sophic speculation! ‘Things,’ says he, ‘would make but a poor ap- pearance to the eye, if we saw them only in their proper figures and motions. Now,weare every where entertained with pleasing shows and apparitions; we discover imaginary giories in the heavens, and in the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured out upon the whole creation. But what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should we be entertained with, did all her colouring disappear, and the several distinctions of light and shade vanish e In short, our souls are at present delightfully lost, and hewildered in a pleasing delu- sion: and we walk about like the enchanted hero of a romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows: and at the same time Pees eee Se oe PT Lk Oe ee ir? 5 Sk de dl Sadi did Bade ii ett 4 Peeters to. se oes! > epee ree ee ee PPE Ore eee eee ee ti | Se Pee ee ye eee oh eee ae Pe er be ek ee me oe ci ststs eisee or S547 2 Sabet ses Hela tags te aeis ses Be Tee eee eee e ee re ee ee SHrate te aset sey es ees eer ak ee eg creased, give rise to tropes. that between a cause and its effect. the cause is sometimes put for the effect. Thus, Mr. Addison, writ- ing of Italy: 156 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF (umeT. cB. 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- It is not improbable, that something like this may be the state of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the images tary desert. it will receive from matter.’ No. 413, Spectator. Having thus explained, atsufficient length, the crigin, the nature, and divisions of them. or graceful use of language. and the effects of tropes, I should proceed next to the several kinds But, in treating of these, were I to follow the common tract of the scholastic writers on rhetoric, I should soon become tedious, and, I apprehend, useless at the same time. Their great business has been, with a most patient and frivolous in- dustry, to branch them out undera vast number of divisions, accord- ing to all the several modes in which a word may be carried from its literal meaning, into one that is figurative, without doing any more; as if the mere knowledge of the names and classes of all the tropes that can be formed, could be of any advantage towards the proper, All that I purpose is, to give, in a few words, before finishing this lecture, a general view of the several sources whence the tropical meaning of words is derived: after which I shall, in subsequent lectures, descend to a more particular consideration of some of the most considerable figures of speech, and such as are in most frequent use; by treating of which, I shall give all the instruction I can, concerning the proper employment of figurative language, and point out the errors and abuses which are apt to be committed in this part of style. All tropes, as I before observed, are founded on the relation which one object bears to another; in virtue of which, the name of the one can. be substituted instead of the name of the other, and by such a substitution, the vivacity of the idea is commonly meant to be in- These relations, some more, some less intimate, may al! One of the first and most obvious relations, is z . + ney t Pry . Hence,in figurative language, Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers, together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies. Ille impiger hausit Where the ‘ whole year’ # plainly intended, to signify the effects or productions of all the seasons of the year. At other times, again, the effect is put for the cause; as,‘ gray hairs’ frequently for old age, which causes gray hairs; and ‘shade,’ for trees that produce the shade. The relation between the container and the thing contain- ed, is also so intimate and obvious, as naturally to give rise to tropes: Spumantem pateram et pleno se proluit auro, Where every onc sees, that the cup and the gold are put for the li- quor that was contained in the golden cup. In the same manner, the name of any country is often used to denote the inhabitants of that country; and Heaven, very often employed to signify God, be-LECT. “XIV. | FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 157 cause he is conceived as dwelling in Heaven. To implore the assist- ance of Heaven, is the same as to implore the assistance of God. The relation betwixt any established sign and the thing signified, is a further source of tropes. Hence, Cedant arma toge; concedat laurea lingue. The ‘ toga,’ being the badge of the civil professions, and the ‘laurel’ of military honours, the badge of each is put for the civil and mili- tary characters themselves. To ‘assume the sceptre,’ isa common phrase for entering onroyal authority. To tropes, founded on these several relations, of cause and effect, container and contained, sign and thing signified, is given the name of Metonymy. When the trope is founded on the relation between an antecedent and a consequent, or what goes before, and immediately follows, it is then called a Metalepsis; as in the Roman phrase of ¢ Fuit,’ or ‘ Vixit,’ to express that one was dead. ‘Fuit Ilium et ingens gloria Dardanidum,’ signifies, that the glory of Troy is now no more. When the whole is put for a part, or a part for the whole; a ge- nus for a species, or a species for a genus; the singular for the plu- ral, or the plural for the singular number; in general, when any thing less, or any thing more, is put-for the precise object meant; the figure is then called aSynecdoche, It is very common, for instance, to describe a whole object by some remarkable part of it; as when we say, ‘a fleet of so many sail,’ in the place of ‘ships;’? when we use the ‘ head’ for the ‘ person,’ the ‘ pole’ for the ‘ earth,’ the ‘ waves’ for the‘sea.’? In like manner, an attribute may be put for a subject; as, ‘youth and beauty,’ for ‘the young and beautiful; and some- times a subject for its attribute. But it is needless to insist longer on this enumeration, which serves little purpose. I have said enough, to give an opening into that great variety of relations between ob- jects, by means of which, the mind is assisted to pass easily from one to another; and understands, by the name of the one, the other to be meant. It is always some accessory idea, which recalls the prin- cipal to the imagination; and commonly recalls it with more force, than if the principal idea had been expressed. The relation which is far the most fruitful of tropes I have not yet mentioned ; that is, the relation of similitude and resemblance. On this is founded what is called the metaphor; when, in place of using the proper name of any object, we employ, in its place, the name of some other which is like it; which is a sort of picture of it, and which thereby awakens the conception of it with more force or grace. This figure is more frequent than all the rest put together; and the language, both of prose and verse, owes to it much of its elegance and grace. This, therefore, deserves very full and par- ticular consideration; and shall be the subject of the next lecture. Sire eer rs. tS Tat ee MSI Le Li Sis essere See ESS es Setete A] eee a et Pret re ete tea ta Se eee en e te BRECLSSS SESS ress eee ete Pee G3 ee eee TT ee ree a ee fap esodiin peissedeieveses £2: & Seda tis asad Le SegeatatetetetetereTeBecesesy cs Titi Tt tk el WF) ow re} =F, = oaeee ye ee ee eee eae ( 158 ) LECTURE XV. Rae METAPHOR. Arter the preliminary observations I have made, relating to figurative language in general, I come now to treat separately of such figures of speech, as occur most frequently, and require par- ticular attention; and I begin with metaphor. This is a figure foun- ded entirely on the resemblance which one object bears to another. Hence, it is much allied to simile, or comparison, and is in- deed no other than a comparison expressed in an abridged form. When I say of some great minister, ‘that he upholds the state, like a pillar which supports the weight of a whole edifice,’ I fairly make a comparison; but when I say of such a minister ‘that he is the pillar of the state,’ it is now become a metaphor. The comparison betwixt the minister and a pillar, is made in the mind; but is expressed without any of the words that The comparison is only insinuated, not ex- pressed: the one object is supposed to be so like the other, that, without formally drawing the comparison, the name of the one denote comparison. may be put in the place of the name of the other. is the pillar of the state.’ ‘The minister This, therefore, is a more lively and animated manner of expressing the resemblances which imagination There is nothing which delights the fancy more, than this act of comparing things together, discovering re- semblances between them, and describing them by their likeness. The mind thus employed, is exercised without being fatigued; and traces among objects. is gratified with the consciousness of its own ingenuity. We need not be surprised, therefore, at finding all language tinctured strongly with metaphor. It insinuates itself even into familiar conversation ; and unsought, rises up of its own accord inthe mind. The very words which I have casually employed in describing this, area proof of what I say; ¢inctured, insinuates, rises up, are all of them meta- phorical expressions, borrowed from some resemblance which faney forms between sensible objects, and the internal operations of the mind; and yet the terms are no less clear, and perhaps, more ex- pressive, than if words had been used which were to be taken in the strict and literal sense. Though all metaphor imports comparison, and therefore is, in that respect, a figure of thought; yet, as the words in a metaphor are not taken literally, but changed from their proper to a figurative sense, the metaphor is commonly ranked among tropes or figures of words. But provided the nature of it be well understood, it signi- fies very little whether we call ita figure ora trope. I have confined it to the expression of resemblance between two objects. I must remark, however, that the word metaphor is sometimes used in a Icoser and more extended sense; for the application of a term in any figurative signification, whether the figure be founded on resem-LECD. XV, | METAPHOR. .- 159 blance, or on some other relation, which two objects bear to one another. For instance; when gray hairs are put for old age; as, to bring one’s gray hairs with sorrow to the grave;’ some writers would call this a metaphor, though it is not properly one, but what rhetoricians call a metonymy; that is, the effect put for the cause; ‘ gray hairs’ being the effect of old age, but not bearing any sort of resemblance to it. Aristotle, in his Poetics, uses metaphor in this extended sense, for any figurative meaning imposed upon a word; as a whole put for the part, or a part for the whole; a species for the genus, or a genus for the species. But it would be unjust to tax this most acute writer with any inaccuracy on this account; the minute subdivisions, and various names of tropes, being unknown in his days, and the invention of later rhetoricians. Now, however, when these divisions are established, it is inaccurate to call every figurative use of terms, promiscuously, a metaphor. Of all the figures of speech, none comes so near to painting as metaphor. Its peculiar effect is to give light and strength to de- scription; to make intellectual ideas, in some sort, visible to the eye, by giving them colour, and substance, and sensible quali- ties. In order to produce this effect, however, a delicate hand is required: for, by a very little inaccuracy, we are in hazard of introducing confusion, in place of promoting perspicuity. Se- veral rules, therefore, are necessary to be given for the proper management of metaphors. But before enteiing on these, I shall rive one instance of a very beautiful metaphor, that I may show the figure to full advantage. I shall take my instance from Lord Bolingbroke’s remarks on the History of England. Just at the con- clusion of his work, he is speaking of the behaviour of Charles [. to his last parliament; ‘In a word,’ says he, ‘about a month after their meeting, he dissolved them; and, as soon as he had dissolved them, he repented; but he repented too late of his rashness. Well might he repent; for the vessel was now full, and this last drop made the waters of bitterness overflow.’ ‘Here,’ he adds, ‘we draw the curtain, and put an end to our remarks.’ Nothing could be more happily thrown off. The metaphor, we see, is continued through several expressions. The vessel is put for the state, or tem- per of the nation, already ful, that is, provoked to the highest by former oppressions and wrongs; this dast drop, stands for the pro- vocation recently received by the abrupt dissolution of the parlia- ment; and the overflowing of the waters of bitterness, beautifully expresses all the effects of resentment, let loose by an exasperated people. On this passage, we may make two remarks in passing. | The one, that nothing forms a more spirited and dignified conclusion of a subject, than a figure of this kind happily placed at the close. We see the effect of it, in this instance. The author goes off with a good grace; and leaves a strong and full impression of his subject on the reader’s mind. My other remark is, the advantage which 2 metaphor frequently has above a formal comparison. How much would the sentiment here have been enfeebled, if it had been ex 2A Recipe sere see reel Sasa eS a i te SereeeisseSitee: Peo. Te Peet ee ee ee ee ek - Bee ; re ek 3 : . = ta Si oe SEES a PTE ee er ee Poe 5 £24 eS = ba oe oh ee e{tgtgreteteteteretetecesess PMT eth ke a Fe Ss 3See te Pe T “pie Te ber te be ye hk Seprarsripessgesasssste 160 METAPHOR. [umer. xv, pressed in the style of a regular simile, thus: ‘Well might he re- pent; for the state of the nation, loaded with grievances and pro- vocations, resembled a vessel that was now full, and this superadded provocation, like the last drop infused, made their rage and resent- ment, as waters of bitterness, overflow.’ I[t has infinitely more spirit and force as it now stands, in the form of a metaphor. ‘ Well might he repent: for the vessel was now full; and this last drop made the waters of bitterness overflow.’ Having mentioned, with applause, this instance from Lord Boling- broke, I think it incumbent on me here to take notice, that, though I may have recourse to this author, sometimes, for examples of style, it is his style only, and not his sentiments, that deserve praise. It is indeed my opinion, that there are few writings in the English lan- guage, which, for the matter contained inthem, can be read with less profit of fruit, than Lord Bolingbroke’s works. His political writ- ings have the merit of a very lively and eloquent style ; but they have no other; being, as to the substance, the mere temporary productions of faction and party; no better, indeed, than pamphlets written for the day. His posthumous, or as they are called, his philosophi- cal works, wherein he attacks religion, have still less merit; for they are as loose in the style as they are tlimsy in the reasoning. An un- happy instance, this author is, of parts and genius so miserably per- verted by faction and passion, that, as his memory will descend to posterity with little honour, so his productions will soon pass, and are, indeed, already passing into neglect and oblivion. Returning from this digression to the subject before us, I proceed to lay down the rules to be observed in the conduct of metaphors; and which are much the same for tropes of every kind. The first which | shall mention, is, that they be suited to the nature of the subject of which we treat ; neither too many, nor too gay, nor too elevated for it; that we neither attempt to force the subject, by means of them, into a degree of elevation which is not congruous to it; nor, on the other hand, allow it to sink below its proper dignity. Thisis a direction which belongs to all figurative language, and should beever keptin view. Some metaphors are allowable, nay, beautiful, in poetry, which it would be absurd and unnatural to employ in prose; some may be graceful in orations, which would be very improper in historical or philosophical composition. We must remember, that figures are the dress of our sentiments. As there is a natural con- gruity between dress, and the character or rank of the person who wears it, a violation of which congruity never fails to hurt; the same holds precisely as to the application of figures to sentiment. The excessive, or unseasonable employment of them, is mere foppery in writing. It gives a boyish air to composition; and instead of raising a subject, in fact, diminishes its dignity. For, as in life, true digni- ty must be founded on character, not on dress and appearance, so the dignity of composition must arise from sentiment and thought, not from ornament. The affectation and parade of ornament, de- tract as much from an author, as they do froma man. Figures and metaphors, therefore, should on no occasion be stuck on too pro-LECT. Xv. ] METAPHOR. 161 fusely ; and never should be such as refuse to accord with the strain of our sentiment. Nothing can be more unnatural, than for a.writer to carry on atrain of reasoning, in the same sort of figura- tive language, which he would use in description. When he reasons, we look only for perspicuity ; when he describes, we expect embel- lishment; when he divides, or relates, we desire plainness and sim- plicity. One of the greatest secrets in composition is, to know when to be simple. This always gives a heightening to ornament, in its proper place. The right disposition of the shade, makes the light and colouring strike the more: “Is enim est eloquens,’ says Cicero, ‘qui et humilia subtiliter, et magna graviter, et mediocria temperaté potest dicere. Nam qui nihil potest tranquille, nihil leni- ter, nihil definite, distincté, potest dicere, is, cum non preeparatis au- ribus inflammare rem coepit, furere apud sanos, et quasi inter sobri- os bacchari temulentus videtur.’* This admonition should be par- ticularly attended to by young practitioners in the art of writing, who are apt to be carried away by an undistinguishing admiration of what is showy and florid, whether in its place or not.t The second rule which T give, respects the choice of objects, from whence metaphors, and other figures, are to be drawn. The field for figurative language is very wide. All nature, to speak iri the style of figures, opens its stores to us, and admits us to gather, from all sensible objects, whatever can illustrate intellectual or moral ideas. Not only the gay and splendid objects of sense, but the grave, the terrifying, andeven the gloomy and dismal, may, on different oc- casions, be introduced into figures with propriety. But we must be- ware of ever using such allusions as raise in the mind disagreeable, mean, vulgar, or dirty ideas. Even when metaphors are chosen in order to vilify and degrade any object, an author should study never to be nauseous in his allusions. Cicero blames an orator of his time, for terming his enemy ‘Stercus Curie ;’ ‘ quamvis sit simile,’ says he, ‘tamen est deformis cogitatio similitudinis.’ But, in subjects of dignity, itis an unpardonable fault to introduce mean and vulgar me- taphors. In the treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift’s works, there is a full and humorous collection of instances of this kind, * “ He is truly eloquent, who can discourse of humble subjects in a plain style, who can treat important ones with dignity, and speak of things which are of a middle na- ture, in a temperate strain. For one who, upon no occasion, can express himself in a calm, orderly, distinct manner, when he begins to be on fire before his readers are pre- pared to kindle along with him, has the appearance of raving like a madman among persons who are in their senses, or of reeling like a drunkard in the midst ofsober com- any.” : + What person of the least taste, can bear the following passage, in a late historian ° He is giving an accowut of the famous act of parliament against irregular marriages in England: ‘ The bill,’ says he, ‘underwent a greatnumber ofalterations and amendments, which were not effected without violent contest.’ This is plain language, suited to the subject; and we naturally expect, that he should go onin the same'strain, to tell us, that, after these contests, it was carried by a great majority of voices, and obtained the royal as- sent. But how does he express himself in finishing the period P. ‘ At length, however, it was floated through both houses, on the tide of a great majority, and steered into the safe harbour of royal approbation.’ Nothing can be more pterile than such language Smollet’s History of England, as quoted in Critical Review for Oct. 1761, p. 261. 21 Teta ee et or He Pr He Verve eet eee MPCELTSA PGES ITS F 2 ae oP $Zeress ce Sug a es) Pea eee ee eee ee a cot ol Spt bd BG : SELES por. See CP eI eT eT 2 PER RE re ae oer. Sk nh Se a ee She segegegtateteTeietetesetsse PUTT Te tea he oe be be te ee Be Oe es am br rd Pino Ps pits ¥ es.Po ee ee Se ees s ; Teac eee Sey 162 METAPHOR. [LEcT. XV. wherein authors, instead of exalting, have contrived to degrade, their subjects by the figures they employed. Authors of greater note than those which are there quoted, have, at times, fallen into this error. Archbishop Tillotson, for instance, is sometimes negli- gent in his choice of metaphors; as, when speaking of the day of judgment, he describes the world, as “ cracking about the sinners’ ears.’ Shakspeare, whose imagination was rich and bold, in a much greater degree than it was delicate, often fails here. The following, for example, is a gross transgression; in his Henry V. having men- Pe ae 5 ae tioned a dunghill, he presently raises a metaphor from the steam of it; and ona subject too, that naturally led to much nobler ideas: And those that leave their valiant bones in France, Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, They shall be fam’d ; for there the sun shall greet them, And draw their honours reeking up to heaven. Act IV. Sc. 8. In the third place, as metaphors should be drawn from objects: of some dignity, so particular care should be taken that the resemblance, which is the foundation of the metaphor, be clearand perspicuous, not far fetched nor difficult to discover. The transgression of this rule makes what are called harsh or forced metaphors, which are always displeasing, because they puzzle the reader, and, instead of illustrat- ing the thought, render it perplexed andintricate. With metaphors of this kind, Cowley abounds. He, and some of the writers ofhisage,seem to have considered it as the perfection of wit, to hit upon likenesses between objects which no other person could have discovered; and, at the same time, to pursue those metaphors so far, that it requires some ingenuity to follow them out and comprehend them. This makes a metaphor resemble an enigma; and is the very reverse of Cicero’s rule on this head: ‘Verecunda debet esse translatio; ut deducta esse in alienum locum non irruisse, atque ut voluntario non yj venisse videatur.’* How forced and obscure, for instance, are the following verses of Cowley, speaking of his mistress: Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine come Into the self-same room, Twill tear and blow up all within, Like a granado, shot into a magazine. Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts Of both our broken hearts ; Shall out of both one new one make; From hers th’ alloy, from mine the metal take ; For of her heart, he from the flames will find But little left behind ; Mine only will remain entire, No dross was there to perish in the fire, In this manner he addresses sleep: In vain thou drowsy god, I thee invoke; For thou, who dost from fumes arise, Thou, who man’s soul dost overshade, * « Every metaphor should be modest, so that it may carry the appearance of having been }ed, not of having forced itself into the place of that word whose room it occu pies; that it may seem to have come thither of its own accord, and not by con straint.” De Oratore, L. ili. c. 63.LECT. xy.] 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 our 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, asit were. This is but an awkward parenthesis; and metaphors, which need this apology of an as zt 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 !an- guage 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.t IV. 962. 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 1s 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 i Cowley. 4 ; a there is no allusion to a column, and the Metaphor is reguiarly eupported. 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Horace’s rule, which he applies to characters, should be observed by all writers who deal in figures: Servetur ad imum, Qualis ab incepto:processerit, et sibi constet. Mr. Pope, elsewhere, addressing himself to the king, says, To thee the world its present homage pays, The harvest early, but mature the praise. This, though not so gross, is a fault, however, of the same kind. It is plain that, had not the rhyme misled him to the choice of an improper phrase, he would have said, The harvest early, but mature the crop ; And so would have continued the figure which he had begun. Whereas, by dropping it unfinished, and by employing the literal word praise, when we were expecting something that related to the harvest, the figure is broken, and the two members of the sentence have no proper correspondence with each other : The harvest: early, but mature the praise. The works of Ossian abound with beautiful and correct meta- phors; such as that on a hero: ‘In peace, thou art the gale or spring ; in war, the mountain storm.’ Or this, on a woman: ‘ She was covered with the light of beauty; but her heart was the house of pride.’ They afford, however, one instance of the fault we are now censuring: ‘ Trothal went forth with the stream of his people, but they met a rock: for Fingal stood unmoved; broken, they roll- ed back from his side. Nor did they roll in safety ; the spear of the king pursued their flight.’ At the beginning, the metaphor is very beautiful. The stream, the unmoved rock, the waves rolling back broken, are expressions employed in the proper and consistent language of figure; but, in the end, when we are told, ‘they did not roll in safety, because the spear of the king pursued their flight,’ the literal meaning is improperly mixed with the metaphor: they are, at cne and the same time, presented to us as waves that roll, and men that may be pursued and wounded with a spear. Ifit be faulty to jumble together, in this manner, meta- phorical and plain language, it is still more so, In the fifth place, to make two different metaphors meet on one object. This is what is called mixed metaphor, and is indeed one of the grossest abuses of this figure; such as Shakspeare’s expres- sion, ‘to take arms against a sea of troubles.? This makes a most “unnatural medley, and confounds the imagination entirely. Quin- tilian has sufficiently guarded us against it. ‘Id imprimis est cus- todiendum, ut quo genere cceperis translationis, hoe finias. Multi autem ciim initium a tempestate sumserunt, incendio aut ruina fini- unt; que est inconsequentia rerum fcedissima.’* Observe, for in- * « We must be particularly attentive to end with the same kind of metaphor with which we have begun. Some,when they begin the figure with a tempest, conclude it with a conflagration ; which forms a shameful inconsistency.LECT. xv.] METAPHOR. | 165 stance, what an inconsistent group of objects is brought together by Shakspeare, in the following passage of the Tempest; speaking of persons recovering their judgment,after the enchantment which held them was dissolved: The charm dissolves apace, And as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. So many ill sorted things are here joined, that the mind can see nothing clearly; the morning stealizng upon the darkness, and at the same time melting it; the senses of men chasing fumes, igno- rant fumes, and fumes that mantle. So again in Romeo and Juliet: ———- As glorious, As is the winged messenger from heaven, Unto the white upturned wondering eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air. Here the angel is represented, as at one moment, bestriding the clouds, and sazling upon the air; and upon the bosom of the air too; which forms such a confused picture, that it is impossible for any imagination to comprehend it. More correct writers than Shakspeare, sometimes fall into this error of mixing metaphors. It is surprising how the following inac- curacy should have escaped Mr. Addison, in his Letter from Italy; I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, That longs to launch into a bolder strain.* The muse, figured as ahorse, may be bridled; but when we speak of launching, we make it a ship; and by no force of imagination, can it be supposed both. a horse and a ship at one moment; dridled to hinder it from daunchinz. The same author, in one of his num- bers in the Spectator, says, ‘There is not a single view of human nature, which is not sufficient to extinguish the seeds of pride.” Ob- serve the incoherence of the things here joined together, making ‘a view extinguish, and extinguish seeds.’ Horace, also, is incorrect, in the following passage: Urit enim fulgore suo qui pregravat artes Infra se positas. Urit qui pregravat. He dazzles who bears down with his weight ; makes. plainly an inconsistent mixture of metaphorical ideas. Neither can this other passage be altogether vindicated : Ah! quanta laboras in Charybdi, Digne puer meliore 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 J had coincided with Dr. Johnson, who passes a similar censure upon it, in his life of Addison. Z Te es oe ieve 8555 6305254 bs pe Pere P+ Freese Se DervsD Pe eth et epee oe te reer. to) PP soy Sin a a rs Pte ee eer a ee cs os es de ek St ae RPeaT re renee rere rer et ere eS 3 en F: ere eed et TPT ee a as ba ed ke Ca ets 5 6 oe anSosebedal aia teceqedes eee 2 are co : Be her ee pose ee ee es Ce ee ek a St eo ae ee re Se or oi eos 166 METAPHOR. [LmcT. 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 im the breast. A void may, metaphorically, be said to crave: but can a void be said to ake 2 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 witha 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 he heaped on one another, they produce a confusion somewhat of the same kind with the mixed metaphor. Wemay 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 ; Periculose plenum opus alez 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 eru- oribus nondum expiatis;’ next, ‘ opus plenum periculosz alez ;’ and then ; ‘ Incedis per ignes suppositos doloso eineri.?” The mind has difficulty in passing readily through so many different views, given it in quick succession, of the same object. The only other rule concerning metaphors which I shall add, in * 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 !) You treat adventurous, and:incautious tread On fires with faithless embers overspread, Francis ,LECT. Xv. | METAPHOR. 167 the 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, which | 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 hitupon 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 ereat,and deserves to be remarked. No writer, ancient or modern, had-a stronger imagination than Dr. Young, or one more fertile in fizures 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 inhis 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 the author. We may observe, for instance, how the following metaphor is spun out: Thy thoughts are vagabond ; all outward bound, Midst sands,and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure; If gain’d, dear bought: and better miss’d than gain’d. Fancy and sense, from an infected shore, | Thy cargo brings 5 and pestilence the prize ; Then such the thirst, insatiable thirst, 3y 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 that vast ocean, it must sail so soon 5 And put good works on board ; and wait the wind That shortly blows us into worlds anknown. The two first lines are uncommonly beautiful ; ‘ walk thoughtful onthe silent,’ &c. but when he continues ie metaphor, ‘to putting zood workson board, and waiting the wind, ‘it plainly becomes strain- ad, and sinks in dignity. Of all the English authors, 1 know none on ) % ; . . . . = so happy in his metaphors as Mr. Addison. Huis imagination was ¥ i strone as Dr. Young’s; but far more chaste neither so rich nor so strong as Ur. 2S 5 re chas and delicate. Perspicuity, natural grace and ease, always distinguish his figures. They are neither harsh nor strained: they never appeas he EL Peete eed ad ot ee S9Geeeseees ele a Per eee ee yest. aa Pate tetra Pee eee fa eo oa pl a Sk FECLZeRA+ SAMS S LOT oBoGwdsLete feces epita fuse cageietesty titcelerte 5 ed Per oe ae a ed re rer is i. aa pe ot ee ee S Peat Tat he a hot ee a hs La e Pe 5eee e Le See or Sieeeadszaess Seotteletegsseae ee eT te eset eel ee hs 168 ALLEGORY. faery says 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. Ihave 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, O Ged 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 thisfigure. Thisis the first and principal requisite in the conduct of an allegory, that the figurative and the literal meaning be not mixed inconsistently toge- ther. Jor instance, instead of describing the vine, as wasted by the bear 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 haveruined the al- legory, and produced the same confusion, of which I gave examples in metaphors, when the figurative and literal sense are mixed and jumbled together. Indeed, the same rules that were given for meta- phors, may also be applied to allegories, on account of the affinity they bear to each othcr. 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 andthe minister, which I join to them; but an allegory is, or may be, allowed to stand more disconnected with the literal mean-LECT. XVI. | HYPERBOLE. 169 ing; 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 enigma 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 1s 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 attention, than in allegories. In some of the visions of the Spec- tator, we have examples of allegories very happily executed. LECTURE XVI. ee HYPERBOLE....PERSONIFICATION....APOSTROPHE. Tue 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 distine- tion between these two classes begins not to be clear, nor is it of 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 isa mode of speech which hath some foun- dation innature. Forinall languages, even in common conversation, hyperbolical expressions very frequently occur: asswift asthe 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 1n 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, if you please, of more correct aa dane Hence, among all wri- ee de 2 errs hee eee os Pee re er ae ed es = a ee Pe ee Sere er re reer Oe a Peer ere err Th gree ne $etgtr Pe ee a rt EPS Sos or ae bs he os te ed Peak ES eS a erect? een 5Seat aeiaHaetseyess sere eee ge Ete sy ATLA gost aFHIS RS ETDS FF esqeeTSTetsteses 170 HYPERBOLE. { LECT. XVI ters in early times, 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 chasten the man- 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 here 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 native 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 ina vastly stronger 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 hyperbolieal 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 wrath, and infinite despair ? Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell, And in the lowest depth, a lower deep Still threat’ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. B..iv..1.:73, In simple description, though hyperboles are not excluded, yet they must be used with more caution, and require more prepara- tion, in order to make the mind relish them. LEither the object described must be of that kind, which of itself seizes the fancy strongly, and disposes it to run beyond bounds; something vast, surprising, and new; or the writer’s art must be exerted in heating fancy gradually, and preparing it to think highly of the objectLECT. 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 battle, we can bear strong hyperboles without displeasure. But when he is describing only a woman in grief, it is impossible not to be disgusted with such wild exaggeration as the following, in one of our dramatic poets; I found her on the floor In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful ; Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, That were the world on fire, they might have drown’d The wrath of Heaven, and quench’d the mighty ruin. LEE. This is mere bombast. The person herself who was under the distracting agitations of grief, might be permitted to hyperbolize strongly; but the spectator describing her, 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 hy perboles. Among the compliments paid by the Roman poets to their EXmpe- 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 ingens Scorpius, et Ceeli 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 tibilegeris orbe, Nec polus adversi calidus qua mergitur Austri 5 ZEtheris immensi partem si presseris unam Sentiet axis onus. Librati pondera Cali Orbe tene medio.t Puars. I. 63. * “The Scorpion, ready-to receive thy laws, Yields half his region, and contracts his paws.’ DrypDEN. + ¢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 heneath th’ incumbent God O’er the mid orb more equal shalt thou rise, And with a juster balance fix the skies. Rows. eee en ate Peeeces: 3 eae ee me ceSs ges baie ok ge ageees SUTOre ed ted Aree ie cr eae ee ee re a ts n segs PRE eer Oe eer rey ere ed es RE Te Ce ge ak SLSHgRet ele Te TereteMcces Fs Bot eres oe é scr ! é | RSetptsisessesebeleieks? eat Pots éFs ee = 172 PERSONIFICATION. [LECT. XVI Such thoughts as these, are what the French call owtrés, and always proceed from a false fire of genius. The Spanish and African writers, as Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustin, are remarked for being fond : pe < 5 A $ of them. As in that Epitaph on Charles V. by a Spanish writer: Pro tumulo ponas orbem, pro tegmine coelum, Sidera pro facibus, pro lacrymis maria. 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. Piteairn’s, upon S ‘ i ) Db ? Holland’s being gained from the ocean; Tellurem fecere Dii; sua littora Belge; Immenseque molis opus utrumque fuit; Dii vacuo sparsas glomerarunt ethere terras, Nil ibi quod operi possit obesse fuit. At Belgis maria et celi, naturaque rerum Obstitit; obstantes hi domuére 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 Prosopopeeia; but as personification 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 very 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 than childish conceit, which no person of taste could relish. In fact, however, the case is very different. -No such ridiculous effect is produced by personification, when properly employed; on the contrary, it is found to be natural and agreeable, nor is any very uncommon degree of passion required, in order to make us relish i~, 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 ¢hzrs¢s for rain, or the earth smiles with plenty ; when we speak of ambition’s being res¢/ess, 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 resem-EHCT. Rv, | PERSUNIFICATION. 173 blance of ourselves over all other things, or from whatever other cause it arises, so it is, that almost every emotion, which in the least agitates the mind, bestows upon its object a momentary idea of life. Let aman 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 ereatest 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 uecessary 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 objects ; 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. nes 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 by way of an epithet added to the object, as, “a raging storm, a deceitful disease, a cruel disaster,’’ &c. it raises the style so little, that the humblest discourse will admit it without any force. This, 2C ee te os Ga ee ed Serer see Pere er PRE a ee er ee Pe PL oh oe ot rhe is te oh be ee Pee eer Paes eie:eseie ne - Ste Feiss sSete ot oe tt ee oY Pat eee re pees ean Cop ete Rei sin tse see eteiapedsr ease seek 174 PERSONIFICATION. [LECT. XVI. indeed, is such an obscure degree of personification, that one may doubt whether it deserves the name, and might not be classed with simple metaphors, which escape in a manner unnoticed. Happily employed, however, it sometimes adds beauty and sprightliness to an expression ; as in this line of Virgil; Aut conjurato descendens Dacus ab Istro. Geor. II. 474. Where the personalepithet, conjurato, applied to the river Lstro, isin- finitely more poetical than if it had been applied to the person, thus: Aut conjuratus descendens Dacus ab Istro. A very little taste will make any one feel the difference between these two lines. The next degree of this figure is, when we intreduce 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 pursued to any length, it belongs only to studied harangues, to highly figured and eloquent discourse; when slightly touched, it may be admitted into subjects of less elevation. Cicero, for instance, speaking of the cases where killing another is lawful in self-defence, uses the following words : ¢ Aliquando nobis gladius ad occidendum hominem ad ipsis porrigitur Jegibus.’ (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 ef male and fe- male creatures ; by giving a gender to any inanimate object, or ab- stract idea, that is, in place of the pronoun 2/, using the personal pronouns, Ae or she, we presently raise the style, and begin personi- fication. In solemn discourse, this may often be done 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 shal} see natural re- ligion beautifully personified, and be able to judge fron it, of the spirit and grace which this figure, when well conducted, bestows on adiscourse. 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 com: ositions where the great efforts of eloquence are allowed. The avihor is compar- ing together our Saviour and Mahomet; ‘Go,’ says }-c, ‘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 «s which he setLECT? wvI..] PERSONIFICATION. 175 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 herinto hisretirement; 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 andlust. 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; Pathe; forgive them, for they know noi what they do! When natural religion has thus viewed both, ask her whichis the Prophet ofGod? 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.’* Thisis 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, isalivein his writings. The same is the case with Milton and Shakspeare. No personification, in any author, is more striking, or introduced ona more proper occasion, than the following of Milton’s, on occasion of Eve’s eating the forbidden fruit : So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck’d, she ate ; Earth felt the wound ; and nature from her seat Sighing, through all her works, gave signs of wo That all was lost.— ix. 780. All the circumstances and ages of men, poverty, riches, youth, old age, all the dispositions and passions, melancholy, love, grief, con- tentment, are capable of being personified in poetry, with great pro- priety. Ofthis we meet with frequent examples in Milton’s Allegro and Penseroso, Parnell’s Hymn toContentment, Thomson’ s Seasons, and all the good poets: nor, indeed, is it easy to set any bounds to personifications of this kind, in poetry. * Bishop Sherlock’s Sermons, Vol 1 Disc ix BOTS Se. eee se Petre to et fer tr aa ee ee A y m 2 meee 3 Sea ihe stp hxicorare SUPT e Ter eter ee Ot Peer eee tes hee one eee ee Re Oe Be a ke ok PPT ee ss ok tok eS Ps = od eh e Pee 5Seeeatawiatelave 4 SiS ¥ eee ran 176 PERSONIFICATION. [LECT. XVI. One of the greatest pleasures we receive from poetry, is, to find ourselves always in the midst of our fellows ; and to see every thing thinking, feeling, and acting as we ourselves do. This is, perhaps, the principal charm of this sort of figured style, that it introduces us into society with all nature, and interests us, even in inanimate objects, by forming a connexion between them and us, through that sensibility which it ascribes to them. This is exemplified in the fol- lowing beautiful passage of Thomson’s Summer, wherein the life which he bestows upon all nature, when describing the effects of the rising sun, renders the scenery uncommonly gay and interest- ing: But yonder comes the powerful king of day Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain’s brow, Tipt with ethereal gold, his near approach Betoken glad. —By thee refin’d, In brisker measures, the relucent stream Frisks o’er the mead. The precipice abrupt, Projecting horror on the blacken’d flood, Softens at thy return. The desert joys, Wildly, through all his melancholy bounds, Rude ruins glitter: and the briny deep, Seen from some pointed promontory’s top Reflects from every fluctuating wave, A glance extensive as the day ‘The same effect is remarkable in that fine passage of Milton : To the nuptial bower . Iled her, blushing like the morn. All heaven And happy constellations, on that hour, Shed their selectest influence. The earth Gave signs of gratulations, and each hill. Joyous the birds ; fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odour from the spicy shrub, Disporting. The third and highest degree of this figure remains to be mention- ed, when inanimate objects are introduced, not only as feeling and acting, but as speaking to us, or hearing and listening when we ad- dress ourselves to them. This,though on several occasions far from being unnatural, is, however, more difficu!tin the execution, than the other kinds of personification. For this is plainly the boldest of all rhetorical figures ; it is the style of strong passion only; and, there- fore, never to be attempted, unless when the mind is considerably heated and agitated. A slight personification of some inanimate thing, acting as if,it had life, can be relished by the mind, in the midst of cool description, and when its ideas are going on in the or- dinary train. But it must be ina state of violent emotion, and have departed considerably from its common track of thought, before it can so far realize the personification of an insensible object, as to conceive it listening to what we say, or making any return tous. ~ All strong passions, however, have a tendency to use this figure, not on- ly love, anger, and indignation, but even those which are seemingly more, dispiriting, such as, grief, remorse, and melancholy. For allLECT.. XVI. | PERSONIFICATION. 177 passions struggle for vent, and if they can find no other object, will, rather than be silent, pour themselves forth to woods, and rocks, and the most insensible things; especially if these be in any degree con- nected with the causes and objects that have thrown the mind into this agitation. Hence, in poetry, where the greatest liberty is allow- ed to the language of passion, it is easy to produce many beautiful examples of this figure. Milton affords us an extremely fine one, in that moving and tender address which Eve makes to Paradise, lust before she is compelled to leave it. Oh! unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise! thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks, and shades, Fit haunt of gods! where I had hope to spend Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day, Which must be mortal to us both. O flower3! That never will in other climate grow, My early visitation and my last At ev’n, which I bred up with tender hand, From your first op’ning buds, and gave you names! Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and water from th’ ambrosial fount ? Book IT, 1. 268. This is altogether the language of nature, and of female passion. It is observable, that all plaintive passions are peculiarly prone to the use of this figure. The complaints which Philoctetes, in Sopho- eles, pours out to the rocks and caves of Lemnos, amidst the excess of his griefand despair, are remarkably fine examples of it.* And there are frequent examples, not in poetry only, but in real life, of persons when just about to suffer death, taking a passionate fare- well of the sun, moon, and stars, or other sensible objects around them. There are two great rules for the management of this sort of per- sonification. The first rule is, never to attempt it, unless when prompted by strong passion, and never to continue it when the passion begins to flag. It is one of those high ornaments, which can only find place in the most warm and spirited parts of composition; and there, too, must be employed with moderation. The second rule is, never to personify any object in this way, but such as has some dignity in itself, and can make a proper figure in this elevation to which we raise it. The observance of this rule is required, even in the lower degrees of personification ; but still more, when an address is made to the personified object. To address the corpse of a deceased friend, is natural; but to.address theclothes which he wore, introduces mean and degrading ideas. So * O arsves, @ areoCantes, @ Evvourias Ongav ogtlav, w xarappwyes @eText "Yu tad & yae zaarcv cid orw Atya "Avaxraionat aagses ross ebsory, &c. ‘O mountains, rivers, rocks, and savage herds, ‘To youl speak! to you alone I now ‘ Must breathe my sorrows! you are wont to hear ‘My sad complints, and I will tell you all ‘ That [ have suffered from Achilles’ son!’ FRANKLIA 23 sore ieyeles ae ee Se 8 ot ee de eed ee ee Pereere ert Coser eas a SPP ed en Ea ae] + Pree tree Rea tee oe St ta : ora. Fe 5 eee eee ne Pyee Sree es res PE or ie eile coarse eet ee thegads tede egegegestaterereretetesests aes eee si ead oe eae eS. ae ee %ee 2 ee ee Bi i Diath ae te Ph ee ict tee ec ae Te . - pee | ee ee 178 PERSONIFICATION. [LECT. XVI. also, addressing the several parts of one’s body, as if they were animated, is not congruous to the dignity of passion. For this rea- son, I must condemn the following passage, in a very beautiful poem of Mr. Pope’s, Eloisa to Abelard. Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal’d, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal’d. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where, mix’d with God’s, his lov’d idea lies ; Oh! write it not, my hand !—his name appears Already written :—Blot it out, my tears! Here are several different objects and parts of the body personi- fied; and each of them is addressed or spoken to; let us con- sider with what propriety. The first is the name of Abelard: ‘ Dear fatal name! rest ever,’ &c. To this no reasonable objection can be made; for, as the name of a person often stands for the person himself, and suggests the same ideas, it can bear this personification with sufficient dignity. Next, Eloisa speaks to herself, and personi- fies her heart for this purpose: ‘Hide it, my heart, within that close,’ &c. As the heart is a dignified part of the human frame, and is often put for the mind, or affections, this also may pass without blame. But, when from her heart she passes to her hand, and tells her hand not to write his name, this is forced and unnatural; a personi- fied hand is low, and not in the style of true passion; and the figure becomes still worse, when, in the last place, she exhorts her tears to blot out what her hand had written; ‘Oh! write it not,’ &c. There is, in these two lines, an air of epigrammatic conceit, which native passion never suggests; and which is altogether unsuitable to the tenderness which breathes through the rest of that excellent poem. In prose compositions, this figure requires to be used with still greater moderation and delicacy. ‘The same liberty is not allowed to the imagination there, as in poetry. The same assistances cannot be obtained for raising passion to its proper height by the force of numbers, and the glow of style. However, addresses to inanimate objects are not excluded from prose; but have their place only in the higher species of oratory. A public speaker may, on some oc- casions, very properly address religion or virtue; or his native eountry, or some city or province, which has suffered perhaps great calamities, or been the scene of some memorable action. But we must remember, that as such addresses are among the highest efforts of eloquence, they should never be attempted, unless by persons of more than ordinary genius. For if the orator fails in his design of moving our passions by them, he is sure of being laughed at. Of all frigid things, the most frigid are the awkward and unseasonable attempts sometimes made towards such kinds of personification, es- pecially if they be long continued. We see the writer or speaker toiling and labouring to express the language of some passion, which he neither feels himself, nor can make us feel. We remain not only cold, but frozen; and are at full leisure to criticise on the ridiculous figure which the personified object makes, when we ought to have been transported with a glow of enthusiasm. Some of theLECT. XVI. | aAPOSTROPHE. 179 French writers, particularly Bossuet and Flechier, in their sermons and funeral orations, have attempted and executed this figure, not without warmth and dignity. Their works are exceedingly worthy of being consulted, for instances of this, and of several other ornaments of style. Indeed,the vivacity and ardour of the French genius is more suited to this bold species of oratory, than the more correct, but less animated genius of the British, who, in their prose works, very rarely attempt any of the high figures of eloquence.* So much for personification or prosopopceia, in all its different forms. Apostrophe is a figure so mucn of the same kind, that it will not require many words. It is anaddress toa real person, but one who is either absent or dead, as if he were present, and listening to us. It is so much allied to an address to inanimate objects personified, that both these figures are sometimes called apostrophes. However, the proper apostrophe is in boldness one degree lower than the ad- dress to personified objects ; for it certainly requires a less effort of imagination to suppose persons present who are dead or absent, than to animate insensible beings, and direct our discourseto them. Both figures are subject to the same rule of being prompted by passion, in order to render them natural ; for both are the language of passion or strong emotions only. Among the poets, apostrophe is frequent as in Virgil: Pereunt Hypenisque Dymasque Confixi a sociis ; nec te, tua plurima, Pantheu * In the ‘ Oraisons Funébres de M. Bossuet,’ which I consider as one of the master- pieces of modern eloquence, apostrophes and addresses to personified objects frequent- ly occur, and are supported with much spirit. Thus, for instance, in the funeral ora- tion of Mary of Austria, Queen of France, the author addresses Algiers, in the prospect of the advantage which the arms of Louis XIV. were to gain over it: ‘Avant lui la France, presque sans vaisseaux, tenoit en vain aux deux mers. Maintenant, on les voit couvertes, depuis le levant jusqu’au couchant, de nos flottes victorieuses ; et la hardiesse Francoise porte partout la terreur avec le nom de Louis. Tu céderas, tu tom- beras sous le vainqueur, Alger! riche des dépouilles de la Chrétiente. Tu disois en ton cceur avare, je tiens la mer sous ma loi, et les nations sont ma proie. La légéreté de tes vaisseaux te donnoit de la confiance. Mais tu te verras attaqué dans tes murailles, comme un-cisseau ravissant, qu’on iroit chercher parmi ses rochers, et dans son nid, od il partage son Dutin a ses petits. Tu rends déja tes esclaves. Louis a brisé les fers dont tu accablois ses sujets, &c.’ In another passage of the same oration, he thus apos- trophizes the Isle of Pheasants, which had been rendered famous by being the scene of those conferences, in which the treaty of the Pyrenees between France and Spain, and the marriage of this princess with the king of France, were concluded. ‘ Isle paci- fique ou se doiventterminer les differends de deux grands empires a qui tu sers de limites isle éterneliement mémorable par les conférences de deux grands ministres. Auguste journée olideux fiéres nations, long tems ennemis, et alors réconciliés par Marie Therese, s’avancgent sur leurs confins, leurs rois a lear téte, non plus pour se combattre, mais pour s’embrasser. Fétes sacrées, marriage fortune, voile nuptial, benédiction, sa- crifice, puis je méler aujourdhui vos ceremonies, et vos pompes avec ces pompes funébres, et le comble des grandeurs avec leurs ruines!’ In the funeral oration of Henrietta, Queen of England, (which is perhaps the noblest of all his compositions) after recounting all she had done to support her unfortunate husband, he concludes with this beautiful apostrophe: ‘O mére! O femine : O reine admirable, st digne d’une meilleure fortune, si les fortunes de la terre étoient quelque chose! Enfin il faut céder 2 votre sort. Vous avez assez soutenu l'état qui est attaque, par une force invincible et divine. I] ne reste plus désormais, si non que vous tenlez ferme parmi ses ruines. ited Reese Ta eke © eed eee ets ote ae setatess etter eta ts Se ee i Sereee eee ye: aps EOS Pee Peat Re Re ee hoe je gure begeieve Se a eae rae Poteet) os oe ek oe pried str the ata Fe aaSEEASeTaTERSCSESeS Pa ek ae LISFS Fe SEszesprtezis 180 APOSTROPHE. [LECT. XVI. Labentem pietas, nec Apollinis insula texit !* The poems of Ossian are full of the most beautiful instances of this figure: ‘Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inis- tore! Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou fairer than the ghosts of the hills, when it moves in a sunbeam at noon over the silence of Morven! He is fallen! Thy youth is low; pale beneath the sword of Cuchullin!’t Quintilian affords us a very fine example in prose; when in the beginning of his sixth book, deploring the untimely death of his son, which had happened during the course of the work, hemakesa very moving and tender apostropheto him. ‘Nam quo ille animo, qua medicorum admiratione, mensium octo valetu- dinem tulit? ut me in supremis consolatus est? quam etiam jam deficiens, jamque non noster, ipsum illum alienatze mentis errorem circa solas literas habuit? Tuosne ergo, O mez spes inanes! laben- tes oculos, tuum fugientem spiritum vidi? Tuum corpus frigidum, exangue complexus, animam recipere, auramque communem hau- rire amplius potui? Tene, consulari nuper adoptione ad omnium spes honorum patris admotum, te, avunculo preetori generum desti- natum; te, omnium spe Attice eloquentiz candidatum, parens su- perstes tantum ad peenas amisi!’{ In this passage Quintilian shows the true genius of an orator, as much as he does elsewhere that of the critic. For such bold figures of discourse as strong personifications, ad- dresses to personified objects, and apostrophes, the glowing imagina- tion of the ancient oriental nations was particularly fitted. Hence, in thesacred scriptures, we find some very remarkable instances: ‘OQ thou sword of the Lord! how long will it be ere thou be quiet? put thyself up into thy scabbard, rest and be still! How can it be quiet, seeing the Lord hath given it a charge against Ashkelon, and against the sea-shore? there he hath appointed it.’|| There is one passage in particular, which I must not omit to mention, because it contains a greater assemblage of sublime ideas, of bold and daring figures, than is perhaps any where to be met with. It is in th> fourteenth chapter of Isaiah, where the prophet thus describes the fall of the Assyrian empire: ‘Thou shalt take up this proverb against the king of Babylon, and say, how hath the oppressor ceased! the golden * Nor Pantheus! thee, thy mitre, nor the bands Of awful Phebus, sav’d from impious hands. DRYDEN. + Fingal, B. I. + ‘With what spirit, and how much to the admiration of the physicians, did he bear throughout eight months his lingering distress? With what tender attention did he study, even in the last extremity, to comfort me? And when no longer himself, how affecting was it to behold the disordered efforts of his wandering mind, wholly employ ed on subjects of literature? Ah! my frustrated and fallen hopes! Have I ther. - eheld your closing eyes, and heard the last groan issue from your lips? After naving 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 udoption to the prospect of all your father’s honours, destined to be son-in-law to your uncle the Pretor, pointed out by general expectation as the successful candidate for the prize of Attic eloquence, in this moment of your opening honours must I lose you for ever, and remain an unhappy parent, surviving ouly to suffer wo !’ | Jer xlvii. 6, 7.LECT. XVI. ] APOSTROPHE. 181 eity ceased! The Lord hath broken the staff of the wicked, and the sceptre of the rulers. He who smote the people in wrath with a continual stroke; he that ruled the nations in anger, is persecuted, and none hindereth. The whole earth is at rest, and is quiet: they break forth into singing. Yea, the fir-trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Lebanon, saying, since thou art laid down, no felleris 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 untous? 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 tothe ground, which didst weaken the nations! For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into Heaven, IJ will exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the con- gregation, 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? That made the world as a wilderness, and destroyed the cities there- of; 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 departed kings, the king of Babylen himself, and those who look upon his body, all speak- ing in their order, and acting their different parts without confu- s10n. eer Seep ree eee ree ee Lt eee ee Le res Seg TESS PSs tr SPSS ESN TIS TI NI s Sk ee SK oh tee re ce ee ake se Pere eee LECTURE XVII. << Qe-— COMPARISON, ANTITHESIS, INTERROGATION, EXCLAMATION, AND OTHER FIGURES OF SPEECH. We are still engaged in the consideration of figures of speech ; which, as they add much to the beauty of style when properly 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 chose to select the capital figures, such as occur most frequently, and SSS Vereen vere oe ee reat re erste Errevese ter EE irl Ce te a ee a eee ahh , PETES SOEs Sg FS OTE RIT TES Ta tis a oe oe ke ee el ld eRele yes182 COMPARISON. [LHoT. x11. and 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. Ofmetaphor, which is the most common of them all, I treated fully, and in the last lecture I discoursed of hy perbole, personification, and apostrophe. This lecture will nearly finish what remains on the head of figures. Comparison, or simile, is what I am to treat of first; a figure fre- quently employed both by poets and prose writers, for the ornament ofcomposition. 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, thata 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 ep- joyed. All comperisons whatever may be reduced under two heads, e2- 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. Hariis’s Hermes, employed to explain a very abLECT. Xvil. | COMPARISON. 183 stract point, the distinction between the powers of sense and imagi- nation inthe 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 fs 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. Wemust not, however, take resemblance, in too strict a sense, for actual similitude and likeness ofappearance. 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.’ Phis 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 simileupon 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.’ Pine In general, whether comparisons be founded on the similitude of the two objects compared, or on some analogy and agreement in their effects, the fundamental requisite of a comparison is, that it shall serve to illustrate the object, for the sake of which it is intro- duced, and to give us a stronger conception of it. Some little ex- cursions of faney may be permitted, in pursuing the simile ; but they must never deviate far from the principal object. if it be 2 sreat 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 fillus with more awe. But to be a little more Perit Prob . tee eae : j Be ee er ee ee eek Sefase Petal: > bed ty totae Parsee re Pere eee re ee et ee eee er ek be ae is PP ae ae oa he te ee od eo _ =, er. Se %s, he oe iee eer er etre tees tees eet st Segre ad Veozstecesss eo yen 184 COMPARISON. [LECT. XVH. 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 I treated in the last lecture, the language of strong passion. No; they are the language of imagination rather than of passion; of an Imagination, sprightly indeed, and warmed; but undisturbed by any “violent or agitating emotion. Strong passion is too severe to admit this play of fancy. It has no leisure to cast about for 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 sucha situation; though even this may be car- ried too far; but the pomp and ee 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 »ersonating some other, who is supposed to be under the torment of agitation. Our writers of tragedies are very apt to err here. In some of Mr. Rowe’s plays, these flowers of similes have been strewed ae Mr. Addison’s Cato, too, is 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, Jeaps 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 a 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 Tancuage of a mind wholly unmoved. Itis a figure of dignity , and alway: s requires some elevation in thesubject, in order to make it pr oper: for it sapposes 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 per place.LECT. 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 species, where we would not, at the first glance, expect a resemblance. There is little art or ingenuity in pointing out the resemblance of two objects, that are so much akin, or lie so neartoone another in nature, that every one sees they must bealike. When Milton compares Satan’s appearance, after his fall, to that of the sun suffering an eclipse, and af- frighting the nations with portentous darkness, we are struck with the happiness and the dignity of the similitude. But wher he compares E:ve’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, of virtue to the sun or the stars, and many more of this kind, with which we are sure to find modern writers, of second rate genius, abounding plentifully ; handed down from 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 they are now beaten; our ears are so accustomed to them, that they give no amusement to the fancy. There is,indeed, no mark by which we can more readily distinguish a poet of true genlus, from one of a barren imagination, than by the strain of their comparisons. All who call themselves poets, affect them: but, whereas, a mere versi- fier copies no new image from nature, which appears, to his uninventive genius, exhausted by those who have gone before him, and, therefore, contents himself with humbly following their track; to an author of real fancy, nature seems to unlock, spontaneously, her hidden stores ; and the eye, ‘quick glancing from earth to Heaven,’ discovers new shapes and forms, new 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 likenesses too obvious, still less ought they to be founded on those which are too faint and remote. For these, 1n place of assisting, strain the fancy to comprehend them, and throw no light upon the subject. It 1s alse 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 great number of coincidences Senne points, merely to show SEPT er rT rT Tt AL hh AL ee Tires : Sere Setar slsITiLe ates 2 terrrt rete ra te ea pee Sree es hee : 9 +eSeoee ese: Lic tote ede’ be ESR ee eal cas - Page ee ree OTIS ee th Cee ee te eRe atatgtat et eterece ee TT rs tas Pan ho 4 ~ a a280 COMPARISON. [LECT. XVII. how far the poet’s wit can stretch the resemblance. This is Mr. 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 ean form clear ideas: ¢ Ad inferendam rebus lucem,’ says Quintilian, ‘reperte suntsimilitudines. Pracipue, igitur, est custodiendum ne id quod similitudinis gratia ascivimus, aut obscurum sit, aut ignotum. Debet enim id quod illustrande 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 asort 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. Now-a-days, we can more ea- sily form the conception ofa fierce combat between two men, than be- tween a bull andatiger. Every country has a scenery peculiar to it- self, and the imagery ofevery good poet willexhibitit. The introduc- tion of unknown objects,or ofa 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 those simpler ages of antiquity. * ¢Comparisons have been introduced into discourse, for the sake of throwing light on the subject. We must, therefore, be much on our guard, not to employ, as the sround of our simile, any object which is either obscure or unknown. That,surely, which is used for the purpose of illustrating some other thing, ought to be more obvious and plain, than the thing intended to be illustrated.’LECT. XVII. | ANTITHESIS. 187 I have now considered such of the figures of speech as seemed most to merit a full and particular discussion: metaphor, hyperbole, personification, apostrophe, and comparison. 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 opposed 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 te 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: ‘Quem igitur cum omnium gratia interficere noluit, hunc voluitcum aliquorum querela ? Quem jure, quem loco, quem tempore, quem impune, non est ausus, hune 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 to perceive the full difference of their colour, we would choose to have both objects of the same bulk, and placed in the same light. Their resemblance to each other, in certain circumstances, makes their disagreement in.others more palpable. : At the same time, I must observe, that the frequent use of anti- 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 food quem volueris esse divitem, non est quod augeas divitias, sed minu- as cupiditates.’T Or this: ‘Si ad naturam vives, nunquam eris pau- per; si ad opinionem, nunquam dives. t A maxim or moral say- ing, properly enough receives this form; both because it is supposed * ¢Ts it credible that, when he declined putting Clodius to death with the consent of all, he would choose to do it with the disapprobation of many? 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 seruple to mur- der against justice, in an unfavourable place, at an unseasonable time, and at the risk of capital condemnation ?” ane + ‘If you seek to make one rich, study not to increase his stores, but to diminish . g >? a et regulate your desires according to the standard of nature, you will never be poor ; if according to the standard of opinion, you will never be rich. 7 Tee ee ere toe ties At ee eer ci eee del seas ee Peteacess § WES er a tt os ee pag oar A ar tp fisevtetes ‘ +7 # Srp ae ces z. co lm Fe om ai ek Ss PN Se ee whe ie yee seows aa rat S Tere Steere st eT eta ae eZeptaegreteteTeretetesesese te —_— ee here es 34 so eek ke 2. ae aie : 188 INTERROGATION AND PLeeT) Vir. to be the fruit of meditation, 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 ; riistiilee 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 astyle as this, to please long. We are fatigued, by aitending to such quaint and artificial sentences often repeated. There is another sort of antithesis, the beauty of which consists in surprising us by the unexpected contrast of things which it brings together. Much wit may be shown in this: but it belongs w holly to pieces of professed wit and humour, and ean find no place in grave compositions. Mr. Pope, who is remarkably fond of antithe- sis, 18 often happy in this use of the figure. So,in his Rape of the Lock: Whether the nymph shall break Diana’s law, Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; Or stain her honour, or her new brocade; Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball, Or whether Heav’n has doom’d that Shock must fall. What is called the point of anepigram, consists, for the most part, In some antithesis of this kind; surprising us with the smart and unex- pected turn w hich 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 next to speak, are passionate figures. They are, indeed, on so many occasions, the native language of passion, that their use is extremely frequent; and in ordinary conversation, when men are heated, they prevail as much as in the most sublime ora- 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 of a question; expressing thereby the strongest confidence of the truth of their own sentiment, and appealing to their hearers for the impossibility of the contrary. Thus in scripture: ‘God is not aLECT. xvii. | EXCLAMATION. 189 man that he should lie, neither the son of man, that he should re- pent. Hath he said it, and shall he not do it? Hath he spoken it, and shall he not make it good?’* So Demosthenes, addressing himself to the Athenians: ‘Tell me, will you still go about and ask one another, what news?’ What can be more astonishing news than this, that the man of Macedon makes war upon the Athenians, and disposes of the affairs of Greece? Is Philip dead? No, but he is sick. What signifies it to you whether he be dead or alive? For, if any thing happens to this Philip, you will immediately raise up an- other.’ All this, delivered without interrogation, had been faint and ineffectual; but the warmth and eagerness which this questioning method expresses, awakens the hearers, and strikes them with much greater force. Interrogation may often be applied with propriety, in the course of no higher emotions than naturally arise in pursuing some close and earnest reasoning. But exclamations belong only to stronger ae of the mind; to surprise, admiration, anger, joy, grief, and the like : Heu pietas! heu prisca fides! invictaque bello Dextra! Both interrogation and exclamation, and, indeed, all passionate figures of speech, operate upon us by means of sympathy. Sym- pathy is a very powerful and extensive principle in our nature, dis- posing us to enter into every feeling and passion, which we behold expressed by others. Hence, asingle person coming into company with strong marks, either of melancholy or joy, upon his counte- nance, will diffuse that passion, in a moment, through the whole circle. Hence, in a great crowd, passions are so easily caught, and so fast spread, by that powerful contagion which the animated looks, cries, and gestures of a multitude, never fail to carry. Now, inter- rogations and exclamations, being natural signs of a moved and agitated mind, always, when they are properly used, dispose us to sympathize with the dispositions of those who use them, and to feel as they feel. From this it follows, that the great rule with regard to the con- duct of such figures is, that the writer attend to the manner in which nature dictates to us to express any emotion or passion, and that he give his language that turn, and no other; above all, that he never affect the style of a passion which he does no feel. With in- terrogations he may use a good deal of freedom; these, as above observed, falling in so much with the ordinary course of language and reasoning, even when no great vehemence is supposed to have place in the mind. But, with respect to exclamations, he must be more reserved. Nothing has a worse effect than the frequent and unseasonable use of them. Raw, juvenile writers,imagine, that by pouring them forth often, they render their compositions warm and animated. Whereas quite the contrary follows. ‘They render it frigid to excess. When an author is always calling upon us to en- {er into transports which he hassaid nothing to inspire, we are both * Numbers, chap. xxiii. v. 19. \ So presseseseordye ies tates. ieee BFa72S MPP re reer tr ces oe tes dy hpteetete c fae eee reel « ee eer eee re eR ae See a ee ha te ys eee ke oh Cee aor. te ke od -¥ = sors cpa.* zs « 2 PinteSeeee re oe et Fetters 190 INTERROGATION, &c. [LECT. XVII. disgusted and enraged at him. He raises no sympathy ; for he gives 4s no passion of his own, in which we can take part. He gives us words and not passion; and of course, can raise no passion, unless that of indignation. Hence, lam inclined to think, he was not much mistaken, who said, that when, on looking into a book, he found the pages thick bespangled with the point which is called, ¢ Punc- tum admirationis,’ he judged this to be asufficient reason for his lay- ing it aside. And, indeed, were it not for the help of this ‘ punc- tum admirationis,’ with which many writers of the rapturous kind so much abound, one would be often at a loss to discover, whether or not it was exclamation which they aimed at. For, it has now Become a fashion, among these writers, to subjoin points of admi- ration to sentences, which contain nothing but simple affirmations, or propositions; as if, by an affected method of pointing, they could transform them in the reader’s mind into high figures of elo- quence. Much akin to this, is another contrivance practised by some writers, of separating almost all the members of the senten- ces from each other, by blank lines; as if, by setting them thus asunder, they bestowed some special importance upon them: and required us, in going along, to make a pause at every other ord, and weigh it well. This, | think, may be called a typograpmical figure of speech. Neither, indeed, since we have been led to men- tion the arts of writers for increasing the importance of their words, does another custom, which prevailed very much some time ago, seem worthy of imitation; I mean that of distinguishing the signifi- cant words, in every sentence, by italic characters. On some occa- sions, itis very proper to use such distinctions. But when we carry them so far, as to mark with them every supposed emphatical word, these words are apt to multiply so fast in the author’s imagination, that every page is crowded with italics ; which can produce no effect whatever, but to hurt the eye, and create confusion. Indeed, if the sense point not out the most emphatical expressions, a@ variation 1n the type, especially when occurring so frequently, willgive small aid. And, accordingly, the most masterly writers, of late, have with good reason laid aside all those feeble props of significancy, and trusted wholly to the weight of their sentiments for eommanding attention. But to return from this disgression. Another figure of speech, proper only to animated and warm composition, is what some critical writers call vision; when, in place of relating something that is past, we use the present tense, and describe it as actually passing before our eyes. Thus Cicero, in his fourth oration against Catiline. ‘Videor enim mihi kane urbem videre, lucem orbis terrarum atque arcem omnium gentium, subito uno incendio concidentem; cerno animo sepulta in patria miseros atque insepultos acervos civium; versatur mihi ante ocalos aspectus Cethegi, et furor, in vestra cade bacchantis.’?* This manner of des- *<] seem to myself to behold this city, the orament of the earth, and the capital of all nations, suddenly involved in one conflagration. I see before me the slaughtered heaps of citizens lying unburied in the midst of their ruined country. The furious countenance of Cethegus rises to my view, while with a savage joy he is triumphing in your miseries.’LEOM.. swIp. | AMPLIFICATION. 19} cription supposes a sort of enthusiasm which carries the person who describes it in some measure out of himself; and when well execu ted, must needs impress the reader or hearer strongly, by the force of that sympathy which I have before explained. But, in order to a successful execution, it requires an uncommonly warm imagi- nation, and such a happy selection of circumstances, as shall make us think we see before our eyes the scene that is described. Other- wise, it shares the same fate with all feeble attempts towards pas- sionate figures; that of throwing ridicule upon the. author, and leay- ing the reader more cool and uninterested than he was before. The same observations are to be applied to Repetition, Suspension, Cor- rection, and many more of those figurative forms of speech, which rhetoricians have enumerated among the beauties of eloquence. They are beautiful, or not, exactly in proportion as they are na- tive expressions of the sentiment or passion intended to be height- ened by them. Let nature and passion always speak their own language, and they will suggest figures in abundance. But when we seek to counterfeit a warmth which we do not feel, no figures will either supply the defect, or conceal the imposture. There is one figure (and J shall mention no more) of frequent use among all public speakers, particularly at the bar, which Quintilian insists upon considerably, and calls aimplification. It consists in an artful exaggeration of all the circumstances of some object or action which we want to place in a strong light, either a good or a bad one. It is not so properly one figure, as the skilful management of several which we make to tend to one point. It may be carried on by a proper use of magnifying or extenuating terms, by a regular enu- meration of particulars, or by throwing together, as into one mass, a crowd of circumstances; by suggesting comparisons also with things of a like nature. But the principal instrument by which it works, is by a climax, ora gradual rise of one circumstance above another, till our ideas be raised to the utmost. I spoke formerly of a climax in sound; aclimax in sense, when well carried on, is a figure which never fails to amplify strongly. The common example of this, is that noted passage in Cicero, which every school-boy knows: ‘Facinus est vincire civem Romanum; scelus verberare, prope parricidium, necare ; quid dicam in crucem tollere?’* I shall give an instance from a printed pleading of a famous Scotch lawyer, Sir George M‘Kenzie. It is in a charge to the jury, in the case of a woman accused of murdering her own child. ‘Gentlemen. ifone man had any how slain another, if an adversary had killed his op- poser, cr a woman occasioned the death of her enemy, even these criminals would have been capitally punished by the Cornelian law: but, if this guiltless infant, who could make no enemy, had been murdered by its own nurse, what punishments would not then the mother have demanded? With what cries and exclamations would *¢]tis a crime to put a Roman citizen in bonds; it is the height of guilt to scourge him ; little less than parricide to put him to death. What name then shall I give to I - crucifying him °°’ eehet estates Cea oe ds oe teed PEPerreeer ry iba a eae ied aoe SP ee tore Sita? re et ea ce ee esere cts REiieeate: ee akee es cl et SEY behets ESSE TE OE eT RE get ae Sg Fy PY ce ae) MP ee. a2 ok be kaBEpeaesesspeisesss ees es E=eeE: es 45SE5== see 192 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. [LECT. XVIII. she have stunned yourears? What shall we say then, when a woman, guilty of homicide, a mother, of the murder of her innocent child, hath comprised all those misdeeds in one single crime; a crime, in its own nature detestable; in a woman prodigious; in a mother, incredible; and perpetrated against one whose age called for com- passion, whose near relation claimed affection, and whose innocence deserved the highest favour.’ I must take notice, however, that such regular climaxes as these, though they have considerable beauty, have, at the same time, no small appearance of art and study; and, therefore, though they may be admitted into formal harangues, yet they speak not the language of great earnestness and passion, which seldom proceed by steps so regular. Nor, indeed, for the purposes of effectual persuasion, are they likely to he so successful, as an arrangement of circumstances in a less artificial order. For when much art appears, we are always put on our guard against the deceits of eloquence; but when a speaker has rea- soned strongly, and by force of argument, has made good his main point, he may then, taking advantage of the favourable bent of our minds, make use of such artificial figures to confirm our be- lief, and to warm our minds. LECTURE XVIII. —— FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE....GENERAL CHARACTERS OF “STYLES. DIFFUSE, CONCISE, FEEBLE, NER- VOUS....DRY, PLAIN, NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY. Havine treated at considerable length of the figures of speech, of their origin, of their nature, and of the management of such of them as are important enough to require a particular discussion, 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 this head. I begin with repeating an observation, formerly made, that neither all the beauties, nor even the chief beauties of composition, depend upon tropes and figures. Some of the most sublime and most pathet- ic 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, i\ the style he stiff and affected, if it be deficient in perspicuity or preLECT. XVIII. | FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 193 cision, or in ease and neatness, all the figures that can be employed will never render it agreeable: they may dazzle a vulgar, but will never please a judicious eye. In the second place, figures, in order to be beautiful, must always rise naturally from the subject. I have shown that all of them are the 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. {f they be sought after coolly, and fastened on as designed ornaments, they will have a miserable effect. It is a very erroneous idea, which many have of the ornaments of style, as if they were things detached from the subject, and that could be stuck to it, like lace upon a coat: this is indeed, Purpureus late qui splendeat unus aut alter Assuitur pannus.” Ars Poet. And it is this false idea which has often brought attention to the 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 eonceives 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 prempts, 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 capl- 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. Fo MEN ‘fastidium fin- ‘timum est in rebus omnibus; quo hoc minus in oratione miremur. * < Shreds of purple with broad lustre shine, ‘ Sew’d on your poem.’ FRANCIS, 2F 25 ‘ Sperrrees: EDRFLFE Errors Fie Si Si Be oe Peete rete te lel cn ee ee oO es : eS . re eh ¥ ct Et SY ete ae ‘. z rere @ Pee ee Se ee ee a cyt Sete s ee aa aA ‘eiegtatetertesetet ck eh | y oes — se Ft % | Tee sae ahs aee ae ee De ee ee eee x bh he ote ok = [efer ease Se Pees y 194 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. [LECT. XVIII. In qua vel 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- nd. Quare, bene et preclare, quamvis nobis szpe dicatur, belle et festive nimium sepe nolo.’* ‘To the same purpose are the excel- lent directions with which Quintilian concludes his discourse concern- ing figures, ]. ix. c. 3. ‘Ego illud de tis figuris quee vere fiunt, adjiciam breviter, sicut ornant orationem opportune posite, 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, tam est ridiculum quam queerere habitum gestumque sine corpore. Ne he quidem que rec tee fiunt, densandz sunt nimis. Sciendum imprimis quid quisque postulet locus, quid persona, quid tempus. Major enim pars harum figurarum posita est in delectatione. Ubi vero, atrocitate, invidia, miseratione pugnandum est; quis ferat verbis contrapositis, et con- similibus et pariter cadentibus, irascentem, flentem, rogantem? Cum in his rebus, cura verborum deroget affectibus fidem; et ubicunque ars ostentatur, veritas abesse 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 weare 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 either 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.’ : +¢] 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 words 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 what wants a body. Even those figures which a subject admits, must not come too thick, We must legin with considering what the occasion, the time, and the person whe 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 strong passions are to be moved, who can bear the orator, who, in affected lan- guage and balanced phrases, endeavours to express wrath, commiseration, or earnest entreaty? On all such occasions, a solicitous attention to words weakens passion; and when so much art is shown, there is suspected to be little sin cerity.’Lect. xvi.}] GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE. 195 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, orthe like. 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 withorations. Everyone sees also, that different parts of the same composition require a variation in the style and manner. Inasermon, 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 ofeach historian; the magnifi- cent fullness of 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 compositionssurely, and accordingly they differ widely; yet still we see the same hand. Wherever there is real and native genius, it gives a determination to one kind of style rather than another. Where nothing of this ap- pears; where there is no marked nor peculiar character in the com BY dodeabeh dh bonita Se tegedstticisesetetars etesteHte Ae eee ok 4eaS> PERL SE CL SES ‘SE TESS cee ee ees ee PE ee reo a $ysge rey tee Cs ee kd eee ets bs ce ok ee od ek pe ae a i &oe ad eee ee seed Pe Sa Pee ee ees a eet Stay 5 ela eT et ih er ee ee Bae — ee eee Se eee Te ra eee ees Pa Pe 196 CONCISE AND [LECT. XVIII. positions of any author, we are apt to infer, not without reason, that he is a vulgar and trivial author, who writes from imitation, and not from the impulse of original genius. . As the most celebrated paint- ers are known by their hand, so the best and most original writers are known and distinguished, throughout all their works, by their style and peculiar manner. ‘This will be found to hold almost with- out exception. The ancient critics attended to these general characters of style which we are now to consider. Dionysius of Halicarnassus divides them into three kinds; and calls them the austere, the florid, and the middle. By the austere, he means a style distinguished for strength and firmness, with a neglect of smoothness and ornament; for ex- amples of which, he gives Pindar and Auschylus among the poets, and Thucydides among the prose writers. By the florid, he means, as the name indicates, a style ornamented, flowing, and sweet; rest- ing more upon numbers and grace, than strength ; he instances He- siod, Sappho, Anacreon, Euripides, and principally Isocrates. The middle kind is the just mean between these, and comprehends the beauties of both; in which class he places Homer and Sophocles among the poets; in prose, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Plato, and (what seems strange) Aristotle. This must be a very wide class, in- deed, which comprehends Plato and Aristotle under one article as to style.* Cicero and Quintilian make also a threefold division of style, though with respect to different qualities of it; in which they are followed by most of the modern writers on rhetoric: the simplex, tenue or subtle ; thegrave or vehemens ; and the medium or temperatum genus dicendi. But these divisions, and the illustra- tions they give of them, are so loose and general, that they cannot advance us much in our ideas of style. I shall endeavour to be a littie more particular in what I have to say on this subject. One of the first and most obvious distinctions of the different kinds of style, is what arises from an author’s spreading out his thoughts more or less. ‘This. distinction forms what are called the diffuse and the concise styles. A concise writer compresses his thoughts into the fewest possible words ; he seeks to employ none but such as are most expressive; he lops off as redundant, every expression which does not add something material to the sense. Ornament he does not reject; he may be lively and figured; but his ornament is intended for the sake of force, rather than grace. He never gives _you the same thought twice. He places it in the light which appears to him the most striking; but if you do not apprehend it well in that light, you need not expect to find it inany other. His sentences are arranged with compactness and strength, rather than with cadence and harmony. The utmost precision is studied in them; and they are commonly designed to suggest more to the reader’s imagination than they directly express. A diffuse writer unfolds his thoughtfully. He places it in a variety oflights, and gives tl.e reader every possible assistance for understand- * De Compositione Verborum, cap. 2&LECT. XVIUI. | DIFFUSE STYLE. 197 ing it completely. He isnot very careful to express it at first in its full strength, because he is to repeat the impression; and what he wants in strength, he proposes to supply by copiousness. Writers of this character generally love magnificence and amplification. Their periods naturally run out into some length, and having room for orna- ment of every kind, they admit it freely. Each of these manners has its peculiar advantages; and each becomes faulty when carried to the extreme. The extreme of conciseness becomes abrupt and obscure; it is apt also to lead into a style too pointed, and bordering on the epigrammatic. The ex- treme of diffuseness becomes weak and languid, and tires ‘he reader. However, to one or other of these two manners, a writer may lean according as his genius prompts him; and under the general cha- racter of a concise, or of a more open and diffuse style, may pos sess much beauty in his composition. For illustrations of these general characters, I can only refer to the writers who are examples of them. It is not so much from detached passages, such as I was wont formerly to quote for instan- ces, as from the current of an author’s style, that we are to collect the idea of a formed manner of writing. The two most remarkable examples that I know, of conciseness carried as far as propriety will allow, perhaps in some cases farther, are Tacitus the historian, and the President Montesquieu in ‘L’Esprit de Loix.’ Aristotle too holds an eminent rank among didactic writers for his brevity. Perhaps no writer in the world was ever so frugal of his words as Aristotle; but this frugality of expression frequently darkens his meaning. Ofa beautiful and magnificent diffuseness, Cicero is, be- yond doubt, the most illustrious instance that can be given. Ad- dison also, and Sir William Temple, come in some degree under this class. In judging when it is proper to lean to the concise, and when to the diffuse manner, we must be directed by the nature of the composition. Discourses that are to be spoken, require a more copious style, than books that are to be read. When the whole meaning must be catched from the mouth of the speaker, without the advantage which books afford of pausing at pleasure, and re- viewing what appears obscure, great conciseness is always to be avoided. We should never presume too much on the quickness of our hearer’s understanding; but ourstyle ought to be such, that the bulk of men can go along with us easily, and without effort. A flowing co- pious style, therefore, is required in all public speakers; guarding, at the same time, against such a degree of diffusion, as renders them languid and tiresome; which will always prove the case, when they inculcate too much, and present the same thought under too many different views. . In written compositions, a certain degree of conciseness posses- ses great advantages. It is more lively ; keeps up attention ; makes a brisker and stronger impression; and gratifies the raind by supply- ing more exercise toa reader’s own thought. A sentiment, which tt. e at es Pea PeHeDeSoray Fe oer sles TIF P Set ss Se case bese tess 2 Pee eyo rg tg rs ree cee tet se ba Be es aes tet eee Petks Ses hreer tee ee re] PR rk a Oe tk ee ek ae a si He ge e REESE PRES erry cee. PR od of ak ek ee oo es ee Te . 2 pes tizace 5 Pesce sesh aaee Se ee eee se Se te ee. See fers eh hteiehe- pk aie pe atlas Shela Pegs sess .. T * : = - z 198 CONCISE AND DIFFUSE STYLE. [xxcr. xvi. expressed diffusely, will barely be admitted to be just; expressed concisely, will be admired as spirited. Description, when we want to have it vivid and animated, should be in a concise strain. This is different from the common opinion; most persons being ready to suppose, that upon description a writer may dwell more safely than upon other things, and that by a full and extended style, it is render- ed more rich and expressive. I apprehend, on the contrary, that a diffuse manner generally weakens it. Any redundant words or circumstances encumber the fancy, and make the object we pre- sent to it, appear confused and indistinct. Accordingly, the most masterly rescribers, Homer, Tacitus, Milton, are almost always concise in their descriptions. They show us more of an object at one glance, than a feeble diffuse writer can show, by turning it round and round in a variety of lights. The strength and vivacity of description, whether in prose or poetry, depend much more upon the happy choice of one or two striking circumstances, than upon the multiplication of them. Addresses to the passions, likewise, ought to be in the concise, rather than in the diffuse manner. In these it is dangefous to be dif- fuse, because it is very difficult to support proper warmth for any length of time. When we become prolix, we are always in hazard of cooling the reader. The heart, too, and the fancy, run fast; and if once we can put them in motion, they supply many par ticulars to greater advantage than an author can display them. The case is different when we address ourselves to the understand- ing;.as in all matters of reasoning, explication, and instruction, There I would prefera more free and diffuse manner. . When you are to strike the fancy, or to move the heart, be concise; when you are to inform the understanding, which moves more slowly, and re- quires the assistance of a guide, it is better to be full. Historical narration may be beautiful, either in a concise or a diffuse manner, according to the writer’s genius. Livy and Herodotus are diffuse ; Thucydides.and Sallust are succinct; yet all of them are agreeable. T observed that a diffuse style generally abounds in long periods; and a concise writer, it is certain, will often employ short sentences. Itis not, however, to be inferred from this, that long or short sen- tences are fully characteristical of the one or the other manner. . It is very possible for one to compose always in short sentences, and to be withal extremely diffuse, if a small measure of sentiment he spread through many of these sentences. Seneca is a remarkable example. By the shortness and quaintness of his sentences, he may appear at first view very concise; yet he is far from being so. He transfigures the same thought into many different forms. He makes it pass for a new one, only by giving it anew turn. So also, most of the French writers compose in short sentences, though their style in general is not concise ; commonly less so than the bulk of English writers, whose sentences are much longer. A French au- thor breaks down into two or three sen tences, that portion of thought which an English author crowds intoone. The direct effect of shartLECT. xvi1.] NERVOUS, DRY, AND FEEBLE. 199 sentences, is to render the style brisk and lively, but not always con- cise. By the quick successive impulses which they make on the mind, they keep it awake; and give to composition more of a Long periods, like Lord Clarendon’s, are grave and stately: but like all grave things, they are in hazard of be- spirited character. coming dull. An intermixture of long and short ones is requisite, when we would support solemnity, together with vivacity, leaning more to the one or the other, according as propriety requires that the solemn or the sprightly should be predominant in our composi- tion. But of long and short sentences, I had occasion formerly to treat, under the head of the construction of periods. The nervous and the feeble, are generally held to be characters of style, of the same import with the concise and the diffuse. They do indeed very often coineide. Diffuse writers have, for the most part, some degree of feebleness; and nervous writers will generally be inclined to a concise expression. ways hold; and there are instances of writers, who, in the midst of a full and ample style, have maintained a great degree of strength. Livy is an example; and in the English language Dr. Barrow. Barrow’s style has many faults. It is unequal, incorrect, and redun- dant; but withal, for force and expressiveness, uncommonly distin- guished. This, however, dogs not al- On every subject, he multiplies words with an overflow- ing copiousness : but it is always a torrent of strong ideas and signi- ficant expressions which he pours forth. anervous or a weak style are laid in an author’s manner of thinking. If he conceives an object strongly, he will express it with energy ; but if he has only an indistinct view of his subject; if his ideas be loose and wavering ting, } eat) Indeed, the foundations of 1is genius be such, or, at the time of his wr!- so carelessly exerted, that he has no firm hold of the concep- tion which he wotild communicate to us; the marks of all this will clearly appear in his style. Several unmeaning words and loose ep!- thets will be found: his expressions will be vague and general ; his arrangement indistinct and feeble; we sl 1all conceive somewhat of his meaning, but our conception will be faint. Whereas a nervous ey, writer, whether he emp loys an extended or a concise style, gives us always a strong impression of his meaning; his mind is full of his subject, and his words are all expressive; every phrase and every tends to render the picture, which he would set before us, more lively and complete. I observed under the head of diffuse and concise style, that an figure which he uses, suthor might lean either to t he one or to the other, and yet be beau- tiful. This is not the case with respect to the nervous and the feeble. Every author, in every composition, 0 ught to study to express him- self with some strength, and, in proportion as he approaches to the feeble, he becomes a bad writer. ae 7 J the same degree of strength is not dem and weighty any composition 1s, strength predominate in the style. anded. and solemn discourses, it 1s expected most. In all kinds of writing, however, But the more grave the more should a character of Hence in history, philosophy, One of the most com- olete models of a nervous style, is Demosthenes in his orations. hh de Siete ee Ske oe rete ‘eee peer it th. Lees Poa tee’ tee ee ok Se Ps Pe ka hae ge kak DEE peesessé RE er hy ot os a eee 3 ee Re ean ea Sd aa Stphetgetets: SLepudvgwlageceiesssess ee ee ere eee eee TEs PET: lS egegegegtaretereritetescsesesersce ees roe ear atas Fs aa hae200 NERVOUS AND FEEBLE STYLE. [xecr. xyirt As every good quality in styie has an extreme, when pursued to which it becomes faulty, this holds of the nervous style as well as others. Too great a study of strength, to the neglect of the other qualities of style, is found to betray writers into a harsh manner. Harshness arises from unusual words, from forced inversions in the construction of a sentence, and toomuch neglect of smoothness and ease. This is reckoned the fault of some of our earliest classics in the English language; such as Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Ba- con, Hooker, Chillingwor th, Milton in his prose works, Harrington, Cur ea, a other writers of considerable note in the days of Queen Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. These writers had nerves and strength in a high degree, and are to this day eminent for that quality in 1 style e. Butthe Janguage in their hands was exceedingly different from what it is now, ‘and was indeed entirely formed upon the idiom and construction of the Latin in the arrangement of sen- tences. Hooker, for instance, begins the preface to his celebrated work of Foclesiastical Polity, with ‘the following sentence: ‘ Though for no other cause, yet for this, that posterity ; may know we have not loosely, through silence, permitted things to pass away as in a dream, there shall be, for men’s information, ‘extant this much, con- cerning the present stake of the church of God established amongst us, and their careful endeavours which would have upheld the same.’ Such a sentence now sounds harsh in our ears. Yet some advan- tages certainly attended this sort of style; and whether we have gained or lost, upon the whole, by departing from it, may bear a question. By the freedom of arrangement which it permitted, it rendered the language susceptible “of more strength, of more v ‘ariety of collocation, and more h narmony of period. But however this be, such a style is now obsolete; and no modern writer could adopt it without the censure of harshness and affectation. The present form which the language has assumed, has, in some measure, sacrificed the study of strength to that of perspicuity and ease. Our arrangement of words has become less forcible, perhaps, but more plain and natural: and this is now understood to be the genius of our language. The restoration of King Charles II. seems to be the era of the formation of ourpresent style. Lord Clarendon was one of the first who laid aside those frequent inversions which prevailed among writers of the formerage. After him, Sir William Temple polished the language still more. But the saithor: who by the number and re- putation of his works, formed it more than any one, into its present state, is Dryden. Dryden began to write at the restoration, and continued Jong an author both in poetry and prose. He had made the language his study ; and though he wrote hastily, and often in- correctly, and his style is not free from faults, yet there is a richness in his diction, a copiousness, ease, and variety in his expression, which has not been surpassed by any who have come after him.* ee et td a ey 4 Soe eeeed oe res) * Dr. Johnson, in his life of Dryden, gives the following character of his prose style: ‘His prefaces have not the formality of a settled style, in which the first half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never halanced, nor theLHOT? XVIIT | DRY AND PLAIN STYLE. 201 Since his time, considerable attention has been paid to purity and elegance of style: but it is elegance, rather than strength, that forms the distinguishing quality of most of the good English writers. Some of them compose in a more manly and nervous manner than others; but, whether it be from the genius of our language, or from whatever other cause, it appears to me, that we are far from the strength of several of the Greek and Roman authors. Hitherto we have considered style under those characters that respect its expressiveness of an author’s meaning. Let us now pro- ceed to consider it in another view; with respect to the degree of ornament employed to beautify it. Here, the style of different authors seems to rise, in the following gradation; a dry, a plain, a neat, an elegant, aflowery manner. Of each of these in their order: First, a dry manner. This excludes all ornament of every kind. Content with being understood, it has not the least aim to please either the fancy or the ear. This is tolerable only in pure didactic writing ; and even there, to make us bear it, great weight and solidi- ty of matter is requisite, and entire perspicuity of language. Aris- totle is the complete example of adry style. Never, perhaps, was there any author who adhered so rigidly to the strictness of a didac- tie manner, throughout all his writings, and conveyed so much in- struction without the least approach to ornament. With the most profound genius, and extensive views, he writes like a pure intelli- gence, who addresses himself solely to the understanding, without making any use of the channel of the imagination. But this is a manner which deserves not to’ be imitated. For, although the goodness of the matter may compensate the dryness or harshness of the style, yet is that dryness a considerable defect; as it fatigues attention, and conveys our sentiments with disadvantage to the rea- der or hearer. A plain style rises one degree above a dry one. A writer of this character employs very little ornament of any kind, and rests, almost, entirely upon his sense. But, 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 aharsh writer. Besides perspicuity, he pursues propriety, purl- ty, and precision, in his*language ; which form one degree, and no ‘nconsiderable one, of beauty. Liveliness, too, and force, may be consistent with a very plain style; and therefore, such an author, if his sentiments be good, may be abundantly agreeable. The differ- ence between a dry and a plain writer, is, that the former is 1ncapa- 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 5 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 careless, there is nothing harsh; and though, since his earlier works more than a century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete.’ 2G 26 de de ce tected del hae were Teas ca 932 piers oa ke eke bal Nees rs Pree a ee ee See eee ete re eo ea ofobide SaI+ Se gegetesty titzesete: y Se eS Sef TAOS ERS wd etka S soSedeatgegtaterbTeieteteseses oY Paths esate ahs = — oe ia LJre rete @® 62 NEAT STYLE. [LECT. XVIII. either, because he thinks it unnecessary to his subject; or, because his genius does not Jead him to delight in it; or, because it leads him to despise it.* This last was the case with Dean Swift, who may be placed at the head of those that have employed the plain style. Few writers have 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- atit, he would, perhaps, vouchsafe to adopt it, when it came in his way; but if it tended only to embellish and illustrate, he would yather 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. Toa 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 vot 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 agraceful 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 following lecture, several ideas have been taken from a manuscript treatise on rhetoric, part of which was shown tome, many years ago, by the learned and ingenious author, Dr. Adam Smith; and which, it is hoped, will be given by him to the public.LECT. XVIII. ] ELEGANT STYLE. 203 ing with propriety; without any tails or adjections dragging after the proper clese. 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 itisa style always agreeable. Itimprints 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, ina 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. Ina 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 ; f Volo se efferat in adolescente fecunditas,’ says Quintilian, ‘multum inde decoquent anni, multum ratio limabit, aliquid velut usu ipso deteretur; sit modo unde excidi possit quid et exculpi. ; Audeat heee eetas plura, et inveniat et inventis gaudeat; sint licet illa 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 te Oo he ae ished by years; much wi'l be corrected by ripening judgment ; Sr it, by t mie practice of composition, will be worn away. Let there be only s high ma - first, that can bear some pruning and lopping off. At this poi ife, let genie e bold and inventive, and pride itself in its efforts, though these should not, as Meo e cor rect, Luxuriancy can easily be cured; but for barrenness there is no remedy. pistrreers te : Sees - aS eee ss ra oe ee] Peete ts re hy oe be ee ee stphrtielete® 5 . aF Peete key ese R er ee eT ok ed ESTE EOE eT Te Oe Pe i as fect. 4 ee 8 a FS PPT Ee Pee ee Cre eres eer t RS ke ed aSet) ae ae a es es =a 204 FLORID STYLE. [LECT. XVIII. 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 con- ducive to illustrate it. Nothing can be more contemptible than that tinsel splendour of language, which some writers perpetually affect. It were well, if this could be ascribed to the real overflowing of a rich imagination. We should then have something to amuse us, at least, if we found little to instruct us. But 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 hay- ing no strength of genius for attaining it, they endeavour to sup- ply the defect by poetical words, by cold exclamations, by com- mon-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 flo- rid style is but a childish imposition on the public. 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 reli- cious 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 dis- played in them, and the lively fancy which, on some occasions, appears, justly merits applause: but the perpetual glitter of ex- pression, 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 atten- tion, as Mr. Pope says, ‘from sounds to things, from fancy to the neart.? 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 supér- ficial taste in writing, which I apprehend to be at present too fash- ionable, to introduce, as far as my endeavours can avail, a taste for more solid thought, and more manly simplicity in style.(205) LECTURE XIX. i GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE.—SIMPLE, AF- FECTED, VEHEMENT.—DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING A PROPER STYLE. Haviye entered, in the last lecture, on the consideration of the general characters of style, I treated of the concise and diffuse, the nervous and feeble manner. I considered style also, with 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. _ Tam 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 /Eneid, 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. Tho 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 recherché, 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. ar ee el i se = ETE Gehene Lareees= eeererT rey Pere te end fel a ee ee Le he ESTFSELS SSE SAP S213 eoee = Span - “tp eae Schr Re ee Ty Ss S Peete oe ee tere pyr ey er eRe ee ee eS eee ee ek ee es . 23 be ee EEGeSe eiegegedtareserereteRecees Legest rath ks ey 2s ca * geESaessetats See 2. i ta eet 2h bei do ate ee ES Lae fk 206 SIMPLICITY AND (EBOT. Sox. 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 ‘s¢mplez,’ the ‘tenwe,’ or ‘subtile genus dicendi,’ is understood by Cicero and Quintilian. The simple style, in this sense, coincides with the plain or the neat style, which I before mentioned; and, therefore, requires no farther illus- tration. But there is a fourth sense of simplicity, also, respecting style; put 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 equivalent to 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 oppesed, 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 raanner, 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 1s the manner of expression most natural to him. > . among the Greek writers, we have more models of a beautiful sim- plicity than among the Roman. Homer, Hesiod, Anacreon, Theo- eritus, Herodotus, and Xenophon, are all distinguished forit. Among the Romans also, we have some writers of this character, particular- ly Terence, Lucretius, Phzedrus, and Julius Cesar. 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 hec soror, Quam dixi, ad flammam accessit imprudentius Satis cum periculo. Ibi tum exanimatus Pamphilus, Bene dissimulatum amorem, et celatum indicat ; Occurrit preceps, mulierem ab igne retrahit, Mea Glycerium, inquit, quid agis? Cur tu is perditum ? Tum illa, ut consuetum facile amorem cerneres, Rejecit se in eum, flens quam familiariter.* All the words here are remarkably happy and elegant; and convey a most lively picture of the scene described ; while, at the same time, * ¢ Meanwhile the funeral proceeds ; we follow ; Come to the sepulchre: the body’s placed Upon the pile ; lamented; whereupon This sister I was speaking of, all wild, Ran to the flames with peril of her life. There? there! the frighted Pamphilus betrays His well-dissembled and long hidden love; Runs up and takes her round the waist, aud cries, Oh! my Glycerium! what is it you do? Why, why endeavour to destroy yourself? Then she, in sucha manner, that you thence Might easily perceive their long, long love, Threw herself back into his arms, and wept, Ob! how familiarly"’ Couy.aD. TL eee a od Pees vere er Tee pat Ra bg eh ay ee a as is ee teh oe Pee pis Ng es ez eee ree eg ee te sty titavlete: Pee ete eer ere rere as Peete Pe re ee ee ee ae wes 1 re 4 ee p23 Psa taa eee ar ae he by ts ce od ete peptecdsess py yas it < :feenbeta teas tas nis ite rete ea hk toot fi 7 208 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 remiss; 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 ina 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 ereat goodness and worth. I observed before, that simplicity of manner may be consistent with some degree of negligence in style, and itis only the beauty of that simplicity which makes the negli- sence 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,intoaprolix and remiss style. No writer what- ever has stamped upon his style amore lively impression of his own character. In reading his works, we seem engaged in conversation with him; we become thoroughly acquairted with him, not merely as an authcr, but as a man; and contracta 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- ruage 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-LECT. XIX. | AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 209 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 elegance, joined 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 hasa more popular and insinuating manner; and the great regard which he every where shows for virtue and religion, recom- mends him highly. If he fails in any thing, it isin 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 ef 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 ofreading. There is nothing in their manner that strains or fatigues cur 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 te 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. Accordingly, 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 ren- 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, hedhe not filled them with so many oblique and invidious insinuations against the christian religion; thrown out, too, with so much spleen and satire, as do‘no honour to his memory, either as an author oraman. His language has many beauties. It is firm, and supported in an uncommon degree; it 1s 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 owe no wonder it should have been beg Shea RSS S POSED SIRES AE LSA EN TENET TEP ISSR TTS Lee? PRS Me RE Nf Sk RE RE hk oe a Pere et era te oe ewtC ote : : ake a a se ces. So St hee ewes yp hese SET eer ee ee ai Le ee a ee et a Star etetét Pak ft eh ee oe Rrra eras tee eo ae, a ee ae ee Fetes sitSPSFs Fo pSteTe Logs toast Sh ii dae th sede kb Soe Bik dae Pe ek os Se Sete PEP ae [LECT. XIX. 210 SIMPLICITY IN STYLE. 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 1s 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 eensuring 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 init. 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 ‘n 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 en 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- fectedness of his manner, is the crowning ornament; it heightens every other beauty; it is the dress of nature, without which, all beauties are imperfect. Butif mere unaffectedness were sufficient *It may perhaps be not unworthy of being mentioned, that the first edition of his Inquiry into Virtue, was published, surreptitiously, I believe, in a separate 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 ard useful examples that I know, of what is cal- led Lime labor: the art of polishing language, breaking long sentences, and workirg up an imperfect draught into a highly finished performance.LECT. XIx. | 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 isa 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, and 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 asa 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 any thing to commend. Inhis reasonings, for the most part, he is flimsy and false; in his political writings, factious 5 in what he calis nis philosophical ones, irreligious and sophistical in the highest de- gree. PETES Tay SS ee Se. psa ce Seer ere ges eee Seles Tes FFs 2 PESTS SEDO S OS ISSO SAI ES ek Pertti ere gees c estg hess PSPS Ee: “ eo eR eet ay -e Pee SR See ee ee os eh sie geese eel we vee Co ae a eS Bees oe Te egegtetet ete teter? =: ae eR et Soo = ©eta a eet oe eres oe) oes tte to aera te Seer or “4 es APR eee SET ESeTSte Pets — ee Bat « i eae 212 GENERAL CHARACTERS [LECT. xIx. I 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 1s very difficult to separate such general considerations of the style of au- thors from their peculiar turn of sentiment, which it is not my 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 difh- 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 siving 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 expression more than another. Some general qualities, indeed, there are,of such importance, as should always, in every kind of composition, be kept in view; and some defects we should always study to avoid. An ostentatious, a feeble, a harsh, or an obscure style, for instance, are always faults; and perspicuity, strength, neatness, and 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 any one model as absolutely perfect. It will be more to the purpose, that I conclude these dissertations upon style, with a few directions concerning the proper method of attaining a good style, in general ; leaving the particular character of that style to be either formed by the subject on which we write, or prompted by the bent of genius. The first direction which I give for this purpose,is, to study clear ideas on the subject concerning which we are to write or speak. This is a direction which may at first appear to have small relation to style. Itsrelation to it, however, isextremely 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 weLBC Ty Rix! 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. vili.c. 1. ‘Ple- rumque optima verba rebus coherent, et cernuntur suo lumine. At nos querimus illa, tanquam lateant, seque subducant. Ita nun- quam putamus verba esse circa id de quo dicendum est; sed ex aliis locis 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 ease, 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, l. x. c. 3. ‘initiis impero. Nam primum hoc constituendum ac obtinen- 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 hec est rei; cito scribendo non fit ut bere scribatur; bene scribendo, fit ut cito.’t 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 cool the heat of imagination, by pausing too long onevery word weemploy. 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 noless so: itis 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 are to be expressed by them, and may be discovered as by their own light. But we hunt after them, as if they were hidden, and only to be fou. d in a corner. Hence, instead of conceiving the words to lie near the subject, we go in quest of them to some other quarter, and endeavour to give force to the expressions we have found out.’ + ‘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 tlow ; every thing asin the arrangement of a well-orderud family, will present itself in 1-2 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. e2hre2 aero < hen bare We oe Pee Pol Te TC c ee ae eet eh ae) eye res Seer eee tT 7438 Peeweree ree LL e. CP a bane ge Re ode DS af ee; +4 cows Bea ee he ek ee ot a be stp bisiviere ear st td FEST ECE rere rere ore eS Rete eae 4 ee eLeEtgegt al ateter eTrtecessse = -t 4 H Sega sh Tot es 523 - ae ‘ Eo if Sh"— a eh ee eee hls ie oy rere rere Ft Peo. ePeowsese ee en. te ee eee ea Pi Aint Toa ey eek ae tak Bs a ee Sa ee 2 Ree pecwr essere fee oe Pe eee Te ee re a ctg=s 214 DIRECTIONS FOR [LECT. XIX for some little time, till the ardour of composition be past, till the fondness for the expressions we have used be worn off, and the ex- pressions themselves be forgotten; and then, reviewing our work with a cool and critical eye, asif 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 particles; and bringing style into a regular, correct, and supported form. This ‘Lime Labor,’ must be submitted to by all who would communicate their thoughts with proper advantage to others; and some practice in it will soon shar ‘pen 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- edfrom 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 inthis, 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, t than to translate some passages from an eminent En- glish author, into our own words. What I mean is, to take, for in- siete: some page of one of Mr. Addison’s Spectators, and read it carefully over two or three times, till we have got a firm hold of the thoughts contained in it; then to lay aside the. book; to attempt to write out the passage faut memory, in the best way we can; and having done so, next to open the book, and compare what we have written with the style of the author. Such an exercise will, by com- parison, show us where the defects of our style lie; will lead us to the proper attentions for rectifying them; and, among the different ways in which the same thought may be expressed, will make us perceive that which is the most beautiful. But, In the fourth place, I must caution, at the same time, against a 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 fauits as well as his beauties. No man will ever become a good writer or Speaner, who has not some degree of confidence to follow his own genius. Weought to beware, in particular, of adopting any author’s Tete’ phrases, or transcribing g passages from him. Such a habit will prove fatal to all genuine composition. Infinitely better it is ta 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, ee and imitating, J advise every student of oratory to agnsullt what GSiintlian has deliv ensa 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 capacity of our hearers, if we are to speak in 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 1s 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 orspeak, 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, If we do not sacrifice to this great object every ill-timed orfiament 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 st bject without this admo- nition, that in any case, and on any occasion, attention to style must s to detract from a higher degree of atten- ram verborum,’ says the great Roman cri- and to suit our style to it. not engross us so much, a tion to the thoughts. ‘Cu 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 afund of vigorous, ingenious, and useful thoughts. true genius; the former may of very superficial parts. Hence, wefind som The latter, requires be attained by industry, with the help any writers frivolously rich in style, but wretchedly peor in sentiment. The public ear 1s now so much accustomed to a correct and ornamented style, that no writer ean, with safety, neglect the s tudy of it. But he isa contemptible one who does not look to something beyond it; who does not lay the chief stress up ornaments of style to recommen ‘Majore animo,’ says the gredienda est eloquentia; que si toto corpore valet, ungues polire, et capillum componere, non natus et virilis et fortis et fico ementitum colerem amet; sanguine et v on his matter, and employ such d it, as are manly, not foppish : writer whom I have so often quoted, ‘ag- existimabit ad curam suam pertinere. Or- sanctus sit; nec effeminatam levitatem, et iribus niteat.’T *<¢To your expressions be attentive : +¢A higher spirit ought to animate thos consult the health and sounduess of the whole body, tion to such trifling objects as ment be manly and chaste, wl ws but about your matter be solicitous.’ e who study eloquence. They ought te rather than bend their atten- paring the nails, and dressing the hair. Let orna- thout effeminate gayety, it shine with the glow of health and strength.’ or artificial colouring ; let eee iid ee ee eysk ieee Se as eas ee Pa ere ree ra aeteres Sdse7{ ears SoM aS GU Podwo~eLoEateseseses> ja gure cegeietes eh ae Tek a te eLTGtgest ate TeTer ete Recess Te hs pao othe Pt ars iy. ae ae Cree) Calseteletedsiaiered re ee a= eee et ea ( 216 ) LECTURE XxX. 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 over wri- ting. Atthe 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 hiscomposition, 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 oeca- 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 itslustre. Itis, indeed, my judgment, that what Quintilian applies to, Cicero, ‘Ile 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, isthe 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. {t hegins thus:LECT. 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 sightis the most perfect, and the most de- lightful.’ 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 andstrong distinction would have been conveyed. But,as between 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, ¢éred or satiated, towards the end of the sentence, are not used for synonymousterms. 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, witleout being fatigued with its action ; and also, without being satiated with its proper enjoyments. That quality ofa good sentence, which I termed its unity, is here perfectly preserved. It is our sight of which he speaks. This is the object carried through the sentence, and presented to us, in every member of it, by those verbs, fills, converses, continues, to each of which it is clearly the 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 5 without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments. Enjoy- ments isa word of length and dignity, exceedingly proper for a close which is designed to be amusicalone. The harmony isthe 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 respect to the sense. It follows the order of nature. First, we have the variety of objects 28 Ae RPS Bese om oh Pere eto a ee eee seers: Ps ty ESR ET ee a ers pore es: Pe ee ee SHO PNP ee roc oe ok ek ee et Pe ao Pine oe &Jos ebele tate swacs es Set5257= Br ESEL Lae het Fess 218 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [ LECT. xx: mentioned, which sight furnishes to the mind; next, we have the action of sight on those objects; and lastly, we have the time and continuance of its action. No order could be more natural and happy. This sentence has still another beauty. It is figurative, without being too much so for the subject. A metaphor runs through it. The sense of sight is, insome degree, personified. Weare told of its conversing with its objects; and of its not being ¢zred or satiated with its enjoyments ; all which expressions are plain allusiens 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. Eivtension and shape.can, with no propriety, be called zdeas ; they ave properties of matter. Nei- ther is it accurate, even according to Mr. Loeke’s philosophy, (with which our author seems here to have puzzled himself,) to speak of any sense giving us 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 envts 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 manuscripi; because the insertion of them would render the sense much more intelligible and clear. These two words are, with regard :—itisvery much streitened and confined in its operations,LecT. xx.] 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 epithet particular, applied to objects, inthe conclusion of the sentence, 1s 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 eachother. Particular stands opposed to gene- ral; peculiar stands opposed to what is possessed in common with: others. Particular, expresses what, in the logical style, is called species ; peculiar, what is called differentia. Its peculiar oljects, would have signified, in this place, the objects of the sense of feel- ing, as distinguished from the objects of any other sense; and would have had more meaning than tts purticular objects ; though, in truth, neither the one nor the other epithet was requisite. It was sufficient to have said simply, z¢s oljects. ‘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 beauty. This is asentence 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 wi-a 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.’ re Ba In place of, Lt 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, if is this which, is fit to be used when a proposition of importance is laid down, to which we seek to call the reader S attention. It is like pointing with the hand at the object of which we speak. The parenthesis in the middle of the sentence, which I shall use promiscuously, is not clear. He ought to have said, terms which I shail 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. Jlny the like occasion. To call a painting or a statue an occasion, 1s not a hap- py expression, nor is it very proper to speak of calling up ideas by + pgepgeseritbsetesag baba tele te hte sesette a Petey rete eee eee ee eee Peet reer er rere a) ean 4 Pee vere: he a ee tok a ae be oe ie os ok eee ke phates ae ees res. Sieee. te ee oo 220 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [xecr. xx. occasions. The common phrase, any such means, would have been more natural. 4 ‘We cannot indeed have a single image in the fancy, that did not make its first entrance through the sight; but we have the power of retaining, altering, and compounding those images which we have once received, into all the varieties of picture and vision that are most agreeable to the imagination; for, by this faculty, a man in a dungeon is capable of entertaining himself with scenes and landscapes more beautiful than any that can be found in the whole 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 thoseimages which we have once received, into all thevarieties 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, znto. 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 ofsuch 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” The lat- ter part of the sentence is clear and elegant. ‘There are few words in the English language which are employ ed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense, than those of the fancy and the imagination.’ There ar few words—which are employed. It had been better, if our author here had said more simply, few words in the English language are employed. Mr. Addison, whose style is of the free and full, rather than the nervous kind, deals, on all occasions, in this extended sort of phraseology. But itis 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 vccasions, these little words, z¢ 7s, and there are, ought to be avoided as redundant and enfeebling. Those of the fancy and the imagination. The article onght to have been omitted Lere. 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 thas: ‘Few words in the Englisn language are employed ina more loose and uncireumscribed 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 ofLecT. xx.]| THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 221 my following speculations, that the reader may conceive rightly what is the subject which I proceed upon.’ Though fiz and determine may appear synonymous words, yeta 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- cumscribed. Fiz 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 Zermzni 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 both. The notion of these words, is somewhat of a harsh phrase, at least notso commonly used, as the meaning of these words ;—as Iintend tomake use of themin the thread of my speculations; this is plainly faulty. A sort of metaphor is improperly mixed with words in the literal sense. He might very well have said, as [intend to make use of themin my following speculations. This was plain language ; but ifhe chose to borrow an allusion from thread, that allusion ought to have been supported; for there is no consistency in making wse of them in the thread of speculations; and indeed, in expressing any thing so simple and familiar as this is, plain language is always to be preferred to metaphorical—the subject which I proceed upon, is an ungraceful close of a sentence; better the subject upon which I 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.’ Asthe last sentence began with, 7 therefore thought it necessary to fix, it is careless to begin this sentence in a manner so very similar, Imust therefore desire him to remember; especially, as the small va- riation of using, on this account, or, for thisreason, in place of ¢here- 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 swch 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 ROS OVI TA FP 74S es ese Pus le tz oa TY Sree TE LEDETOr = PEt ea ors es eet tree eek ee a ed sty bide PERE eer Te Peer rere er eee a Pah ee ag hn) eee SepeSesegegegi eteteteretetecess PFs a3 ao ra a: — ee bes %PN OR Pe ee ee Te ek Lea he 222 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [ectT. xx. of visible objects, when the objects are not actually before the eye, but are called up into our memories, or formed into agreeable visions of things, that are either absent or fictitious. ’ It is a greatrule in laying down the division of a subiect, 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 Jirst of all, to discourse—in the next place to speakof—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 isthe 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—zé nrust be confessed, that those of the imaginationare as great and as transporting us 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 ¢he dust; and he ends the sentence, with observing, that those of the imagination are as great and transporting as the other. Now, besides that the ofher makes not a proper contrast with ¢he 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 asademonstration ; and a description in Homer has charmed more readers than a chap- ter in Ar’s‘otle.’ 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 acouired.’ This is also an unexceptionable sentence.LECT.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 ashort sentence as this amidst a run of longer ones, which never fails tc 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 atten- 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 to assent to the beauty of anobject. Acknowledge would have expressed the sense with more propriety. The close of thesentence toois heavy and ungraceful—the particular causes and occasions of at; both particuwlur and occasions, are words quite superfluous; and the pronoun 2¢, is in some measure ambiguous, whether it refers to beau- ty or toobject. It would have been some amendment to the’style to nave 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 isaterm 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 ¢hat for a relative pro- noun, instead of which ; anusage which is too frequent with Mr. Addi- son. Which isa much more definitive word than that, being never employed inany other way than asa relative; whereas ¢hat is a word of many senses; sometimes a demonstrative pronoun, often a con- junction. In some cases we are indeed obliged to use ¢hat 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, §c. ‘He can converse with a picture, and find anagreeable 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 dues in the possession. It gives him, indeed, a kind of property in every thing he sees ; and makes the most rude, uncultivated parts of nature,administer to his pleasures : so that he looks upon the world, as it were, in another light, and discovers in it a multitude of charms that-conceal themselves from the generality of mankind.’ er etase Aeoaeiss 3 scisiisrscicseses ees tee : et eee es Mer ee ea eet eB ne tee ot ee eS ee ee Se tase pe eles ea Re ee ee re ie OE oh ee aesry Pee ee ere ea ee ie eGtecerereretetecesess = eo is Po Tatas a ats s% Fas Rar ae ak LF 33 sfPetty ot thats ee ila ee SoeS834 na SHEA TeLSHAle 224 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. xx All thisis very beautiful. The illustration is happy; and the style runs with the greatest ease and harmony. We see no labour, no stiffness or affectation; but an author writing from the native flow of a gay and pleasing imagination. This predominant character of Mr. Addison’s manner, far more than compensates all those little negligences which we are now remarking. Two of these occur in this paragraph. The first, in the sentence which begins with, ¢¢ gzves him indeed ua kindof property. Tothiszt, 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 7¢ 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 upon the world, asit werein another ght. 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. 4s 7¢ 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 thiskind. To say the truth, this last sentence, so that he looks upon the world, 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 administer to his pleasures. ‘There are, indeed, but very few who know how to be idle and innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are not criminal ; every diversion they take, is at the expense of some one virtue or 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 word, 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 indowEcT. xx.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 411. 225 lence and remissness, which are apt to accompany our more sensual delights ; but like a gentle exercise to the faculties, awaken them trom 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 mightask, 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 theimagination. It had been better, if, keeping in view the governing object of the preceding sentence, he had said, ‘This advantage we gain,’ or, ‘This satisfaction we enjoy, by means of the pleasures of imagination.’ The rest of the sentence is 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 of thinking, is a phrase which borders too much on vulgar and colloquial language, to be proper for being employed in a polished composition ‘ Delightful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or poetry, have a kindly influence on the body, as wellas the mind, and not only serve to clear and brighten the imagination, but are able to disperse grief and melancholy, and to set the animal spirits in pleasing and 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 toillustrate 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 they stand, but thus: Siz 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 tohim,&c. Thisarrangement 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 oe es fe $3 ee eee SREP PR TS Tole Ter tet Tete LL Peel ei a beh a re te ek ee a eB de li tsesete: eee ee eee Pear ee ee ad fae Wester Creer eS Tee Te ie aha oe i oe aea PS SE LS 28 Pe POPS Pe ia te Se eres e eee ye tr ne = Dena iy Fe 226 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [imer net commend to my readers the pursuit of those pleasures; I shall, in my next paper, examine the several sources from whence these plea- sures are derived.’ These two concluding sentences afford examples of -the proper 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 way of introduction—by several consider- ations—in this paper—in the next paper. All which are with great propriety managed by ourauthor, 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 besensible, 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. Tue observations which have occurred in reviewing that paper of Mr. Addison’s which was the subject of the last lecture, sufficiently show, that in the writings of an author, of the most happy genius, and 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 t2° 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. Atthe same time, I must intimate, that the lectures on these papers are solely intended for 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 ill- founded, they will at least, serve the purpose of leading them intoLECT. xxI.} THE STYLE INSPECTATOR, No. 412. 227 the train of making proper remarks for themselves.* I proceed, teaches 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.’ This sentence gives occasion for no materialremark. Itis simple and distinct. The two words which he here uses, view and survey, are not altogether synonymous; as the former may be supposed to import mere inspection; the latter, more deliberate examination. Yet they lie so near to one another in meaning, that, in the present case, any one of them, perhaps, would have been sufficient. The epithet actual, is introduced, in order to mark more strongly the distinction between what our author calls the primary pleasures of imagination, which arise from immediate view, and the secondary, which arise from remembrance or description. ‘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 inan 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 beascribed 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 olject so terrible or 4 i enstve, that the horror or disgust which tt excites may overbear. ‘The first two epithets, ¢errible or offensive, would theu have expressed the qualities of an object; the latter, horror or disgust, the correspond- ing sentiments which these qualities produce inus. Loathsomeness was the most unhappy word he could have chosen: for to be doath- some, is to be odious, and seems totally to exclude any mixture of 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 Jed 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 vations given to me in consequence of the exercises prescribed, reales? Peete Sey terse ca = Merete tee ea ee oe FETE ee anette te ef e Saag Pe ee ee a ed 2 ek a eo ae a ae 2am = See Ep Eee AF Ee aemien pit emencnenren mae Per oT ei ta oe et Se ee yeRe sores rey etree ee tes " Se ORS ol eS oa ee ret eee eee Streeters rece es ee Ee a rs rs ete Sr esis es eeeet a gees eee ef ry = eet 228 CRITICAL EXAMINATION: OF | LECT. EX In the latter part of the sentence there are several inaccuracies. When he says, there will be such a mixture of delight in the very disgust it gives us, as any of these three qualifications are most conspicuous. ‘The construction is defective, and seems hardly grammatical. He meant assuredly to say, such a mixture of 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, ave, is improperly joined to any of these three qualifications ; for as any is here used distribu- tively, and means any one of these three qualificutions, 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 treating of the structure of sentences, I quoted:this sentence as an instance of the careless manner in which adverbs are sometimes interjected in the midst ofa period. Only, as it is here placed, appears to be a limitation of the following verb, mean. ‘lhe question might be put, what more does he than only mean?As the author undoubtedly intended it to refer to the bulk of a single object, it would have been placed with more propriety after these words: /donot mean thebulkofany single object only, but the largeness of a whole view. As the following phrase, considered as one entire prece, 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. ‘ 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- eence 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- pects; such, signifies of that nature or quality; which necessarily presupposes some adjective, or word descriptive of a quality going before, to whichit refers. But, in the foregoing sentence, there is no suchadjective. He had spoken of greatness in the abstract only ; and therefore, swch 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, §&c. The of which is prefixed to huge heaps of mountains, is misplaced, and has, perhaps, been an error in theLect. xx1.]|. THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No: 412. 299 printing; as either all the particulars here enumerated should have had this mark of the genitive, or it should have been prefixed to none but the first. When, in the close of the sentence, the author speaks of that rude magnificence, which appears in many of these stupendous works of nature, he had better have omitted the word many, which seems to except some of them. Whereas, inhisgene- ril proposition, he undoubtedly meant to inelude all the stupendous works he had enumerated; and there is no question that, im 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 a pleas- ing astonishment at such unbounded views; and feel adelightful 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 the apprehension of them. Not only is this a languid, enfeebling conclusion 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 the sentence been allowed to close with stzliness 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- S e 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, 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 itself amidst the variety of objects that offer 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, aud with 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 toats observation. The fancy is elegantly contrasted with the understand- ang, prospects with speculations, and wide and undetermined pros- pects, with speculations of eternity and in Jinitude. ‘But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with this grandeur, asin a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with stars and meteors, or the spacious landscape cut out into rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows, the pleasure still grows upon us as it arises from more n a single principle.’ The ate ier to beauty, in the beginning of this sentence, L Se GiseBsvesie ic ee TT et ean re Beet ete re et es eK et ed ERE ee Fr a ee seeutisad a oe aS ePteteteiereteteceese Petia rat is et oe oe am ae te it. . t ca230 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, woods, &c. seems un- seasonably to imply an artificial formation, and would have been better expressed by, diversified with rivers, woods, &c. : ‘Every thing that is new or uncommon, raises a pleasure in the 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 the end, there are two of’s, which grate harshly on the ear, in that phrase, takes off from that satiety we are apt to complain of; where the correction is as easily made as in the other case, by substituting, diminishes that satiety of which we are apt to complain. Such instances show the advantage of frequent reviews of what we have written, in order to give proper correctness and polish to our language. ‘Itis 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 ef that, instead of which, is another pecu- liarity of his style; but, on this occasion in particular, cannot be much commen: ‘ad; as, z¢ zs this which,seems, in every view, to be better than, it és this that, three times repeated. take notice, that the antecedent to, z¢ ts this, w I must, likewise, hen critically consiLEcT.. xx1.] 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. Butas 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,it is novelty which bestows charms on a monster, &e. ‘ 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 eloss upon them, and not yet too much accustomed and familiar to the ever 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 read,never so much pleasant. Had he, to avoid this, said, never so much so, the erammatical 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 te 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 eomposition. ‘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 thatis new. We are quickly tired with looking at hills and vallies, where every thing ¢ »ntinues fixed and settled, in the same place and sosture; but find our thoughts a little agitated and relieved atthe sight of such objects as are ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder.’ The first of these sentences is connected in too loose a manner with that which immediately precededit. 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 noe 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 Jangzuage 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- sence prevents his sense from striking us 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 ts aeseribing, at once to the eyeand theear. 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- ¢ion obliges me to point out, it may be safely pronounced, that the rod ae bt Pl Ae Fi tert re ee re er sve Ey ee ee ee ee ee ae <2; ebeecarecerete teste gadigeds face ee ae ka wv Peri veer Pe Pree Sores er eeeitt? a ** .Se ee ee Teele et oe hoe DE e eRe $ ESS errs rite rae ee aes FLT SISF =Ss5eesze x BSL CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. Xxz. two paragraphs which we have now considered in this paper, the one concerning greatness, 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 thin that isgreat or uncommon. The very first discovery of it strikes the mind with an inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through all its faculties.’ Some degree of verbosity may be here discovered, as phrases are re- peated, which are little more than theecho of one another; such as, diffusing satisfaction and complacency through theimagination— striking the mind with inward joy—spreading cheerfulness and delight through allits faculties. Atthe 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 modj.- 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 zn, is wanting before another. The phrase ought to have stood thus: . Beauty or deformity in one piece of matter, more than in another. ‘Thus we see, that every different species of sensible creatures, has its different notions of beauty, and that each of them is most 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 oflanguage. Different sense of beauty would have been a more proper expression to have been applied to irrational creatures, than asit 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 was determined in his courtship. ‘There is a second kint\ of beauty, that we find in the several pro- ducts of art and nature, which does not work in the imagination with that warmth and violence, as the beauty that appears in our proper species, but is apt, however, to raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of fondness for the places or objects in which we discover itLEcT. xxi.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 412. 233 Still, lam sorry to say, we find little to praise. As in his enuncia tion of the subject, when beginning the former paragraph, he appeared to have been treating of beautyin general, in distinction from greatness or novelty ; this second kindof 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 inone another. This second kind of beauty, he says, we find in the severalproducts of art and nature. He undoubtedly means, not in all, but in several of the products of art and nature, and ought so to have expressed himself; and in the place of products, to have used also the more proper wordproductions. When headds, that this kind of beauty does not work in the imagina- tion with that warmth and violence as the beauty that appears inour proper species ; the language would certainly have been more pure and elegant, if he had said, that it does not work upon theimagina- 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 which; grammatically, it refers to the rising and setting of the sun. But the author meant, that it should refer to the show which appears in the heavens at that time. It is too com- mon among authors, when they are writing without much care, to make such particles as ¢/is, and which, refer not to any particular antecedent word, but to the tenour of some phvase, 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 eriod; 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 where meet witha more glorious and pleasing showin nature, than whatis formed in the heavens at therising and setting of the sun, by the dif- ferent stains of light which show themselves in clouds of di ferent situations. Ourauthorwrites, in clouds of a different situation, by which hemeans, clouds that differ in situation from each other. But,as this is neither the obvious nor grammatical meaning of his words, it was necessary to change the expression, as I have done, into the plu- ral number. 30 Sesdeesatisaes Ths Fess? S230 eg tee er ee $ ere re ek eee Ses eesetes See er ere “Se SG4F SE 5e 4 Per ca ae a he es 7 ejegegeetatetereretreeceits= a se343% ede at = ae. ea a ~ 3veses [thee ths pas ee eee Te eee ee eT ace tee 234 CRITICAL EXAMINATION. [LECT. xxI ‘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- eedes. For though he begins with saying, for 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 him more attentive to the several beauties of the place which lie before him. ‘Thus, if there arisesa fragrancy of smeils 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.( 285 ) LECTURE XXII. a CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No. 413 OF THE SPECTATOR. ‘ToueH 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 neither 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, vhat 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. Whenan 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 reasening, 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 2 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 ‘nfer 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 1s 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 consi- she cabs de bapa deveined ca is ee Fad a a ae Pee oe el ot operee iin je sesngeietesty sit ee Pe ee et eF eiwd PEwdegwhSeece Panes Pete a ae a PIPL E Ter ts heed ee BE Bs Sfecra she Sele ses aa rs hoe wl eiegtagetecetererhtreesets Pos Pade o he otk £3 A A— es re te oes peeeha certs tae sh yee he oe ERERITS Ce eh te ae ees STL Ost eF Sis y Fs ise TFs ee ied ee oe ee Pee ee Pe 236 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF = [recr. xxi dered how every thing that is great, new.or beautiful, is apt to affect thetmagination with pleasure. Theadverb 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 guomodo 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 rest contented with the knowledge of the fact alone, and of its purpose or finalcause. Wemust own, that itisimpossible for us to assign the necessary cause (he means, what is more commonly called the ef Jicient cause) of this pleasure, because we know neither the nature of anidea, nor the substance.of ahumansoul. 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 dea and to soul. Which might help us, our author proceeds, to discover the con for- 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 isa relative, without any antecedent in all the sentence, It refers, by the construction, ¢o the nature of an idea,or the substance af a human soul; but this is by no means the reference ‘vhich 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 which. I have before remarked, and the remark deserves to be repeated, that nothing is a more certain sign of careless composition, than to make such rela- tives as which, not refer to any precise expression, but carry a loose and vague relation to the general strain of what had gone before. When our sentences run into this form, we may be assured there is something in the construction of them that requires alteration, The phrase of discovering the confurmity or disagreeableness of the one to the other is likewise exceptionable; for disagrceableness 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- man soul, 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 zause 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. Ind therefore, the sentence goes on, for want of such a light, all that wecan doinspeculations of this kind, is, to re -flect on those opera-Lect. xx11.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 237 tions of the soul that are most agreeableand torangeunder their pro per heads what ts pleasing or displeasing tothe mind. Thetwoex- 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 torange under their proper heads, the language would have been smoother, if ¢hezv 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, from whence, though seemingly justified by very frequent usage, is taxed by Dr. Johnson asa vicious mode of speech; seeing whence,alone, hasall the power of Jrom 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. Al|lthat follows, suggests no idea that had notbeen fully con- veyed in the preceding part of the sentence. It is a mere expletive adjection,which might be omitted not only withoutinjury 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, [ 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 which 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 notaltogether 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 dare 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 he more open to ob- servation. One can scarcely help observing here, that the obvious- ness of final causes does not proceed, as Mr. Addison supposes, from a variety of them concurring in the same eflect, which is often not the case; but from our being able to ascertain more clearly, from our own experience, the congruity of a final cause with the circumstances of our condition; whereas the 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, ++ is sufficient for us to observe,that when he says,a great varvety that 2 FESS ns oe eS ace de See britaiied eee tet Lee Rage SS ca eat tee te Ae Fe Sak aed reer rene es he ot oe fosnpesetestyhjtielete: PR ee ae roe e be #543 EATEN eftetesereietrtece ts SZtatae 3 eesti Tati a PhS ey a Fag Pee tSetetsts' rete ras ees 238 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [ Eem.. SBE belong to the same effect, the expression, strictly censidered, is not altogether proper. ‘The accessory is properly said to belong to the principal ; not the principal to the accessory. Now, an effect 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 the close, one would think, that the author might have devised a happier word than apprehension, to be applied to what is unlimited. But that I may not be thought hypercritical, I shall make no farther observation on these sentences. ‘Qur admiration, which is a very pleasing motion of the mind, immediately rises at the consideration of any object that takes up a eood 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 authoz’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, astrong proof of Mr. Addison’s unreasonable partiality to the particle that, in preference to which Annexed usecret pleasure to the idea of any thing that is new or un- common, that he might encourage us. Here, the first that stands for a relative pronoun, and the next that, at the distance only of fourvecT. xxu.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 239 words, isa conjunction. This confusion of sounds serves to embar- rass style. Much better, sure, to have said, the idea of any thing which is new or uncommon that hemight 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, put us upon making fresh discoveries; or rather, serves as a motive inciting us to make fresh discoveries. ‘He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own species, 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. T’aken 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 zs 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. Whatthe 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. or it is very remarkable, that wherever nature is crost in the production of a monster,&c. The reason which he here gives, for the preceding asser- tion, intimated by the casual particle for, 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 the production of amonster? One might understand him to mean, ‘disappointed in its intention of producing a monster,’ as when we say, one is crost in his pursuits, we mean, that he is disappointed in accomplishing the end which he intended. Had he said, crost by theproduction ofa monster, the sense would have been more intelligible. But the proper rectification of the expression would be to insert the adverb as, before the prepost- tion in, after this manner; wherever nature is crost, as im the produc- 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 sece eae ied lo aoe hae < Bera Fise Bee re ae eek ek 2p hssce i Seer Perea et tee ts PETES ESE er ES eed aed Mee = ey a a nes ee bs . eS ees Pet SHeTegtgegrereteTer etree yest 5 tis) c i ee ee fy “k is240 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXII eal 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 anddelightful. He has given almost every thing about us the power of raising an agreeable idea in the imagination ; so that it 1s 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 which he opens the subject. For what meaning is there in things exctding in us many of those ideas which are different from any thing that exists in the objects? Neo one, sure, ever imagined that our ideas exist in the objects. IJdeas, it is agreed on all hands, can exist no where but in the mind. What Mr. Locke’s philosophy teaches,and whatour author should have said, isexciting inus many rdeas of qualities whichare different from any thing that exists in the oljects. The ungraceful parenthesis which follows, for such are light and colours, had far better have been avoided, and incorporated with the rest of the sentence, in this manner ; ‘exciting in us many ideas of qualities, such as light and colours, which are different from any thing that exists in the objects.’ ‘We are every where entertained with pleasing shows and ap- paritions. We discover imaginary glories in the heavens and in the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured out upon the whole creation; but what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should we be entertained with, did all her colouring disappear, and the several distinctions of light and shade vanish? In short, our souls are delightfully lost and bewildered in a pleasing delusion 3 and we walk about like the enchanted hero of a romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows; and, at the same time, hears the warbling of birds, and the purling 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, I return with much more pleasure to the display of beauties, forzecT. xxit.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 413. 24) which we have now full scope; for these two sentences are such as do the highest honour to Mr. Addison’s talentsasa 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 blaze 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, whatu rough unsightly sketch of nature should we be entertained with, 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 with pleasing shows. Here it would have been more proper to have changed the phrase, and said, with what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should we be 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 net 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 this, 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, evn ea useless, and even an improper peatasieg Ditasiserisrissce a tpg@opeitecdtese* ered & ees be estgass ee Sey Fee PFE CSRS Pe rnee eee ee ee rk ss Se ee ee ae $Sseres: tec. a eo ee S2vese A a Pr’ i= - t ree on pra re OLS aE a rot hs be ok oe ee s Pak oo 7 LSee Se eee) re Peewee ey \ + 7 a Se es a ES SES Ese ne Mie DiS Presse TESESLOLSL SE AL eT esse THs TX PELE LE SES Hae aah Set at ees te eee BSSSPERSE eee Se ee G Sh te eo oh oe ee Rete Se ER GA SRST ORS ST ee eh ee oa) a ee ek es htt bch fete sk ahd Reds Dal ahae sa se <4 ae 242 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXI1E, word. More distinct if he had said,state of the soul immediately on its separation from the body. The adverb perhaps, is redundant, after having just before said, ¢¢ zs possible. ‘I have here supposed, that my reader is acquainted with that ereat 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. Inthe second, when he cals a truth which has been incontestably proved ; first, a speculation, and afterwards @ no- tion, the language surely is not very accurate. When he adds, one ofthe 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 ¢hat. The circumstance towards the close, uf the English reader would see the 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, §c. In concluding the examination of this paper, we may observe, that though not a very long one, it exhibits a striking view both of the 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. cae CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No. 414 OF THE SPECTATOR. ‘Ir we consider the works of nature and art, as they are qualified to entertain the imagination, we shall find the last very defective in comparison of the former ; for though they may sometimes appea. as beautiful or strange, they can have nothing in them of that vast ness and immensity which afford so great an entertainment to the mind of the beholder.’ I had occasion formerly to observe, that an introductory sentence should always be short and simple, and contain no more matter thanLECT. xx1u.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 414. 243 is necessary for opening the subject. This sentence leads to a re- petition of this observation, as it contains both an assertion and the proof of that assertion; two things which, for the most part, but espe cially at first setting out, are with more advantage kept separate. It would certainly have been better, if this sentence had contained only the assertion, ending with the word former; and if a new one had then begun, entering on the proofs of nature's superiority over art, which is the subject continued to the end of the paragraph. The proper division of the period I shall point out, after having first made a few observations which occur on different parts of it. Lf we consider the works. Perhaps it might have been preferable, if our author had begun with saying, when we consider the works. Discourse ought always to begin, when it is possible, with a clear proposition. The @f, which is here employed, converts the sentence into a supposition, which is always in some degree entangling, and proper to be used only when the course of reasoning renders it ne- cessary. As this observation however may, perhaps, be consider- ed as over-refined, and as the sense would have remained the same in either form of expression, I do not mean to charge our author with any error on this account. We cannot absolve him from inac- curacy in what immediately follows—the works of nature and art. It is the scope of the author throughout this whole paper, to com- pare nature and art together,and to oppose them in several views to each other. Certainly, therefore, in the beginning, he ought to have kept them as distinct as possible, by interposing the preposi- tion, andsaying, the works of nature and of art. As the words stand at present, they would lead us to think that he is going to treat of these works, not as contrasted, but as connected; as united in form- ing one whole. When I speak of body and soul as united in the human nature, I would interpose neither article nor preposition be- tween them; ‘Man is compounded of soul and body.’ But the case is altered, if I mean to distinguish them from each other; then I represent them as separate, and say,‘I am to treat of the inter- ests of the soul, and of the body.’ Though they may sometimes appear as beautifulor strange. I can- not help considering this as a loose member of the period. It does not clearly appear at first what the antecedent is tothey. In reading onwards, we see the works of art to be meant; but from the struc- ture of the sentence, they might be understood to refer to the former, as well as to the last. In what follows, there is a greater ambiguity— may sometimes appear as beautiful or strange. Itisvery doubtful in what sense we are to understand as, in this passage. For, according as 1t1s accented in reading, it may signify, that they appear equally beautiful or strange, to wit, with the works of nature; and then it has the force of the Latin fam: or itmay signify no more than that they appear in the light of beautiful and strange; and then it has the force of the Latin tanguam, without importing any comparison. An ex- pression so ambiguous, is always faulty ; and it is doubly so here; because, if the author intended the former sense, and meant (as seems most probable) to employ as for a mark of comparison, it was * +e -s eet a 7 Fer hsers Jor Ng ag ek Poe ee be hae Be Ria ds < 1 Ee a ee ot a eB pCa NA ot i i. ae esey het ee ‘ 7 , LFS EX ESET CPE eS rs eRe ee er ea ere ee ee ee Paes peeteoe rs saezeTads Mrert TET rat pe oe ae ee ed ee OS aeee a oe. a 3 fas ‘ ES Wi es aSaeaietavars yess sie ose Setapeize sears Mle el ie fe ee alr ae 244 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXITE necessary to have mentioned both the compared objects: whereas only one member of the comparison is here mentioned, viz. the works ofart: and if he intended the latter sense, as was in that case superfluous and encumbering, and he had better have said simply, ap- pear beautifulor strange. The epithet strange, which Mr. Addison applies. to the works of art, cannot be praised. Strange works, ap- pears not by any means a happy expression to signify what he here intends, which is newor uncommon. Thesentence concludes with much harmony and dignity ; they can have nothing in themof that vastness and immensity which afford so great an entertainment to the mind of the beholder. ‘There is here a fulness and grandeur of expression well suited to the subject; though, perhaps, entertainment is not quite the proper word for ex- pressing the effect which vastness and immensity have upon the mind. Reviewing the observations that have been made on this period, it might, | think,with advantage, be resolved into two sentences, some- what after this manner: ‘ When we consider the works of nature and of art, as they are qualified to entertain the imagination, we shall find the latter very defective in comparison of the former The works of art may sometimes appear no less beautiful or uncom- mon than those of nature; but they can have nothing of that vast- ness and immensity which so highly transport the mind of the be- holder.’ ‘The one,’ proceeds our author in the next sentence, ‘may be as polite and delicate as the other; but can never show herself so au- gust and magnificent in the design.’ The one and the other, in the first part of this sentence, must unquestionably refer to the works ofnature andofart. For ofthese he had been speaking immediately before; and with reference to the plural word, works, had employed the plural pronoun they. But in the course of the sentence, he drops this construction ; and passes very incongruously to the personification of art—can never show herself. ‘To render his style consistent, art, and not the works of art, should have been made the nominative in this sentence. Art may beas politeand delicate as nature, but can never show her- self. Polite isaterm oftener applied to persons and to manners, than to things; and is employed to signify their being highly civilized. Polished, or refined, was the idea which the author had in view. Though the general turn of this sentence be elegant, yet, in order to render it perfect, I must observe, that the concluding words, zn the design, should either have been altogether omitted, or something should have been properly opposed to them in the preceding mem- ber of the period, thus: ¢ Art may, in the execution, be as polished and delicate as nature; but 'n the design, can never show herself so august and magnificent.’ ‘There is something more bold and masterly in the rough, care- ess strokes of nature, than in the nice touches and embellishments of art.’ This sentence is perfectly happy and elegant: and carries, in all the expressions, that curiosa felicitas, tor wiuch Mr. Addison is soLECT. xx1u.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 414. 245 often remarkable. Bold and masterly, are words applied with the utmost propriety. The strokes of nature, are finely opposed to the touches of art ; and the rough strokes to the nice touches ; the former, painting the freedom and ease of nature, and the other, the diminu- tive exactness of art; while both are introduced before us as differ- ent performers, and their respective merits in execution very justly contrasted with each other. ‘The beauties of the most stately garden or palace lie in a nar- row compass; the imagination immediately runs them over, and requires something else to gratify her: but in the wide fields of na ture, the sight wanders up and down without confinement, and i- fed with an infinite variety of images, without any certain stint or number.’ This sentence is not altogether so correct and elegant as the for- mer. It carries, however, in the main, the character of our author’s style; not strictly accurate, but agreeable, easy, and unaffected; enlivened too with a slight personification of the imagination, which gives a gayety to the period. Perhaps it had been better, if this personification of the imagination, with which the sentence is intro- duced, had been continued throughout, and not changed unneces- sarily, and even improperly, into sigh, in the second member, which is contrary both to unity and elegance. It might have stood thus: the imagination immediately runs them over, and requires some- thing elseto gratify her; but in the wide fields of nature, she wan- ders up and down without confinement. The epithet stately, which the author uses in the beginning of the sentence, is applicable with more propriety to palaces than to gardens. The close of the sentence, without any certain stint or number, may be objected to, as both superfluous and ungraceful. It might perhaps have terminated bet- ter in this manner: she is fed with an infinite variety of images, and wanders up and down without confinement. ‘For this reason, we always find the poet in love with a country life, where nature appears in the greatest perfection, and furnishes out all those scenes that are most apt to delight the imagination.’ There is nothing in this sentence to attract particular attention. One would think it was rather the country, than acountry life, on which the remark here made should rest. A country life may be productive of simplicity of manners, and of other virtues: but it 1s to the country itself, that the properties here mentioned belong, of displaying the beauties of nature, and furnishing those scenes which delight the imagination. ‘ But though there are several of these wild scenes that are more delightful than any artificial shows, yet we find the works of nature still more pleasant, the more they resemble those of art; for in this case, our pleasure rises from a double principle; from the agreea- bleness of the objects to the eye, and from their similitude to other objects ; we are pleased, as well with comparing their beauties, as with surveying thent, and can represent them to our minds either as copies or as originals. Hence it is, that we take delight in a pros- pect mee is well laid out, and diversified with fields and meadows, Peete ee eg ek se oe stp hrsteesetet Peer ee Peer Tete ore ee ee ee ee ee ee 4 ae a errr SeiegtgsetecaereTeretesecesess a ath es ce ee Pat og 3 eePoP Se eS Pee oe te 2 = i Pet ere Pe Pe Te rs eae = cee 3 $reare FeEszts 246 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [urexcr. xx111. woods and rivers; in those accidental landscapes. of trees, clouds, and cities, that are sometimes found in the veins of marble, in the curious fretwork of rocks and grottos; and, ina word, in any thing that hath such a degree of variety and reguiarity as may seem the effect of design, in what we call the works of chance.’ The style in the two sentences which compose this paragraph, is smooth and perspicuous. It lies open in some places to criticism ; but lest the reader should be tired of what he may consider as petty remarks, I shall pass over any which these sentences suggest; the rather, too, as the idea which they present to us of nature’s resem- bling art, of art’s being considered as an original, and nature as a Copy, seems not very distinct nor well brought out, nor indeed very material to our author’s purpose. ‘If the products of nature rise in value, according as they more or less resemble those of art, we may be sare that artificial. works receive a greater advantage from the resemblance of such as are na- tural; because here the similitude is not only pleasant, but the pat- fern more nerfect.’ It is necessary to our present design, to point out two considera- ble inaccuracies which occur in this sentence. If the products (he had better havesaid the productions) of nature rise in value accord- ing as they more or less resemble those of art. Does he mean, that these productions rise in value both according as they more resemble, and as they less resemble, those of art? His meaning undoubtedly is, that they rise in value only, according as they more resemble them : and, therefore, either of these words, or dess, must be struck out, or the sentence must run th us—productions of nature rise or sinkinvu- lue, according as they more or less resemble. The present construc- tion of the sentence, has plainly been owing to hasty and careless writing. The other inaccuracy is towards the end of the sentence, and serves to illustrate a rule which I formerly gave, concerning the position of adverbs. The author says, because here the similitudets not only pleasant, but the pattern more perfect. Here, by the position of the adverb only, we are Jed to imagine that he is going to give some other property of the similitude, that it is no¢ only pleasant, as he says, but more than pleasant; it is useful, or, on some account or other, valuable. Whereas, he is going to oppose another thing to the s7- militude itself, and not to this property of its being pleasant ; and, therefore, the right colocation, beyond doubt, was, because here, not only the similitude is pleasant, but the pattern more perfect ; the contrast lying, not between pleasant and more perfect, but between stmilitude and pattern. Much of the clearness and neatness of style depends on such attentions as these. ‘The prettiest landscape I ever Saw, was one drawn on the wyalls of a dark room, which stood opposite on one side to an and on the other, to a. park. optics.’ In the description of the landscape which follows, Mr. Addison is abundantly happy ; but in this introduction to it, he is obscure and in avigable river, The experiment is very common inLECT. xxu.]| THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, No. 414. 247 distinct. One who had not seen the experiment of the camera ob- scura, could comprehend nothing of what he meant. And even, af- ter we understand what he points at, we are at some loss, whether to understand his description as of one continued landscape, or of two different ones, produced by the projection of the two camera obscuras on opposite walls. The scene, which I am inclined to think Mr. Addison here refers to, is Greenwich Park; with the pros- pects of the Thames, as seen by a camera obscura, which is placed in a small room in the upper story of the observatory; where I re- member to have seen, many years ago, the whole scene here describ- ed, corresponding so much to Mr. Addison’s account of it in this passage, that, at the time, it recalled it to my memory. As the observatory stands in the middle of the park, it overlooks, from one side, both the riverand the park; and the objects afterwards mentioned, the ships, the trees, and the deer, are presented in one view, without needing any assistance from opposite walls. Putinto plainer language, the sentence might run thus: ‘The prettiest land- scape I ever saw, was one formed by a camera obscura, a common optical instrument, on the wall of a dark room, which overlooked a navigable river and a park.’ ‘Here you might discover the waves and fluctuations of the water in strong and proper colours, with the picture of a ship entering at one end, andsailing by degrees through the whole piece. Onanother, there appeared the green shadows of trees, waving to and fro with the wind, and herds of deer among them in miniature, leaping about upon the wall.’ Bating one or two small inaccuracies, this is beautiful and lively painting. The principal inaccuracy lies in the connexion of the two sentences, here and on another. I suppose the author meant, on one side,andon another side. Asit stands, another is ungrammatical, hav- ing nothing to which it refers. But the fluctuations of the water, the ship entering and sailing on by degrees, the trees waving in the wind, and the herds of deer among them leaping about, is all very elegant, and gives a beautiful conception of the scene meant to be described. ‘I must confess, the novelty of such a sight may be one occasion of its pleasantness to the imagination ; but certainly the chief reason is, its near resemblance to nature ; as it does not only, like other pic- tures, give the colour and figure, but the motions of the things it re- presents.’ ; In this sentence there is nothing remarkable, either to be praised orblamed. Inthe conclusion, instead of the things it represents, the regularity of correet style requires the things which it represents. In the beginning, as one occusion and the chief reason are opposed to one another, I should think it better to have repeated the same word: one reason of its pleasantness to the imagination, but cer- tainly the chief reason is, §¢. ‘We have before observed, that there 1s generally, in nature, something more grand and august than what we meet with in the cu- cinsities of art. When, therefore, we see this imitated in any mea- of ta hae ge ee pe Fp feser* The RS a as BOR re ee ee ee okt Oe er Sk PSU ST eee es Cer rere oe eo hs ee Pa = Che he ow Trae hae be je ts 8 ed ee AT Tos seh a oS a 5 |eit cect ie Se he ek oe ae tee ek ee Rk eh ed ee oad ee cs PL os cece eer ee ees ee re ca a ee ares =s= ee ee PSPETTPE STP TATE Te ee ee re I rs os te § petiris ts 248 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [xecr. xxi. sure, it gives us a nobler and more exalted kind of pleasure, than what we receive from the nicer and more accurate productions of art? It would have been better to have avoided terminating these two sentences in a manner so similar to each other; curiosities of art —productions of art. ‘On this account, our English gardens are not so entertaining to the fancy as those im France and Italy, where we see a large extent of ground covered with an agreeable mixture of garden and forest, which represents every where an artificial rudeness, much more charming than that neatness and elegance which we meet with in those of our own country.’ The expression, represent every where an artificial rudeness, is so inaccurate, that I am inclined to think, what stood in Mr. Addison’s manuscript musthave been present every where. For the mixture of garden and forest does not represent, but actually exhibits or presents, artificial rudeness. That mixture represents indeed naturalrudeness, that is, is designed to imitate it; but it in reality 7s, and presents, artificial rudeness. ‘It might indeed be of ill consequence to the public, as well as unprofitable to private persons, to alienate so much ground from pasturage and the plough, in many parts of a country that is so well peopled and cultivated to a far greater advantage. But why may not a whole estate be thrown intoa kind of garden by frequent plantations, that may turn as much to the profit as the pleasure of the owner? A marsh overgrown with willows, ora mountain shaded with oaks, are not only more beautiful, but more beneficial, than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields of corn make a pleasant prospect; and if the walks were a little taken care of that lie be- tween them, and the natural embroidery of the meadows were helped and improved by some small additions of art, and the’seve- ral rows of hedges were set off by trees and flowers that the soil was capable of receiving, a man might make-a pretty landscape of his own possessions.’ The ideas here are just, and the style is easy and perspicuous, though in some places bordering on the careless. In that passage, for instance, 2/ the walks were a littletuken care of that Lie between them, one member is clearly out of its place, and the turn of the phrase a little taken care of, is vulgar and colloquial. Much better, if it had run thus: if @ little care were bestowed on the walks that lie between them. ‘Writers who have given us an account of China, tell us, the inha- bitants of that country laugh at the plantations of our Europeans, which are laid out by the rule and the line; because, they say, any one may place trees in equal rows and uniform figures. They choose rather to show a genius in works of this natu ‘e, and, there- fore, always conceal the art by which they direct themselves. They have a word, it seems, in their language, by which they express the particular beauty of a plantation, that thus strikes the imagination at first sight, without discovering what it is, has so agreeable an effect.LECT. xxiu.] THE STYLE: IN SPECTATOR, No. 414. 249 These sentences furnish occasion for no remark, except that in the last of them, particular is improperly used instead of peculiar ; the peculiar beauty of aplantation that thus strikes the imagina- tion, was the phrase to have conveyed the idea which the author meant; namely, the beauty which distinguishes it from plantations of another kind. ‘Our British gardeners, on the contrary, instead of humouring nature, love to deviate from it as much as possible. Our trees rise in cones, globes, and pyramids. We see the marks of the scissors on every plant and bush.’ These sentences are lively and elegant. ‘They make an agreea- ble diversity from the strain of those which went before; and are marked with the hand of Mr. Addison. I have to remark only, that inthe phrase, instead of humouring nature, love to deviate from it—humouring and deviating, are terms not properly opposed to each other; a sort of personification of nature is begun in the first of them, whichis notsupported inthe second. Tohumouring, was to have been opposed thwarting; or ifdeviating was kept, following, or going along with nature, was to have been used. ‘I do not know whether I am singular in my opinion, but for my own part, I would rather look upon a tree, in all its luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs and branches, than when it is thus cut and trim- med into a mathematical figure; and cannot but fancy that an or- chard, in flower, looks infinitely more delightful, than all the little labyrinths of the most finished parterre.’ This sentence is extremely harmonious, and every way beautiful. It carries all the characteristics of our author’s natural, gracetul, and flowing language. A tree, in allits luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs and branches, is a remarkably happy expression. The au- thor seems to become luxuriant in describing an object which 1s so, and thereby renders the sound a perfect echo to the sense. ‘But as our great modellers of gardens have their magazines of plants to dispose of, it is very natural in them to tear up all the beautiful plantations of fruit trees, and contrive a plan that may most turn to their profit, in taking off their evergreens, and the like moveable plants, with which their shops are plentifully stocked.’ An author shouldalways study to conclude, when it is in his pow- er, with grace and dignity. It is somewhat unfortunate, that this paper did not end, as it might very well have done, with the former beautiful period. The impression left on the mind by the beauties of nature, with which he had been entertaining us, would then have been more agreeable. But in this sentence there is a great falling off; and we return with pain from those pleasing objects, to the insignificant contents of a nursery-man’s shop. Rt eae ee ee stg bdtgveeres PSE EO er er ce ee tee ye et Pe aoe eh ie - eZegtgeeteteteiet ete es si yeas Ft ks t+ i 3) ; a - Cae Pre aa) a aeet T Stat th Sete teehee er te ee Tee eS cd ee a rere Pe PS Paes re 1 ( 250 ) LECTURE XXIV. EE CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF DEAN SWIFT’S WRITINGS. My design in the four preceding lectures, was not merely to ap- preciate the merit of Mr. Addison’s style, by pointing out the faults and the beauties that are mingled in the writings of that great author. They were not composed with any view to rain the reputation of a critic: but intended for the assistance of such as are desirous of studying the most proper and elegant construction of sentences in the English language. To such, it is hoped, that they may be of advantage; as the proper application of rules respecting style, will always be best learned by means of the illustration which exam- ples afford. I conceive that examples, taken from the writings of an author so justly esteemed, would on that account, not only be more attended to, but would also produce this good effect, of fami- liarizing those who study composition with the style of a writer, from whom they may, upon the whole, derive great benefit. With the same view, | shall, in this lecture, give one critical exercise more of the same kind, upon the style of an author, of a different character, Dean Swift; repeating the intimation I gave formerly, that such as stand in need of no assistance of this kind, and who, therefore, will naturally consider such minute discussions concerning the propriety of words, and structure of sentences, as beneath their attention, had best pass over what will seem to them a tedious part of the work. I formerly gave the general character of Dean Swift’s style. Heis esteemed one of our most correct writers. His style is of the plain and simple kind; free from all affectation, and all superfluity ; per- spicuous, manly, and pure. These areits advantages. But we are not to look for much ornament and grace init.* On the contrary, Dean Swift seems to have slighted and despised the ornaments of language, rather than to have studied them. His arrangement is often locse and negligent. In elegant, musical, and figurative lan- guage, he is much inferior to Mr. Addison. His manner of writing earries in it the character of one who rests altogether upon his sense, and aims at no more than giving his meaning in a clear and concise manner. That part of his writings which I sha| now examine, is the begin- ning of his treatise, entitled, ‘A Proposal for correcting, improving, and ascertaining the English Tongue,’ ina letteraddressed to the Earl *Tam glad to find that, in my judgment concerning this author’s composition, I have coincided with the opinion of a very able critic. ‘This easy and safe con- veyance of meaning, it was Swift’s desire to attain, and for having attained, he certainly deserves praise, though perhaps, not the highest praise. For purposes merely didactic, when something is to be told that was not known before, it is in the highest degree proper; but against that inattention by which known truths are suffered to be neglected, it makes no provision ; it instructs, but does not persuade Johnson’s Lives of the Poets; in Swift.LECT. XXIV. | DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE 251 of Oxford, then Lord High Treasurer. I was led, by the nature ot the subject, to choose this treatise; but, in justice to the Dean, I must observe, that, after having examined it, I do not esteem it one of his most correct productions; but am apt to think it has been more hastily composed than some other of them. It bears the title and form of a letter; but it is, however, in truth, a treatise designed for the public; and therefore, in examining it, we cannot proceed upon the indulgence due to an epistolary correspondence. When a man addresses himself to a friend only, it is sufficient if he makes himself fully understood by him; but when an author writes for the public, whether he employ the form ofan epistle or not, we are al- ways entitled to expect, that he shall express himself with accuracy and care. Our author begins thus: ‘ What I had the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some time ago, in conversation, was not a new thought, just then started by accident or occasion, but the result of long reflection: and I have been confirmed in my sentiments by the opinion of some very judi- cious persons with whom I consulted.’ The disposition of circumstances in a sentence, such as serve to limit or to qualify some assertion, or to denote time and place, I for- merly showed to be a matter of nicety ; and I observed, that it ought to be always held a rule, not to crowd such circumstances together, butrather to intermix them with more capital words, in such different parts of the sentenceas can admit them naturally. Hereare two cir- cumstances of this kind placed together, which had better have been separated ; Sometime ago in conversation—better thus: What had the honour, sometime ago, of mentioning to your lordship in conver- sation---was not anew thought, proceeds our author, started by acci- dent or occasion : the different meaning of these two words may not at first occur. ‘They have, however, a distinct meaning, and are pro- perly used: for it is one very laudable property of our author’s style, that it is seldom encumbered with superfluous, synonymous words. Started by accident, is, fortuitously, or at random ; started by occa- sion, is by some incident, which at that time gave birth to it. His meaning is, that it was not a new thought which either casually sprung up in his mind, or was suggested to him for the first time, by the train of the discourse: but, as he adds, was the result of long reflection. He proceeas: ‘ They all agreed, that nothing would be of greater use towards the improvement of knowledge and politeness, than some effectual me- thod for correcting, enlarging, and ascertaining our language ; and they think it a work very possible to be compassed under the protec- tion of a prince, the countenance and encouragement of a minis- try, and the care of proper persons chosen for such an undertak- ing.’ This is an excellent sentence; clear, and elegant. The words are all simple, well chosen, and expressive ; and are arranged in the most proper order. It is a harmonious period too, which is a beauty not frequent in our author. The last part of it consists of three mem- bers, which gradually rise and swell one above another, without any ees grseeVerrdre ie ere eo See eee eee oe ae gee ee ee Sk SFE Ste tetariseTftrze eae Peco tia TeeeSES stp heteetere ct faecaeers SSSeeS ose ey REM SEPT Sa ERS ES Rae Oe Vee PEP ee Pe Ee al arata ae Sy oeTs Pere te re os State teseietetecest ase =. Etats = Peta a eS ae ° oy eae he ee %rene ae ei Sete tisk eas cas et Se fe Les ee Te ae ti ‘a ie Rae f YT ee Lo 252 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXIV affected or unsuitable pomp ; wnder the protection of a prince, the countenance and encouragement of a ministry, and the care of pro- per persons chosen for such anundertaking. We may remark, inthe beginning of the sentence, the proper use of the preposition fowards-- greater use towards theimprovement of knowledge and politeness-- importing the pointing or tendency of any thing to a certain end ; which could not have been so well expressed by the preposition Jor, commonly employed in place of towards, by authors who are less attentive, than Dean Swift was, to the force of words. One fault might, perhaps, be found, both with this and the former sentence, considered as introductory ones. We expect, that an in- troduction is to unfold, clearly and directly, the subject that is to be treated of. In the first sentence, our author has told us, of a thought he mentioned to his Lordship in conversation, which had been the result of long reflection, and concerning which he had consulted ju- dicious persons. But what that thought was, we are never told di- rectly. We gather it indeed from the second sentence, wherciu he informs us, in what these judicious persons agreed; namely, that some method for improving the language was both useful and practi- eable. But this indirect method of opening the subject, would have been very faulty in a regular treatise; though the ease of the epis- telary form, which our author here assumes in addressing his patron, may excuse it in the present case. ‘I was glad to find your Lordship’s answer in so different a style from what hath commonly been made use of, on the like occasions, for some years past; that allsuch thoughts must be deferred toa time of peace ; a topic which some have carried so far, that they would not have us, by any means, think of preserving our civil and religious constitution, because we are engaged in a war abroad.’ This sentence also is ciear and elegant; only there is one inaceu- racy, when he speaks of his Lordship’s answer being in so different a style from what had formerly been used. His answer to what? or to whom ? For from any thing going before, it does not appear that any application or address had been made to his Lordship by those per- sons, whose opinion was mentioned in the preceding sentence ; and to whom the answer, here spoken of, naturally refers. There isa little indistinctness, as I before observed, in our author’s manner of in- troducing his subject here. We may observe too that the phrase, glad to find your answer in so different a style, though abundantly suited to the language of conversation, or ofa familiar letter, yet, in re- gular composition, requires an additional word—glad to find your answer run in so different a style. ‘It will be among the distinguishing marks of your ministry, my Lord, that you have a genius above all such regards, and that no reasonable proposals, for the honour, the advantage, or ornament of your country, however foreign to your immediate office, was ever neglected by vou.? The phrase, a genius above all such regards, both seems some- what harsh, and does not clearly express what the author means, namely, the confined views of those who neglected every thing thatLECT. XXIV. | DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE, 253 belonged to the arts of peace in the time of war. Except this ex- pression, there is nothing that can be subject to the least reprehen- sion 1n this sentence, nor in all that follows, to the end of the para- graph. ‘I confess, the merit of this candour and condescension is very much lessened, because your Lordship hardly leaves us room to offer our good wishes; removing all our difficulties, and supplying our wants, faster than the most visionary projector canadjusthis schemes, And thereforeymy Lord, the design of this paper is not so much to offer you ways and means, as to complain of a grievance, the redres- sing of which is to be your own work, as much as that of paying the nation’s debts, or opening a trade into the South sea; and, though not of such immediate benefit as either of these, or any other of your glorious actions, yet, perhaps, in future ages, not less to your hon- our.’ The compliments which the Dean here pays to his patron, are ye- ry high and strained; and show that, with all his surliness, he was as capable, on some occasions, of making his court to a great man by flattery, as other writers. However, with respect to the style, which is the sole object of our present consideration, every thing here, as far as appears to me, is faultless. In these sentences, and, indeed, throughout this paragraph, in general, which we have now ended, our author’s style appears to great advantage. We see that ease and simplicity, that correctness and distinctness, which particularly cha- racterize it. Itis very remarkable, how few Latinised words Dean Swiftemploys. No writer, in our language, isso purely English as he is, or borrows so little assistance from words of foreign derivation. From none can we take a better model of the choice and proper sig- nificancy of words. It isremarkable, in the sentences we have now before us, how plain all the expressions are, and yet, at the same time, how significant; and, in the midst of that high strain cf com- pliment into which he rises, how little there is of pomp, or glare of expression. How very few writers can preserve this manly temper- ance of style; or would think a compliment of this nature supported with sufficient dignity, unless they had embellished it with some of those high-sounding words, whose chief effect is no other than to give their language a stiff and forced appearance? ‘My Lord, I do here, in the name ofall the learned ana polite per- sons of the nation, complain to your Lordship, as first minister, that our language is extremely imperfect; that its daily improvements are by no means in proportion to its daily corruptions; that the preten- ders to polish and refine it, have chiefly multiplied abuses and absur- dities; and that, in many instances, it offeuds against every part ot grammar.’ The turn of this sentence is extremely elegant. He had spoken before of a grievance for which he sought redress, and he carries on the allusion, by entering here directly on his subject, in the style of a public representation presented to the minister of state. One im- perfection, however, there is in this sentence, which luckily for our purpose, ne to illustrate a rule before given, concerning the posi- 2 Gea ee he te ed er = Pa Wa toe eee ee A ee ie pete eres =i ree Si geste eas Rg Feet PE ae re ; eee reve ere et Te Cee eLeptaseretereTsietresetsseSt pesEsesrSts? i Pe MAT PEL a Saas .ESszerigialatayess Rete Serer eer sek Sn ip ete Fess Pe FS ts F- Ses etete reset sat Fe el ee eA ee a Eee 254 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXIV tion of adverbs, so as to avoid ambiguity. Itisin the middle of the sentence ;that the pretenders to polish and refine it, have chiefly mul- tiplied abuses and absurdities. Now, concerning the import of this ad- verb, chiefly, I ask, whetherit signifies that these pretenders to polish the language, have been the chief persons who have multiplied its abuses, in distinction from others, or, that the chief thing which these pretenders have done, is to multiply the abuses of our language in opposition to their doing any thing to refineit ? ‘These two mean- ings are really different ; and yet, by the position which the word chiefly has in the sentence, we are left at a lossin which to understand it. The construction would lead us rather to the latter sense; that the chief thing which these pretenders have done, is to multiply the abuses of our language. But it is more than probable, that the for- mer sense was what the Dean intended, as it carries more of his usual satirical edge ; ‘that the pretended refiners of our language were, in fact, its chief corrupters ;? on which supposition, his words ought to have run thus: that the pretenders to polish and refine it, have been the chief persons to multiply its abuses and absurdities; which would have rendered the sense perfectly clear. Perhaps, too, there might be ground for observing farther upon this sentence, that as language is the object with which it sets out; thatour language isextremely imperfect; and as there follows an enu- meration concerning language, in three particulars, it had been bet- ter if language had been kept the ruling word, or the nominative to every verb, without changing the construction ; by making prefenders the ruling word, as is done in the second member of the enumeration, and then, inthe third, returning again to the former word, language. That the pretenders to polish—and that,in many instances, rt of- fends—I am persuaded, that the structure of the sentence would have been more neat and happy, and its unity more complete, if the mem- bers of it had been arranged thus: ‘That our language is extremely imperfect; that its daily improvements are by no means in proportion to its daily corruptions; that, in many instances, it offends against every part of grammar: and that the pretenders to polish and refine it, have been the chief persons to multiply its abuses and absurdities.’ This degree of attention seemed proper to be bestowed on such a sentence as this, in order to show howit might have been conducted after the most perfect manner. Our author, after having said, ‘Lest your Lordship should think my censure too severe, I shall take leave to be more particular,’ proceeds in the following para- graph : ‘I believe your Lordship will agree with me, in the reason why our langvage is less refined than those of Italy, Spain, or France.’ I am sorry to say, that now we shall have less to commend in our author. For the whole of this paragraph, on which we are entering, is in truth, perplexed and inaccurate. Even in this short sentence, we may discern an inaccuracy—why our language ts less refined than those of Italy, Spain, or France; putting the pronoun those in the plural, when the antecedent substantive to which it re- fers is in the singular, owr language. Instances of this kind mayLECT. xxry. |] DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE. 255 sometimes be found in English authors; but they sound harsh fo the ear, and are certainly contrary to the purity of grammar. By a very little attention, this inaccuracy; might have been remedied; and the sentence have been made to run much better in this way ; ‘why our language is less refined than the Italian, Spanish, or French.’ we It is plain, that the Latin tongue, in its purity, was never in this island; towards the conquest of which, few or no attempts were made till the time of Claudius; neither was that language ever so vulgar in Britain, as it is known to have been in Gaul and Spain.’ To say that the Latin tongue, in its purity, was never in this island, is very careless style ; it ought to have been, was never spoken in this island. In the progress of the sentence, he means to give a reason why the Latin was never spoken in its purity amongst us, because our island was not conquered by the Romans till after the purity of their tongue began to decline. But this reason ought to have been brought out more clearly. This might easily have been done, and the relation of the several parts of the sentence to each other much better pointed out by means of a small variation; thus: ‘ It is plain that the Latin tongue in its purity was never spoken in this island, as few or no attempts towards the conquest of it were made till the time of Claudius.’ He adds, nezther was that language ever sovulgarin Britain. Vulgar was one of the worst words he could have chosen for expressing what he means here: namely, that the Latin tongue was at no time so general, or so much in common use, in Britain, as it is known to have beenin Gauland Spain. Vulgar, when applied to language, commonly signifies impure, or debased language, such as is spoken by the low people, which is quite oppo- site to the author’s sense here; for, instead of meaning to say, that the Latin spoken in Britain was not so debased, as what was spcken in Gaul and Spain; he means just the contrary, and had been tell- ing us, that we never were acquainted with the Latin at all, till its purity began to be corrupted. ‘Further, we find that the Roman legions here, were at length all recalled to help their country against the Goths and other barba- rous invaders.’ The chief scope of this sentence is, to give areason why the La- tin tongue did not strike any deep root in this island, on account of the short continuance of the Romans in it.. He goes on: ‘ Meantime the Br‘tons, left to shift for themselves, and daily ha- rassed by cruel inroads from the Picts, were forced to call in the Saxons for their defence; who, consequently, reduced the greatest part of the island to their own power, drove the Britons into the most remote and mountainous parts, and the rest of the country, in customs, religion, and language, became wholly Saxon.’ This is a very exceptionable sentence. First, the phrase left to shift for themselves, is rather a low phrase, and too much in the fami- liar style to be proper in a grave treatise. Nextas the sentence ad- vances—forced to call in the Saxons for their defence,who conse- quently reduced the greatest part of the island to their own power. What is the meaning of consequently here? Ifit means ‘ afterwards, ee age Sefs Pave rere terete ete re as 2 ‘ 2o FG RPE: Ee ESS CSTE eee ee ee ee ek ere eT la ees Si tae Pe ge 3 Grete reser te tecc ess Lz ear ie * Pee Pe ee hs tok athe a aReser eeeree a FeSagaigtayatese rere ee eee Ses Te reson tr. 256 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [tecr. xxiv. or, ‘in progress of time,’ this, certainly, is not a sense in which con- sequently is often taken; and therefore the expression is chargeable with obscurity. The adverb, consequently, in its most common ac- ceptation, denotes one thing following from another, as an effect fromacause. Ifhe uses it in this sense, and means that the Britons beiag subdued by the Saxons, was a necessary consequence of their having called in these Saxons to their assistance, this consequence is drawn too abruptly, and needed more explanation. For though it has often happened, that nations have been subdued by their own auxiliaries, yet this is not a consequence of such a nature that it can be assumed, as it seems here to be done, for a first and self-evident principle. But further, what shall we say to this phrase, reduced the greatest part of the island to their own power? we say, reduce to rule, reduce to practice ; we can say, that one nation reduces an- other to subjection. But when dominion or power is used, we always, as farasI know, say, reduce under their power. Reduce to their power is so harsh and uncommon an expression, that, though Dean Swift’s authority in language be very great, yet in the use of this phrase, I am of opinion that it would not be safe to follow his example. Besides these particular inaccuracies, this sentence is chargeable with want of unity in the composition of the whole. The persons and the scene are too often changed upon us. First, the Britons are mentioned, who are harassed by inroads from the Picts; next, the Saxons appear, who subdue the greatest part of the island, and drive the Britons into the mountains; and, lastly, the rest of the country is introduced, and a description given of the change made upon it. All this forms a group of various objects, presented in such quick succession, that the mind finds it difficult te comprehend them under one view. Accordingly, it is quoted in the Elements of Cri- ticism, as an instance of a sentence rendered faulty by the breach of unity. ‘This I take to be the reason why there are more Latin words remaining in the British than the old Saxon; which, excepting some few variations in the orthography, is the same in most original words with our present English, as well as with the German and other northern dialects.’ This sentence is faulty, somewhat in the same manner with the last. It is loose in the connexion of its parts; and besides this, it is also too loosely connected with the preceding sentence. What he had there said, concerning the Saxons expelling the Britons, and changing the customs, the religion, and the language of the country, is a clear and goad reason for our present language being Saxon rather than British. This is the inference which we would naturally expect him to draw from the premises just before laid down: but when he tells us, that ¢hzs is the reason why there aremore Latinwords remaining inthe British tongue thaninthe old Saxon, we are presently at a stand. No reason for this inference appears. If it ean be gathered at all from the foregoing deduction, it is ga- thered only imperfectly. For, as he had told us, that the Britons had some connexion with the Romans, he should have also told us,LECT. XXIV. | DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE. 2 57 in order to make out his inference, that the Saxons never had any. The truth is, the whole of this paragraph concerning the influence of the Latin tongue upon ours, is careless, perplexed, and obscure. His argument required to have been more fully unfolded, in order to make it be distinctly apprehended, and to give it its dueforce. In the next paragraph, he proceeds to discourse concerning the influ- ence of the French tongue upon our language. The style becomes more clear, though not remarkable for great beauty or elegance. ‘ Edward the Confessor having lived long in France, appears to be the first who introduced any mixture of the French tongue with the Saxon; the court affecting what the Prince was fond of, and others taking it up fora fashion, asitis now with us. William the Conqueror proceeded much further, bringing over with him vast numbers of that nation, scattering them in every monastery, giving them great quantities of land, directing all pleadings to be in that lan- guage, and endeavouring to make it universal in the kingdom.’ On these two sentences, I have nothing of moment to observe. The sense is brought out clearly, and in simple, unaffected language. ‘ This, at least, is the opinion generally received; but your Lord- ship hath fully convinced me, that the French tongue made yet a zreater progress here under Harry the Second, who had large terri- tories on that continent both from his father and his wife; made frequent journeys and expeditions thither; and was always attended with a number of his countrymen, retainers at court.’ In the beginning of this sentence, our author states an opposition between an opinion generally received, and that of his Lordship; and. in compliment to his patron, he tells us, that nis Lordship had convinced him of somewhat that differed from the general opinion. Thus one must naturally understand his words: Thzs, at leust,is the opinion generally received ; but your Lordship hath fully convinced me.—Now here there must be an inaccuracy of expression. or on examining what went before, there appears no sort of opposition betwixt the generally received opinion, and that of the author’s pa- tron. The general opinion was, that William the Conqueror had proceeded much farther than Edward the Confessor, in propagating the French language, and had endeavoured to make it universal. Lord Oxford’s opinion was, that the French tongue had gone on to make a yet greater progress under Harry the Second, than it had done under his predecessor William: which two opinions are as entirely consistent with each other, as any can be; and therefore the opposition here affected to be stated between them, by the ad- versative particle but, was improper and groundless. ‘For some centuries after, there was a constant intercourse be- tween France and England by thedominions we possessed there, and the conquests we made; so that our language, between two and three hundred years ago, seems to have had a greater mixture with French than at present; many words having been afterwards rejected, and some since the days of Spenser; although we have still retained not a few, which have been long antiquated in France.’ 33 eergeseSesaope ier ®t ee eee ee. See Pee et ee tek or ee ee té Ce Dons a oe PES eee et ret or Bee Se eta ee ta eS ene APP eee rte bs oe ck bed eed a bts ye i acts % 8 e Cas Pa a& 2 Peet Vi ae eo eo oe Pa en es VON EY Toren go-etePeiekssescerads die ate see ce 2 aa pa ee deo Pea ea FFs TeF a ee He 7 he Pooh ee i oe pee 258 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF — [xectT. xxiv. This is a sentence too long and intricate, and liable to the same objection that was made to a former one, of the want of unity. It consists of four members, each divided from the subsequent by a semicolon. In going along, we naturally expect the sentence is to end at the second of these, or at farthest, at the third: when, to our surprise, a new member of the period makes its appearance, and. fa- tigues our attention in joining all the parts together. Such a structure of a sentence is always the mark of careless writing. In the first member of the sentence, a constant intercourse between France and England, by the dominions we possessed there, and the conquests we made, the construction is not sufficiently filled up. In place of inéer- course by the dominions we possessed, it should have been—by reason of the dominions we possessed—or—occasioned by the dominions we possessed--and in place of--the dominions we possessed there, and the conquests we made, the regular style is--the dominions which we pos- sessed there and the conquests which we made. ‘The relative pronoun which, is, indeed, in phrases of this kind, sometimes omitted. But, when it is omitted the style becomes elliptic; and though in conver- sation, or in the verylight and easy kinds of writing, such elliptic style may not be improper, yet in grave and regular writing, it is better to fill up the construction, and insert the relative pronoun. After hav- ing said, J could produce several instances of Loth kinds, ifit were of any use or entertainment, ourauthor begins the next paragraph thus: ‘To examine into the several circumstances by which the lan- guage of a country may be altered, would force me to enter into 2 wide field.’ There is nothing remarkable in this sentence, unless that here oc- curs the first instance of a metaphor since the beginning of this trea- tise; entering into a wide field, being put for beginning an extensive subject. Few writers deal less in figurative language than Swift. I before observed, that he appears to despise ornaments of this kind; and though this renders his style somewhat dry on serious subjects, yet his plainness and simplicity, I must not forbear to remind my readers, is far preferable to an ostentatious and affected parade of ornament. ‘T shall only observe, that the Latin, the French, and the English, seem to have undergone the same fortune. ‘The first from the days of Romulus to those of Julius Cesar, suffered perpetual changes ; and by what we meet in those authors who occasionally speak on that subject, as well as from certain fragments of old laws, it is mani- fest that the Latin, three hundred years before Tully, was as un- intelligible in his time, as the French and English of the same pe- riod are now; and these two have changed as much since William the Conqueror (which is but little less than 700 years) as the Latin appears to have done in the like term.’ The Dean plainly appears to be writing negligently here. This sentence is one of that involved and intricate kind, of which some instances have occurred before; but none worse than this. It re- quires a very distinct head to comprehend the whole meaning of the period at first reading. In one part of it we find extreme careless-LECT. XxIv. | DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE. 259 ness of expression. He says, [tis manifest that the Latin, 300 year: before Tully, was as unintelligible in his time, as the English and Frenchof the sameperiodare now. By the English and French of the same period must naturally be understood, the English and French that were spoken three hundred years before Tully. This is the only grammatical meaning his words will bear; and yet assured- ly what he means, and what it would have been easy for him to have expressed with more precision, is, the English and French that were spoken 300 years ago; or at a period equally distant from our age as the old Latin, which he had mentioned, was from the age of Tully. But when an author writes hastily, and does not review with proper care what he has written, many such inaccuracies will be apt to creep into his style. ‘Whether our language or the French will decline as fast as the Roman did, is a question that would perhaps admit more debate than it is worth. ‘There were many reasons for the corruptions of the last ; as the change of their government to atyranny, which ruined the study of eloquence, there being no further use or encouragement for popular orators: their giving not only the freedom of the city, but capacity for employments, to several towns in Gaul, Spain, and Germany, and other distant parts, as far as Asia, which brought a great number of foreign pretenders to Rome; the slavish disposi- tion of the senate and people, by which the wit and eloquence of the age where wholly turned into panegyric, the most barren of all subjects; the great corruption of manners, and introduction of foreign luxury, with foreign terms to express it, with several others that might be assigned ; not to mention the invasions from the Goths and Vandals, which are too obvious to insist on.’ In the enumeration here made of the causes contributing towards the corruption of the Roman language, there are many inaccura- cies—the change of their government toa tyranny: Of whose goy- ernment? He had indeed been speaking of the Roman language, and therefore we guess at his meaning; but his style is ungrammatical ; for he had not mentioned the Romans themselves; and therefore, when he says their government, there is no antecedent in the sen- tence to which the pronoun fheer can refer with any propriety. Giving the capacity for employments to several towns in Gaul, isa questionable expression. Forthough towns are sometimes put for the people whoinhabit them, yet to give a town the capacity for employ- ments, sounds harsh and uncouth. The wit and eloquence of the age wholly turned into panegyric, is aphrase which does not well express the meaning. Neither wit nor eloquence can be turned into pane- gyric; but they may be turned towards panegyric, or, employed in panegyric, which was the sense the author had in view. The conclusion of the enumeration is visibly incorrect— The great corruption of manners, and introduction of. Joreign luxury with foreign terms to express it, with several others that might be assigned —He means, with several other reasons. The word reasons, hadin- deed been mentioned before ; but as it stands, at tne distance of thir- teen lines backward, the repetition of it here became indispensable, Pee Pee ae td eo abs eeedl ad ys Sk id a ae ee ee oe Be ee ee ee ek a : ees ee aoe: x vee Fete Rast e Tess ves Crete PES ee ae ieaiiaiinal na Seer 4 ee eTeteseyess = om .- = ¢ ¢ - a a eT rath ae ae ko bee Le oe od ee hash as ‘3Leeda Poss sSaewse eek ee ae ee eae $ oF See Sli>ve Ligeti eFoi~ie = Rete ert 260 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [xecr. xxiv. inorder toavoid ambiguity. Noé to mention, he adds, the invasions from the Goths and Vundals, which are too obvious to insist on, One would imagine him to mean, that the invasions from the Goths and Vandals, are historical facts too well known and obvious to be insisted on. But he means quite a different thing, though he has not taken the proper method of expressing it, through his haste, probably, to finish the paragraph; namely, that these invasions from the Goths and Vandals, were causes of the corruption of the Roman language tco obvious to be insisted on. I shall not pursue this criticism any farther. I have been obliged to point out many inaccuracies in the passage which we have consl- dered. But, in order that my observations may not be construed as meant to depreciate the style or the writings of Dean Swift below their just value, there are two remarks which I judge it necessary to make before concluding this lecture. One is, that it were unfair,to estimate an author’s style on the whole, by some passage in his writ- ings, which chances to be composed ina careless manner, This is the case with respect to this treatise, which has much the appear- ance of a hasty production: though, as I before observed, it was by no means on that account that I pitched upon it for the subject of this exercise. But after having examined it, I am sensible that in many other of his writings, the Dean is.more accurate. My other observation, whichis equally applicable to Dean Swiftand Mr. Addison, is, that there may be writers much freer from such inac- euracies, as I have had occasion to point out in these two, whose style, however, upon the whole, may not have half their merit. Refine- ment in language has, of late years, begun to be much attended to. In several modern productions of very small value, I should find it difficult to point out manyerrorsinlanguage. ‘he words might, pro- bably, be all proper words, correctly and clearly arranged; and the turn of the sentence sonorous and musical; whilst yet the style, upon the whole, might deserve no praise. The fault often lies in what may be called the general cast, or complexion of the style; which a per- son of a good taste discerns to be vicious; to be feeble, for instance, and diffuse; flimsy or affected; petulant or ostentatious; though the faults cannot beso easily pointed out and particularized, as when they lie in some erroneous or negligent construction of a sentence. Whereas such writers as Addison and Swift, carry always those ge- neral characters of good style, which in the midst of their occasion- al negligences, every person of good taste must discern and approve. We see their faults overbalanced by higher beauties. We see a wri- ter of sense and reflection expressing his sentiments without affecta- tion, attentive to thoughts as well as to words; and, in the main cur- rent of his language, elegant and beautiful; and, therefore, the only proper use to be made of the blemishes which occur in the writings of such authors, is to point out to those who apply themselves to the study of composition, some of the rules which they ought to observe for avoiding such errors; and to render them sensible of the neces- sity of strict attention to language and to style. Let them imitate the ease and simplicity of those great authors; let them study to beLECT. Xxv. | DEAN SWIFT’S STYLE. 261 ‘ : always natural, and, as far as they can, always correct in their expres- sions: Jet them endeavour to be,at some times, lively and strik- ee carefully avoid being at any time ostentatious and af- ected. LECTURE XXV. ep ELOQUENCE, OR PUBLIC SPEAKING.....HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE.....GRECIAN ELOQUENCE...... DEMOSTHENES. Havine finished that part of the course which relates to language and style, we are now to ascend a step higher, and to examine the subjects upon which style isemployed. I begin with what is proper- ly called eloquence, or public speaking. In treating of this, lam to consider the different kinds and subjects of public speaking; the manner suited to each; the proper distribution and management of all the parts of a discourse; and the proper pronunciation or delive- ry of it. Butbefore I enter upon any of these heads, it may be pro- per to take a view of the nature of eloquence in general, and of the state in which it has subsisted in different ages and countries. This will lead into some detail; but I hope an useful one; as in every art it is of great consequence to have a just idea of the perfection of that art, of the end at which it aims, and, of the progress which it has made among mankind. Of eloquence, in particular, it is the more necessary to ascertain the proper notion, because there is not any thing concerning which false notions have been more prevalent. Hence, it has been so often, and is still at this day, in disrepute withmany. When you speak to a plain man, of eloquence, or in praise of it, he is apt to hear you with very little attention. He conceives eloquence to signify a certain trick of speech; the art of varnishing weak arguments plausibly; or of speaking, so as to please and tickle the ear. ‘Give me good sense,’ says he,‘and keep your eloquence for boys.’ He is in the right, if eloquence were what he conceives it to be. It would be then a very contemptible art indeed, below the study of any wise or good man. But nothing can be more remote from truth. To be truly eloquent, is to speak to the purpose. Tor the best definition which, I think, can be given of eloquence, is the art of speaking in such a manner as to attain the end for which we speak. Whenever a man speaks or writes, he is supposed, as a rational being, to have some end in view; either to inform, or to amuse, or to persuade, or, in some way.or other, to act upon his fellow-creatures. He who speaks or writes, in such a manneras to adapt all his words most effec- tually to that end, is the mosteloquent man. Whateverthen the sub- tect be, there is room for eloquence; in history, or even in philoso- 2P £ pgedeteecidbsetieas essa Ti Saee Sats Feds TP SsISlE SNe stg bssagvtets: iave Peete er tee ee peer te eee ers sk C4 ee ee 3 EF a ck Ses reese sr ba ie tt ie ee eee Ps a . a Site. 6. rete eit SrSntet 3Qapessteae Saeers tees 7 Saseesssyt a aot ad aa es 3% — =Ssesi Ts 7 [Sra skeer Sooo Bae Serer ae epee yee rere St Te ~ion of our reasoning powers? reason, eloquence, and every art 262 ~ ELOQUENCE, OR [LECT. xx} phy, as well as in orations. The definition which I have given of (eloquence, comprehends all the different kinds of it; whether calcu- Jated to instruct, to persuade, or to please. But, as the most impor- tant subject of discourse is action, or conduct, the power of eloquence chiefly appears when it is employed to influence conduct, and per- suade toaction. Asit 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_methodj a character of prebity 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 thé 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 itis 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 faney, 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 ke 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 intoerror. But who would think of forming an argument from this against the cultiva-LECT, XXvV. | PUBLIC SPEAKING. 263 which ever has been studied among mankind, may be abused, and may 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 sert 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 usefulsentiments. 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 sause, to which he seeks to bring us. Within this compass, chiefly, is employed the eloquence of the kar. 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 pulpit also admits it. I am here to observe, and the observation is of consequence, that the high eloquence which I have last mentioned, is always the off- spring of passion. By passion, I mean that state of the mind in which itis agitated, and fired by some object it has in view. A man ce, and even persuade others to act,by mere reason and may convin But that degree of eloquence which gains the admuire- argument. oe de be boride testhiiedl doe TALS oth aGe Pi er a a fo ca Seo) Tee gy ce ts cs ee eA ae ert Setert Se ség2ssee PRE er ert Tees ree Retake BE i af = ras 4 vo. ee Peek Se he js tt Lb ok eee gt eRere ye sedig ads fe a Pee t ig: eseeieseiF 453 ts a4BER TSS avere et es rTctgs Pret Se ET Se oe ts Fela Siaseacs pt he se fae fae Pee re ae are ee as eyes Peaseess Tete Pe Ee SS Be Se ee ee ese Sree 5 aa Tsetse See reo Ej 264 ELOQUENCE, OR [ipo 2x9. dion of mankind, and properly denominates one an orator, is never found without warmth or passion. Passion, when in sucha 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 isin itscalmmoments. 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 warm 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- eiple 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 coming warm from the heart. Hence, to calla man cold, is the same thing as to say, that he is not eloquent. Hence, a skeptical man, whois always in suspense, and feels nothing strongly ; ora 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 whatI 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 has. 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 on 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 animatesthe spirit, and invigo- rates the hopes of men; excites honourable emulation, and a desire’ of excelling in every art. All other qualifications, he says, you may find among those who are deprived of liberty; but never did a slave become an orator; he can only be a pompous flatterer. Now, though this reasoning be, in the main, true; it must, however, be 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 toa degree of thesublime. Theireloquence, 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 democratical states. It is confined within a nar- rowerrange; it can he employed only in the pulpit, or at the bar; but isexcluded from those great scenes of public business, where the spi- rits of men have the freest exertion; whereimportant 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, ur search for it among the monuments of eastern or Egyptian antiquity. In those ages, there was, indeed, an eloquence of a certain kind; but it approacned near- er to noetry 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 as ry Ns oe * re oar fag. te Peers to eae Geeta oe eet” We ee er re ee ee toeleie= POE SESE RE ee et trae ha be ts ok eed oe ana Beg kt faa: eo a .eee 2. te ee. ee oF Goa tnd tol a te Se ee Be Be eee i ee ee dlr 266 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXV. siasm, the parents of poetry, hadan amplefield. But while the in- tercourse of men was as yet unfrequent, and force and strength were the chief means employed in deciding controversies, 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 ofa 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- eratical 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 states 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 ofevery 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 theirgovernment. 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 of the state were alike open to all; nor was the meanest tradesman excluded from a seat in their supreme courts. In such a state, eloquence, .it 1s 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 contentionLECT. XxV. | GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 287 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 dazzlé 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 their attention, when any great danger roused them, and put their judgment to a serious trial, they commonly distinguished very justly between genuine and spurious eloquence; and hence Demosthenes triumphed over all his opponents; because he spoke always to the purpose, affected no insignificant parade of words, used weighty arguments, and showed them clearly where their interest lay. In critical con- junctures of the state, when the public was alarmed with seme 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 eld 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 repubtic. Eloquence there sprung, native and vigorous, from amidst the contentions of faction and freedom, of public busi- ness, and of active life; azd 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 fur 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 goyerned 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. Hence eerste eae ee eae eee Pad oS ee ee ee Be ee eRe ea eter ET en ee mr a et OL <4 ee a eEegtg estate Teter eTeBesertss eee et ee = = ee Se 2 Prat 53 ks Str hes aLSaaS wiry PCR Ia a eet et ae | ph ded eae So. oe es te) 268 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. xxv he had the surname of Olympias given him; and it was said, that, like Jupiter, he thundered when he spoke. Though his ambition be lable 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- rous, Magnanimous, and public spirited ; he raised no fortune to him- self; he expended indeed great sums of the public money, but chiefly on public works; and at his death is said to have valued himself principally 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 course 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 ofthe 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 eam ipsam causam, interdum subobscuri.’* A manner very different from what, in mo- dern tines, 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 life, he established himself at Athens, and lived till he had attained the age of 105 years. Hermogenes (de Ideis, |. 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 compressed their matter into few words, and by their brevity, were sometimes obscureLECT. XXV. | GRECIAN ELOQUENCE, 269 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 them 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: ‘ Pompe,’ Cicero allows, ‘magis quam pugne aptior; ad voluptatem aurium accommodatus potius quam ad 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 avicious excess. What shall we thinkof an orator, who employed ten years in composing one discourse, still extant, entitled the Panegyric? 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, whichis, 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, Cicero himself was perhaps somewhat infected. In one of his trea- *< More fitted for show than for debate ; better calculated for the amusement of an audience, than for judicial contests.’ reer e ers iy Pee eed BRFSS eF eT SES = a Es a= bas See a tet ot oe TIGGER STS SS a we are ed = PREPS EY Perr rer et ere se ev oe bie 3 ~ Sete a ee Petr ae oe oe od Oe Ss Hate ati be ee ee gn . J .ree ee Perit at it iat th te Perera Seserere oy ei2% Feieksseare ee ee ee 8B te i Ty 7 rn ‘ee | see eee ae REFEREES ah ie cen koe yeaa oe soe 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. Iszeus and Lysias, some of whose orations are preserved, belong al- so to this period. Lysias was somewhat earlier than Isocrates, and ‘s 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.* _Iszeus is chiefly remarkable for being the master of the great Demosthenes, *In the judicious comparison, which Dionysius of Halicarnassus makes of the merits of Lysias and Isocrates, he ascribes to Lysias, as the distinguishing charac- ter of his manner, a certain grace or elegance arising from simplicity: ‘‘TIepoxe yte n Ausis Astic exsiy TO Xaguev” y S* Iooxertss Bsreras.” “The style of Lysias has gracefulness for its nature: that of Isocrates seeks to have it.” In the art of nar- ration, as distinct, probable, and persuasive, he holds Lysias to be superior to all orators; at the same time, he admits that his composition is more adapted to private litigation than to great subjects. He convinces, but he does not elevate nor animate. The magnificence and splendour of Isocrates is more suited to great occasions. He is more agreeable than Lysias; and in dignity of sentiment, far excels him, With regard to the affectation which is visible in Isocrates’s man ner, he concludes what he says of it with the following excellent observations, which should never be forgotten by any who aspire to be true orators. “ Ti evr os dywypns THY a@egiod wy TO KUKALCY, KAL TAY TYNUATITMOY THE AzLews TO psierxiadéc, wx ioxsuaCoy’ dsrever pre y dizvole GoAAanls T@ evbuw Tue AsFews, KLE TH ROMY AcL@DET AL wt trxnOivoy. nexTISOy T e@ITHdU Ue EY NANGKT@ GOITINN, RAL EYAYAVEW, TO OMoLOTATOY TH nate duoly, Bsrerxo dé n Duos Tol voInuacly ererOes THY AEEIV, ¥ TH ACEeh TR vonuaTa- cuuCsrwds dn weet DOAGUS KAI Elenvunc AL) ovlexas idicotn tov arsoirLuxns reey cvs xivduvor ey PUMASLIC, Tob nora, x26 Osareine, xa weed xIvoyTAUTE gx oidx nviva duyait ay wxexTH ELV eoercicty’ utAdcy dD old OT) HAt BraBne ay aITIA PevolTo, XxeleVTITUOe pre aac ey carsdy, RAL KAAS PIVOLABVOC, AOQOV TEtP UA HAE WOALUMTA TOY srtw.” Judic. de Isocrate. p. 558. ‘His studied circumflection of periods, and juvenile affectation of the flowers of speech, I do not approve. The thought is frequently made subservient to the mu- sic of the sentence; and elegance is preferred to reason. Whereas, in every dis- course wher* business and affairs are concerned, nature ought to be followed, and nature certainly dictates that the expression should be an object subordinate to the sense, not the sense to the expression. When one rises te give public counsel concerning war and peace, or takes the charge of a private man, who is standing at the bar to be tried for his life, those studied decorations, those theatrical graces and juvenile flowers,are out of place. Instead of being of service, they are detrimental to the cause we espouse. When the contest is ofa serious kind, ornaments, which at an- other time would have beauty, then lose their effect, and prove hostile to the affections which we wish to raise in our hearers.’LECT. Xxv.] GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. 271 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. 1 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 shouider, 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 mdebted 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 whe 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 = r Pre 3 Coy a es ee ni i CL eee as rich 222 tere te rt ee ae eee eee ees rt ERNE Pe Oe er ee Pe ee eke = Lees A Perera se ea eee eee noses PTE SA Ts hos oe pe oe ereteretrtecc se a re aA DieEres retire Stresses ptSTAS Ere Se eee es hey <= es a sa] ae ee =srt spss greases 272 DEMOSTHENES. [LHeT.: 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 above all others. He appears to attend much more to things than to words. We forget the orator, and think of the business. He warms the mind, and impels to action. He has no parade and 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 fEschines in the celebrated oration ‘ pro Corona.’ Adschines 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, 4E\schines 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, that unrestrained license which ancient manners permitted, and which was carried by publicspeakers even to the length of abusive names and downright scurrility, asappears both here and in Cicero’s Philippics hurts and offends amodernear. 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 liesinsentiment. 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 y occasion grave, serious, passionate ; takes s every thing on a high tone; never lets himself down, nor attempts any thing is pleasantr a ae any fault can be found radi his admirable eloquence, itis, 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 of Thucydides, who was his greatLECT. XXVI1. | DEMOSTHENES. 218 model for style, and whose history he is said to have written eight times over with hisown 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 amus- ed the Athenians, rather than warmed them.’ And after his time, we hear of no more Grecian orators of any note. LECTURE XXVI. Ep HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE CONTINUED....ROMAN ELOQUENCE....CICERO... MODERN ELOQUENCE. Havine 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 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 victorem cepit, et artes Intulit agresti Latio.* Hor. Epist. ad Aug. Asthe Romans derived their eloquence, poetry, and learning from the Greeks, so they must be confessed to be far inferior to them in genius forall these accomplishments. ‘They were a more grave and magnificent, but a less acute and sprightly people. They had nei- ther the vivacity nor the sensibility of the Greeks ; their passions were not so easily moved, nor their conceptions so lively ; in compa- rison of them, they were a phlegmatic nation. Their*language re- sembled their character; it was regular, firm, and stately ; but want- ed that simple and expressive naiveté, and, in particular, that flexi- bility to suit every different mode and species of composition, for which the Greek tongue is distinguished above that of every other country. * When conquer’d Greece brought in her captive arts, She triumph’d o’er her savage conquerors hearts ; Taught our rough verse its numbers to refine, And our rude style with elegance to shine. FRANCIS. 35 Bar| ea oe Pe 7 Ser) rf “3 Rese tere h ada resgeseBsdaayehers Peete hated PREP ere rn ee rare ee ee ae oa ees ae cee ks Bree rs ea ESR EOE er eee Oe Fa fee Ppa ake Be eGtecetareietetestitas Perici ae ae be he . Rot Pa274 CICERO. | LECT. XXVI, Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo Musa loqui.* And hence, when we compare together the various rival produc- tions of Greece and Rome, we shall always find this distinction ob- tain, that in the Greek productions there is more native genius ; in the Roman, more regularity and art What the Greeks invented, the 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,’ arude and harsh strain ofspeech. It wasnottilla 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 ereat men, and of the character of their eloquence.t / 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 hasoverhim. We find every thing in its proper place; he. never attempts to move, till he has endeavoured to convince: and in moving, especially the softer passions, he is very successful. No man knew the power and force of words better than Ci- cero. He rolls them along with the greatest beauty and pomp; Ars. Port. * To her lov’d Greeks the muse indulgent gave, To her lov’d Greeks with greatness to conceive ; And in sublimer tone tneir language raise: Her Greeks were only covetous of praise. FRANCIs. + Such as are desirous of particular information on this head, had better have recourse to the original, by reading Cicero’s three books de Oratore, and his other two treatises, entitled, the one Brutus, Sive de Claris Oratoribus ; the other, Crator, ad M. Brutum ; which, on several accounts, well deserve perusal. ,LECT. XXVI.] CICERO. 275 and, in the structure of his sentences, is curious and exact to the high- est degree. He is always full and flowing, never abrupt. He isa 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 leansat other times, and becomes exveedingly 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 is the least room for it, he is full of himself. His great actions, and the real services which he had performed to his country, apologized for this in part; ancient manners, too, 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 Corrupte Eloquentie.’ 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 aliquando frigidum, et in compositione fractum et exsultantem, et pe- néviro molliorem.’* These censures were undoubtedly carried too * « His contemporaries ventured to reproach him as swelling, redundant, and Asia- tic + too frequent in repetitions ; in his attempts towards wit sometimes cold ; and in the strain of his composition, feeble, desultory, and more effeminate than became a man.’ 2R Piet es = » Seether teks Pa Prert rr ct tt, Ts oe taht hd ene ea cee ae eae) Peer er rc Ss RE err Peery eet es eee ao PETE TT renee ere rere er ee ce eres et Pere kee Petrie ks br ts cee oe Pears set eyes a ped a re Aa = 3 gitret Tari TTL tae = is 4 sce Pet ERE ESBS: Phe SRS ESS at a a oe eed Veins tow 276 COMPARISON OF [LucT. 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 cero’s days, between two great parties, with respect to eloquence, the ‘ Attici,? and the ‘ Asiani.’ The former,who called themselves 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, afull 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 eloquentize facies; sed stultissimum est querere, ad quam recturus se sit orator; cum omnis species, que modo recta est, habeat usum. Utetur enim, ut res exiget, omnibus; nec pro causa modo, sed pro partibus cause.’* 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. In the one, you find more manliness; in the other, more ornament. The one is more harsh, but more spirited and cogent; the other more agreeable, but withal looser and weaker. To account for this difference without any prejudice to Cicero, it has been said, that we must look to the nature of their different 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 Pretor, 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 anduse. The orator, according as circumstances require, willemploy 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- yect 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 Jesuit, in the parallels which he has drawn between some of the most eminent Greek and Roman writers, uniformly decides in favour of the Roman. For the preference which he gives to 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 of men: Why ?—Because he had not the advantage of perusing Aris- 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, 1n order to prove that Aristotle’s Rhetoric was not published till after Demosthenes had is j i i in his Essay upon Eloquence * In this judgment I concur with Mr. David Hume, in He gives it a his opinion, that of all human productions, the orations of Demosthenes present to us the models which approach the nearest to perfection. eeier etase sees i cS preety Tr ttt) eee eee tt he eed eeety teres es meeiegt erties apeaeeet EEELPERas SELASESUo Tso Go TSGasessses eae ee ree Tr eee = : Spey ts Sd od ee ad oa Pee eee te ee ey eee ee eee SCENE ‘ aheadrei ys) rst 3 se eee eee ea tat td Tek as re rad eras) we erat ee Se Pees s 4 = = SSF ret ee " 278 CICERO AND DEMOSTHENES. [LECT. XXvI. spoken, at least, his most considerable orations. Nothing can be more childish. Such orators as Cicero and Demosthenes, derived their knowledge of the human passions, and their power of moving them, from higher sources than any treatise of rhetoric. One French critic has 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 their government it was naturally to be expected that taste would be corrupted, and genius discouraged. Some of the ornamental arts, less intimately connected with 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 Causiscorrupte Eloquentiz,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 heec, et alter, * As his expressions are remarkably happy and beautiful, the passage here re- ferred to deserves to be inserted. ‘Je ne crains pas de dire, que Demosthéne me paroit supérieur 4 Cicéron. Je proteste que personne n’admire plus Cicéron que je ne fais. Ii embellit tout ce qu'il touche. TI] fait honneur 3 la parole. [I fait des mots ce qu’un autre n’en sauroit faire. [Tl a je ne sais combien de sortes d’esprits. Ii est méme court, et véhément, toutes les fois qu'il veut l’etre; contre Catiline. contre Verres, contre Antoine. Mais on remarque quelque parure dans sons dis- cours. L’art y est merveilleux; mais on Jlentrevoit. L’orateur en pensant au salut de la republique, ne s’oublie pas, et ne se laisse pas oublier. Demosthéne paroit sortir de soi, et ne voir que la patrie. [I] ne cherche point le beau; il le fait sans y penser. I] est au-dessus de l’admiration. Il se sert de la parole, comme un homme modeste de son habit, pour se couvrir. I tonne ; il foudroye. C’est un torrent qui entraine tout. On ne peut le critiquer,* parcequ’on est. saisi. On pense aux choses qu’il dit, et non i ses paroles. On le perd de vue. On n’est occupé que de Phillippe qui envahit tout. Je suis charmé de ces deux orateurs + mais j’avoue que je suis moins touché de l'art infini, et de la magnifique eloquence de Cicéron que de la rapide simplicité de Demosthane.’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 clientele, et tribus, et municipiorum lega tiones, periclitantibus assisterent; cum in plerisque judiciis cre deret populus Romanus sua interesse quid judicaretur.”* In the schools of the declaimers, 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 ; andall manner of false and affected ornaments were brought into vogue: ‘Pace vestra liceat dixisse,’ says Petronius Arbiter, to the declaim- ers of his time, ‘ primi omnem eloquentiam perdidistis. Levibus enim ac inanibus sonis ludibria queedam excitando, effecistis ut corpus ora- tionis enervaretur atque caderet. Et ideo ego existimo adolescentulos in scholis stultissimos fieri, quia nihil ex iis, que in usu habemus, aut audiunt, aut vident; sed piratascum catenis in littore stantes ; et tyran- nos edicta scribentes quibus imperent filiis ut patrum suorum capita precidant; sed responsa, in pestilentia data, ut virgines tres aut plures immolentur; sed mellitos verborum globulos, et omnia quasi papa- yere, et sesamo sparsa. Qui inter hxc nutriuntur, non magis sapere possunt, quam bene olere qui in culina habitant.’t In the hands of the Greek rhetoricians, the manly and sensible eloquence of their first noted 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.’ + ‘With 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 your 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 are edu- cated in the midst of such studies, can no more acquire a good taste, than they can emell sweet who dwell perpetually in a kitchen.’ re pots 43 ed bed ak Bees See ek ae Ce aa) SHestghsseese tei eas ea See t ee Pee Peper pret eter e terete 2 a ce a «€ erate eRe a Cee te ead epee eee ees see e “les ad Bae =e Bee 3 oes es ee eS hie a ae Bee ed ol a 0 Ee seaeeedtSratatet ates et a ae i Ls @: 5:52Satataeteeatsyess $3 Pere hy teas Pere eee eee oe eee Pe eer eee a ie a et ee Des Seale ete C2 ee Se oe es ee be oe ee Pot he eee tele eee se Ks CS sete oe rere see 280 MODERN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XxvVI the Latin Fathers, Lactantius and Minutius Felix, are the most re- markable for purity of style; and, ina 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 soonas 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 soit is, that, in neither of those countries, has the talent of publie 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, they may be thought to have surpassed them. 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. Itseems particularly surprising, that Great Britain should not have made 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 illustratesLECT. 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 degrees, but also in some respects tothe French. We have philosophers, eminent and conspicuous, perhaps, beyond any nation, in every branch of science. We have both taste and erudition, inahigh degree. Wehave 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 oratory ; 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 saine 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 thestrain of correct and dry reasoning. Whereas, in the ser- mons of Bossuet, Massillon, Bourdaloue, and Flechier, among the 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 of 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 differ from him, end 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 eae peperr rr Ty TTT rst tes ta Fa ee Eo Ride dy ied ae a Bede cee ee OR eee ca rs ee = EPpy Eee Perr ete ie tees ee a cee eee ese eee ere rere oe roe oie PES Peete oe ee = TET at bs ak be oe ke te de ary c TEE YR 15th eee te cael errs] eich ree td oa Poea space sre Stores rere eee ee a. eet 2 ee oe as ee pee se eres re: ee 306 ANALYSIS OF CICERO’S [LECT. XXVIII servations on the danger of judges 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 sreat appearance of candour reigns throughout this introduction. The crimes with which Cluentius was charged, were heincus. 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, appears 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 the thoughts of marrying one, whose hands had been imbrued in her former husband’s blood, objected only, as Cicero says, to Oppiani- cus having two sons by his present wife. Oppianicus removed the* objection by having his sons privately despatched ; and then, divore- ing his wife, the infamous match was concluded between him and Sassia. These flagrant deeds are painted, as we may well believe, with the highest colours of Cicero’s eloquence, which here has a ve- ry proper field. Cluentius, as a man of honour, could no longer * ¢Lectum illum genialem quem biennio ante filie sue nubenti straverat, in eidem domo sibi ornari et sterni, expulsd atque exturbata filid, jubet. Nubit ge- nero socrus, nullis auspicibus, funestis ominibus omnium. O mulieris scelus incre- dibile, & preter hanc unam, in omni vita inauditum! O audaciam singularem! non timuisse, si minus vim deorum, hominumque famam, at illam ipsam noctem, facesque illas nuptiales? non limen cubiculi? non cubile filie ? non parietes de- nique ipsos superiorum testes nuptiarum? perfregit ac prostravit omnia cupiditate & furore? vicit pudorem libido; timorem audacia ; rationem amentia.’” The warmth of Cicero’s eloquence, which this passage beautifully exemplifies, is here fully justified by the subject.LECT. xxvir.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 307 live on any tolerable terms with a woman, a mother only in the name, who had loaded herself and all her family with so much dis- honour; and hence the feud which had ever since subsisted be- tween them, and had involved her unfortunate son in so much trou- ble and persecution. As for Oppianicus, Cicero gives a short histo- ry of his life, and a full detail of his crimes; and by what he relates, Oppianicus appears to have been a man daring, fierce, and cruel, in- Se and ambition ; trained and hardened in all the ose turbulent times of Marius and Sylla’s proscrip- ions produced ; ‘Such a man,’ says our orator, ‘as, in place of be- ing surprised that he was condemned, you ought rather to wonder that he had escaped so long.’ _ And now, having prepared the way by all this narration, which is clear and elegant, he enters on the history of that famous trial, in which his client was charged with corrupting the judges. Both Cluentius and Oppianicus were of the city of Larinum. Ina public contest about the rights of the freemen of that city, they had taken opposite sides, which embittered the misunderstanding already sub- sisting between them. Sassia, now the wife of Oppianicus, pushed him on to the destruction of her son, whom she had long hated, as one who was conscious of her crimes; and,as Cluentius was known to have made no will, they expected, upon his death, to succeed to his fortune. The plan was formed, therefore, to despatch him by poison; which, considering their former conduct, is no incredible part of the story. Cluentius was at that time indisposed: the ser- vant of his physician was to be bribed to give him poison, and one Fabricius, an intimate friend of Oppianicus, was employed in the negotiation. The servant having made the discovery, Cluentius first prosecuted Scamander, a freedman of Fabricius, in whose cus- tody the poison was found; and afterwards Fabricius, for this at- tempt upon his life. He prevailed in both actions: and both these persons were condemned by the voices, almost unanimous, of the judges. Of both these Prejudicia, as our author calls them, or previous trials, he gives a very particular account: and rests upon thema great part of his argument, as in neither of them, there wasthe least charge or suspicion of any attempt to corrupt the judges. But in both these trials, Oppianicus was pointed at plainly; in both, Scamander and Fabricius, were prosecuted as only the instruments and ministers of his cruel designs. Asa natural consequence, therefore, Cluen- tius immediately afterwards raised a third prosecution against Oppi- anicus himself, the contriver and author of the whole. It was in this prosecution, that money was said to have been given to the judges ; all Rome was filled with the report of it, and the alarm loudly raised that no man’s life or liberty was safe, if such dangerous practices were not checked. By the following arguments, Cicero defends his client against this heavy charge of the Crimen corruptt Judictt. He reasons first, that there was not the least reason to suspect it ; seeing the condemnation of Oppianicus was a direct and necessary consequence of the judgments given against Scamander and Frabri- ce . i es Leer ees ea rs errr tS eee ol od SSS DRSsSePs 2 SSATOT ESAT OT ISS sss ase eee Pere ery a te Se ne eke FOUTS PERE re ee ed ERTeBHsere isd Cee ae gee oe be te ee c et 3 eee 4 po -Pate Sita baa ee ee: a . Ba ed Et eee ara e Ser ar eek ese Sr eres se eet a re ey Ss 308 ANALYSIS OF CICERO’S [LECT. XXVIII cius, in the two former trials; trials that were fair and uncorrupted, to the satisfaction of the whole world. Yet by these, the road was laid clearly open to the detection of Oppianicus’s guilt. His instruments and ministers being once condemned, and by the very same judges too, nothing could be more absurd than to raise a ery about an inno- cent person being circumvented by bribery, when it was evident, on the contrary, that a guilty person was now brought into judgment, under such circumstances, that unless the judges were altogether inconsistent with themselves, it was impossible for him to be ac- quitted. He reasons next, that, if in this trial there were any corruption of the judges by money, it was infinitely more probable, that corrup- tion should have proceeded from Oppianicus than from Cluentius. For setting aside the difference of character between the two men, the one fair,the other flagitious; what motive had Cluentius to try so odious and dangerous an experiment, as that of bribing judges ? Was it not much more likely that he should have had recourse to this last remedy, who saw and knew himself, and his caus2, to be in the utmost danger, than the other, who had a cause clear in itself, and of the issue of which, in consequence of the two previous sen- tences given by the same judges, he had full reason to be confident ? Was it not much more likely that he should bribe, who had every thing to fear; whose life, and liberty, and fortune, were at stake; than he who had already prevailed in a material part of his charge, and who had no further interest in the issue of the prosecution than as justice was concerned ? In the third place, he asserts it asa certain fact, that Oppianicus did attempt to bribe the judges; that the corruption in this trial, so much complained of, was employed, not by Cluentius, but against him. He calls on Titus Attius, the orator on the opposite side; he challenges him to deny, if he can, or if he dare, that Stalenus, one of the thirty-two Judices Selecti, did receive money from Oppiani- cus; he names the sum that was given; he names the persons that were present, when, after the trial was over, Stalenus was obliged to refund the bribe. This isa strong fact, and would seem quite de- cisive. But, unluckily, a very cross circumstance occurs here. For this very Stalenus gave his voice to condemn Oppianicus. For this strange incident, Cicero accounts in the following manner: Stale- nus, says he, known to be a worthless man, and accustomed before to the like practices, entered into a treaty with Oppianicus to bring him off, and demanded for that purpose a certain sum, which he undertook to distribute among a competent number of the other judges. When ke was once in possession of the money: when he found a greater treasure than ever he had been master of, deposit- ed in his empty and wretched hakitation, he became very unwilling to part with any of it to his colleagues; and bethought himself of some means by which he could contrive to keep it ali to himself. The scheme which he devised for this purpose, was, to promote the condemnation, instead of the acquittal of Oppianicus; as, trom a condemned person, he did not apprehend much danger of beingLECT. xxvill.}] ORATION FOR.CLUENTIUS. 309 called to account, or being obliged to make restitution. In stead, therefore, of endeavouring to gain any of his colleagues, he irritat- ed such as he had influence with against Oppianicus, by first promis- ing them money in his name, and afterwards telling them that Op- pianicus had cheated him.* When sentence was to be pronounced, he had taken measures for being absent himself: but being brought by Oppianicus’s lawyers from another court, and obliged to give his voice, he found it necessary to lead the way in condemning the man whose money he had taken, without fulfilling the bargain which he had made with him. By these plausible facts and reasonings, the character of Cluen tius seems in a great measure cleared; and, what Cicero chiefly in- tended, the odium thrown upon the adverse party. But a difficult part of the orator’s business still remained. There were several subsequent decisions of the pretor, the censors, and the senate, against tne judges in this cause; which all proceeded, or seemed to proceed, upon this ground of bribery and corruption: for it is plain the suspicion prevailed, that if Oppianicus had given money to Stalenus, Cluentius had out-bribed him. ‘To all these decisions, however, Cicero replies with much distinctness and subtilty of ar- gument ; though it might be tedious to follow him through all his reasonings on these heads. He shows, that the facts were, at that time, very indistinctly known; that the decisions appealed to were hastily given; that not one of them concluded directly against his client; and that such as they were, they were entirely brought about by the inflammatory and factious harangues of Quinctuus, the tri- bune of the people, who had been the agent and advocate of Oppi- anicus; and who, enraged at the defeat he had sustained, had em- ployed all his tribunitial influence to raise a storm against the judges who condemned his client. At length, Cicero comes to reason concerning the point of law. The Crimen Corrupti Judicii, or the bribing of judges, was capital. In the famous Lex Cornelia de Sicartis, was contained this clause (which we find still extant, Pandect. lib. xlvili. tit. 10, § 1.) § Qui judicem corruperit, vel corrumpendum curaverit, hac lege teneatur.’ This clause, however, we learn from Cicero, was restricted to ma- gistrates and senators; and as Cluentius was only of the equestrian order, he was not, even supposing him guilty, within the law. Of this Cicero avails himself doubly; and as he shows here the most masterly address, I shall give a summary of his pleading on this part of the cause: ‘You,’ says he to the advocate for the prosecu- tor, ‘you, T. Attius, I know, had every where given it out, that I * ¢Cum esset egens, sumptuosus, audax, callidus, perfidiosus, et cum domi suz, muserrimis in locis, et inanissimis, tantum nummorum positum viderit, ad omnem mali- tiam et fraudem versare mentem suam ccepit. Demne Judicibus ? mihi igitur, ipst preter periculum et infamiam quid queretur ? Siquis eum forte casus ex pera cripuerit, nonne redendum est 4 precipitantem igitur SE Cae Ee et per ae prosternamus. Capit hoc consilium nt pecuniam quibusdam jndicibus levissimis Be i ceatur, deinde eam postea supprimat; ut quoniain graves homines sud oe sere judicaturos putabat, hos qui leviores erant, destitutione iratos Op pianico redderet. ire Lee eee heer ets. SeraSe or oases s F Ag Fe oe ee ete teeasetetatics Re ee ee Paes r eee et Ue A hee egeetera Sece ee ie ePeeser ester seo, OTT ETT ee oe ok ae oe ke tek ee a a th ae so aS = 7 oe Se iF Ses oh eapean oe toe Sataretehs eee et he ee ee ae RE eee eta eee tee Se tee Sethe he hehe pais eon eo ees Dk eee - a t4Fotc iets Shes et ee eo ee kp eee eet Se ae oe ek ATLA EOe aes ar Sk td eres Pies iia ra rar steer tee tees ieee es 310 ANALYSIS OF CICBRO’S = [xecr. xxvimr. was to defend my client, not from facts, not upon the footing of in- nocence, but by taking advantage merely of the law in his behalf. Have I done so? [I appeal to yourself. Have I sought to cover him behind a legal defence only? On the contrary, have I not pleaded his cause as if he had been a senator, liable, by the Corne- lian law, to be capitally convicted; and shown, that neither proof nor probable presumption lies against his innocence? Jn doing so, I must acquaint you, that I have complied with the desire of Cluen- tius himself. For when he first consulted me in this cause, and when I informed him that it was clear no action could be brought against him from the Cornelian law, he instantly besought and ob- tested me, that I would not rest his defence on that ground; saying, with tears in his eyes, that his reputation was as dear to him as his life; and that what he sought, as an innocent man, was not only to be absolved from any penalty, but to be acquitted in the opinion of all his fellow citizens. ‘Hitherto, then, I have pleaded this cause upon his plan. But my client must forgive me, if now I shall plead it upon my own. For I should be wanting’to myself, and to that regard which my charac- ter and station require me to bear to the laws of the state, if I should allow any person to be judged of by a law which does not bind him. You, Attius, indeed, have told us, that it was a scandal and reproach, that a Roman knight should be exempted from those penalties to which a senator, for corrupting judges, is liable. But I must tell you, that it would be a much greater reproach, in a state that is re- gulated by law, to depart from the law. What safety have any of us in our persons, what security for our rights, if the law shall be set aside? By what title do you, Q. Naso, sit in that chair, and preside in this judgment? By what right, T. Attius, do you accuse, or do I defend? Whence all the solemnity and pomp of judges, and clerks, and officers, of which this house is full? Does not all proceed from the law, which regulates the whole departments of the state; which, as a commor bond, holds its members together; and, like the soul within the body, actuates and directs all the public func- tions ?* On what ground, then, dare you speak lightly of the law, or move that, in a criminal trial, judges should advance one step beyond what it permits them to go? The wisdom of our ancestors has found, that, as senators and magistrates enjoy higher dignities, and greater advantages than other members of the state, the law should also, with regard to them, be more strict, and the purity and uncorruptedness of their morals be guarded by more severe sanctions. . Ait Attius, ‘ndignum esse facinus, si senator Judicio quenquam circumvenerit, eum legibus teneri: si Eques Romanos hoc idem fecerit, eum non teneri. Ut tibi concedam hoc indignum esse, tu mihi concedas necesse est multe esse indignius, in eA civitate que legibus contineatur, discedi a legibus. Hoc nam vinculum est hujus dig- nitatis qnd. fruimur in republica. Hoc fundamentum libertatis ; hic fons equitatis ; mens et animus, et consilium, et sententia civitatis posita est in legibus. Ut corpora nostra sine mente, sic civitas sine lege, suis partibus, ut nervis ac sanguine & membris, uti nor, potest. Legum ministri, maagistratus ; legum interpretes, judices ; legum de- nique idcirco omnes sumus servi, ut liberi esse possimus > Quid est, Q. Naso, cur tu in hoc loco sedeas?, &cLECT. XXVIII. | ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 311 But if it be your pleasure that this institution should be altered, if you wish to have the Cornelian law, concerning bribery, extended to all ranks, then let us join, not in violating the law, but in propos- ing to have this alteration made by a new law. My client, Cluen- tius, will be the foremost in this measure, who now, while the old Jaw subsists, rejected its defence, and required his cause to be pleaded, as if he had been bound by it. But, though he would not avail himself of the law, you are bound in justice not to stretch it beyond its proper limits.’ Such is the reasoning of Cicero on this head; eloquent surely, and strong. As his manner is diffuse, I have greatly abridged 1: from the original, but have endeavoured to retain its force. In the latter part of the oration, Cicero treats of the other accusa- tion that was brought against Cluentius, of having poisoned Oppi- anicus. On this, it appears, his accusers themselves laid small stress; having placed their chief hope in overwhelming Cluentius with the odium of bribery in the former trial; and therefore, on this part of the cause, Cicero does not dwell long. He shows the improbability of the whole tale which they related concerning this pretended poisoning, and makes it appear to be altogether destitute of any shadow of proof. Nothing, therefore, remains, but the peroration or conclusion of the whole. In this, as indeed throughout the whole of this oration, Cicero is uncommonly chaste; and, in the midst of much warmth and earnestness, keeps clear of turgid declamation. The peroration turns on two points; the indignation which the character and con- duct of Sassia ought to excite, and the compassion due toa son, per- secuted through his whole life by sucha mother. He recapitulates the crimes of Sassia; her lewdness, her violation of every decorum ; her incestuous marriages, her violence and cruelty. He places, in the most odious light, the eagerness and fury which she had shown in the suit she was carrying on against her son; describes her jour- ney from Larinum to Rome, with a train of attendants, and a great store of money, that she might employ every method for circum- venting and oppressing him in this trial; while, in the whole course of her journey, she was so detested, as to make a solitude wherever she lodged; she was shunned and avoided by all; her company and her very looks were reckoned contagious; the house was deemed polluted which was entered into by so abandoned a woman.* ‘To this he opposes the character of Clueniius, fair, un- * ¢Cum appropinquare hujus judicium ei nuntiatum est, confestim huc adolavit ; ne aut accusatoribus diligentia, aut pecnnia testibus deesset ; aut ne forte mater hoc sibi optatissimum spectaculum hujus sordium atque luctus, et tanti squaloris amitteret. Jam vero quod iter Romam hujus mulieris fuisse existimatis ° Quod ego propter vici- nitatem Aquinatium et Venafranorum ex multis comperi: quos concursus In his oppi- dis? Quantos et virorum et mulierum gemitus esse factos ? Mulierem quandam Larino, atque illam usque a mari supero Romam proficisci cum magno comitatu et pecunia, quo facilius circumvenire judicio capitis, atque opprimere filium posset. Nemo erat iHorum, pene dicam, quin expiandum illum locum esse arbitraretur quacunque illa iter fecisset ; nemo, quin terram ipsam violari, que mater est omnium, vestigils con- selerate matris putaret. Itaque nullo in. oppido consistendi e1 potestas fuit; nemo ex got hospitibus inventus est qui non contagionem aspectis fugeret. & 2Y ers ee Rae Perey Pet he tee ERY Cr ne ee Cee cs Sete oe pee oe a eee lee F SS Ran rte ee tere eee peer yee ies 4i@ Fy 4. oe Eh Fass eZ2GtgeSt ere There PBesesess A : ’ : ee r 5 9 r ce ee oe 3 t 3 : eg aa ® Th ie 4 i S=1S¥ re re. ee < ty priate ete p45 314 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [xzcr. xxrx’ your indignation. From these causes, it comes to pass, that though we have a great number of moderately good preachers, we have, however, so few that are singularly eminent. Weare still far from perfection in the art of preaching; and perhaps there are few things, in which it is more difficult to excel.* The object, however, is no- ble, and worthy, upon many accounts, of being pursued with zeal. It may perhaps occur to some, that preaching is no proper sub- ject of the art of eloquence. This, it may be said, belongs only to human studies and inventions: but the truths of religion, with the greater simplicity, and the less mixture of art they are set forth, are likely to prove the more successful. This objection would have weight, if eloquence were as the persons who make such an objection commonly take it to be, an ostentatious and deceit- ful art, the study of words and of plausibility, only calculated to please, and to tickle the ear. But against this idea of eloquence { have all along guarded. True eloquence is the art of placing truth in the most advantageous light for conviction and persuasion. This is what every good man who preaches the gospel not only may, but ought to have at heart. It is most intimately connected with the success of his ministry ; and were it needful, as assuredly it is not, to reason any farther on this head, we might refer to the discourses of the prophets and A postles, as models of the most sublime and persuasive eloquence, adapted both to the imagination and the passions of men. An essential requisite, in order to preach well, is, to have a just, and at the same time,a fixed and habitual view of the end of preach- ing. For in no art can any man execute well, who has not a just idea of the end and object of that art. The end of all preach- ing is, to persuade men to become good. Every sermon, there- fore, should be a persuasive oration. Not but that the preacher is to instruct and to teach, to reason and argue. All pers-tasion, as I showed formerly, is to be founded on conviction. The understand- ing must always be applied to in the first place, in order to make a lasting impression on the heart; and he who would work on men’s passions, or influence their practice, without first giving them just principles, and enlightening their minds, is no better than a mere declaimer. He may raise transient emotions, or kindle a passing ardour, but can produce no solid or lasting effect. At the same time, * What I say here, and in other passages, of our being far from perfection in the art of preaching, and of there being few who are singularly eminent in it, is to be al- ways understood as referring to an ideal view of the perfection of this art, which none perhaps, since the days of the Apostles, ever did, or ever will reach. But in that de- gree of the eloquence of the pulpit, which promotes, in a considerable measure, the great end of edification, and gives a just titie to high reputation and esteem, there are many who hold a very honourable rank. I agree entirely in opinion with a candid judge (Dr. Campbell, on Rhetoric, b. i. ch. 10.) who observes, that considering how rare the talent of eloquence is among men, and considering all the disadvantages under which preachers labour, particularly from the frequency of this exercise, joined with the other duties of their office, to which fixed pastors are obliged, there is more reason to wonder that we hear so many instructive, and even eloquent sermons, than that we hear so few.LECT. xx1x.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 315 it must be remembered, that all the preacher’s instructions are to be of the practical kind, and that persuasion must ever be his ulti- mate object. It is not to discuss some abstruse point, that he as- cends the pulpit; it is not to illustrate some metaphysical truth, or to inform men of something which they never heard before; but it is to make them better men; it is to give them, at once, clear views and persuasive impressions of religious truth. The eloquence of the pulpit,then, must be popular eloquence. One of the first quali- ties of preaching is to be popular; not in the sense of accommoda- tion to the humours and prejudices of the people, (which tends only to make a preacher contemptible,) but, in the true sense of the word, calculated to make impression on the people; to strike and to seize their hearts. I scruple not therefore to assert, that the ab- stract and philosophical manner of preaching, however it may have sometimes been admired, is formed upon a very faulty idea, and deviates widely from the just plan of pulpit eloquence. Rational, indeed, a preacher ought always to be; he must give his audience clear ideas on every subject, and entertain them with sense, not with sound: but to be an accurate reasoner will be small praise, if he be not a persuasive speaker also. Now, if this be the proper idea of a sermon, a persuasive oration, one very material consequence follows, that the preacher himself, in order to be successful, must be a good man. Ina preceding lec- ture I endeavoured to show, that on no subject can any man be tru- ly eloquent, who does not utter the “verze voces ab imo pectore,” who does not speak the language of his own conviction and his own feelings. If this holds, as in my opinion it does, in other kinds of public speaking, it certainly holds in the highest degree in preach- ing. There, it is of the utmost consequence that the speaker firm- ly believe both the truth and the importance of those principles which he inculcates on others; and, not only that he believe them speculatively, but have a lively and serious feeling of them. This will always give an earnestness and strength, a fervour of piety to his exhortations, superior in its effects to all the arts of studied elo- quence; and, without it, the assistance of art will seldom be able to conceal the mere declaimer. A spirit of true piety would prove the most effectual guard againt those errors which preachers are apt to commit. It would make their discourses solid, cogent, and useful ; it would prevent those frivolous and ostentatious harangues, which have no other aim than merely to make a parade of speech, or amuse an audience; and perhaps the difficulty of attaining that pitch of habitual piety and goodness, which the perfection of pulpit eloquence would require, and of uniting it-with that thorough knowledge of the world, and those other talents which are requisite for excelling in the pulpit, is one of - great causes why so few arrive at very ich eminence in this sphere. coe chief Soiae of the eloquence suited to the pulpit, as distinguished from the other kinds of public speaking, appear to me to be these two, gravity and warmth. The serious nature of the sub- PerPeeerert tet rh er) 2 Pa pace gee wb page bk eS pa See8Seeg¢ See = ares es Goad eet ret re a ed Pear ee ek °3 iz Ts ce ee es FPS Ps es Ee Fe yere ee atte or BR eT ery ee Be oe ee Lee eteteceyess Fs eee Tree rhe ke ke tt eee a i. Mets ee. 4 = tS 2 bea Painseer ts ere os othe dS ES DsersaeseseMeHSes teases Hrs ike hae : reheat. Le eet St aes PSadSscsspTeseTesees ee ee eee wor 316 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. (LECT. xxIx, jects belonging to the pulpit, requires gravity; their importance to mankind, requires warmth. It is far from being either easy or common to unite these characters of eloquence. The grave, when it is predominant, is apt to run into a dull uniform solemnity. The warm, when it wants gravity, borders on the theatrical and light. The union of the two must be studied by all preachers as of the ut- most consequence, both in the composition of their discourses, and in their manner of delivery. Gravity and warmth united, form that character of preaching which the French call Onction ; the affect- ing, penetrating, interesting manner, flowing from a strong sensibi- lity of heart in the preacher to the importance of those truths which he delivers, and an earnest desire that they may make full impres- sion on the hearts of his hearers. ye Next to a just idea of the nature and object of pulpit eloquence, the point of greatest importance to a preacher, is a proper choice of the subjects on which he preaches. To give rules for the choice of subjects for sermons, belongs to the theological more than to the rhetorical chair; only in general, they should be such as appear to the preacher to be the most useful, and the best accommodated to the circumstances.of his audience. No man can be called eloquent, * Who speaks to an assembly on subjects, or in a strain, which none or few of them comprehend. The unmeaning applause which the ignorant give to what is above their capacity, common sense and common probity must teach every man to despise. Usefulness and true eloquence always go together; and no man can long be reput- ed a good preacher, who is not acknowledged to be an useful one. The rules which relate to the conduct of the different parts of a sermon, the introduction, division, argumentative, and pathetic parts, I reserve, till I come to treat of the conduct of a discourse in general; but some rules and observations, which respect a sermon as a particular species of composition, I shall now give, and I hope they may be of some use. The first which I shall mention is, to attend to the unity of a ser- mon. Unity indeed is of great consequence in every composition; but in other discourses, where the choice and direction of the sub- ject are not left to the speaker, it may be less in his power to pre- serve it. In asermon, it must be always the preacher’s own fault if he transgress it. What I mean by unity is, that there should be some one main point to which the whole strain of the sermon should refer. It must not be a bundle of different su bjects strung together, but one subject must predominate throughout. This rule is found- ed on what we call experience, that the mind can fully attend only to one capital object at a time. By dividing, you always weaken the impression. Now this unity, without which no sermon ean 2i- ther have much beauty, or much force, does not require that there should be no divisions or separate heads in the discourse, or that one single thought only should be, again and again, turned up to the hearers in different lights. It is not to be understood in so nar- row a sense: it admits of some variety; it admits of under partsLECT. xx1x.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 317 and appendages, provided always that so much union and connexion be preserved, as to make the whole concur in some one impression upon the mind. I may employ, for instance, several different argu- ments to enforce the love of God; I may also inquire, perhaps, into the causes of the decay of this virtue; still one great object is presented to the mind: but if, because my text says, ‘ He that loveth God must love his brother also,’ I should, therefore, mingle in one discourse, arguments for the love of God, and for the love of our neighbour, I should offend unpardonably against unity, and leave a very loose and confused impression on the hearers’ minds. In the second place, sermons are always the more striking, and commonly the more useful, the more precise and particular the sub ject of them is. This follows, in a great measure, from what I was just now illustrating. ‘Though a general subject is capable of being conducted with a considerable degree of unity, yet that unity can never be so complete as ina particular one. The impression made must always be more undeterminate; and the instruction conveyed will commonly, too, be less direct and convincing. General sub- jects, indeed, such as the excellency of the pleasures of religion, are often chosen by young preachers, as the most showy, and the easiest to be handled; and, doubtless, general views of religion are not to be neglected,-as.on several occasions they have great propri- ety.--But these are not the subjects most favourable for producing the high effects of preaching. They fall in almost unavoidably with the beaten track of common-place thought. Attention is much more commanded by seizing some particular view of a great subject, some single interesting topic, and directing to that point the whole force of argument and eloquence. To recommend some one grace or virtue, or to inveigh against a particular vice, furnishes a subject not deficient in unity or precision; but if we confine ourselves to that virtue or vice as assuming a particular aspect, and consider it as it appears in certain characters, or affects certain situations in life, the subject becomes still more interesting. The execution 1s, L admit, more difficult, but the merit and the effect are higher. In the third place, never study to say all that can be said upon a subject; no error is greater than this. Select the most useful, the most striking, and persuasive topics, which the text suggests, and rest the discourse upon these. If the doctrines which ministers of the Gospel preach were altogether new to their hearers, it might be requisite for them to be exceedingly full on every particular, lest there should be any hazard of their not affording complete informa- tion. But it is much less for the sake of information than of per- suasion, that discourses are delivered from the pulpit; and nothing is more opposite to persuasion, than an unnecessary and tedious ful- ness. There are always some things which the preacher may sup- ose to be known, and some things which he may only slightly touch. If he seek to omit nothing which his subject suggests, it will unavoidably happen that he will encumber it, and weaken its force. In studying a sermon, he ought to place himself in the situation ere es Sate eee Peek: ot) tt hada held EY aécy tes s Ree edge BE Ee AJ e Leese rt Fes eee ese ae eee ere Peg gs ee SERETESS Le et eesrghrsivsetst SEE EET ee is tere taps ee vo yr Pepe es ehh ts oe oe ot de errs ce a ek Le eS os oe es DS FsOTC ee TG ese ee er te te is Tee TITAN Site teehee et Bete obese, : : A Mi - " . r . ‘s Sead CESS ee a foe et etal eks+s oe eee Ee ae ree eras fas ee es Fessteree rer tt. . Shea Pee oa ary TSpSsFSFS= iS He eas ci Pera re ey te Se oa $18 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [xect. xxrx. of a serious hearer. Let him suppose the subject addressed to him- self: let him consider what views of it would strike him most; what arguments would be most likely to persuade him; what parts of it would dwell most upon his mind. Let these be employed as his principal materials; and in these, it is most likely his genius will exert itself with the greatest vigour. The spinning and wire-draw- ing mode, which is not uncommon among preachers, enervates the noblest truths. It may indeed be a consequence of observing the rule which I am now giving, that fewer sermons will be preached upon one text than is sometimes done ; but this will, in my opinion, be attended with no disadvantage. I know no benefit that arises from introducing a whole system of religious truth under every text. The simplest and most natural method by far, is to choose that view of a subject to which the text principally leads, and to dwell no longer on the text, than is sufficient for discussing the subject in that view, which can commonly be done, with sufficient profound- ness and distinctness in one or a few discourses: for it is a very false notion to imagine, that they always preach the most profoundly, or go the deepest into a subject, who dwell on it the longest. On the contrary, that tedious circuit, which some are ready to take in all their illustrations, is very frequently owing, either to their want of discernment for perceiving what is most important in the subject, or to their want of ability for placing it in the most proper point of view. In the fourth place, study, above all things, to render your in- structions interesting to the hearers. This is the great trial and mark of true genius for the eloquence of the pulpit; for nothing is so fatal to success in preaching, as a dry manner. A dry sermon can never be a good one. In order to preach in an interesting manner, much will depend upon the delivery of a discourse; for the manner in which a man speaks, is of the utmost consequence for affecting his audience, but much will also depend on the com- position of the discourse. Correct language, and elegant description, are but the secondary instruments of preaching in an interesting manner. The great secret lies in bringing home all that is spoken to the hearts of the hearers, so as to make every man think that the preacher is addressing him in particular. For this end, let him avoid all intricate reasonings; avoid expressing himself in general speculative propositions, or laying down practical truths in an ab- stract metaphysical manner. As much as possible, the discourse ought to be carried on in the strain of direct address to the au- dience; not in the strain of one writing an essay, but of one speak- ing to a multitude, and studying to mix what is called applicatior, or what has an immediate reference to practice, with the doctrinal and didactic parts of the sermon. It will be of much advantage to keep always in view the different ages, characters, and conditions of men, and to accommodate direc- tions and exhortations to these different classes of hearers. When- ever you bring forth what a man feels to touch his own character, or to suit his own circumstances, you are sure of interesting him.LECT. xxix.]| ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 319 No study is more necessary for this purpose, than the study of hu- man life, and the human heart. To be able to unfold the heart, and to discover a man to himself, in a light in which he never saw his own character before, produces a wonderful effect. As long as the preacher hovers in a cloud of general observations, and descends not to trace the particular lines and features of manners, the audi- ence are apt to think themselves unconcerned in the description. It is the striking accuracy of the moral characters that gives the chief power and effect to a preacher’s discourse. Hence, examples founded on historical facts, and drawn from real life, of which kind the scriptures afford many, always, when they are well chosen, com- mand high attention. No favourable opportunity ofintroducing these should be omitted. ‘They correct, in some degree, that disadvan- tage to which I before observed preaching is subject, of being con- fined to treat of qualities in the abstract, not of persons, and place the weight and reality of religious truths in the most convincing light. Perhaps the most beautiful, and among the most useful ser- mons of any, though, indeed, the most difficult in composition, are such as are wholly characteristical, or founded on the illustration of some peculiar character, or remarkable piece of history, in the sa- ered writings; by perusing which, one can trace,and lay open, some of the most secret windings of man’s heart. Other topics of preach- ing have been much beaten ; but this is a field, which, wide 1n it- self, has hitherto been little explored by the composers of sermons, and possesses all the advantages of being curious, new, and highly useful. Bishop Butler’s sermon on the Character of Balaam, will give an idea of that sort of preaching which I have in my eye. In the fifth and last place, let me add a caution against taking the model of preaching from particular fashions that chance to have the vogue. ‘These are torrents that swell to-day, and will have spent themselves by to-morrow. Sometimes it is the taste of poetical preaching, sometimes of philosophical, that has the fashion on its side; at one time it must be all pathetic, at another all argumentative, according as some celebrated preacher has set the example.. Each of these modes, in the extreme, is very faulty; and he who con- forms himself to any of them, will both cramp genius, and corrupt it... It is the universal taste of mankind which is snbject to no such changing modes, that alone is entitled to possess any authority ; and this will never give its sanction to any strain of preaching, Sut what is founded on human nature, connected with usefulness, adapted to the proper idea of a sermon, as a serious, persuasive ora- tion, delivered to a multitude, in order to make them better men. Let a preacher form himself upon this standard, and keep it close in his eye, and he will be ina much surer road to reputation, and suc- cess at last, than by a servile compliance with any popular taste or transient humour of his hearers. Truth and good sense are firm, and will establish themselves; mode and humour are feeble and fluctuating. Let him never follow, implicitly, any one example or become a servile imitator of any preacher, however much admir Be a PETER tikeccletetes See thee s pie tt Ss Pt Peeters ee eae PENS SRR EER ee ee ee SF yes FS CL ud Se wk Tag es Si i ee es eee SeSsieatggetetssetet oS M1 , i Se Pee Pe LF esc ee tt he aerear Stts patel a Sfa2e.ere 4h BE SESE ; Sa28 i Petapetdsieseys see see = 7 L « . 320 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [xecr. xxix ed. From various examples he may pick up much for his improve- ment: some he may prefer to the rest; but the servility of imita- tion extinguishes all genius, or rather is a proof of the entire want of genius. With respect to style, that which the pulpit requires, must cer- tainly, in the first place, be very perspicuous. As discourses spo- ken there, are calculated for the instruction of all sorts of hearers, plainness and simplicity should reign in them. All unusual, swoln, or high-sounding words, should be avoided; especially all words that are merely poetical, or merely philosophica:. Young preach- ers are apt to be caught with the glare of these ; and in young com- posers the error may be excusable: but they may be assured that it is an error, and proceeds from their not having yet acquired a cor- rect taste. Dignity of expression, indeed, the pulpit requires in a high degree; nothing that is mean or grovelling, no low or vulgar phrases, ought, on any account, to be admitted. But this dignity is periectly consistent with simplicity. The words employed may be all plain words, easily understood, and in common use; and yet the style may be abundantly dignified, and at the same time very lively and animated ; for a lively and animated style is extremely suited to the pulpit. The earnestness which a preacher ought to feel, and the grandeur and importance of his subjects, justify, and often require, warm and glowing expressions. He not only may employ metaphors and comparisons, but,on proper occasions, may apostro- phise the saint or the sinner; may personify inanimate objects, break out into bold exclamations, and, in general, has the command of the most passionate figures of speech. But on this subject, of the proper use and management of figures, I have insisted so fully in former lectures, that I have no occasion now to give particular directions; unless it be only to recall to mind that most capital rule, never to employ strong figures, or a pathetic style, except in cases where the subject leads to them, and where the speaker is impelled to the use of them by native unaffected warmth. The language of sacred scripture, properly employed, is a great ornament to sermons. It may be employed, either in the way of quotation, or allusion. Direct quotations, brought from scripture, in order to support what the preacher inculcates, both give authority to his doctrine, and render his discourse more solemn and venera- ble. Allusions to remarkable passages, or expressions of scripture, when introduced with propriety, have generally a pleasing effect. They afford the preacher a fund of metaphorical expression, which no other composition enjoys, and by means of which he can vary and enliven his style. But he must-take care that-all such allusions be natural and easy; for if they seem forced, they approach to the nature of conceits. * * Bishop Sherlock, when showing that the views of reason have been enlarged, and the principles of natural religion illustrated, by the discoveries of Christianity, attacks unbelievers for the abuse they make of these advantages, in the following manner: ‘What a return do we make for those blessings we have received! HowLECT. xx1x.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 321 In a sermon, no points or conceits should appear, no affected smartness and quaintness of expression. These derogate much from the dignity of the pulpit; and give to a preacher the air of foppishness, which he ought, above all things, toshun. It is rather a strong, expressive style, than a sparkling one, that is to be studied. But we must be aware of imagining, that we render style strong or expressive, by a constant and multiplied use of epithets. This isa great error. Epithets have often great beauty and force. But if we introduce them into every sentence, and string many of them together to one object, in place of strengthening, we clog and en- feeble style; in place of illustrating the image, we render it confus- ed and indistinct. He that tells me, ‘of this perishing, mutable, and transitory world;’ by all these three epithets, does not give me so strong an idea of what he would convey, as if he had used one of them with propriety. I conclude this head with an advice, never to have what may be called a favourite expression; for it shows af- fectation, and becomes disgusting. Let not any expression which is remarkable for its lustre or beauty, occur twice in the same dis- course. The repetition of it betrays a fondness to shine, and, at the same time, carries the appearance of a barren invention. As to the question, whether it be most proper to write sermons fully, and commit them accurately to memory, or to study only the matter and thoughts, and trust the expression, in part at least, to the delivery? Iam of opinion,that no universal rule can here be given. The choice of either of these methods must be left to preachers, ac- cording to their different genius. The expressions which come warm and glowing from the mind, during the fervour of pronun- ciation, will often have a superior grace and energy to those which are studied in the retirement of the closet. But then, this fluency and power of expression cannot, at all times, be devended upon, even by those of the readiest genius ; and by many, can at no time be commanded, when overawed by the presence of an audience. It is proper therefore to begin, at least, the practice of preaching, with writing as accurately as possible. This is absolutely necessa- ry in the beginning, in order to acquire the power and habit of correct speaking, nay, also of correct thinking, upon religious sub- jects. I am inclined to go further, and to say that, it is pro- per not only to begin thus, but also to continue, as long as the ha- bits of industry last, in the practice both of writing, and commit- disrespectfully do we treat the Gospel of Christ, to which we owe that clear light both of reason and nature, which we now enjoy, when we endeavour to set up reason and nature in opposition to it? ought the withered hand which Christ has restored and made whole, to be lifted up against him?’ Vol. i. Disc. i. This allusion to a noted miracle of our Lord’s, appears to me happy and elegant. Dr. Seed is remarkably fond of allusions to scripture style ; but he sometimes employs such as are too fanciful and strained. As when he says, (Serm. iv.) “No one great virtue will come single: the virtues that be her fellows will bear her company with joy and gladness :” alluding to a passage in the XLVth Psalm, which relates to the virgins, the companions of the king’s daughter. And (Serm. xiii.) having said, that the universities have justly been called the eyes of the nation, he adds, and tf the eyes of the nation de evil, the whole body of et must be full of darkness. 4] eee Ee ee de Reda pea he hee ee eee ee tee eee xe eye er SES SPER eee ee ee Se PS Se TS os BRP a Pe eee eee ee eT Re ae oe te eS SLSOSBERHSE a E Sa Tete hth at E e7>; M 3 pessteneaee Peree yt P Ps . Tisese torts #a 2434 Rete eo ae tk ; : 4 SSSSTETSSSEAH oat Babe ere Seessierersse tes es at tet ee cee ° Be et Reseeayeieee pee ee Pees SeSsFSSss isha 322 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [zect. xxi ting to memory. Relaxation in this particular is so common, and so ready to grow upon most speakers in the pulpit, that there is little occasion for giving any cautions against the extreme of 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, it cannot be denied, that their sermons are formed upon the idea of a persuasive popular oration; and therefore, I am of opinion, they may be read with benefit. * ¢LLes Sermons sont suivant notre methode, de vrais discours oratoires ; & non pas, comme chez les Anglois, des discussions metaphysiques plus convenables & une Acadamie, qu’aux Assemblies populaires qui se forment dans nos temples, et qu’il s’agit d’instruire des devoirs du Chrétianisme, d’encourager, de consoler, d’edifier.’ Rhetorique Francoise, par M. Crevier, tom. I. p. 134. + One of Masillon's best sermons, that on the coldness and languor with which Christians perform the duties of religion, is preached from Luke iv. 18. And ne arose out of the synagogue, and entered into Simon’s house ; and Simon’s wife’s mother was taken wll with a great fever.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 Catholics, the two most eminent are Bourdaloue and Massillon. Itis a subject of dispute among the French crities, 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 Encyclopedie, (article, Eloquence) is extolled by Voltaire, who was the author of that article, as a chef d’ceuvre, equal to any thing of which either ancient or modern times can boast. The subject of the sermon is, the small number of those who shall be saved. The strain of the whole discourse is extremely serious and animated; but when the orator came to the passage which follows, Voltaire informs us, that the whole 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’arréte 4 vous, mes fréres, qui étes ici assemblés. Je ne parle plus du reste des hommes: je vous regarde comme si vous étiez seuls sur la terre: voici la pensée qui m’occupe & qui m’épouvante. Je suppose que c’est ici votre derniere heure, et la fin de l’univers ; que les cieux vont s’ouvrir sur vos tétes. Jesus Christ paroitre dans sa gloire au milieu de ce temple, et que vous n’y étes assemblées que pour l’attendre, comme des criminels tremblans, a qui l’on va prononcer, ou un sentence de grace, ou un arrét du mort eternelle. Car vous avez beau vous flatter; vous mourez tels que vous étes aujourd’hui. Tous ces désirs de changement qui vous amusent, vous amu- seront jusqu’au lit de la mort: c’est l’expérience de tous les siécles. Tout ce que vous trouverez alors en vous de nouveau, sera peut-étre un compte plus grand que celui que yous auriez aujourd’hui a rendre; et sur ce que vous seriez, si l’on venoit vous juger dans ce moment, vous pouvez presque decider ce que vous arrivera au sortir de la vie. © Or, je vous le demande, et je vous le demande frappé de terreur, ne separant pas en ce point mon sort du votre, et me mettant dans la méme disposition ou je souhaite que vous entriez ; je vous demande, donc, si Jesus Christ paroissoit dans ce temple, au milieu de cette assemblée ; 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 tuut ce que nous sommes ici, fut placé 4 la droite? Croyez vous que les choses du moins fussent egales ? croyez vous qu’il s’y trouvat seulement dix justes, que le Seign- eur ne peut trouver autrefois en cing villes toutes entiéres ? Je vous le demande; vous Vignorez, et je ignore moi-méme. Vous seul, mon Dieu! connoissez ceux qui vous ap- partiennent—Mes fréres, notre perte est presque assurée, et nous n’y pensons pas. Quand méme dans cette terrible séparation qui se fera un jour, il ne devroit y avoir qu’un seul pécheur de cet assemblée du cbté des réprouvés, et qu’une voix du ciel vien- droit nous en assurer dans ce temple, sans le désigner ; qui de nous ne craindroit d’étre de malheureux ? qui de nous ne retomberoit d’abord, sur sa conscience, pour examiner si ses crimes n’ont pas mérité ce chAtiment ? qui de nous, saisie de frayeur, ne deman- deroit pas & Jesus Christ comme autrefois les apdtres ; Seigneur, ne seroit ce pas moi? Sommes nous sages, mes chers auditeurs ? peut-étre que parmi tous ceux qui m’enten- dent, il ne se trouvera pas dix justes ; peut-étre 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-étre ne s’en trouvera-t-il qu’un seul ; et ce danger ne vous touche ce oe eae od Totes ee he heed S22 cy ip teh Pad eceke eer tt ot aa Sa Nine Pe = SEREreSs Ss Stet ered Be et ear te ee wiogmbageresesesoge aa katie ed Se Sh Pe ee Pee 5 eEegtgegtateTeTerete cS ere fet? a 3 ee Saee a Peee P 3 Ae eeenesttPer te ot ee Patatatata re ee ee ey 5 PEES ES) = ee Ces re Bers ee $=4S52 sett ts aieThTSisr4aiepe a Pie se sa rte 4 324 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [xect. xxrx. During the period that preceded the restoration of King Charles II. the sermons of the English divines abounded with scholastic casuistical theology. They were full of minute divisions and subdivisions, and scraps of learning in the didactic part; but to these were joined very warm, pathetic addresses to the consciences of the hearers, in the 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 étre ce seul heureux dans le grand nombre qui périra ? yous qui avez moins sujet dele croire que tout autre ; vous sur qui seul la sentence de mort devroit tomber. Grand Dieu! qui l’on 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 vérités? qu’il faut désesperer de son salut ? 4 Dieu ne plaise ; il n’y a que Vimpie, qui, pour se calmer sur ses desordres, tache ici de conclure en secret que tous les hommes périront comme lui; ce ne doit pas étre la les fruits de ce discours. Mais de vous détromper de cette erreur si universelle, qu’on peut faire ce que tous les autres font; et que l’usage est une voie sure; mais de vous convaincre que pour se sauver, il faut de distinguer des autres ; &tre singulier, vivre 4 part au milieu du monde, et ne pas resseinbler & la foule.’ Sermons de Massillon, Vol. IVLECT. 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 unchastised 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 twe 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 may improve, by comparing them with tlhe track 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- ond is plagiarism. : On the whole, never let the capital principle with which we set 3A oa eg GeBeoroee Servs iste SFpy Ped ee a ba hoes a seseeg tates Pek at ts BSE ee a = eerie aetetst Te ele ie geet ef ee es ee re ee ret eee TS ed ee LSE Segre Teele te WecwessStINe ees rsp oe oe ee a Te J a 5 ce nesw 7 tet eesees reo ete eae 1 ta TépeSS74 Tee AlAs Las = 2¢ Petre PEE te ress, 7 PAF seeehea seks +ware sors ely th be a Pik Sa Peete; : PSSeyess tia Fesshete oe ee ed Peer eaee Set’ re ae Rite Eset = a5 any Phe es 326 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [recr. xxx. outat 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 orators in this chapel; I have been highly pleased with them: but for you, whenever I hear you, I go away displeased with my- self; for I see more of my own character.’ LECTURE XXX. a CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. Tz last lecture was employed in observations on the peculiar and distinguishing characters of the eloquence proper for the pul- pit. But as rules and directions, when delivered in the abstract, are never so useful as when they are illustrated by particular instan- ces, it may, perhaps, be of some benefit to those who are designed for the church, that I should analyze an English sermon, and consi- der the matter of it, together with the manner. For this purpose, I have chosen Bishop Atterbury as my example, who is deservedly accounted one of our most eloquent writers of sermons, and whom I mentioned as such in the last lecture. At the same time, he is more distinguished for elegance and purity of expression, than for profoundness of thought. His style, though sometimes careless, is, upon the whole, neat and chaste; and more beautiful than that of most writers of sermons. In his sentiments he is-not only ration- al, but pious and devotional, which is a great excellency. The ser- mon which I have singled out, is that upon praise and thanksgiving, the first sermon of the first volume, which is reckoned one of his best. Jn examining it, it is necessary that I should use full liberty, and together with the beauties point out any defects that occur to me, in the matter as well as in the style.LECT. xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 327 Psaim i. 14. Offer unto God Thanksgiving. ‘ Among the many excellencies of this pious collection of hymns, for which so particular a value hath been set upon it by the church of God in all ages, this is not the least, that the true price of duties is there justly stated; men are called off from resting in the outward show of religion, in ceremonies and ritual observances; and taught rather to practise (that which was shadowed out by these rights, and to which they are designed to lead) sound inward piety and virtue. ‘The several composers of these hymns were prophets; persons whose business it was not only to foretel events, for the benefit of the church in succeeding times, but to correct and reform also what was amiss among that race of men with whom they lived and con- versed; to preserve a foolish people from idolatry and false wor- ship; to rescue the law from corrupt glosses, and superstitious abus- es; and to put men in mind of (what they are so willing to forget) that eternal and invariable rule, which was before these positive du- ties, would continue after them, and was to be observed, even then, in preference to them. ‘The discharge, I say, of this part of the prophetic office, taking up so much room in the book of Psalms; this hath been one rea- son, among many others, why they have always been so hig::ly es- teemed; because we are from hence furnished with a proper reply to an argument commonly made use of by unbelievers, who look upon allrevealed religions as pious frauds and impostures, on account of the prejudices they have entertained in relation to that of the Jews; the whole of which they first suppose to lie in external per- formances, and then easily persuade themselves, that God could never be the author of such a mere piece of pageantry and empty formality, nor delight in a worship which consisted purely in a number of odd, unaccountable ceremonies. Which objection of theirs we should not be able thoroughly to answer, unless we could prove, (chiefly out of the Psalms, and other parts of the prophetic writings,) that the Jewish religion was somewhat more than bare outside and show; and that inward purity, and the devotion of the heart, was a duty then as well as now.’ This appears to me an excellent introduction. The thought on which it rests is solid and judicious; that in the book of Psalms, the attention of menis called to the moral and spiritual part of reli- gion; and the Jewish dispensation thereby vindicated from the sus- picion of requiring nothing more from its votaries than the observ ance of the external rights and ceremonies of the law. Such views of religion are proper to be often displayed; and deserve to be insist- ed on, by all who wish to render preaching conducive to the great purpose of promoting righteousness and virtue. The style, as far as we have gone, is not only free from faults, but elegant and happy. It is a great beauty in an introduction, when it can be made to turn on some thought, fully brought out and illustrated; especially, ees SR SODSEPHS TSH SL ST SH coed ePaverise s 4 ree See Sere Se Petre ete ee oo ae hy a eee ee ee Be ee eee Be Oe Peas rae agage tecct Fs Reo) ts ce oe ek “ Peat Toth kk i — pa? 4 eat FetalLe Pera Vita ate ee oe TPIT Ath ASE paternal pe per eet et ve ers eee Pee eS Sek cen : 3: $e SEE ES 328 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [nuov. xxx if that thought has a close connexion with the following discourse, and, at the same time, does not anticipate any thing that is after- wards to be introduced in a more proper place. This introduction of Atterbury’s has all these advantages. The encomium which he makes on the strain of David’s Psalms, is not such as might as well have been prefixed to any other discourse, the text of which was taken from any of the Psalms. Had this been the case, the intro- duction would have lost much of its beauty. We shall see from what follows, how naturally the introductory thought connects with his text, and how happily it ushers it in. ‘One great instance of this proof, we have in the words now be- fore us; which are taken from-a Psalm of Asaph, written on pur- pose to set out the weakness and worthlessness of external perform- ances, when compared with more substantial and vital duties. To enforce which doctrine,God himself is brought in as delivering it. lear, O my people, and I will speak; O Israel, and I will testi- Sy against thee: Iam God, even thy God. The preface is very solemn, and therefore what it ushers in, we may be sure is of no common importance; J will not reprove thee for thy sacrifices or thy burnt offerings to have been continually before me. That is, I will not so reprove thee for any failures in thy sacrifices and burnt- offerings, as if these were the only, or the chief things I required of thee. will take no bullock out of thy house, nor he-goat out of thy folds: I prescribed not sacrifices to thee for my own sake, be- cause I needed them; /or every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle on a thousand hills. Mine they are, and were, before I commanded thee to offer them to me; so that, as it follows, Jf Ff were hungry, yet would I not tell thee ; for the world is mine, and the fulness thereof. But can ye be so gross and senseless as to think me liable to hunger and thirst? as to imagine that wants of that kind can touch me? Will Feat the flesh of bulls, or drink the blood of goats? Thus doth he expostulate severely with them, after the most graceful manner of the eastern poetry. The issue of which is a plain and full resolution of the case, in those few words of the text: Offer unto God thanksgiving. Would you do your homage the most agreeable way? would you render the most acceptable of services? Offer unto God thanksgiving.’ It is often a difficult matter to illustrate gracefully the text of a sermon from the context, and to point out the connexion between them. This isa part of the discourse which is apt to beeome dry and tedious, especially when pursued into a minute commentary. And, therefore, except as far as such illustration from the con- text is necessary for explaining the meaning, or in cases where it serves to give dignity and force to the text, I would advise it to be always treated with brevity. Sometimes it may even be whol- ly omitted, and the text assumed merely as an independent propo- sition, if the connexion with the context be obscure, and would require a laborious explanation. In the present case, the illus- tration from the context is singularly happy. The. passage of the Psalm on which it is founded is noble and spirited, and con-LECT. xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 329 nected in such a manner with the text, as to introduce it with a very striking emphasis. On the language I have little to observe, ex- cept that the phrase, one great instance of this proof, is a clumsy expression. It was sufficient to have said, one great proof, or one great instance of this. In the same sentence, when he speaks of setting out the weakness and worthlessness of external perform- ances, we may observe, that the word worthlessness, as it is now commonly used, signifies more than the deficiency of worth, which is all that the author means. It generally imports, a considerable de- gree of badness or blame. It would be more proper, therefore, to say, the zmperfection, or the insignificancy, of external performances. ‘The use I intend to make of these words, is, from hence to raise some thoughts about that very excellent and important duty of praise and thanksgiving, a subject not unfit to be discoursed of at this time: whether we consider, either the more than ordinary coldness that appears of late in men’s tempers towards the practice of this (or any other) part of a warm and affecting devotion; the great occasion of setting aside this particular day in the calendar, some years ago; or the new instances of mercy and goodness which God hath lately been pleased to bestow upon us; answering at last the many prayers and fastings by which we have besought him so long for the esta- blishment of their majesties’ throne, and for the success of their arms; and giving us in his good time, an opportunity of appearing before him in the more delightful part of our duty, with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that keep holydays.’ In this paragraph there is nothing remarkable; no particular beauty or neatness of expression; and the sentence which it forms is long and tiresome—fo raise some thoughts about the very ex- cellent, &c. is rather loose and awkward; better, to recommend that very excellent, &c. and when he mentions setting aside a particular day in the calendar. one would imagine, that setéong apari would have been more proper, as to se¢ aside, seems rather to suggest a dif- ferent idea. ‘Offer unto God thanksgiving. Which that we may do, let us inquire first, how we are to understand this command of offering praise and thanksgiving unto God; and then, how reasonable it is that we should comply with it.’ This is the general division of the discourse. An excellent one it is, and corresponds to many subjects of this kind, where particu- lar duties are to be treated of; first to explain, and then to recom- mend or enforce them. A division should always be simple and natural; and much depends on the proper view which it gives of the subject. , ‘Our inquiry into what is meant here, will be very short, for who is there, that understands any thing of religion, but knows, that the offering praise and thanks to God, implies, our having a lively and devout sense of his excellencies, and of his benefits; our recollect- ing them with humility and thankfulness of heart; and our ex- pressing these inward affections ih suitable outward signs, by re- Ad Pg aa ot a ae os = cA ecaerereae® ae Re or a ee ee oe Peer Pe eee eee ee ad ere ee SS peegade feces Sheer ate tele te tece esse PT sti ee pe a hes — at aes Aypee Se oe Set es ePerer sve a Reta ee Te ee TEE 555352 ESaeaietieta = 3 eter ye TT eth re tise Pea e Fe ee PR (ea btee. TEFSPS KS SSeS LISTS SSS SteTs ses SREPERSRS ep aoe Tass. el ssrsyer; 2 Se > ee me er eeretsSsezi 330 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [ecr. xxx verent and lowly postures of body, by songs,and hymns, and spiritu- al ejaculations; either publicly or privately; either in the customa- ry and daily service of the church, or in its more solemn assemblies, convened upon extraordinary occasions? This is the account which every christian easily gives himself of it; and which, therefore, it would be needless to enlarge upon. I shall only take notice upon this head, that praise and thanksgiving do, in strictness of speech, signify things somewhat different. Our praise properly terminates in God, on account of his natural excellencies and perfections; and is that act of devotion, by which we confess and admire his several attributes: but thanksgiving is a narrower duty, and imports only a grateful sense and acknowledgment of past mercies. We praise God for all his glorious acts of every kind, that regard either us or other men, for his very vengeance, and those judgments which he sometimes sends abroad in the earth; but we thank him, properly speaking, for the instances of his goodness alone; and for such only of these, as we ourselves are some way concerned in. ‘This, I say, is what the two words strictly imply: but since the language of Scripture is generally less exact, and useth either of them often to express the other by, I shall not think myself obliged, in what fol- lows, thus nicely always to distinguish them.’ There was room for insisting more fully on the nature of the duty, than the author has done under this head; in particular, this was the place for correcting the mistake, to which men are always prone, of making thanksgiving to consist merely in outward expressions; and for showing them, that the essence of the duty lies in the inward feelings of the heart. In general, it is of much use to give full and distinct explications of religious duties. But as our author intended only one discourse on the subject, he could not enlarge with equal fulness on every part of it; and he has chosen to dwell on that part, on which, indeed, it is most necessary to enlarge, the motives en- forcing the duty. For as it is an easier matter to know, than to practise duty, the persuasive part of the discourse is that to which the speaker should always bend his chief strength. The account given in this head, of the nature of praise and thanksgiving, though short, is yet comprehensive and distinct, and the language is smooth and elegant. ‘Now, the great reasonableness of this duty of praise or thanks- giving, and our several odligations to it, will appear, if we either consider it absolutely in itself, as the debt of our natures; or co7m- pare it with other duties, and show the rank it bears among them; or set out, in the last place, some of its peculiar properties and ad- vantages, with regard to the devout performer of it.’ The author here enters upon the main part of his subject, the rea- sonableness of the duty, and mentions three arguments for proving it. These are well stated, and are in themselves proper and weighty considerations. How far he has handled each of them to advantage, will appear as we proceed. I cannot, however, but think that he has omitted one very material part of the argument, which was, to have shown the obligations we are under to this duty, from the variLECT. xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 332 ous subjects of thanksgiving afforded us by the divine goodness. This would have led him to review the chief benefits of creation, providence and redemption; and certainly, they are these which lay the foundation of the whole argument ior thanksgiving. The heart must first be affected with a suitable sense of the divine bene- fits, before one can be excited to praise God. If you would persuade me to be thankful to a benefactor, you must not employ such consi- derations merely as those upon which the author here rests, taken from gratitude’s being the law of my nature, or bearing a high rank among moral duties, or being attended with peculiar advantages. These are considerations but of a secondary nature. You must be- gin with setting before me all that my friend has done for me, if you mean to touch my heart, and to call forth the emotions of gratitude. The case is perfectly- similar, when we are exhorted to give thanks to God; and, therefore, in giving a full view of the subject, the blessings conferred on us by divine goodness should have been taken into the argument. It may be said, however, in apology for our author, that this would have led him into too wide a field for one discourse, and into a field also, which is difficult, because so beaten: the enumeration of the divine benefits. He therefore seems to take it for granted, that we have upon our minds a just sense of these benefits. He assumes hem as known and acknowledged ; and setting aside what may be called the pathetic part of the subject, or what was calculated to warm the heart, he goes on to the reasoning part. In this manage- ment, I cannot altogether blame him. I do not by any means say that it is necessary in every discourse to take in all that belongs to the doctrine of which we treat. Many a discourse is spoiled, by attempting to render it too copious and comprehensive. The preach- er may, without reprehension, take up any part of a great subject, to which his genius at the time leads him, and make that his theme ; but when he omits any thing which may be thought essential, he ought to give notice, that this is a part which, for the time, he lays aside. Something of this sort would perhaps have been proper here. Our author might have begun, by saying, that the reasonableness of this duty must appear to every thinking being, who reflects upon the infinite obligations which are laid upon us, by creating, preserv~ ing, and redeeming love; and,after taking notice that the field which these open, was too wide for him to enter upon at that time, have proceeded to his other heads. Let us now consider these separately. ‘The duty of praise and thanksgiving, considered absolutely, in itself, is, I say, the debt and law of our nature. We had such facul- ties bestowed on us by our Creator, as made us capable of satisfying this debt, and obeying this law; and they never, therefore, work more naturally and freely, than when they are thus employed. ‘Tis one of the earliest instructions given us by philosophy, and which has ever since been approved and inculeated by the wisest men of all ages, that the original design of making man was, that he might praise and honour him who made him. When God had Rp Peet eases pea gre i paekertestsssatesese Ban egeF ee Pe a ee Pe te. Peres Poe ag a te Ae Ng Si al Bt DP sed 2 = os ma $3 Se> 354-5 of, 4 oe est SE ee dd al 3 e. Any * ba SistSReies SIZ te tet: pe pe ee ses eae . 7 S5259= $32 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [ecr. xxx. finished this goodly frame of things we call the world, and put toge- ther the several parts of it, according to his infinite wisdom, in exact number, weight, and measure; there was still wanting a creature, in these lower regions, that could apprehend the beauty, order, and exquisite contrivance of it; that, from contemplating the gift, might be able to raise itself to the great Giver, and do honour to all his attri butes. Every thing, indeed, that God made, did, in some sense, glo- rify its Author, inasmuch as it carried upon it the plain mark and impress of the Deity, and was an effect worthy of that first cause from whence it flowed; and thus might the heavens be said, at the first moment in which they stood forth, to declare his glory, and the jfir- mament to show hishundy work: But this was an imperfectand de- fective glory; thesign was of no signification here below,-whilst there was no one hereas yet totake notice of it. Man,therefore, was formed tosupply this want, endowed with powers fit to find out, and to ac- knowledge these unlimited perfections; and then put into this temple of God, this lower world, as the priest of nature, to offer up the incense of thanks and praise for the mute and insensible part of the creation. ‘This, I say, hath been the opinion all along of the most thought- ful men down from the most ancient times: and though it be not demonstrative, yet it is what we cannot but judge highly reason- able, if we do but allow that man was made for some end or other; and that he is capable of perceiving that end. For then, let us earch and inquire never so much, we find no other account of him that we can rest upon so well. If we say, that he was made purely for the good pleasure of God; this is, in effect, to say, that he was made for no determinate end; or for none, at least, that we can dis- cern. If we say, that he was designed as an instance of the wis- dom, and power, and goodness of God; this, indeed, may be the reason of his de¢ng in general; for ’tis the common reason of the being of every thing besides. But it gives no account why he was made such a thing as he is; a reflecting, thoughtful, inquisitive be- ing. The particular reason of this, seems most aptly to be drawn from the praise and honour that was (not only to redound to God from him, but) to be given to God by him.’ The thought which runs through all this passage, of man’s being the priest of nature, and of his existence being calculated chiefly for that end, that he might offer up the praises of the mute part of the creation, is an ingenious thought, and well illustrated. It wasa fa- vourite idea among some of the ancient philosophers; and it is not the worse on that account, as it thereby appears to have been a natu- ral sentiment of the human mind. In composing a sermon, how- ever, it might have been better to have introduced it as a sort of collateral argument, or an incidental illustration, than to have dis- played it with so much pomp, and to have placed it in the front of the arguments for this duty. It does not seem to me, when placed in this station, to bear all tne stress which the author lays npon it. When the divine goodness brought man into existence, we cannot well conceive that its chief purpose was, to form a being who mightLECT. xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 333 sing praises to his Maker. Prompted by infinite benevolence, the Supreme Creator formed the human race, that they might rise to happiness, and to the enjoyment of himself, through a course of virtue, or proper action. The sentiment on which our author dwells, however beautiful, appears too loose and rhetorical to bea principal head of discourse. ‘ This duty, therefore, is the debt and law of our nature. And it will more distinctly appear to be such, if we consider the two ruling faculties of our mind, the wnrderstanding and the wll,apart, in both which it is deeply founded: in the understanding, as in the principle of reason, which owns and acknowledges it; in the will,as in the fountain of gratitude and return, which prompts, and even constrains us to pay it. ‘ Reason was given us as a rule and measure, by the help of which we were to proportion our esteem of every thing, according to the degrees of perfection and goodness which we found therein. _ It can- not therefore, if it doth its office at all, but apprehend God as the best and most perfect being; it must needs see, and own, and ad- mire his infinite perfections. And this is what is strictly meant by praise ; which, therefore, is expressed in Scripture, by confessing to God, and acknowledging him ; by ascribing to him what is his due; and as far as this sense of the words reaches, ’tis impossible to ¢hink of God without praising him; for it depends not on the understand- ing, how it shall apprehend things, any more than it doth on the eye, how visible objects shall appear to 1t. ‘The duty takes the further and surer hold of us, by the means of the will, and that strong bent towards gratitude, which the Au- thor of our nature hath implanted in it. There is not a more ac- tive principle than this in the mind of man; and surely that which deserves its utmost force, and should set all its springs a-work, is God; the great and universal Benefactor, from whom alone we re- ceived whatever we eitherhave, or are,and to whom we can possibly repay nothing but our praises, or (to speak more properly on this head, and according to the strict import of the word) our thanks- giving. Who-hath first given to God, (saith the great Apostle, in his usual figure) andit shall be recompensed unto him again 2 A gift, it seems, always requires arecompense: nay, butofhim, and through him, and tohim,are all things : of him,asthe Author; through him, as the Preserver and Governor; ¢o him, as the end and perfection of all things; to whom, therefore, (as it follows,) be glory for ever, Amen!’ I cannot much approve of the light in which our author places his argument in these paragraphs. There is something ee meta- physical and refined, in his deducing, 1n this manner, the obligation to thanksgiving, from the two faculties of tne mind, understanding and will. Though what he says be in itself just, yet the argument is not sufficiently plain and striking. Arguments In sermons, espe cially on subjects that so naturally and easily suggest them, on be palpable and popular ; should not be bane fone at appear far sought, but should directly address the heart ana feelings. Peer r it eee ee Re aU ee Te Ft Ree Re eg ot et ae ee bree ak Pe Pee ere ee ee ee tt Se Ree ek ere ek Te geen feces Perera te Terese Mscts See ued cs Testa tae cr Feea » >. eet S Des Sesetges 23 Pere S er eseqrers ca332 Se rTT at it te Sete) Tote eric sie ear ea te Se ee = Pe PF geek ae eee See fe eee ere er rir tho ene TAPE EERE ED RE LS |; +P eETs ty Seer errr st 2 Eee 7 Seat 334 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [xect. xxx. The preacher ought never to depart too far from the common ways of thinking and expressing himself. I am inclined to think, that this whole head might have been improved, if the author had taken up more obvious ground; had stated gratitude as one of the most natural principles of the human heart; had illustrated this, by show- ing how odious the opposite disposition is, and with what general consent men, in all ages, have agreed in hating and condemning the ungrateful; and then applying these reasonings to the present case, had placed, in a strong view, that entire corruption of moral senti- ment which it discovers, to be destitute of thankful emotions to- wards the Supreme Benefactor of mankind. As the most natural method of giving vent to grateful sentiments is, by external expres- sions of thanksgiving, he might then have answered the objection that is apt to occur, of the expression of our praise being insignifi- cant to the Almighty. But, by seeking to be too refined in his argu- ment, he has omitted some of the moSt striking and obvious consider- ations, and which, properly displayed, would have afforded as great a field for eloquence as the topics which he has chosen. He goes on: ‘Gratitude consists in an equal return of benefits, if we are able; of thanks, if we are not: which thanks, therefore, must rise always in proprrtion as the favours received are great, and the receiver inca- pable of making any other sort of requital. Now, since noman hath benefited God at any time, and yet every man, in each moment of his life, is continually benefited by him, what strong obligations must we needs be under to thank him? ’Tis true, our thanks are really as insignificant to him, as any other kind of return would be; in themselves, indeed, they are worthless; but his goodness has put a value upon them: he hath declared, he will accept them in lieu of the vast debt we owe; and after that, which is fittest for us, to dispute how they came to be taken as an equivalent, or to pay them? ‘It is, therefore, the voice of nature (as far as gratitude itself is so) that the good things we receive from above, should be sent back again thither in thanks and praises; as the rivers run into the sea, to the place (the ocean of beneficence) from whence the rivers come, thither should they return again.’ In these paragraphs, he has, indeed, touched some of the consi- derations which I mentioned. But he has only touched them; whereas, with advantage, they might have formed the main body of his argument. ‘ We have considered the duty absolutely ; we are now to compare it with others, and to see what rank it bears among them. And here we shall find, that, among all the acts of religion immediately addressed to God, this is much the noblest and most excellent ; as it must needs be, if what hath been laid down be allowed, that the end of man’s creation was to praise and glorify God; for that cannot but be the most noble and excellent act of any being which best an- swers the end and design of it. Other parts of devotion, such as confession and prayer, seem not originally to have been designed for man, nor man for them. They imply gwil¢ and want, with which ,LECT: XXX | SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 335 the state of innocence was not acquainted. Had man continued in that estate, his worship (like the devotions of angels) had been paid to Heaven in pure acts of thanksgiving ; and nothing had been left for him to do, beyond the enjoying the good things of life, as nature directed, and praising the God of nature who bestowed them. But being fallen from innocence and abundance; having contracted guilt, and forfeited his right to all sorts of mercies; prayer and confession became necessary, for a time, to retrieve the loss, and to restore him to that state wherein he should be able to live without them. These are fitted, therefore, for a lower dispensation; before which, in Pa- radise, there was nothing but praise, and after which, there shall -be nothing but that in Heaven. Our perfect state did at first, and will at last, consist in the performance of this duty; and herein, therefore, lies the excellence and the honour of our nature. ‘?Tis the same way of reasoning, by which the Apostle hath given the preference to charity, beyond faith, and hope, and every spirit- ual gift. Charity never faileth, saith he; meaning, that it is not a virtue useful only in this life, but will accompany us also into the next: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease ; whether there be knowledge, tt shall vanish away. These are gifts of a temporary advantage, and shall all perish in the using. For we know in part, and we pro- phesy in part: our present state is imperfect, and, therefore, what belongs to that, and only that, must be imperfect too. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. The argument of St. Paul, we see, which sets charity above the rest of christian graces, will give praise also the pre-eminence over all the parts of the christian worship; and we may conclude ow reasoning, therefore,as he doth his: 4nd now abideth confession, prayer, and praise, these three ; but the greatest of these is praise. The author, here, enters on the second part of his argument, the high rank which thanksgiving holds, when compared with other duties of religion. This he handles with much eloquence and beauty. His idea, that this was the original worship of man, be- fore his fall rendered other duties requisite, and shall continue to be his worship in Heaven, when the duties which are occasioned by a consciousness of guilt shall have no place, is solid and just; his ‘llustration of it is very happy; and the style extremely flowing and sweet. Seldom do we meet with any piece of composition in ser- mons, that has more merit than this head. ‘It is so, certainly, on other accounts, as well as this ; particular ly, as it is the most disinterested branch of our religious service; such as hath the most of God, and the least of ourselves in it, of any we pay; and therefore approaches the nearest of any as pure, and free, and perfect act of homage. For though a goo ie does not grow immediately worthless by being done pie as prospect of advantage, aS some have strangely imagine i yeti will be allowed, I suppose, that its being done, without the mix- ture of that end, or with as little of it as possible, recommends 3.5 pay veer es ts Serer T ry es eters Sete tr Seo Tease store tesrs Bs Rgeteesse PErsr iy eee ee a pg ha ea ee ake SPST As Pere eee eye ees PE ee REE ee a eye" aap er A $i Se secta este ete Tel ete tec (gis sistsieseeTeee* } : . ee tos eiegtaiets Pad Oi 1 ss* Pe fe we 8] MS eats test: = Pee oe er eT ata TTT ets) ee Tat at ti Sd _ D7 Fer ett rit cite grees 2 ee eRe eee Petras -JesetePatedsipiey ese peseseF 2 op di he ete ve oy pS Bae bh 3h vs 336 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [teor. xxx. it so much the more, and raises the price of it. Doth Job fear God for nought ? was an objection of Satan; which implied, that those duties were most valuable, where our own interest was the leas‘ aimed at: and God seems, by the commission he then gave Satan, to try experiments upon Jod, thus far to have allowed his plea. Now our requests for future, and even our acknowledgements of past mercies, centre purely in ourselves; our own interest is the di- rect aimofthem. But praise is a generous and unmercenary prin- ciple, which proposes no other end to itself, but to do, as is fit for a creature endowed with such faculties to do, towards the most per- fect and beneficent of beings; and to pay the willing tribute of ho- nour there, where the voice of reason directs us to pay it. God hath indeed annexed a blessing to the duty, and when we know this, we cannot choose, while we are performing the duty, but have some regard to the blessing which belongs to it. However, that is not the direct aim of our devotions, nor was it the first motive that stir- red us up to them. Had it been so, we should naturally have be- taken ourselves to prayer, and breathed out our desires in that form wherein they are most properly conveyed. ‘In short, praise is our most excellent work; a work common to the church triumphant and militant, and which lifts us up into com- munion and fellowship with angels. The matter about which it is conversant, is always the perfection of God’s nature; and the act itself is the perfection of ours.’ Our author’s second illustration is taken from praise being the most disinterested act of homage. This he explains justly and ele- gantly; though, perhaps, the consideration is rather too thin and refined for enforcing religious duties: as creatures, such as we, in approaching to the divine presence, can never be supposed to lay aside all consideration of our own wants and necessities; and cer- tainly are not required (as the author admits) to divest ourselves of such regards. ‘he concluding sentence of this head is elegant, and happily expressed. ‘I come now, in the last place, to set out some of its peculiar properties and advantages, which recommend it to the devout per- former. And, ‘1. It is the most pleasing part of our devotions: it proceeds al- ways froma lively, cheerful temper of mind, and it cherishes and im- proves what it proceeds from. For it is good to sing praises unto our God, (says one, whose experience, in this case, we may rely upon) for it is pleasant, and praise is comely. Petition and confes- sion are the language of the indigent and the guilty, the breathings of a sad and contrite spirit; Zs any afflicted ? let him pray: but is any merry 2 let him sing psalms. The most usual and natural way of men’s expressing the mirth of their hearts is in a song, and songs are the very language of praise; to the expressing of which they are in a peculiar manner appropriated, and are scarce of any other use in religion. Indeed, the whole composition of this duty is such, as throughout speaks ease and delight to the mind. It pro-LECT. xxx.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 337 ceeds from Jove and from thankfulness ; from Jove, the fountain of pleasure, the passion which gives every thing we do, or enjoy, its relish and agreeableness. From thankfulness, which involves in it the memory of past benefits, the actual presence of them to the mind, and the repeated enjoyment of them. And as is its principle, such is its end also: for it procureth quiet and ease to the mind, by doing somewhat towards satisfying that debt which it labours under; by delivering it to those thoughts of praise and gratitude, those ex- ultations it is so full of ; and which should grow uneasy and trouble- some toitif they were keptin. Ifthe thankful ‘refrained, it would be pain and grief’ to them: but then, then ‘is their soul satisfied as with marrow and fatness, when their mouth praiseth God with joy- ful lips.’ ’ In beginning this head of discourse, the expression which the au- thor uses, ‘ to set out some of its peculiar properties and advantages,’ would now be reckoned not so proper an expression, as ‘ to point out,’ or ‘to show.’ The first subdivision, concerning praise being the most pleasant part of devotion, is very just and well expressed, as far as it goes; but seems to me rather defective. Much more might have been said, upon the pleasure that accompanies such exalted acts of devotion. It was a cold thought, to dwell upon its disburdening the mind of a debt. The author should have insisted more upon the influence of praise and thanksgiving, in warming, gladdening, soothing the mind; lifting it above the world, to dwell among divine and eternal objects. He should have described the peace and joy which then expand the heart ; the relief which this exercise procures from the cares and agitations of life; the encouraging views of Pro- vidence to which it leads our attention: and the trust which it pro- motes in the divine mercy for the future, by the commemoration of benefits past. In short, this was the place for his pouring out a greater flow of devotional sentiments than what we here find. <2, It is another distinguishing property of divine pre'se,that it enlargeth the powers and capacities of our souls, turning them from low and little things, upon their greatest and noblest object, the divine nature, and employing them in the discovery and admiration of those several perfections that adorn it. We see what difference there is between man and man, such as there is hardly greater be- tween man and beast: and this proceeds chiefly from the different sphere of thought which they act in, and the different objects they converse with. The mindis essentially the same in the peasant and the prince ; the force of it naturally equal, in the untaught man, and the philosopher ; only the one of these is busied in mean aflairs, and within narrower bounds; the other exercises himself in things of weight and moment ; and this it is, that puts the wide distance be- tween them. Noble objects are to the mind, what the sunbeams are to’a bud or flower; they open and unfold, as it were, the leaves of it; put it upon exerting and spreading itself every way ; and call forth all those powers that lie hid and locked up in tt. The praise and admiration of God, therefore, bring this advantage along with 43 pen ro eee ee he ee TT st me a Be ee ee th ee Be StzSsiareey? bs Pe stgecsoes Ree err rere ore ee ee Be er Se a career o “4 Ps 4 P et oa ee a ae Fe i Pe ear oc ts tk ek eeeMerete ter ere cr otis te tees, eee eerie Sy State teases es aa ary be a te te te r. pieresretsteeseze ry tere tres? = oo ee ts ® os mn ry 338 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A. [xecr. xxx. it, that it sets our faculties upon their full stretch, and improves them to all the degrees of perfection of which they are capable.’ This head is just, well expressed, and to censure it might appear hypercritical. Some of the expressions, however, one would think might be amended. The simile, for instance, about the effects of the sunbeams upon the bud or flower, is pretty, but not correctly expressed. ‘They open and unfold, as it were, the leaves of it.’ If this is to be literally applied to the flower, the phrase, ‘as it were,’ is needless; if it is to be metaphorically understood,(which appears to be the case,) the ‘ leaves of the mind,’ is harsh language ; besides that, ‘ put it upon exerting itself,’ is rather a low expression. Nothing is more nice than to manage properly such similes and allusions, so as to preserve them perfectly correct, and at the same time to render the image lively: it might perhaps be amended in some such way as this: ‘ As the sunbeams open the bud, and unfold the leaves of a flower, noble objects have a like effect upon the mind: they expand and spread it, and call forth those powers that before lay hid and locked up in the soul.’ ‘3. It farther promotes in us an exquisite sense of God’s honour, and a high indignation of mind at every thing that openly profanes it. For what we value and delight in, we cannot with patience hear slighted or abused. Our own praises, which we are constantly put- ting up, will be a spur to us towards procuring and promoting the divine glory in every other instance; and will make us set our faces against all open and avowed impieties ; which, methinks, should be considered a little by such as would be thought not to be wanting in this duty, and yet are often silent under the foulest dishonours done to religion, and its great Author: for tamely to hear God’s name and worship vilified by others, is no very good argument that we have been used to honour and reverence him, in good earnest, ourselves.’ The thought here is well founded, though it is carelessly and loosely br ught out. The sentence, ‘ our own praises, which we are constantly putting up, will be a spur to us tewards procuring and . promoting the divine gloryin every other instance,’ is both negligent in language, and ambiguous in meaning, for ‘ our own praises,’ pro- perly signifies the praises of ourselves. Much better if he had said, ‘ Those devout praises which we constantly offer up to the Almighty, will naturally prompt us to promote the divine glory in every other instance.’ ‘4, It will, beyond all this, work in us a deep humility and con- sciousness of our own imperfections. Upon a frequent attention to God and his attributes, we shall easily discover our own weakness and emptiness; our swelling thoughts of ourselves will abate, and we shall see and feel that we are ‘ altogether lighter to be laid in the balance than vanity ;’ and this is a lesson which, to the greatest part of mankind, is, I think, very well worth learning. We are naturally presumptuous and vain; full of ourselves, and regardless of every thing besides, especially when some little outward privileges dis- tinguish us from the rest of mankind ; then, it is odds, but we look into ourselves with great degrees of complacency, ‘and are wiser’LECT. xxx.| SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY’S. 339 (and better every way) ‘in our own conceit, than seven men that can render a reason.’ Now nothing will contribute so much to the cure of this vanity, as a due attention to God’s excellences and perfections. By comparing these with those which we imagine belong to us, we shall learn, ‘not to think more highly of ourselves, than we ought to think of ourselves,’ but ‘to think soberly ;’ we shall find moresatis- faction in looking upwards, and humbling ourselves before our com- mon Creator, than in casting our eyes downward with scorn upon our fellow-creatures, and setting at nought any part of the work of his hands. The vast distance we are at from real and infinite worth, will astonish us so much, that we shall not be tempted to value our- selves upon these lesser degrees of pre-eminence, which custom or opinion, or some little accidental advantages, have given us over other men.’ Though the thought here also be just, yet a like deficiency in ele- gance and beauty appears. The phrase, ‘it is odds but we look into ourselves, with great degrees of complacency,’ is much too low and colloquial for a sermon—he might have said, ‘ we are likely,’ or ‘we are prone,’ to look into ourselves.—‘ Comparing these with those which we imagine belong to us,’ is also very careless style.— By comparing these with the virtues and abilities which we ascribe to ourselves, we shall learn’—would have been purer and more correct. ‘5. I shalt mention but one use of it more, and it is this: that a conscientious praise of God will keep us back from all false and mean praise, all fulsome and servile flatteries, such as are in use among men. Praising, as it is commonly managed, is nothing else but a trial of skill upon a man, how many good things we can possibly say of him. All the treasures of oratory are ransacked, and all the fine things that ever were said, are heaped together for his sake ; and no matter whether it belongs to him or not; so there be but enough on’t; which is one deplorable instance, among a thousand, of the baseness of human nature, of its small regard to truth and justice to right or wrong, to what is or is not to be praised. But he who hath a deep sense of the excellences of God upon his heart will make a god of nothing besides. He will give every one his just enco- mium, honour where honour is due, and as much as is due, because it is his duty to do so ;-but the honour of God will suffer him to go no farther. Which rule, if it had been observed, a neighbouring prince (who now, God be thanked, needs flattery a great deal more than ever he did,) would have wanted a great deal of that incense which hath been offered up to him by his adorers.’ This head appears scarcely to deserve any place among the more important topics that naturally presented themselves on this subject; at Jeast, it had much better have wanted the application which the author makes of his reasoning to the flatterers of Louis XIV.; and the thanks which he offers to God, for the affairs of that prince be- ing in so low a state, that he now needed flattery more than ever. ‘This political satire is altogether out of place, and unworthy of the subject. —s : Cne would be inclined to think, upon reviewing our author’s ar oC EE oe te ey & Sadie be kk catah rete eee ot ee oe ee ee eS Se be TSO ere ree oe pe a ek Bl oh a PLCS TES EDS be SeereigseseeStseatgcstecatesereSpates tarsege atasees He Snes ets? —_ Ey TYt Trost h tt ote eee oS pr gefrte. ei Porrer tet. te ta 2e ee Pek Sa CY ‘ Cy bd > nd . yA b A re ree PON ee ae ae ne oe Pe oe 25EF92¢S5= Pay Te ee Pe Se SE SS 2G Pt ee resita sess oat = Ss = 4 bi fe ti iY fy 73 k 340 CRITICAL EXAMINATION, &c. [necr. xxx. guments, that he has overlooked some topics, respecting the happy consequences of this duty, of fully as much importance as any that he has inserted. Particularly, he ought not to have omitted the happy tendency of praise and thanksgiving, to strengthen good dis- positions in the heart ; to promote love to God, and imitation of those perfections which we adore; and to infuse a spirit of ardour and zeal into the whole of religion, as the service of our Benefactor. These are consequences which naturally follow from the proper perform- ance of this duty and which ought not to have been omitted; as no opportunity should be lost of showing the good effect of de- votion on practical religion and moral virtue, and pointing out the necessary connexion of the one with the other. For certain- ly the great end of preaching is, to make men better in all the re- lations of life, and to promote that complete reformation of heart and conduct in which true christianity consists. Our author, how- ever, upon the whole, is not deficient in such views of religion; for, in his general strain of preaching, as he is extremely pious, so he is, at the same time, practical and moral. His summing up of the whole argument, in the next paragraph, is elegant and beautiful; and such concluding views of the sub- ject are frequently very proper and useful: * Upon these grounds doth the duty of praise stand, and these are the obligations that bind us to the performance of it. It is the end of our being, and the very rule and law of our nature; flowing from the two great fountains of human action, the understanding and the will, natu- rally, and almost necessarily, It is the most excellent part of our religious worship; enduring to eternity, after the rest shall be done away; and paid, even now, in the frankest manner, with the least regard to our own interest. It recommends itself to us by several peculiar properties and advantages; as it carries more pleasure in it than ail other kinds of devotion; as it enlarges and exalts the several powers of the mind; as it breeds in us an exquisite sense of God’s honour, and a willingness to promote it in the world; as it teaches us to be humble and lowly ourselves, and yet preserves us from base and sordid flattery, from bestowing mean and undue praises upon others.’ After this, our author addresses himself to two classes of men, the careless. and the profane. His address to the careless is beautiful and pathetic; that to the profane, is not so well executed, and is liable to some objection. Such addresses appear to me to be, on several occasions, very useful parts of a discourse. They prevailed much in the strain of preaching before the restoration; and perhaps, since that period, have been too much neglected. They afford an oppor- tunity of bringing home to the consciences of the audience, many things, which in the course of the sermon, were, perhaps, deliver- ed in the abstract, I shall not dwell on the conclusion of the sermon, which is chief- ly employed in observations on the posture oi public affairs at that time. Considered upon the whole, this discourse of Bishop Atter-LECT. xxxI.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 341 bury’s is both useful and beautiful ;-though I have ventured to point out some defects in it. Seldom, or never, can we expect to meet with a composition of any kind, which is absolutely perfect in all its parts : and when we take into account the difficulties which I before showed to attend the eloquence of the pulpit, we have, perhaps, less reason to look for perfection in a sermon, than in any other composition. LECTURE XXXI. one Ge CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS PARTS..... INTRODUCTION, DIVISION, NARRATION, AND EXPLICATION. I wAVE, in the four preceding lectures, considered what is pecu liar to each of the three great fields of public speaking, popular as- semblies, the bar, and the pulpit. Iam now to treat of what is com- mon to them all; of the conduct of a discourse or oration, in gene ral. The previous view which I have given of the distinguishing spirit and character of different kinds of public speaking, was necessary for the proper application of the rules which I am about to deliver; and as I proceed, I shall further point out, how far any of these rules may have-a particular respect to the bar, to the pulpit, or to popu- lar courts. On whatever subject any one intends to discourse, he will most commonly begin with some introduction, in order to prepare the minds of his hearers ; he will then state his subject, and explain the facts connected with it; he will employ arguments for establishing his own opinion, and overthrowing that of his antagonist; he may, perhaps, if there be room for it, endeavour to touch the passions of his audience; and after having said all he thinks proper, he will bring his discourse to a close by some peroration or conclusion. This being the natural train of speaking, the parts that compose a regular formal oration, are these six; first, the exordium or intro- duction; secondly, the state, and the division of the subject; third- ly, narration or explication ; fourthly, the reasoning or arguments; fifthly, the pathetic part ; and lastly, the conclusion. I do not mean that each of these must enter into every public discourse, or that they must enter always in this order. ‘lhere is no reason for being so formal on every occasion; nay, it wonld often bea fault, and would render a discourse pedantic and stiff. There may be many excellent discourses in public, where several of these parts are alto- gether wanting; where the speaker, for instance, uses no introduc- tion, but enters directly on his subject; where he has no occasion either to divide or explain; but simply reasons on one side of the question, and then finishes. But as the parts which I have mention- ed are the natural constituent parts of a regular oration; and as in every discourse whatever, some of them must be found, it is neces- oer. : = ert ty ae poe TS TPIS C SETIFIS = Pee ee ee Noe ak ko Be ee est gessy PR Or ier rete ote ee cee SSE x oe Per Ca ees Seer ater te Bece esse E32 So ue Me Tet od be okS27 aTe ee ys ee Pee yeti st tt tala Lt eee feta ivtaiarves Pee Po ate eee ee. parasite re osha tl seas 2 rs es ee. Ss ees Fs iodr se ebetei eds teasers sree a re ; ek od es ta eal pacers Se ee! See eo neg rae 342 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. [LECT xxx. sary to our present purpose, that I should treat of each of them dis- tinctly. I begin, of course, with the exordium or introduction. This is manifestly common to all the three kinds of public speaking. It is not arhetorical invention. It is founded upon nature, and suggest- ed by common sense. When one is going to counsel another; when he takes upon him to instruct, or to reprove, prudence will ge- nerally direct him not to do it abruptly, but to use some preparation ; to begin with somewhat that may incline the persons to whom he addresses himself, to Judge favourably of what he is about to say, and may dispose them to such a train of thought as will forward and assist the purpose which he hasin view. This is, or ought to be, the main scope of an introduction. . Accordingly, Cicero and Quin- tilian mention three ends, to one or other of which it shoula pe sub- servient: ‘Reddere auditores benevolos, attentos, dociles.? first, to conciliate the good will of the hearers; to render them benevolent, or well-affected to the speaker and to the subject. To- pics for this purpose may, in causes at the bar, be sometimes taken from the particular situation of the speaker himself, or of his client, or from the character or behaviour of his antagonists, contrasted with his own; on other occasions, from the nature of the subject, as closely connected with the interest of the hearers: and, in general, from the modesty and good intention with which the speaker enters upon his subject. The second end of an introduction is, to raise the attention of the hearers; which may be effected, by giving them some hints of the importance, dignity, or novelty of the subject ; or some favourable view of the clearness and precision with which we are to treat it; and of the brevity with which we are to dis- course. The third end, is to render the hearers docile, or open to persuasion ; for which end, we must begin with studying to remove any particular prepossessions they may have contracted against the cause, or side of the argument, which we espouse. Some one of these ends should be proposed by every introduc- tion. When there is no occasion for aiming at any of them; when we are already secure of the good will, the attention, and the docili- ty of the audience, as may often be the case, formal introductions may, without any prejudice, be omitted. And indeed, when they serve for no purpose but mere ostentation, they had, for the most part, better be omitted; unless as far as respect to the audience makes it decent, that a speaker should not break in upon them too abruptly, but by a short exordium prepare them for what he is going to say. Demosthenes’ introductions are always short and simple; Cicero’s are fuller and more artful. The ancient critics distinguished two kinds of introductions, which they call ‘principium,’ and ‘insinuatio? ‘Principium? is, where the orator plainly and directly professes his aim in speaking. ‘Insin- uatio’ is, where a larger compass must be taken: ; and where, presuming the disposition of the audience to be much against the orator, he must gradually reconcile them to hearing him, before he plainly dis- covers the point which he has in yiew.LECT. xxx1.] 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 greed ly received by the people. Cicero is speaking to the people; he had lately been made consul by their interest; and his first attempt is to make them reject this law. The subject was extremely 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 the expense of the public: and then terminates his exordium, with telling them that he is going to give his reasons for being of this opinion; but that if his reasons shall not satisfy them, he will give up his own 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 sntroduction is often found to be extremely difficult. Few parts of the discourse give the composer more trouble, or are attended with sore 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, ‘ Effloruisse penitus ex re de qua tum agitur.’* * «To have sprung up, of its own accord, from the matter which is under considera 130D." Sete? EP a tay er 0s Ge ea ee ee Pere Per rr ere ree te a re Pee eee ee ee ee eg ee Tee ih tia ere ejtgegtaterereittetecestas ae Pts Reet, P Phresh €2 e Zea Tass Sie rer tees = eer se th ts th eas visess eave rit at at th cS ee Eris sei eSede POeTs Fosers Je sosepr te, ere crear one re cao e Ss! each es Pee ow ces ae ged SST SSszt asses estat 344 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. [xecr. xxxr.. It is too common 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 otter treatise whatever: and, therefore, though elegant in them selves, they must be sonsidered 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. Itap- 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, tum denique id, quod primum est dicendum, postremum soleo cogitare, quo utar exordio. Nam si quando id primum invenire volui, a Me mihi occurrit nisi aut exile, aut nuga- torium, aut vulgare.’* After the mind has been once w armed and put in train, by close meditation on the subject, materials for the preface will then suggest themselves much more readily. In the second place, in an introduction, correctness should be 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 I 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. Forifat any time I have ediicavduven to invent an introduction first, nothing has ever occurred te me for that purpose, but what was trifling, nugatory, and vulgar.’LecT. xxx1.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 345 sion in all that follows. A correct plainness, and elegant simpli- city, is the proper character of an introduction: ‘ Ut videamur,’ says Quintilian, ‘ accuraté non eallidé dicere.’ In the third place, modesty is another character which it must carry. Ail appearances of modesty are favourable and prepossessing. If the orator set out with an air of arrogance and ostentation, the self- love and pride of the hearers will be presently awakened, and will follow him with a very suspicious eye throughout all his progress. His modesty should discover itself not only in his expressions at the beginning, but in his whole manner; in his looks, in his gestures, in the tone of his voice. Every auditory take in good part those marks of respect and awe, which are paid to them by one who addresses them. Indeed,the modesty of 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. ‘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- nions, 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 valendar 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 jn smoke expire ; But rises from a cloud of smoke to light, And pours his specious miracles to sight. Hor. Ars. Port. FRANGES. 44 ek Lt Pa Fa ee aa ae a oz ee ed ee kee ee PRS ee ee an Srereresere te Wate setIet Bes SSeS Le kt $ | Adar athe ee S ¥ Sole i. Ate ry has: CaP Be to ot . ‘ pgatatatatatase ss Ferecee ges cs 7? 7 eo ee eS er eee. est eertr setts pegetrtsirers st Bets teria seeetefat ede ee eed as Sa Cree ee es fark ea 846 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. [LeEctT. xxx1 In the fourth place, an introduction should usually be carried on 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, ina popular assembly, inflames the speaker, and makes him break forth with unusual warmth. Ei- ther of these will justify what is called the Exordium ad abrupto. Thus the appearance of Catiline in the senate renders the vehement beginning of Cicero’s first oration against him very natural and proper: ‘Quousque tandem, Catilina, abutére 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 itis 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 upon their second appearance. The impression intended to be made by any capital thought, is always made with the preatest 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 of a 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, particular 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 never 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- ples, 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 gratize exordio est, quod ab actione diverse partis materiam trahit; hoc ipso, quod non compositum domi, sed ibi atque é re natum; et facilitate famam ingenil auget; et facie simplicis, sumptique é proximo sermonis, fidem quoque acquirit; adeo, ut etiamsi relique scripta atque ela- borata sint, tamen videatur tota extemporalis oratio, cujus initium 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 of being tedious. 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 order, is the proposition, or enunciation of the subject; concerning which there is nothing to be said, but that it should be as clear and * ¢An introduction, which is founded upon the pleading of the opposite party, is extremely graceful ; for this reason, that it appears not to have been meditated at home, but to have taken rise from the business, and to have been composed on the spot. Hence, it gives to the speaker the reputation of a quick invention, and adds weight likewise to his discourse, as artless and unlaboured : insomuch, that though 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.’ eat Me) ee} : 3 Peay z Pa i > % We Bs ke * oa rey > Pe # ; oe SES ry rh Pee Tea i $o>t heres iresa*wres tebe PE ee secon pane yore ue bg elegigege areca eTeBe ste sedge ees Se rates es b , are Fe tel SE Fi eeTerer pe et oo a 2 2S ETP St eL LL See 7) . vere eee eto e ere sdesssegose{rTe: shoes ee. Te be $48 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. [necr. xxxr 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. Ido 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 cf divisions in other discourses, ‘ Reficit audientem certo sin-LECT. XXXI. | DIVISION OF A DISCOURSE. RkG gularum partium fine; non aliter quam facientibus iter, multum detrahunt fatigationis notata spatia inscriptis lapidibus : nam et ex- hausti laboris 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 1s 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 nature; 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, ‘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 spht 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 1p on the road, serve to diminish the traveller’s tatigue For we are always pleased with seeing our labour begin to lessen ; and, by calculating how much remains, are stirred up to finish our task more cheerfully. reegige mee anode nae ey aoe eee ee eT Pe rae Es eee tt 5 Pe eee ee BP ok Sok a Be Sees $3% a a eer se Fer eer eee rere tere > sae a Beth Pe cy ia Osa Sfegeest ate thIsistewse NSIS i as Ta athe Ma Finns ee i xtPi ete ‘eo. ir = es tse eee Te eee eS PET TaT Li ti ti ds the oe hte ei ee = 7 Peeve See stiri tor Segoe ee. ESSE F< SESE So: tedeveieses FO GoTo re Peyest SAcresr el sty od hi PSSo Ao RS Pate Paes: ATLAgoataFows sets sss FesewelMe Pek ; . AGE EBCEE MES BS da 350 NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. [zecr. xxxr 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. Ina sermon, there may be from three to five 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. Jt 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, ‘Tt 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; seeondly, 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 words: ‘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 | 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. Quintilian very properly directs, ‘Effugienda in hac precipue parte, omnis calliditatis suspicio; neque enim se usquam magis custodit judex,LecT. xxx1.] NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 351 quam cum narrat orator: nihil tum videatur fictum; nihil sollic- 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 of 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 lhke- 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 farzity excursion to the country, under which it was impossible a STAVES ee Peer Te eee ee ee ee a St ee ee Pe eS es ee ee ee ere s2FetiTTeES2 Aes et a 352 NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. [recr. xxx1 by a great train of women-servants, and boys.’ He goes on describ- ing the rencounter that followed; Clodius’s servants attacking those of Milo, 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 tv surround him; and then con- cludes his narration with a very delicate and happy stroke. He does not say in plain words, that Milo’s servants killed Clodius, but that ‘in the midst of the tumult, Milo’s servants, without the or- ders, without the knowledge, without the presence of their master, did what every master would have wished his servants, in like con- juncture, to have done.’* In sermons, where there is seldom any occasion for narration, explication of the subject to be discoursed on, comes 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- eution of which much depends for all that comes afterwards in the way of persuasion. The great art of succeeding in it, is to meditate profoundly on the subject, so as to be able to place it in a clear and strong point of view. Consider what light other passages of scrip- ture throw upon it; consider whether it be a subject nearly related to some other from which it is proper to distinguish it ; consider whether it can be illustrated to advantage by comparing it with, or 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, clm in senatu fuisset eo die, quoad senatus dimissus est, domum venit, Calceos et vestimenta mutavit ; paulisper, dum se uxor (ut fit) comparat, commoratus est; deinde profectus est, id temporis clim jam Clodius, si quidem eo die Romam vens turus erat, redire potuisset. Obviam fit ei Clodius expeditus, in equo, nulla rheda, nul- lis impedimentis, nullis Grecis comitibus, ut solebat; sine uxore, quod nunquam feve, Cum hic insidiator, qui iter illud ad cedem faciendam appardsset, cum uxore veheretur in rneda, penulatus, vulgi magno impedimento, ac muliébri et delicato ancillarum pu- erorumque comitatu. Fit obviam Clodio ante fundum ejus, hora fere undecima, aut non multo secus. Statim complures cum telis in hunc faciunt de loco superiore impetum : adversi rhedarium occidunt ; cdm autem hic 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 interfectum puta- rent, cedere incipiunt ejus servos qui post erant ; ex quibus qui animo fideli in domi- num et presen‘i fierunt, partim occisi sunt ; partim cum ad rhedam pugnare viderent, et domino succurrere prohiberentur, Milonemque occisum etiam ex ipso Clodio audi rent, etita esse putarent, fecerunt id servi Milonis,(dicam enim non derivandi criminis causa, sed ut factum est) neque imperante, neque sciente, neque presente domino, quod suos quisque servos in tali re facere voluisset.’( 353 ) LECTURE XXXII. ee 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 enly 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 many different subjects, which the orator was directed to consult, in order to find out materials for his speech. They had their intrinsic and extrinsic loci; some loci, that were common to all the different kinds of public speaking, and some that were peculiar to each. The common or general loci, were such as genus and species, cause and effect, antecedents and consequents, likeness and contrariety, 3 E 45 re ES ERE ese: E EL eee ee pee te Se PES Fe Ba ao Re oe ae le eh oe Se a cbs 323% ag Peres ae a Sits8ee See epene ene P eee ee hh Ee tere eee er Pee Peter e rest erst str ete er ore a serie RRR PeteRende gs TT ae oe eke ee ed +. oa s 3 Ce 4a) C Cet © <2on — —— : ee Peet ee TSS rr ee Pere error ere rt retest sss rte See e ee py ATT Atti ish ha es ate e ie ae ed Soh oe: Ec 352 AES 1 pt: ee Re: STE = tb ES ee Pe eae ee a et ok Bo ae he eres 3 tS de Se See os RP Re Ce A s : ea Peres ease dia fk Bat Pee Pe eS ee eee te ##34 Pes pace: we A Fae! gigeyesigrastst prargiessisieici ie 354 THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART [tecr. xxxtt. 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.’ Asin demonstrative orations, for instance, the heads from which any one could be decried or praised; his birth, his country, his education, his kindred, the qualities of his body, the qualities of his mind, the 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 superficial knowledge of his subject. But such discourse could be no other than trivial. What is truly solid and persuasive, must be drawn ‘ex visceribus cause,’ 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 discourse, 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 conductLECT. 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 havea 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 isa 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 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; sovas they shall not justle and embarrass one another, but give mutual aid; and bear with the fairest and fullest direction on the pointin 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 one or other of these three things; that something is true ; that it is morally right or fit; or that it is profitable and good. These make the three great subjects of discussion among mankind; truth, duty, and interest. But the arguments directed towards any one of them are generically distinct; and he who blends them all under one To eee < tS SS ee he Leet be ~* =" Peerrers tee ory i os = Sone Lapses ssa Se Se Oise TA Sess SE Sr Pe Sts) Fr ges PS Me Ng ak Sek Re ee aoe ak a ERE sacle FS aerate et oe esighstaesereite ss PERS PETE RE ee Bh aes ee Pere Serer eras oti ae oe keke Ste eed ee EY T £ aa &b resa es Tit atte tt te tt % e ae ae Seer er ee aes Tt ae ee ee ed as FSSS=TESST EZ 356 THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART [recr. xxxiz 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 { 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 of strength in arguments, the general rule is to advance in the way ot climax, ‘ut augeatur semper, et increscat oratio.? This especially is to be the course, when the speaker has a clear cause, and 1s 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 apart from each other, the better. Each can then bear to be brought out by itself, placed in its full light, amplified and rested upon. But when our arguments are doubtful, and only of the presumptive kind, it is safer to throw them together in a crowd, and to run them into one another: ‘ut que sunt natura imbecilla,’ as Quintilian speaks, ‘mutuo auxilio sus- tineantur;’ that though infirm of themselves, they may serve mutu- ally to prop each other. He gives a good example, in the case of one tvho had been accused of murdering a relation, to whom he tas heir. Direct proof was wanting; but, ‘you expected a successicn, and a great succession; you were in distrest circumstances; you were pushed to the utmost by your creditors; you had offended your re- lation, who had made you his heir; you knew that he was just then intending to alter his will; no time was to be lost. Each of theseLECT. XXXIt.] OF A DISCOURSE. 357 particulars by itself,’ says the author, < is inconclusive; but wnen they are assembled in one groupe, they have effect.’ Of the distinct amplification of one persuasive argument, we have a most beautiful example, in Cicero’s oration for Milo. The argument is taken from a circumstance of time. Milo was candi- date for the consulship; and Clodius was killed a few days before the election. Heasks, if any one could believe that Milo would be mad enough at such a critical time, by a most odious assassination, to alienate from himself the favour of people, whose suffrages he was so anxiously courting? This argument, the moment it is suggest- ed, appears to have considerable weight. But it was not enough, simply to suggest it; it could bear to be dwelt upon, and brought out into full light. The orator, therefore, draws a just and striking picture of that solicitous attention with which candidates, at sucha season, always found it necessary to cultivate the good opinion of the people. ‘Quo tempore,’ says he, ‘(Scio enim quam timida sit ambitio, quantaque et quam solicita, cupiditas consulatis) omnia, non modo que reprehendi palam, sed etiam que obscure cogitari possunt, timemus. Rumorem, fabulam fictam es falsam, perhorres- cimus; ora omnium atque oculos intuemur. Nihil enim est tam tenerum, tam aut fragile aut flexible, quam voluntas erga nos sen- susque Civium, qui non modo improbitati irascuntur candidatorum, sed etiam in recte factis seepe fastidiunt.? From all which he most justly concludes, ‘Hune diem igitur Campi, speratum atque exop- tatum, sibi proponens Milo, cruentis manibus, scelus atque facinus pre se ferens, ad illa centuriarum auspicia veniebat? Quam hoe in illo minimum credibile!’* But though such amplifications as this be extremely beautiful, I must add a caution, In the fourth place,against extending arguments too far, and mul- tiplying them too much. This serves rather to render a cause sus- pected, than to give it weight. An unnecessary multiplicity of ar- guments both burdens the memory, and detracts from the weight of that conviction which a few well chosen arguments carry. It is to be observed too, that in the amplification of arguments, a diffuse and spreading method, beyond the bounds of reasonable illustra- tion, is always enfeebling. It takes off greatly from that ‘vis et acumen,’ which should be the distinguishing character of the argu- mentative part of a discourse. When a speaker dwells long ona favourite argument, and seeks to turn it into every possible light, * ¢Well do I know to what length the timidity goes of such as are candidates for public offices, and how many anxious cares and attentions, a canvass for the consul- ship necessarily carries along with it. On such an occasion, we are afraid not only of what we may openly be reproached with, but of what others may think of us in secret. The slightest rumour, the most improbable tale that can be devised to our prejudice, alarms and disconcerts us. We study the countenance, and the looks, of all around us: for nothing is so delicate, so frail, uncertain, as the public favour. Our fel- low-citizens not only are justly offended with the vices of candidates, but even on oc casions of meritorious actions, are apt to conceive capricious disgusts. Is there then the least credibility, that Milo, after having so long fixed his attention on the impor- tant and wished-for day of election, would dare to have any thoughts of presenting himself before the august assembly of the people, as a murderer and assassin, with his hands imbrued in blood ?” pete tesa? Se? as = sceeetee pera tetsseere ri ngedtasess eee ee er kh = So ere er OS ee PES Perr Gh ee hee gtetereteiets = roa ies Pat E othe oe a ae ee Cgeiesisis “4d "4.wceStetekaiiz = eres tee ese eed . eet ye ToT eee ee te et oti L EOS toe Sh eet heehee ke erry) Pe eS eS Perea See at SSS err sts —— 7 = Se Pee we esPyesstsstesyse Speresisasbsee bets tedeseseeess fePorseeste reese et eiers + te eas % fo oe | bias - i Se ht ik hclebeteh eho SPStdset ap Sscre pees Parra ee ea eo Tet eeekeas = Brace Eel ele ses esses eiehrts peta eee ee Peres oe SSpeTEsesegarsy Pe oa) “S73 358 THE PATHETIC PART [LECT. xxx1a it almost always happens, that, fatigued with the effort, he loses the spirit with which he set out; and concludes with feebleness what he began with force. There is a proper temperance in rea- soning, as there is in other parts of a discourse. After due attention given to the proper arrangement of argu- ments, what is next requisite for their success is, to express them in such a style, and to deliver them in such a manner, as shall give them full force. On these heads I must refer the reader to the 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- tori¢, 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 tome doubtful. It is not, I am afraid, any philosophical knowledge of the passions, that can confer this talent. We mustbe indebted for it to 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 remain, at the same time, a cold and dry speaker. The use of rules and instrucLECT. XXXII. | 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 most writers assign the pa- thetic 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 1s 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 a pathetic part. Now all the arguments you produce to show me, Pak hh ee eae eee ean eee eee de ake si os oe Sa bang Presa oer ELSASSSESSS te oe ll Pee ee oe ek ed nt te a dope tes Pe ae Takes Pee See ee ec ee ee ee obiie jure Sedeiete sty 82: FEAF TE Ee eae ke bs cs tk Bead eS ptetectres Sa ‘ tee ono Leores | ‘/~se- | J ik tak 8 2 > PSS ETaehe res 4 oa Feet eT aT Att SS te bad et eRe tats eae PeSS erie ser estc the ee deh tale died te te vu en) OSS te ee a be ele) baer aren an ae ee Ps eae reg 360 THE PATHETIC PART [LECT. XXXII why itis 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 with 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 often 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, ‘ Phantasiz’ or ‘ Visiones,’ strong pictures of the distress * ‘Quid enim aliud est cause ut lugentes, in recenti dolore, disertissime quéedam ex- clamare videantur; et ira nonunquam in indoctis quoque eloquentiam faciat ; quam quod illis inest vis mentis, et veritas ipsa Morum ? quare in iis que verisimilia esse vo- lumus, simus ipsi similes eorum qui vere patiunter affectibus: et a tali animo proficis~ catur oratio qualem facere judicem volet. Afficiamur antequam afficere conemur.’ Quint. Lib. &Imerexxxn..| OF A DISCOURSE. 361 or indignities which they had suffered, whose cause he had to plead, and for whom he was to interest his hearers; dwelling upon these, and putting himself in their situation, till he was affected by a pas- sion similar to that which the persons themselves had felt.* To this method he attributes all the success he ever had in public speaking; and there can be no doubt, that whatever tends to in- crease an orator’s sensibility, will add greatly to his pathetic powers. In the fifth place, it is necessary to attend to the proper language of the passions. We should observe in what manner any one ex- presses himself, who is under the power of a real and a strong pas- sion; and we shall always find his language unaffected and simple. It may be animated, indeed, with bold and strong figures, but it will have no ornament or finery. He is not at leisure to follow out the play of imagination. His mind being wholly seized by one object which has heated it, he has no other aim, but to represent that, in all its circumstances, as strongly as he feels it. This must be the style of the orator, when he would be pathetic; and this will be his style, if he speaks from real feeling; bold, ardent, simple. No sort of description will then succeed, but what is written ‘fervente ca- lamo.’ If he stay till he can work up his style, and polish and adorn it, he will infallibly cool his own ardour, and then he will touch the heart no more. His composition will become frigid; it will be the language of one who describes, but who does not feel. We must take notice, that there is a great difference between painting to the imagination, and painting to the heart. The one may be done cool- ly, and at leisure; the other must always be rapid and ardent. In the former, art and labour may be suffered to appear ; in the latter, no effect can follow, unless it seem to be the work of nature only. In the sixth place, avoid interweaving any thing ofa foreign na- ture with the pathetic part of a discourse. Beware of all digres- sions, which may interrupt or turn aside the natural course of the passion, when once it begins to rise and swell. Sacrifice all beau- ties, however bright and showy, which would divert the mind from the principal object, and which would amuse the imagination, rather than touch the heart. Hence comparisons are always dan- gerous, and generally quite improper, in the midst of passion. Be- ware even of reasoning unseasonably ; or, at least, of carrying ona long and subtile train of reasoning, on occasions when the princi- pal aim is to excite warm ersotions. In the last place, never attempt prolonging the pathetic too much. Warm emotions are too violent to be lasting. Study the proper — * boss SexeSsIelone te Ea eee Pore es eo oe eS os oe re hs Mt os = cad a es 364 CONCLUSION OF A DISCOURSE. [rzcr. xxxu. -nflaming him more, it, in truth, cools his passion. So dangerous it is to give scope to a flowery imagination, when one intends to make a strong and passionate impression. No other part of the discourse remains now to be treated of, except the peroration, or conclusion. Concerning this, it is needless to say much, because it must vary considerably, according to the strain of the preceding discourse. Sometimes, the whole pathetic part comes in most properly at the peroration. Sometimes, when the dis- course has been entirely argumentative, it is fit to conclude with summing up the arguments, placing them in one view, and leaving the impression of them, full and strong, on the mind of the audi- ence. For the great rule of a conclusion, and what nature cbvious- ly suggests, is, to place that laston which we choose that the strength of our cause should rest. In sermons, inferences from what has been said, make a common conclusion. With regard to these, care should be taken not only that they rise naturally, but, (what is less commonly attended to) that they should so much agree with the strain of sentiment through- out the discourse, as not to break the unity of the sermon. For in ferences, how justly soever they may be deduced from the doc- trine of the text, yet have a bad effect, if, at the conclusion of a discourse, they introduce a subject altogether new, and turn off our attention from the main object to which the preacher may have directed our thoughts. They appear, in this case, like excrescences jutting out from the body, which form an unnatural addition to Mm © and tend to enfeeble the impression which the composition, as a whole, is calculated to make. The most eloquent ofthe French, perhaps, indeed,of all modern orators, Bossuet, bishop of Meaux, terminates in a very moving manner, his funeral oration onthe great prince of Condé, with this return upon himself, and his old age: ‘ Accept, O prince! these last efforts of a voice which you once well knew. With you, all my funeral discourses are now to end. Instead of deploring the death of others, henceforth, it shall be my study to learn from you, how my own may be blessed. Happy, if warned by those gray hairs, of the account which I must soon give of my ministry, 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- ** Agréez ces derniers efforts d’une voix que vous fut connue. Vous mettrez fin atous ces discours. Au lien de déplorer la mort des autres, grand prince! dore- navant je veux apprendre de vous, d 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, les restes d’une yorx qui tombe, & d’une ardeur quis’éteint.’. These are the last sentences of that oration: but the whole of the peroration, from that passage, ‘Venez peuples, venez maintenant &c. though it is too long for insertion, is a great master-piece of pathetic eloquence. :LECT. xxx1m1,] PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 365 tinuing to hover round and round the conclusion, till they become heartily tired of us. We should endeavour to go off with a good grace not to end witha languishing and drawling sentence ; but to close with dignity and spirit, that we may leave the minds of the hearers warm; and dismiss them with a favourable impression of the subject, and of the speaker. LECTURE XXXII. —— PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. Havine 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 ? he answered, delivery ; and being ask- ed, what was the second? and afterwards, what was the third? 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 an- cients take so much notice of; for, beyond doubt, nothing is of more importance. 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 other's 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 ery, unaccompanied by words, convey to others more forcible ideas, and rouses within them stronger passions, than can be com- municated by the most e.equent discourse. The signification of our sentiments, made by tones and gestures, has this advantage above that made by words, that it is the language of nature. It is that method of interpreting our mind, which nature has dictated to all, and which is understood by all; whereas, words are only arbitrary, conventional symbols of our ideas, and, by consequence, must make a more feeble impression. So true is this, that to render words fully significant, they must, almost in every case, receive some aid from ag acetates Sa at ferro: oe ee ee Sa ee | Peete ee re ess os Foros ie hen Seeded ee PS 7e3 Brera rerere te Rest e asta Mess Sritetgz ar Madea ot bs <; Sceet i tee te ee tse eoE St ea ee fers ae ae td S ~ 2s 7 eee ete tte eee. ee 2 te ee ESE See vib eR eS toe fe | eee | me re Sr fo Cet 5 tk pole ace rik crersctttt er sess eS ae S27 es i a ee Petis Pee aPzties 2] ee a iets 366 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [tecr. xxx 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 Calli- 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: Pleads he in earnest ?—Look upon his face, His eyes do drop no tears ; his prayers are jest ; His words come from his mouth; ours, from our breast ; He prays but faintly, and would be denied ; We pray with heart and soul. But I believe it is needless to say any more, in order to show the high importance of a good delivery. 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 in 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 Jowone. The high, is that which he uses in calling aloud to some one at a dis- tance. The low is, when he approaches toa 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, tc 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 eee ere a oe eee SFztS3 *z> Sst eee Tee re Pe oe re Uterterare reese SSPeze retire a Pa = a 374 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY § [xect. xxxrr mony of the sentences, prompt, almost necessarily, a modulation of voice more rounded, and bordering more upon music, than conver- sationadmits. This gives rise to whatis 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 isa 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- ey; 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.” {t 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 thisrespect, 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 muchin earnest. Itistherefore unnatural in a public speaker, it is inconsistent with that earnestness and seriousness which he ought to show in all affairs of moment, to remain quite unmoved in his outward appearance; and to let the words drop from his mouth, without any expression of meaning, or warmth in his gesture. The fundamental rule, ss 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 : Ile ululat ; rudit hic ; (fari si talia dignum est) Non hominem vox ulla sonat ratione loguentem. Joannes Lucas, de Gestu et Voce, lib. I. Paris, 1676.LECT. XXxIT:] 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 certain peculiarities of manner which distinguish every individual. A public speaker must take that manner which is most natural to himself. For it is here just as in tones, It is not the business of a speaker to form to himself a certain set of motions and gestures, which he thinks most becoming and agreeable, and to practise these in public, without their having any correspondence to the man ner which is natural to him in private. Huis 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. or 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 resticulation, 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 done little else but translate them. I am not of opinion that such rules, delivered either by the voice, or on paper, can be of much use, unless persons saw them exemplified before their eyes.* * 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 1s generally to be chosen ; standing firm, so as to have the fullest and freest command of all his motions ; any inclination which is used, should be forwards towards the hearers, which is a 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 parucular emotion is ex- pressed, a serious and manly look is always the best. The eyes should never be fixed close on any one object, but move easily round the 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 whether one gesticulates with one or with both hands, it is an important rule, that all his motions should be free andeasy. Narrow and straitened movements are generally ungracefu. for which reason, motions made with the hands, are directed to piocg eh oe ae der, rather than from the elbow. Perpendicular movements foo with the hangs, thes otetevetes be 6308545 : = ee om oe Fe Sagar oe were Pe CPS Ser oe ee ‘we feee® a SP eS TwE et ety ee Steer a ere Te eS oe eg shila geyesedesstes = a re ks agar f = eGtataegtarereTereteBecestse ae ie 5 tbs . ES . Ly esos a 453oe Raeat . s ae Raz ZEQTSS TT Ts Eterege. eres aie Prrss PTE LIAL LL ASE La bad eae Se ea ; “ oy ™ Se Capua tePeis et sits sesePePa Peds i oser sso geseyeTe ele eset te een den te-p- is Rf ee Sle pa ee EB ES La tree ele 3 : F os at ei] i ee es | FetePebe sess itctesshere ese sos ee so ee oe ri a : ik de ee at erEyerpereseiez —T rs s 4 bf = pa Lon ha Au r ren re 376 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. [ecr. xxx. I shall only add further on this head, that in order to succeed well jn 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 i iS SO ee to disconcert a speaker, both as to what he is to say, and as to his manner of saying it. I cannot conclude, w ithout an earnest audi 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 ple ease; 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. ‘T’o attain any extremely correct, and per- fectly graceful delivery, is what few can expect; so many natural talents being requisite toconcur in forming it. But to attain what as to the effect is very little inferior, a forcible and persuasive man- ner, 1s within the power of most persons; if they will only uniearn ‘alse and corrupt habits; ifthey will allow themselves to follow na- cure, 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 ina 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 affeeta- tion willappear. 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,in 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 3 ‘use all gently,’ says he, ‘and in the very torrent and tempest of passion, acquire a temperance that may give it smoothness.’(Sig) LECTURE XXXIV. MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. I wAveE now treated fully of the different kinds of public speak- ing, of the composition, and of the delivery of a discourse. Before I finish this subject, it may be of use to suggest some things con- cerning the proper means of improvement in the art of public spea- king, and the most necessary studies tor that purpose. To be an eloquent speaker, in the proper sense of the word, is far from being either a common or an easy attainment. Indeed, to compose a florid harangue on some popular topic, and to deliver it so as to amuse an audience, isa matter not very difficult. But though some praise be due to this, yet the idea which I have endeavoured to give of eloquence, is much higher. It is a great exertion of the haman powers. It is the art of being persuasive and commanding; the art, not of pleasing the fancy merely, but of speaking both to the understanding and to the heart; of interesting the hearers in such a degree, as to seize and carry them along with us; and to leave them with a deep and strong impression of what they have heard. How many talents, natural and acquired, must concur for carrying this to perfection? A strong, lively, and warm imagination; quick sensibility of heart, joined with solid judgment, good sense, and pre- sence of mind; all improved by great and long attention to style and composition; and supported also by the exterior, yet important qualifications of a graceful manner, a presence not ungainly, and a fall and tunable voice. How little reason to wonder, that a perfect and accomplished orator, should be one of the characters that is most rarely to be found? Let us not despair, however. Between mediocrity and perfec- tion, there is a very wide interval. There are many intermediate spaces, which may be filled up with honour; and the more rare and difficult that complete perfection is, the greater 1s the honour of approaching to it, though we do not fully attain it. The number of orators who stand in the highest class is, perhaps, smaller than the number of poets who are foremost in poetic fame; but the study of oratory has this advantage above that of poetry, that, in poetry, one must be an eminently good performer, or he is not supportable: Mediocribus esse poétis ‘ - BA - Non homines, non Dii, non concesscre columne. In eloquence this does not hold. There, one may possess a mode- rate station with dignity. Eloquence admits of a great many dif- ferent forms; plain and simple, as well as high and pathetic ; and a genius that cannot reach the latter, may shine with much reputa- tion and usefulness in the former. * For God and man, and letter’d post denies, That poets ever are of middling size, FRANCIS. 48 Fe KsFUTeBeSvoe se hee siete FS y% e Be tea Pe ed 2 eS a ee reer jageiwseces rere Se SR eee eer a teeae S§TRtE Setar eTeTeretetece Weetrr Cy: ef peseseese es - . ste e bite f =_* Pe+i a cial SUIS sSE Riese. . we reer FOr a re ad oT + tg cI Torts vee _ cS Petes etatal € i oes etuse Se Sere Sere see eto ee ee a 4 eS es ¢s% PS St: Slides ePeta Pegs tecerss Fee eee es Sees eee ke =r es SeEdeeeasescessse ae aR Ee an ae ee pee ere #58 ee = eeeectee es eee tr rE te Ce re Y a) ro ro @ em a tame sia ~~. -. 7 "1 parerere 378 MEANS OF IMPROVING [inom XxX xy Whether nature or art contribute most to form an orator, is a tri- fling inquiry. In all attainments whatever, nature must be the prime agent. She must bestow the original talents. She must sow the seeds; but culture is requisite for bringing these seeds to perfec- tion. Nature must always have done somewhat: but a great deal will always be left to be done by art. This is certain, that study and discipline are more necessary for the improvement of natural genius, in oratory, than they are in poetry. What I mean is, that though poetry be capable of receiving assistance from critical art, yet a poet, without any aid from art, by the force of genius alone, can rise higher than a public speaker can do, who has never given atten- tion to the rules of style, composition, and delivery. Homer form- ed himself; Demosthenes and Cicero were formed by the help of much labour, and of many assistances derived from the labour of others. After these preliminary observations, let us proceed to the main design of this lecture; to treat of the means to be used for improving in eloquence. In the first place, what stands highest in the order of means, is personal character znd disposition. In order to be a truly eloquent or persuasive speaker, nothing is more necessary than to be a vir- tuousman. ‘This was a favourite position among the ancient rhe- toricians: ‘ Non posse oratorem esse nisi virum bonum.’ To find any such connexion between virtue and one of the highest liberal arts, must give pleasure; and it can, I think, be clearly shown, that this is not a mere topic of declamation, but that the connexion here al- leged, is undoubtedly founded in truth and reason. For, consider first, whether any thing contribute more to per- suasion, than the opinion which we entertain of the probity, disin- terestedness, candour, and other good moral qualities of the person who endeavours to persuade? These give weight and force to every thing which he utters; nay, they add a beauty to it; they dis- pose us to listen with attention and pleasure; and create a secret partiality in favour of that side which he espouses. Whereas, if we entertain a suspicion of craft and disingenuity, of a corrupt, or a base mind, in the speaker, his eloquence loses all its real effect. It may entertain and amuse; but it is viewed as artifice, as trick, as the play only of speech; and viewed in this light, whom can it per suade? We can even read a book with more pleasure, when we think favourably of its author; but when we have the living speak- er before our eyes, addressing us personally on some subject of im- portance, the opinion we entertain of his character must have a much more powerful effect. But, lest it should be said, that this relates only to the character of virtue, which one may maintain, without being at the bottom a truly wortny man, I must observe farther, that besides the weight which it adds to character, real virtue operates also, in other ways, to the advantage of eloquence. First, nothing is so favourable as virtue to the prosecution of ho- nourable studies. It prompts a generous emulation to excel; it inures to industry; it leaves the mind vacant and free, master of it-LECT. XXXIV. | IN ELOQUENCE. 379 self, disencumbered of those bad passions and disengaged from those mean pursuits, which have ever been found the greatest enemies to true proficiency. Quintilian has touched this consideration very properly ; ‘ Quod siagrorum nimia cura, et sollicitior rei familiaris di- ligentia, et venandi voluptas, et dati spectaculis dies, multum studiis auferunt, quid putamus facturas cupiditatem, avaritiam, invidiam? Nihil enim est tam oecupatum, tam multiforme, tot ac tam variis af- fectibus concisum, atque laceratum, quam mala ac improba mens. Quis inter hee, literis, aut ulli bone arti, locus? Non hercle magis quam frugibus, in terra sentibus ac rubis occupata.’* But, besides this consideration, there is another of still higher importance, though I am not sure of its being attended to as much as it deserves; namely, that from the fountain of real and genuine virtue, are drawn those sentiments which will ever be most power- ful in affecting the hearts of others. Bad as the world is, nothing has so great and universal a command over the minds of men as vir- tue. No kind of language is so generally understood, and so pow- erfully felt, as the native language of worthy and virtuous feelings. He only, therefore, who possesses these full and strong, can speak properly, and in its own language, to the heart. On all great sub- jects and occasions, there is a dignity, there is an energy in noble sentiments, which is overcoming and irresistible. They give an ar dour and a flame to one’s discourse, which seldom fails to kindle a like flame in those who hear; and which, more than any other cause, bestows on eloquence that power, for which it is famed, of seizing and transporting an audience. Here, art and imitation will not avail. An assumed character conveys none of this power- ful warmth. It is only a native and unaffected glow of feeling, which can transmit the emction to others. Hence, the most re nowned orators, such as Cicero and Demosthenes, were no less dis- tinguished for some of the high virtues, as public spirit and zeal for their country, than for eloquence. Beyond doubt, to these vir- tues their eloquence owed much of its effect; and those orations of theirs, in which there breathes most of the virtuous and magnani- mous spirit, are those which have most attracted the admiration of ages. Nothing, therefore, is more necessary for those who would excel in any of the higher kinds of oratory, than to cultivate habits of the several virtues, and to refine and improve all their moral feelings. Whenever these become dead, or callous, they may be assured, that, on every great occasion, they will speak with less power, and less success. The sentiments and dispositions particularly requisite for *<1f the management of an estate, if anxious attention to domestic economy, a passion for hunting, or whole days given up to public places of amusements, consume so much time that is due to study, how much greater waste must be occasioned by licentious desires, avarice, or envy? Nothing is so much hurried and agitated, so contradictory to itself, or so violently torn and shattered by conflicting passions, as a bad heart. Amidst the distractions which it produces, what room Js left for the cultivation of letters, or the pursuit of any honourable art ? No more, assuredly, than there is for the growth of corn in a Geld that is overrun with thorns and brambles. eee SUR SSFeD SH ee si she SI px I re ae et Rak Se err ree Ore Ce ae ee ee ee se steeee as £ 3 ; Oe ae Pee Peet ee ETF ES PSS ETS oe Y FS ee ke ce eS ne ad Pee ed See oe pe et oe eae ne tp hss eo bi a iSeer st yest . STC Te ey ey ters Saeatetetalayesetereit taba 7 a = Steet ese etait el eS Ee eee A wt Ra ee esedelat ads seaey eso geseysTey eke ede ia ey bb 2 Sy TLBPVET 342: are cree a tS eS he ia oo a co Se ee ee ae es FEtS= Sere P ry ere 380 MEANS OF IMPROVING [LECT. XXXIV them to cultivate, are the following: The love of justice and order and indignation at insolence and oppression; the love of honesty and truth, and detestation of fraud, meanness, and corruption; mag- hanimity of spirit; the love of liberty, of their country, and the public; zeal for all great and noble designs, and reverence for all worthy and heroic characters. A cold and skeptical turn of mind, is extremely adverse to eloquence ; and no less so, is that cavilling disposition which takes pleasure in depreciating what is great, and ridiculing what is generally admired. Sucha disposition bespeaks _one not very likely to excel in any thing: but least of all in oratory. A. true orator should bea person of generous sentiments, of warm feelings, and a mind turned towards the admiration of all those great and high objects, which mankind are naturally formed to ad- mire. Joined with the manly virtues, he should, at the same time, possess strong and tender sensibility to all the injuries, distresses, and sorrows of his fellow-creatures; a heart that can easily relent; that can readily enter into the circumstances of others, and can make their case his own. A proper mixture of courage, and of modesty, must also be studied by every public speaker. Modesty is essen- tial; it is always and justly supposed to be a concomitant of merit; and every appearance of it is winning and prepossessing. But modesty ought not to run into excessive timidity. Eivery public speaker should be able to rest somewhat on himself; and to assume that air, not of self-complacency, but of firmness, which bespeaks a consciousness of his being thoroughly persuaded of the truth or justice of what he delivers; a circumstance of no small consequence for making an impression on those who hear. Next to moral qualifications, what in the second place is most ne- cessary to an orator, is a fund of knowledge. Much is this inculcat- ed by Cicero and Quintilian: ‘Quod omnibus disciplinis et artibus debet esse instructus orator.’ By which they mean, that he ought to have what we call, a liberal education; and to be formed by a regular study of philosophy, and the polite arts. We must never forget that, Scribendi recte, sapere est & principium & fons. Good sense and knowledge, are the foundation of all good speaking. There is no art that can teach one to be eloquent, in any sphere, without a sufficient acquaintance with what belongs to that sphere; or if there were an art that made such pretensions, it would be mere quackery, like the pretensions of the sophists of old to teach their disciples to speak for and against every subject; and would be deservedly exploded by all wise men., Attention to style, to com: position, and all the arts of speech, can only assist an orator in set: ting off to advantage, the stock of materials which he possesses ; but the stock, the materials themselves, must be brought from other quarters than from rhetoric. He who is to plead at the bar, must make himself thoroughly master of the knowledge of the law; of all the learning and experience that can be useful in his profession, for supporting a cause or convincing a judge. He who is to speakLECT. XXXIV. | IN ELOQUENCE. 381 from the pulpit, must apply himself closely to the study of divini ty, of practical religion, of morals, of human nature; that he may be rich in all the topics, both of instruction and of persuasion. Te who would fit himself for being a member of the supreme council of the nation, or of any public assembly, must be thoroughly acquainted with the business that belongs to such assembly; he must study the forms of court, the course of procedure; and must attend minutely to all the facts that may be the subject of question or deliberation. Besides the knowledge that properly belongs to his profession, a public speaker, if ever he expects to be eminent, must make himself acquainted, as far as his necessary occupations allow, with the general circle of politeliterature. The study of poetry may be useful to him, on many occasions, for embellishing his style, for suggesting lively images, or agreeable allusions. The study of his- tory may be still more useful to him; as the knowledge of facts, of eminent characters, and of the course of human affairs, finds place on many occasions.* There are few great occasions of public speak- ing in which one will not derive assistance from cultivated taste, and extensive knowledge. They will often yield him materials for pro- per ornament; sometimes for argument and realuse. eae retro o ree. te ok oe et es rh eee et qa t ge.cis re ests ca mepeer ano Prue aT it eet tad _> 2 ects tise st sth the eee Sridtrsesebeleiedeteiersee gsr stiste ees Pe ee ee hab et Se Sl t.eree te 43 ere. i To : ee tLe hee hi hee 2ERcearsIS 2 = Les et] a] 382 MEANS OF IMPROVING [LECT. XXXIV firing his mind with the object he has in view, will dispose him to relish every labour which the means require. It was this that cha racterized the great men of antiquity; it is this, which must distin guish the moderns who would-tread in their steps. This honoura- ble enthusiasm, it is highly necessary for such as are studying ora- tory to cultivate. If youth wants it, manhood will flag miserably. In the fourth place, attention to the best models will contribute ereatly towards improvement. Every one who speaks, or writes, should, indeed, endeavour to have somewhat that is his own, that is peculiar to himself, and that characterizes his composition and style. Slavish imitation depresses genius, or rather betrays the want of it. But withal, there is no genius so original, but may be profited and assisted by the aid of proper examples, in style, composition, and delivery. They always open some new ideas; they serve to enlarge and correct our own. They quicken the current of thought, and excite emulation. Much, indeed, will depend on the right choice of models which we purpose to imitate; and supposing them rightly chosen, a farther care is requisite, of not being seduced by a blind, universal admira- tion. For, ‘decipit exemplar, vitiis imitabile.’ Even in the most finished models we can select, it must not be forgotten, that there are always some things improper for imitation. We should study to acquire a just conception of the peculiar characteristic beauties of any writer, or public speaker, and imitate these only. One ought never to attach himself too closely to any single model; for he who does so, is almost sure of being seduced into a faulty and affected imitation. His business should be, to draw from several the proper ideas of perfection. Living examples of public speaking, in any kind, it will not be expected that I should here point out. As to the writers, ancient and modern, from whom benefit may be deriy- ed in forming composition and style, I have spoken so much of them in former lectures, that it is needless to repeat what I have said of their virtues and defects. I own it is to be regretted, that the English language, in which there is much good writing, furnishes us, however, with but very few recorded examples of eloquent pub- lic speaking. Among the French there are more. Saurin, Bour- daloue, Flechier, Massillon, particularly the last, are eminent for the eloquence of the pulpit. But the most nervous and sublime of all their orators is Bossuet, the famous Bishop of Meaux; in whose Oraisons Funébres, there is a high spirit of oratory.* Some of Fontenelle’s harangues to the French Academy, are elegant and agreeable. And at the bar, the printed pleadings of Cochin and D’Aguesseau, are highly extolled by the late French critics. There 1s one observation which it is of importance to make, * The criticism which Mr. Crevier, author of Rhétorique Francoise, passes upon these writers whom I have named, is, ‘Bossuet est grande, mais inegal ; Fléchier est plus egal, mais moins elevé, & souvent trop fleuri: Bourdaloue est solide & judiceux, mais il neglige les graces legéics: Massillon est plus riche en images, mais moins fort en raisonnement. Je souhaite donc, que l’orateur ne se contente dans l’imitation dun seul de ces modéles, mais qu’il tache de réunir en lui toutes :eurs differentes vertus.’ Vol. Il. chap. derniéreLECT. xy] IN ELOQUENCE. 383 concerning imitation of the style of any favourite author, when we would carry his style into public speaking. We must at- tend to a very material distinction, between written and spoken language. These are, in truth, two different manners of com- municating ideas. A book that is to be read, requires one sort of style: a man that is to speak, must use another. In books, we look for correctness, precision, all redundancies pruned, all repetitions avoided, language completely polished. Speaking ad- mits a more easy, copious style, and less fettered by rule; repe- titions may often be necessary, parentheses may sometimes be graceful, the same thought must often be placed in different views; as the hearers can catch it only from the mouth of the speaker, and have not the advantage, as in reading a book, of turning back again, and of dwelling on what they do not fully comprehend. Hence the style of many good authors, would appear stiff, affected, and even obscure, if, by too close an imitation, we should transfer it to a popular oration. How awkward, for example, would Lord Shaftesbury’s sentences sound in the mouth of a public speaker? Some kinds of public discourse, it is true, such as that of the pulpit, where more exact preparation, and more studied style are admitted, would bear such a manner better than others, which are expected to approach more to extemporaneous speaking. But still there is, in general, so much difference between speaking, and composition designed only to be read, as should guard us against a close and injudicious imitation. Some authors there are, whose manner of writing approaches nearer to the style of speaking than others; and who, therefore, can be imitated with more safety. In this class, among the English authors, are Dean Swift, and Lord Bolingbroke. The Dean, throughout all his writings, in the midst of much correctness main- tains the easy natural manner of an unaffected speaker ; and this is one of his chief excellencies. Lord Bolingbroke’s style is more splendid, and more declamatory than Dean Swift’s ; but still it is the style of one who speaks, or rather who harangues. Indeed, all his political writings (for it is to them only, and not to his philo- sophical ones, that this observation can be applied,) carry much more the appearance of one declaiming with warmth in a great assembly, than of one writing in a closet, in order to be read by others. They have all the copiousness, the fervour, the inculcating method that is allowable and graceful in an orator; perhaps too much of it for a writer: and it is to be regretted, as I have formerly observed, that the matter contained in them, should have been so trivial or so false ; for, from the manner and style, considerable ad- vantage might be reaped. In the fifth place, besides attention to the best models, frequent exercise both in composing and speaking, will be admitted to be a necessary mean of improvement. That sort of composition 1s, doubtless, most useful, which relates to the profession, or kind of public speaking, to which persons addict themselves. This, they should keep ever in their eye, and be gradually inuring them- Tete Reese rece mee toe eee re cg Nig fae a ee ed acesetatesete? J sete eee ee tk ote bee be ee PeN err erp ete ee eS ee Fes = oe a7 eESRtaeStetetereret eMac essa Nes Ss LA s ry 4 etd as Tot eek S &eee Pee Fe eet 2¢ Thee ges 3 rrtree tt eta ; es esr tt | fserieatir igs Sete Seco a et et ee ee oe oe oe ae Pe eS te Pe ere ee eee 384 MEANS OF IMPROVING {LECT. XXXIV selves to it. But let me also advise them, not to allow themselves ‘n negligent composition of any kind. He who has it for his aim to write or to speak correctly, should, in the most trivial kind of composition, in writing a letter, nay, even in common discourse, study to acquit himself with propriety. I do notat all mean, that he is never to write, or to speak a word, but in elaborate and arti- ficial language. This would form him to a stiffness and affectation, worse, by ten thousand degrees, than the greatest negligence. But it is to be observed, that there is, in every thing, a manner which is becoming, and has propriety; and opposite to it, there is a clumsy and faulty performance of the same thing. The becom- ing manner is very often the most light, and seemingly careless manner; but it requires taste and attention to seize the just idea of it. That idea, when acquired, we should keep in our eye, and form upon it whatever we write or say. Exercises of speaking have always been’ recommended to stu- dents, in order that they may prepare themselves for speaking in public, and on real business. The meetings, or societies, into which they sometimes form themselves for this purpose, are lau- dable institutions; and, under proper conduct, may serve many valuable purposes. They are favourable to knowledge and study, by giving ‘occasion to inquiries, concerning those subjects which are made the ground of discussion. They produce emulation; and gradually inure those who are concerned in them, to. some- what that resembles a public assembly. They accustom them to know their own powers, and to acquire a command of themselves in speaking; and what is, perhaps, the greatest advantage of all, they give them a facility and fluency of expression, and assist them in procuring that “Copia verborum,’? which can be acquired by no other means but frequent exercise in speaking. But the meetings which I have now in my eye, are to be under- stood of those academical associations, where a moderate number of young gentlemen, who are carrying on their studies, and are connected by some aflinity in the future pursuits which they have in view, assemble privately, in order to improve one another, and to prepare themselves for those public exhibitions which may afterwards fall to their lot. As for those public and promiscuous societies, in which multitudes are brought together, who are often of low stations and occupations, who are joined by no common bond of union, except an absurd rage for public speaking, and have no other object in view, but to make a show of their supposed talents, they are institutions not merely of an useless, but of an hurtful nature. They are in great hazard of proving seminaries of licentiousness, petulance, faction, and folly. They mislead those who, in their own callings, might be useful members of society, into fantastic plans of making a figure on subjects, which divert their attention from their proper business, and are widely remote from their sphere in life. Even. the allowable meetings into which students of oratory form themselves, stand in need of direction, in order to renderLECT. XXXIV. | IN ELOQUENCE. 385 en oe were subjects of discourse be improperly cho- ee ne y maintain extravagant or indecent topics ; if they g nemselves in loose and flimsy declamation, which has no foundation in good sense; or accustem themselves to speak pertly on all subjects without due preparation, they may improve oF another in petulance, but in no other thing; and will infal- ibly form themselves to a very faulty and vicious taste in speaking. I would, therefore, advise all who are members of such societies, in the first place, to attend to the choice of their subjects; that they be useful and manly, either formed on the course of their studies, one something that has relation to morals and taste, to action and life. In the second place, I would advise them to be temperate in the practice of speaking ; not to speak 1oo often, nor on subjects where they are ignorant or unripe; but only, when they have proper materials for a discourse, and have digested and thought of the subject beforehand. In the third place, when they do speak, they should study always to keep good sense and persua- sion in view, rather than an ostentation of eloquence; and for this end I would, in the fourth place, repeat the advice which I gave in a formerlecture, that they should always choose that side of the ques- tion to which, in their own judgment, they are most inclined, as the right and the true side; and defend it by such arguments as seem to them most solid. By these means, they will take the best method of forming themselves gradually to a manly, correct, and persuasive manner of speaking. It now only remains to inquire, of what use may the study of critical and rhetorical writers be, for improving one in the prac- tice of eloquence? These are certainly not to be neglected ; and yet I dare not say that much is to be expected from them. For professed writers on public speaking, we must look chiefly among the ancients. In modern times, for reasons which were be- fore given, popular eloquence, as an art, has never been very much the object of study; it has not the same powerful effects among us that ithad in more democratical states ; and therefore has not been cultivated with the same care. Among the moderns, though there has been a great deal of good criticism on the different kinds of writing, yet much has not been attempted on the subject of elo- quence, or public discourse ; and what has been given usofthat kind, has been drawn mostly from the ancients. Such a writer as Joannes Gerardus Vossius, who has gathered into one heap of ponderous lum- ber, all the trifling, as well as the useful things, that are to be found in the Greek and Roman writers, is enough to disgust one with the study of eloquence. Among the French, there has been more at- tempted, on this subject, than among the English. The Bishop of Cambray’s writings on eloquence, I before mentioned with honour; Rollin, Batteux, Crevier, Gibert, and several other French critics,have also written on oratory; butthoughsome of them may be useful, none of them are so considerable as to deserve particular recommendation. It is to the original ancient writers that we must chiefly have re- 49 ce alae gee Raabe ak ah be ae ee a pe i Be et a tree PU ea hed on hr ee ee at Ra ae a ee ones FSET PRET E eerreer eter eter eet a COTTeearoe e oe be tee Rees So haters bere te a - a Pra S gezsts Saa3%: & hell7 7% os Sree estL ra -s ae > _ eee et $a he tr? oy tata eee be Tet at at ok. 7 * peESi Taser st tec Sear ea Pere eer Ser Tet eer Pi ea tecet Tose de shageeeee Seta tats ett Te eee es re po eee S5SSF=S S542 patSF= ePatEtTPielP is isetitclezepetesci ceri BPETiSE er STs. 386 MEANS OF IMPROVING,&c. = [LectT. xxxIv course; and it is areproach to any one, whose profession calls him to speak in public, to be unacquainted with them. In all the an- cient rhetorical writers, there is, indeed, this defect, that they are too systematical, as I formerly showed; they aim at doing too much; at reducing rhetoric to a complete and perfect art, which may even supply invention with materials on every subject ; insomuch, that one would imagine they expected to form an orator by rule, in as mechanical a manner as one would form a carpenter. Whereas, all that can, in truth, be done, is to give openings for assisting and enlightening taste, and for pointing out to genius the course it ought to hold. Aristotle laid the foundation for all that was afterwards written on the subject. That amazing and comprehensive genius, which does honour to human nature, and which gave light unto so many differ- ent sciences, has investigated the principles of rhetorie with great penetration. Aristotle appears to have been the first who took rhe- toric out of the hands of sophists, and introduced reasoning and good sense into the art. Some of the profoundest things which have been written on the passions and manners of men, are to be found in his Treatise on Rhetoric ; though in this, as in all his wri- tings, his great brevity often renders him obscure. Succeeding Greek rhetoricians, most of whom are now lost, improved on the foundation which Aristotle had laid. Two of them still remain, Demetrius Phalereus, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus; both write on the construction of sentences, and deserve to be perused; espe- cially Dionysius, who is a very accurate and judicious critic. I need scarcely recommend the rhetorical writings of Cicero. Whatever, on the subject of eloquence, comes from so great an ora- tor, must be worthy of attention. His most considerable work on that subject is that De Oratore, in three books. None of Cicero’s writings are more highly finished than this treatise. The dialogue is polite; the characters well supported, and the conduct of the whole is beautiful and agreeable. It is, indeed, full of digressions, and his rules and observations may be thought sometimes too vague and general. Useful things, however, may be learned from it; and it is no small benefit to be made acquainted with Cicero’s own idea of eloquence. The ‘Orator ad M. Brutum,’ is also a considerable treatise: and, in general, throughout Cicero’s rhetorical works there run those high and sublime ideas of eloquence, which are fitted both for forming a just taste, and for creating that enthusiasm for the art, which is of the greatest consequence for excelling in it. But of all the ancient writers on the subject of oratory, the most instructive, and most useful, is Quintilian. I know few books which abound more with good sense, and discover a greater degree of just and accurate taste, than Quintilian’s institutions. Almost all the principles of good criticism are to be found in them. He has digest- ed into excellent order all the ancient ideas concerning rhetoric; and is, at the same time, himself an eloquent writer. Though some parts of his work contain too much of the technical and arti- ficial system then in vogue, and for that reason may be dry and te.LECT. xxxv.] COMPARATIVE MERIT, &c. 387 dious, yet I would not advise the omitting to read any part of his institutions. To pleaders at the bar, even these technical parts may prove of much use. Seldom has any person, of more sound and distinct judgment than Quintilian, applied himself to the study of the art of oratory. LECTURE XXXV. == ies COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS....HISTORICAL WRITING. J HAVE now finished that part of the course which respected ora- tory, or public speaking, and which, as far as the subject allowed, I have endeavoured to form into some sort of system. It remains, that I enter on the consideration of the most distinguished kinds of com- position, both in prose and verse, and point out the principles of eriticism relating to them. This part of the work might easily be drawn out to a great length; but I am sensible that critical discus- sions, when they are pursued too far, become both trifling and te- dious. I shall study, therefore, to avoid unnecessary prolixity; and hope, at the same time, to omit nothing that is very material under the several heads. I shall follow the same method here which I have all along pur- sued, and without which, these lectures could not be entitled to any attention; that is, I shall freely deliver my own opinion on every subject; regarding authority no farther, than as it appears to me founded on good sense and reason. In former lectures, as I have of- ten quoted several of the ancient classics for their beauties, so I have also, sometimes, pointed out their defects. Hereafter, I shall have occasion to do the same, when treating of their writings under more general heads. It may he fit, that, before I proceed farther, I make some observations on the comparative merit of the ancients and the moderns; in order that we may be able to ascertain, rationally, upon what foundation that deference rests, which has so generally been paid to the ancients. These observations are the more neces- sary, as this subject has given rise to no small controversy in the republic of letters; and they may, with propriety, be made now, as they will serve to throw light on some things I have afterwards to deliver, concerning different kinds of composition. It is a remarkable phenomenon, and one which has often employ ed the speculations of curious men, that writers and artists, most distinguished for their parts and genius, have generally appeared in considerable numbers at a time. Some ages have been remarkably barren in them; while, at other periods, nature seems to have exert- ed herself with a more than ordinary effort, and to have poured them forth with a profuse fertility. Various reasons have been as- signed for this. Some of the moral causes lie obvious; such as fa- PSE SE er ee eet rts pa eeS Eee Pee Peps eoeses Seer ey tt Pen ee ht ee he Pree res er ee ee pees a eT Pe ek ie ok Aa oe Ze A Pee, Prete te ee: eee acre ee Te ONS t a re RSET ot pe ae oe oe eee ed aSPS CTP SEGAL EC TAD Perse ti ac vie tiye3s? eee ate te = Everts titi tees ese e Elia p-sacadeha Peds seieiegesese§s+2e, elo CY 4 ee ’ TED Bo | 7 - Se Sih i > ee Teste. Soe ts Ree - PS ss oa ss ree crt ee es] ats Seer y terest Sip eet thorn ie cee ver eres fe Cie te ae ee reg , ech de 388 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE [LEOT. XXxv. vourable circumstances of government and of manners; encourage- ment from great men; emulation excited among the men of genius. But as these have been thought inadequate to the whole effect, phy- sical causes have been also assigned; and the Abbé du Bos, in his reflections on poetry and painting, has collected a great many obser- vations on the influence which the air, the climate, and other such natural causes, may be supposed to have upon genius. But what- ever the causes be, the fact is certain, that there have been certain periods or ages of the world much more distinguished than others, for the extraordinary productions of genius. Learned men have marked out four of these happy ages. The first is the Grecian age, which commenced near the time of the Pe- loponnesian war, and extended till the time of Alexander the Great; within which period, we have Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, A‘schines, Ly- sias, Isocrates, Pindar, Adschylus, Euripides, Sophocles, Aristopha- nes, Menander, Anacreon, Theocritus, Lysippus, Apelles, Phidias, Praxiteles. ‘The second, is the Roman age, included nearly within the days of Julius Czsar and Augustus ; affording us Catullus, Lu- eretius, Terence, Virgil, Horace, Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, Phe- drus, Czesar, Cicero, Livy, Sallust, Varro, and Vitruvius. The third age is, that of the restoration of learning, under the Popes Julius II. and Leo X.; when flourished Ariosto, Tasso, Sannazarius, Vida, Machiavel, Guicciardini, Davila, Erasmus, Paul Jovius, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian. The fourth comprehends the age of Louis the XIV. and Queen Anne, when flourished in France, Corneille, Racine, De Retz, Moliere, Boileau, Fontaine, Baptiste, Rousseau, Bossuet, Fenelon, Bourdaloue, Pascail, Malebranche, Massillon, Bruyere, Bayle, Fontenelle, Vertot; and in England, Dryden, Pope, Addison, Prior, Swift, Parnell, Arbuthnot, Congreve, Otway, Young, Rowe, Atterbury, Shaftesbury, Bolingbroke, Tillotson, Temple, Bayle, Locke, Newton, Clarke. When we speak comparatively of the ancients and the moderns, we generally mean by the ancients, such as lived in the two first of these periods, including also one or two who lived more early, as Homer in particular; and by the moderns, those who flourished in the two last of these ages, incJuding also the eminent writers down to our own times. Any comparison between these two classes of writers, must be necessarily vague and loose, as they comprehend so many, and of such different kinds and degrees of genius. But the comparison is generally made to turn by those who are fond of making it, upon two or three of the most distinguished in each class. With much heat it was agitated in France, between Boileau and Mad. Dacier, on the one hand for the ancients, and Perrault and La Motte, on the other, for the moderns; and it was carried to ex- tremes on both sides. To this day, among men of taste and letters, we find a leaning to one or otherside. A few reflections may throw light upon the subject, and enable us to discern upon what grounds we are to rest our judgment in this controversy. If any one, at this day, in the eighteenth century, takes upon himLect. xxxv.] ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS. 389 to decry the ancient classics; if he pretends to have discovered that Homer and Virgil are poets of inconsiderable merit, and that Demosthenes and Cicero are not great orators, we may boldly ven- ture to tell such a man, that he is come too late with his discovery The reputation of such writers is established upon a foundation too solid, to be now shaken by any arguments whatever; for it is esta- blished upon that almost universal taste of mankind, proved and tri- ed throughout the succession of so many ages. Imperfections in their works he may indeed point out; passages that are faulty he may show; for where is the human work that is perfect? But, if he attempts to discredit their works in general, or to prove that the re- putation which they have gained is on the whole, unjust, there is an argument against him, which is equal to full demonstration. He must be in the wrong; for human natureis against him. In matters of taste, such as poetry and oratory, to whom does the appeal lie? where is the standard? and where the authority of the last decision? where is it to be looked for, but, as I formerly showed, in those feelings and sentiments that are found, on the most extensive exami- nation, to be the common sentiments and feelings of men? These have been fully consulted on this head. The public, the unprejudic- ed public, has been tried and appealed to for many centuries, and throughout almost all civilized nations. It has pronounced its ver- dict: it has given its sanction to those writers; and from this tribu- nal there lies no farther appeal. In matters of mere reasoning, the world may be long inan error; and may be convinced of the error by stronger reasonings, when produced. Positions that depend upon science, upon knowledge, and matters of fact, may be overturned according as science and knowledge are enlarged, and new matiers of fact are brought to light. For this reason, a system of philosophy receives no sufficient sanc- tion from its antiquity, or long currency. The world, as it grows older, may be justly expected to become, if not wiser, at least more knowing; and supposing it doubtful, whether Aristotle, or Newton, were the greater genius, yet Newton’s philosophy may prevail over Aristotle’s, by means of later discoveries, to which Aristotle was a stranger. But nothing of this kind holds as to matters of taste ; which depend not on the progress of knowledge and science, but upon sentiment and feeling. It is in vain to think of undeceiving mankind, with respect to errors committed here, as in philosophy. For the universal feeling of mankind is the natural feeling; and be- cause it is the natural, it is for that reason, the right feeling. The reputation of the Hiad and the A£neid must therefore stand upon sure ground, because it has stood so long; though that of the Aris: totelian or Platonic philosophy, every one is at liberty to call in question. ; It is in vain also to allege, that the reputation of the ancient po- ets, and orators, is owing to authority, to pedantry, and to the preju- dices of education, transmitted from age to age. These, it is true, are the authors put into our hands at schools and colleges, and by that means we have now an early prepossession in their favour ; but Hee FeSO SEreS Pe Tee este FS ie] ete Lees cS ee Ry ot es eee Pert ers FRESE Per eer rete tee er ae Sy Brdye TERIA CEES betes ae Seletes 7 Sar Lr cs os od ot Oa Peer ae ae eS ove Chasett S$e Es 7a) A +. Fe gnOhe ses es+ este TUPI Tats Le Ot li te ehies te Ri ghia See ber es Esa Tee tiki ti iS eee Cee b S - co - : oI . . 2 + - o @. > aie Pes ie: Ce det hte ee te Sistedesesresitiz ees its tigt teria iia te a. aa eres Tele tre tees i etre syste Ps 7 a tks 3 390 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE [nacr. xxxv how came they to gain the possession of colleges and schools? Plain- ly, by the high fame which these had among their own cotemporaries. For the Greek and Latin were not always dead languages. There was a time when Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, were viewed in the same light as we now view Dryden, Pope, and Addison. It is not to commentators and universities, that the classics are indebted for their fame. They became classics and school-books, in con- sequence of the high admiration which was paid them by the best judges in their own country and nation. As early as the days of Juvenal, who wrote under the reign of Domitian, we find Virgil and Horace become the standard beoks in the education of youth. Quot stabant pueri, cum totus decolor esset Flaccus, & hereret nigro fuligo Maroni.* Sat. 7, From this general principle, then, of the reputation of the great ancient classics being so early, so lasting, so universal among all the most polished nations, we may justly and boldly infer that their re- putation cannot be wholly unjust, but must have a solid foundation in the merit of their writings. _ Letus guard, however, against a blind and implicit veneration for the ancients in every thing. I have opened the general principle, which must go far in instituting a fair comparison between them and the moderns. Whatever superiority the ancients may have had in point of genius, yet in all arts, where the natural progress of know- ledge has had room to produce any considerable effects, the mo- derns cannot but have some advantage. ‘The world may, in certain respects, be considered as a person, who must needs gain somewhat by advancing in years. Its improvements have not, I confess, been always in proportion to the centuries that have passed over it; for, during the course of some ages, it has sunk as into a total lethargy. Yet, when roused from that lethargy, it has generally been able to avail itself more or less, of former discoveries. At intervals, there arose some happy genius, who could both improve on what had gone before, and invent something new. With the advantage ofa proper stock of materials, an inferior genius can make greater pro- gress, than a much superior one, to whom these materials are want- ing. Hence, in natural philosophy, astronomy, chemistry, and other sciences that depend on an extensive knowledge and observation of facts, modern philosophers have an unquestionable superiority over the ancient. Iam inclined also to think, that in matters of pure reasoning, there is more precision among the moderns, than in some instances there was among the ancients; owing perhaps to a more extensive literary intercourse, which has improved and sharpened the faculties of men. In some studies too, that relate to taste and * ¢ Then thou art bound to smell, on either hand, As many stinking lamps, as school-boys stand, When Horace could not read in his own sully’d book, And Virgil’s sacred page was all besmear’d with smoke.” DrypenLEcT. xxxv.] ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS. Sor fine writing, which is our object, the progress of society must, in equity, be admitted to have given ussome advantages. For instance, in history; there is certainly more political knowledge in several European nations at present, than there was in ancient Greece and Rome. Weare better acquainted with the nature of government, because we have seen it under a greater variety of forms and revolu- tions. The world is more laid open than it was in former times; commerce is greatly enlarged ; more countries are civilized; posts are every where established ; intercourse is become more easy ; and the knowledge of facts, by consequence, more attainable. All these are great advantages to historians; of which, in some measure, as I shall afterward show, they have availed themselves. In the more complex kinds of poetry, likewise, we may have gained somewhat, perhaps,in point of regularity and accuracy. In dramatic perform- ances, haying the advantage of the ancient models, we may be allowed to have made some improvements in the variety of the characters, the conduct of the plot, attention to probability, and to decorums. These seem to me the chief points of superiority we can plead above the ancients. Neither do they extend as far as might be imagined at first view. For if the strength of genius be on one side, it will go far, in works of taste at least, to counterbalance all the artificial improvements which can be made by greater know- ledge and correctness. ‘T’o return to our comparison of the age of the world with that of a man; it may be said, not altogether with- out reason, that if the advancing age of the world bring along with it more science and more refinement, there belong, however, to its earlier periods, more vigour, more fire, more enthusiasm of genius. This appears indeed to form the characteristical difference between the ancient poets, orators, and historians, compared with the modern. Among the ancients, we find higher conceptions, greater simplicity, more original fancy. Among the moderns, sometimes more art and correctness, but feebler exertions of genius. But, though this be in general a mark of distinction between the ancients and moderns, yet, like all general observations, it must be understood with some exceptions; for in point of poetical fire and original genius, Milton and Shakspeare are inferior to no poets Inany age. It is proper to observe, that there were some circumstances in ancient times, very favourable to those uncommon efforts of genius which were then exerted. Learning was a much more rare and singular attainment in the earlier ages, than it is at present. It was not to schools and universities that the persons applied, who sought to distinguish themselves. They had not this easy recourse. They travelled for their improvement into distant countries, to Egypt, and to the East. They inquired after all the monuments of learning there. They conversed with priests, philosophers, poets, with ali who had acquired any distinguished fame. They returned to their own country full of the discoveries which they had made, and fired by the new and uncommon objects which they had seen. Their knowledge and improvements cost them Freep rseserso ey hey siasesspeh sess Tihs Pete a es Di ee oe Ll Sis fae eS eee ee ee ee ad eeeee ete re ee eee ed Peee ts ee re eas de eSrac ese rere te tect siss She be kt Made oh at be he as5 bec Pe, FP Wg Sess eeg hs fer sie rere shee eee ey Pett ote es - Eo eee eerie tr tS eee ce Se cebelepedstedeqaegesesejrte;: eferest ieee: Saree ee er SUSPSSA LST aTE RSLS SST SE Ses ae , ee ee Pe eS Ea Ps és =e =F SeSszese Ca a2ptteie Satieasz were t se Sa Syiszere = ae ae ~ 392 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE [tecrt. xxxy, more labour, raised in them more enthusiasm, were attended with higher rewards and honours, than in modern days. Fewer had the means and opportunities of distinguishing themselves; but such as did distinguish themselves, were sure of acquiring that fame, and even veneration, which is, of all other rewards, the greatest incentive to genius. Herodotus read his history to all Greece assembled at the Olympic games, and was publicly crowned. In the Peloponnesian war, when the Athenian army was defeated in Sicily, and the prisoners were ordered to be put to death, such of them as could re- peat any verses of Euripides were saved, from honcur to that poet, who was a citizen of Athens. These were testimonies of public regard, far beyond what modern manners confer upon genius. In our times, good writing is considered as an attainment neither so difficult, nor so high and meritorious. Scribimus indocti, doctique, Poémata passim.* We write much more supinely, and at our ease, than the ancients. To excel, is become a much less considerable object. Less effort, less exertion is required, because we have many more assistances than they. Printing has rendered all books common, and easy to be had. Education for any of the learned professions can be carried on without much trouble. Hence a mediocrity of genius is spread over all. But to rise beyond that, and to overtop the crowd, is given to few. The multitude of assistances which we have for all kinds of composition, in the opinion of Sir William Temple, a very competent judge, rather depresses, than favours, the exertions of native genius. “It is very possible,” says that ingenious author, in his Essay on the Ancients and Moderns, “that men may lose rather than gain by these; may lessen the force of their own genius, by forming-it upon that of others; may have less knowledge of their own, for contenting themselves with that of those before them. Soa man that only translates, shall never be a poet; so people that trust to others’ charity, rather than their own industry, will be always poor. Who can tell,” he adds, “whether learning may not even weaken invention, in a man that has great advantages from nature? Whether the weight and number of so many other men’s thoughts and notions may not, suppress his own; as heaping on wood sometimes suppresses a little spark, that would otherwise have grown intoa flame? The strength of mind, as well as of body, grows more from the warmth of exercise, than of clothes; nay, too much of this foreign heat, rather makes men faint, and their constitutions weaker than they would be without them.”’ From whatever cause it happens, so it is, that among some of the ancient writers, we must look for the highest models in most of the kinds of elegant composition. For accurate think- ing and enlarged ideas, in several parts of philosophy, to the * ¢¢ Now every desp’rate blockhead dares to write ; Verse is the trade of ev’ry living wight.” FRANCIS.LECT. xxxv.] ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS. 393 moderns we ought chiefly to have recourse. Of correct and finished writing in some works of taste, they may afford useful pat- Serns; but for all that belongs to original genius, to spirited, master- ly, and high execution, our best and most happy ideas are, generally speaking, drawn from the ancients. In epic poetry, for instance, Homer and Virgil, to this day, stand not within many degrees of any rival. Orators, such as Cicero and Demosthenes, we have none. In history, notwithstanding some defects, which I am afterwards to rention in the ancient historical plans, it may be safely asserted, that we have no such historical narration, so elegant, so picturesque, so animated, and interesting,as that of Herodotus, Thucydides, Xen ophon, Livy, Tacitus, and Sallust. Although the conduct of the drama may be admitted to have received some improvements, yet for poetry and sentiment we have nothing to equal Sophocles and Euripides; nor any dialogue in comedy, that comes up to the correct, graceful, and elegant simplicity of Terence. We have no such love elegies as those of Tibullus ; no such pastorals as some of Theocritus’s; and for lyric poetry, Horace stands quite unri- valled. The name of Horace cannot be mentioned without a particular encomium. ‘That “Curiosa Felicitas” which Petronius has remarked in his expression ; the sweetness, elegance, and spirit of many of his odes, the thorough knowledge of the world, the excellent sentiments, and natural easy manner which distinguish his satires and epistles, all contribute to render him one of those very few authors whom one never tires of reading; and from whom alone, were every other monument destroyed, we should be led to form a very high idea of the taste and genius of the Augustan age. To all such, then, as wish to form their taste and nourish their genius, let me warmly recommend the assiduous study of the an- cient classics, both Greek and Roman. Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.* Without a considerable acquaintance with them, no man can be reckoned a polite scholar; and he will want many assistances for writing and speaking well, which the knowledge of such au- thors would afford him. Any one has great reason to suspect his own taste, who receives little or no pleasure from the perusal of writings, which so many ages and nations have consented in hold- ing up as objects of admiration. And I am persuaded it will be found, that in proportion as the ancients are generally studied and admired, or are unknown and disregarded in any country, good taste and good composition will flourish, or decline. They are commonly none but the ignorant or superficial, who undervalue them. At the same time, a just and high regard for the primé writers of antiquity is to be always distinguished, from that contempt of every thing which is modern, and that blind veneration for all that has been written in Greek or Latin, which belongs only to pe- ke * « Read them by day, and study them by night.” FRANCIS. 50 Seri tL AeA EL AG ek re Ree ee ee F2z2S97* PSs isaser! ee Se rr a ge en ee es eer eS ee 7 PRP Te errs ees ee ee a ee re is it ot aot Tate ae $s SeSpd pa teres teP se gies ts frre? ee ees ete ote. tio ca es SSeS The ae eth ees eee eas u Leds todecesegestistTe:ceey a 4 - i es . " - eee er Se ee cer tes te ath ce tate ce oe re ee 45ETszhshs tel bt oo SS ee} Bm Sa Ps ae es 394 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXV, dants. Among the Greek and Roman authors, some assuredly deserve much higher regard than others; nay, some are of /no great value. Even the best of them lie open occasionally to just censure; for to no human performance is it given to be absolutely perfect. We may, we ought therefore to read them with a dis- tinguishing eye, so as to propose for imitation their beauties only; and it is perfectly consistent with just and candid criticism, to find fault with parts, while, at the same time, it admires the whole. After these reflections on the ancients and moderns, I proceed to a critical examination of the most distinguished kinds ofcomposition, and the characters of those writers who have excelled in them, whether modern or ancient. The most general division of the different kinds of composition is, in those written in prose, and those written in vers¢; which certainly require to be separately considered, because subject toseparate laws. I begin, as is most natural, with writings in prose. Of orations, or public discourses of all kinds, I have already treated fully. The remaining species of prose compositions, which assume any such regular form, as to fall under the cognizance of criticism, seem to be chiefly these: historical writing, philosophical writing, epistolary writing, and fictitious history. Historical composition shall be first considered ; and, as it is an object of dignity, I pur- pose to treat of it at some length. As it is the office of an orator to persuade, it is that of an histo. rian to record truth for the instructionof mankind. This is the pro- per object and end of history, from which may be deduced many of the laws relating to it; and if this object were always kept in view, it would prevent many of the errors into which persons are apt to fall concerning this species of composition. As the primary end of history is to record truth,—impartiality, fidelity, and accuracy, are the fundamental qualities of an historian. He must neither be a panegyrist, nora satirist. He must not enter into faction, nor give scope to affection: but, contemplating past events and characters with a cooland dispassionate eye, must present to his readers a faith- ful copy of human nature. At the same time, it is not every record of facts, however true, that is entitled to the name of history; butsucha record as enables us to apply the transactions of former ages for our own instruction. The facts ought to be momentous and important: represented in con- nexion with their causes, traced to their effects, and unfolded in clear and distinct order. For wisdom is the great end of history. It is designed to supply the want of experience. Though it enforce not its instructions with the same authority, yet it furnishes us with a greater variety of instructions, than it is possible for experience to afford, in the course of the longest life. Its object is to enlarge our views of the human character, and to give full exercise to our judg- ment on human affairs. It must not therefore be a tale, calculated to please only, and addressed to the fancy. Gravity and dignity are essential characteristics of history; no light ornaments are to be em- ployed, no flippancy of style, no quaintness of wit. But the writerLECT. Xxxv. | HISTORICAL WRITING. 395 must sustain the character of a wise man, writing for the instruction of posterity; one who has studied to inform himself well, who has pondered his subject with care, and addresses himself to our judg- ment, rather than to our imagination. At the same time, historical writing is by no means inconsistent with ornamented and spirited narration. It admits of much high ornament and elegance; but the ornaments must be always consistent with dignity ; they should not appear to be sought after; but to rise naturally from a mind animated by the events which it records. Historical composition is understood to comprehend under it, an- nals, memoirs, lives. But these are its inferior subordinate species ; on which I shall hereafter make some reflections, when I shall have first considered what belongs to a regular and legitimate work of history. Such a work is chiefly of two kinds, either the entire history of some state or kingdom through its different revolutions, such as Livy’s Roman History ; or the history of some one great event, or some portion or period of time which may be considered as making a whole by itself; such as, Thucydides’s History of the Peloponne- sian War, Davila’s History of the Civil Wars of France, or Claren- don’s of those of England. In the conduct and management of his subject, the first attention requisite in an historian, is to give it as much unity as possible; that is, his history should not consist of separate unconnected parts mere- ly, but should be bound together by some connecting principle, which shall make the impression on the mind of something that is one, whole, and entire. It is inconceivable how great an effect this, when happily executed, has upon a reader, and it is surprising that some able writers of history have not attended to it more. Whether pleasure or instruction be the end sought by the study of history, either of them is enjoyed to much greater advantage, when the mind has always before it the progress of some one great plan or sys- tem of action; when there is some point or centre, to which we can refer the various facts related by the historian. In general histories, which record the affairs of a whole nation or empire throughout several ages, this unity, I confess, must be more imperfect. Yet even there, some degree of it can be preserved by a skilful writer. For though the whole, taken together, be very com- plex, yet the great constituent parts of it, form so many subordinate wholes, when taken by themselves; each of which can be treated both as complete within itself, and as connected with what goes be- - fore and follows. In the history of a monarchy, for instance, every reign should have its own unity ; abeginning, amiddle, and an end, to the system of affairs; while, at the same time, we are taught to discern how that system of affairs rose from the preceding, and how it is inserted into what follows. We should be able to trace all the secret links of the chain, which binds together remote, and seem- ingly unconnectedevents. Insome kingdoms of Europe, it was the plan of many succeeding princes to reduce the power of their no- bles; and during several reigns, most of the leading actions had a reference to thisend. In other states, the rising power of the com- 3 L eer Scere Seat Ea ss i ed FHTESITT STS btesgterrss Pee ed re ee he eee ie ae e Tea page: ee Tete eS ee eet = Be ne ae CaS - a ia roy S aT eee ey Seer Peery rete aE og RPT ae ke be ts ek oe ee Fe: Sore tee San epereesee a. = a’ tet Zee ess st Saas 5 ree ve s : — ee eee ere Tey Seeataragale ss sh Fels csag es sete sss lye rss Mio ehhh Teese era re or . . ee ea = — me S oar 2 ——— . 7. a os Soni hi ated Stele ts ivissaretele reds tases sere ser tee. 5d oak i bPeGeves ey esaFeseee Foe ae Be ra Pe Es Bare eee ee Peayati sess tai ta tis x FT 396 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XxxV mons, influenced for a tract of time the course and connexion of public affairs. Among the Romans, the leading principle was a gradual extension of conquest, and the attainment of universal em- pire. The continual increase of their power, advancing towards this end from small beginnings, and by a sort of regular progressive plan, furnished to Livy a happy subject for historical unity, in the midst of a great variety of transactions. Of all the ancient! general historians, the one who had the most exact idea of this quality of historical composition, though, in other respects not an elegant writer, is Polybius. Thisappears from the account he gives of his own plan in the beginning of his third book; observing that the subject of which he had undertaken to write, is, throughout the whole of it, one action, one great spectacle; how, and by what causes, all the parts of the habitable world became sub ject to the Roman empire. ‘This action,’ says he, ‘is distinct in its beginning, determined in its duration, and clear in its final ac- complishment; therefore, I think it of use, to give a general view beforehand, of the chief constituent parts which make up this whole.” In another place he congratulates himself on his good fortune, in having a subject for history, which allowed such variety of parts to be united under one view; remarking, that before this period, the affairs of the world were scattered, and without connex- ion; whereas, in the times of which he-writes, all the great transac- tions of the world tended and verged to one point, and were capa- ble of being considered as parts of one system. Whereupon he adds several very judicious observations, concerning the usefulness of writing history upon such a comprehensive, and connected plan; comparing the imperfect degree of knowledge, which is afforded by particular facts, without general views, to the imperfect idea which one would entertain of an animal, who had beheld its separate parts only, without having ever seen its entire form and structure.* Such as write the history of some particular great transaction, as confine themselves to one era, or one portion of the history of a nation, have so great advantages for preserving historical unity, that they are inexcusable if they fail in it. Sallust’s histories of the Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars, Xenophon’s Cyropcedia, 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. * Kaddas pev yag tuoizys Sonovow os wewelruivos dia tus nate mégos iscpiac wer eles cuvi{icbas re ord, waprrrioloy te maryxelv, Ge dy bb TiVes EurdyS Ka RAAT COnATOE yeyovoros Srepoetve ta crepn Sew mevor, vorlCorev inai@e avtorras prpvesOas tne evegyelas durov Ts Cwov xat xxAdovnce 1 yohe Tic duTixa are cuvbels was Tirciov avdse arr egyto- auevos To Caov, xm Te ede de rh wns Luyne tureercin, xaweitre wari exidemvyor Tai cuTcic exervors, TAXES dy Oluas CedyTas LuTovs cueoropuoely dio TERA ylay woav Tk Tis aandeine areacimovro meocbiv, x2t @agemAncioy rols oregatlousiy car. eyolay pedy y2e AxGely cero eegss TaV Crawy duyaréy. erisnuny de nak y@uny ateexn tye addvaroy. dxo Trav] Enae Bprxy ts vouustoy cuuGrargroas riy xara Lépos isoginy @ecc tiv TAY bAwY tumselay xat als, &x ev Torys THe amravToy mpoc dana cuurrockne xak magabicecc, ett DY orotitnros nak ditpogas proves dv Tic tpixollo wal duvndeln xatomltveae den nul vo Uprriaoy nat To Tegmryiv, ax THe isogiac raCeiV, Potys. Histo: Prim,LECT. 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, whieh with dificulty 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 atthe 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 Dionysius 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—Osxudidne prev Tore Xeovors anorsbov, "'Hecdoros de vase aeguoy uss Tov TOLYULTOY, ylyverat Osnvdidys aTagus nas JuTr@agaxorsbnTos Morrwy hag HAT x TO ATO Seeos nal Heluwve ylyvoneroy ev dixgogzic TomMols, HUITEAELS TAs m@eoTaAs werk naTA= Aivov, eTsov amrerat Toy xaT2 To cuTO Segoe ual Yelmove Yipvouerav, wMarvaucde dy uxbamree etos, unt dusnornws Tote dnavueyors Magaxorgdener, LyurCeCyxe Oxnudidy play umobéc AXCoVTE OAAL Moincas freon Toe cups, "Heodotw de TAG WOAKAG HAL BEY BYO~ nuincg Umcberels mreceiAouevM, TUUPWYEY EY THK wer ornxeyet.-—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 m smoothness and ease, ete eee ert rt Nee BRE RR Be oma PU SO BSPeo ee Hee elias Sa ea we PEG eee ee ret —— aselededetest OWer es ee ee ee os Ror re ee rt Fe sa. vege Paes? 4S on ae Lhagade Seas Os te ok oe ok de a tg Pee eS hea eT eeae Rare) eto? 5. Pee eer eres 1 oi kitts 4 katate oe c 4 ee . ry * -_— a eer ttt ier Tot Tr eset tite t eras ht oe 4s 2) re eS es es ees a ar tS FSs5e= re aetrestes cts Cee PC tS Eee ees teoetvFeis bho ee ye eee ee Se eee ee Ee #sfsh-e eof = 398 HISTORICAL WRITING. (LmOT, XK VI. accuracy, much inferior to Thucydides. With digressions and epi- sodes he abounds; but when these have any connexion with the main subject, and are inserted professedly as episodes, the unity of the whole is less violated by them, than by a broken and scattered narration of the principal story. Among the moderns, the Presi- dent 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 different parts of the world; an historian otherwise of great pro- bity, candour, and excellent understanding ; but through this want of unity, more tedious, and less interesting, than he would otherwise have been. LECTURE XXXVI. ——a— HISTORICAL WRITING. Arter making some observations on the controversy which has been often carried on concerning the comparative merit of the ancients and the moderns, I entered, in the last lecture, on the consideration of 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 his- tory, 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 their character ; the latter, to account for the revolutions of government, and the operation of political causes on public affairs. Both must concur, in order to form a 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 established posts, or by ambassadors resident at distant courts. The knowledge and materials of the ancient historians, were thereby more limited and circumscribed; and it is to be observ- ed too, that they wrote for their own countrymen only; theyLHe xa, | 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 moderntimes; when a lon- ger experience of all the 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 cnd interfering interests. In writing the history of the Romans, Livy had surely the most ample field for displaying political knowledge cencerning 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; 1s sentimen- tal and refined in a high degree; conveys much instruction with respect to political matters, but more with respect to human nature PSE PEPE Se Se ee PE PE See ee Ee eed ee ee BE eg ee paar ee ee ea pe te a SE ver eSaties La Preset ee ra tar Pe EE Sy hye ese Suk ik ae eae gseeese ezy egeatgietereseier x poe aes Pee eys Sir eae e hs ees 4 == > zsiarle ba reser tes F2GES2% Feiepeet Peet et ie ti Site ba s®. = eee ree ete eee ae flint J esetedasegs eiewes Sede ab th tb De Br ie Bee! res tes Pinca rare eer is ete ee h ses es Tere etelepepeiss- 400 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVI. But when we demand from the historian profound and instructive views of his subject, it is not meant that he should be frequently inter- rupting the course of his history, with his own reflections and specu- Jations. 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 internal 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. Forinstance: in the life of Agricola, Tacitus, speak- ing of Domitian’s treatment of Agricola, makes this observation : ‘Propium humani ingenii est, odisse quem leseris.’"* 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 avie- que odiis, quorum cause acriores quia inique.’t Here a profound moral observation is made; but it is made, without the appearance of making it in form; it is introduced as a part of the narration, in assigning a reason for the anxiety of Germanicus. We have another instance of the same kind, in the account which he gives of a mutiny raised against Rufus, who was a ‘ Preefectus Castrorum,’ on account of the severe labour which he imposed on the soldiers. ‘ Quippe Rufus, diu manipularis, dein centurio, mox castris przefectus, anti- * ¢Tt belongs to human nature to hate the man whom you have injured.’ + ‘Uneasy in his mind, on account of the concealed hatred entertained against him by his uncle and grandmother, which was the more bitter,because the cause of it wag unjust.’LECT. XXXVI. ] HISTORICAL WRITING. 401 quam duramque militiam revocabat, vetus operis & laboris, et éo immitior 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 astroke 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 ofanother. Without this, there can be neither pleasure nor instrue- 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 alwaysbe 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 donot say, that an historian is never to let himself down. He maysometimes 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 never to descend too far; and, on occasions where a light or ludicrous anecdote is proper to be recorded, it is generally better to throw * «For Rufus, who had long been a common soldier, afterwards a centurion, and at length a general officer, restored the severe military discipline of ancient times. Grown old amidst toils and labours, he was more rigid in imposing them, because he had been accustomed to bear them.’ 5] ed Re Ne ge ac eeesetisee® = ties re OS ere eo ee EPR oy ee wT eRS Lez wdegwds FERE ra ea s PEPE e ee Ce eT eS eee ere tt ty SPE eae a be oe ok oe ok Ok Teste ota : ¥ + ae) & Ses MA eet. . Se Se Se 4 bretes ia eS eee ST ae tel tos Vea ePeGete S452 1s Stes egy. . bt y rr . my © : ; Peat at it ii Sty ees etittst Teaser rest rt eS ee eee ee ear hy eens Eh Se Pa SY ee RE Peds: ro, ore Peer te oe te te Tee oe fad lente ph Ck ee aR ke i a F te pe be gy ae rs .:. faFee seer ied ree re Serer er aa oes Pe as $s psbesspssse=sses 402 HISTORICAL WRITING. [uECT. 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 chiefly dis tinguishes a writer of genius and eloquence. T'wo 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 em1- 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 nazveté and simplicity ofmanner, 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 Plataa, 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 Cyropzdia, 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 his Jugurthine War, is well known; though his style is liable to censure, as too studied and affected. Livy is more unexceptionable in his manner, and is excelled by no historian whatever in the art of narration: several remarkable examples might be given from him. His account, for instance, of the famous defeat of the Roman army by the Samnites, at the Fur-LECT: Xxxvt] HISTORICAL WRITING. 403 ce Caudinz, 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; 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 lis abstinerent manus, quorum temeritate in eum locum deducti essent. Alii alos 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 fedi agminis miserabilem viam; per sociorum urbes reditum in patriam ac parentes quo sepe ipsi trium phantes venissent. Se solos sine vulnere, sine ferro, sine acie vic tos; sibi non stringere licuisse gladios, non manum cum hoste conserere; sibi nequicquam arma, nequicquam vires, nequicquam animos datos. Hc frementibus, hora fatalis ignominize adve- nit. Jamprimim cum singulis vestimentis, inermes extra vallum abire jussi. ‘Tum a consulibus abire lictores jussi, paludamentaque detracta. Tantam hoc inter ipsos, qui paulo ante eos dedendos, la- cerandosque censuerant, miserationem fecit, ut suz quisque conditio nis oblitus, ab illa deformatione tante 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 ; all rose before their eyes. They then looked forward to the sad journey which awaited them, when they were to pass asa 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 ” ae 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 bee siven in vain. While they were thus giving vent to their indignation, the bs moment of their ignominy arrived. First, they are commanded to oon ort from the camp, without armour, and in a single garment. No pe ers vere given, that the consuls should be left without their lictors, and that they shou be stripped of their robes. Such commiseration did this = aoe excite oars them, who, but a little before, had been for delivering up those very Consus ir Pre rer rr tl ciate es ha <= ett ee eee e tet re hee Pont ued en, hang gee Oe ha Ry eee re tee. baa ke eee Pet se rs Pee er ete eee ere te eee Pere reer 2 at ee ot SoS 48:be eis yore Tees ht atoi a bE et ae | hii eeu sat at te Str to) rade as ater sta el eit: > . gees ci Sis space sr Ps BAe OBESSP IOS T we Se fe eo 5 cea oy AFa toe tate gor re eee erst tei rae ee ee eS aS a oe $a5agaF bree a Lets $i ba seieee es esa se) fh 404 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVI. to insert, is carried on with the same beauty, and full of picturesque circumstances. * Tacitus is another author eminent for historical painting, though in amanner 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 hin: ‘Agebatur huc illue Galba, vario turbee fluctuantis impulsu, completis undique basilicis et templis, lugubri prospectu. Neque populi aut plebis ulla vox; sed attoniti vultus, et converse ad omnia aures. Non tumultus, non quies; sed quale magni metas, et magne ire, 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- 9 death, that every one forgot his own condition, race, suffered by the consular dig- The consuls, almost the enemy, and for putting them t and turned his eyes aside from this infamous disg nity, as from a spectacle which was too detestable to be beheld. half naked, were first made to pass under the yoke, &c. * The description which Cesar 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 predicabant ; sepe 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. Hic primum ortus est a tribunis militum, ac prefectis, reliquisque qui ex urbe, amicitie causa, Cesarem secuti, suum periculum miserabantur, quod non magnum in re militari usum habebant: quorum alius, alia causa lati quam sibi ad proficiscendum necessariam esse dice ret, petebat ut ejus voluntate discedere liceret, Nonnulli pudore adducti, ut timo ris suspicionem vitarent, remanebant. Hi neque vultum fingere, neque interdum lacrymas tenere poterant. Abditi in tabernaculis, aut suum fatum querebantur, aut cum familiaribus suis, commune periculum miserabantur. Vulgo, totis castris tes- tamenta obsignabantar.’ Dr Bett. Gat. L. I. + he aos Pa land-sesetedajsegs renee Fata ast poe et fe ae” me rerse. eer Rey : Peet et TES od ea bonis ese. Bs be oa re 8 oat a35gs9=¢55 aes i eesey ey foe ESS TS, aera aieia aan ot ea ae ee te re ete tS | ry = oe 2° Pi fs a 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 reigninit. 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 asa good man, and as a good writer, we expect that she should discover sentiments of respect for virtue, and an indignation at fla- grant vice. ‘l'’o appear neutral and indifferent with respect to good and bad characters, and to affect a crafty and political, rather than a moral turn of thought, will, besides other bad effects, derogate 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 Rave 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, introdtic- 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, w hich 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 die most agree- able and entertaining relaters; has manifestly this defect of spreading a sort of uniformity overall his characters, by representing them asLECT. 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, is a book of some note; but is not entitled to the same reputation as the works of the other historians I have named. Strada is too violently partial to the Spanish ciuse; 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- téntive to elegance than to accuracy. Accustomed to form his poli- 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 ot one side, yet there appears more impartiality in his relation of facts, than might at first beexpected. 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 hard; but they are generally light and satirical ; and he abounds so much in little stories concern- ing himself, that he resembles more a writer of memoirs than of history. During a long period, English historical authors seemed to aim at nothing higher than an exact relation of facts stint of late the distinguished names of Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon, have raised oe Pesky bo ea ele a Eee ee edebak dt bce heh eee ay 4aéoe De page oe Seer saree Bote ih ulow oo eRatesoty Site l sist a 3 ees y pik Te NA So = oe a yaks Ck dele Pe eee Sere e Er ere rete et tS Pee ee ee FS ee ~ eieeeeSedeatgeaterereTeieteteststssse2 i a . t Fe aah ef a ng +; aaa’Peer aeye . _ + rd Ve lene tes ett atic iste te dethi etki aioe eee 4 TT 7 Peete Serer et St rere re tenes = ee ee ee Peereereet i tr tt tier iit eset er ea ts a ea ea me pak ee Fe OS for ? ai : . 5 ee Saree fo ore a ra? tetaree SHzFLITITe PES Pts =paeqsasee iv Ere rerete te Si tres hs ec eeee ss ET Pere Te eee 408 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. AAXVI the British character, in this species of writing, to high reputation and dignity. I observed, in the preceding lecture, that annals, memoirs, and lives, 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 are now given to the public, have great merit, and deserve to be mentioned with particular praise. No memoirs approach more nearly to the usefulness and the dignity of 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 few books more full of virtue, and of good sense, than Sully’s Memoirs; few, therefore, more proper to farm bothLECT: XXKv2.] 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 a 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 nations. Though, in some dates and facts, it may, perhaps, be in- accurate, and is tinged with those particularities, which unhappily 3N 52 4FUSS SHR ESS SX ee SyrRsthe ws ME = ae pets a ‘= near hoes ees: te Re ke ee tee or be Be eee eee rere thes ea eet een % Fs SEE ac eeesaTSS: Ss as eres a ee aca oe ae a a if eZegtgeet ate tereisteRecetss Pe a ha ue 7 i Lea athe Se >a .P Send et A — e. ' ry Praia ieee aaa at: bt i a . — eerie itt eee i eee eh tele hala - — . —s 2 he rt “ Se - . rte eo Clee! PeeTeCats tities cit ai te ht eo ehi Seer te tt bd hi os bok i lease ceee sees: af « es | = o > Ld iia . Ms 4 pa ~ bee tre apie th he knee tok tok Pee Fu S ete E Sree cS, po ra re Pees BaFLFT Pt ee ete ett esrtTs st Ae rirtiigitieee *i2ger Pie he 5 re bd eres 410 PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. Leor. xxxvit. distinguish Voltaire’s manner of thinking on religious subjects, yet it contains so many enlarged and instructive views, as justly to merit the attention of all who either read or write the history of those ages. LECTURE XXXVII. ry see PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING....DIALOGUE....EPISTO- LARRY WRITING... FICTITIOUS HISTORY. As history is both a very dignified species of composition, and, by the regular form which it assumes, falls directly under the laws of 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 study ing, at the same time, to engage their attention, and to interest them in his subject by his manner of exhibiting it, is not likely to prove successful. The same truths and reasonings, delivered in a dry and cold manner, or with a proper measure “of elegance and beauty , will make very different impressions on the minds of men. It is manifest that every philosophical writer must study the ut- most perspicuity; and, by reflecting on what was formerly deliver- ed 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 precision are required in a philosophical writer. He must employ no word of incertain meaning, no loose nor indeterminate expres- sions; and should avoid using words which are seemingly synony- mous, without carefully attending to the variation 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 one of the most useful embellishments which a philosopher can employ, consists in illustrations taken from historical facts, and the characters of men. All moral and political subjects naturally afford scope for these; and wherever there is room for employing them,ECT. XXXVII. | DIALOGUE. 4i1 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 neat, and elegant style. It admits of metaphors, comparisons, and all the calm figures of speech, by which an author may convey his sense to the understanding with clearness and force, at the same time that he entertains the imagination. He must take great care, 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. Heis 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, .nd subject to the same laws. A dialogue, in one or other of these forms, on some philosophical, ect, when it is well conducted, stands in a high, ° moral, or critical sub) 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 by OEE TT Tee ere eet Tes Oe eet eg Ne Pese are hee eh bed with kee ok pay 4 wey? Fea gt re ee ee he ot og ee Bg ease e Peet ete rete ete ere re Re ONS kp ee Oe ee ee eet ce ie ts cr ad eee ORT TT IT a ae eae be be ee sheesezecise ae aeae 222i ore veer) oy reas at tt ii tete Pa ea rs Tt ated — Perret et sr rrre > a stata secntelatedsieserede gs segeTe eee yee tits tt eh Ady yah ne a be SS Ti hee ad be : : : - — eo Pa ae fe ee a tae ts po ee oP a — Pee es eet ee ee or) Pe ee oa SIaRSRELES ee! g=aseeest PIAS: Pitre Pear - rece St ti 24 ts rey % 412 DIALOGUE. [LEor. xxxvII. means of the debate going on among the personages, he receives a fair and full view of both sides of the argument, and is at the same time amused with polite conversation, and with a display of con- sistent and well supported characters. An author, therefore, who has genius for executing such a composition after this manner, has it in his power both to instruct and to please. But the greatest part of modern dialogue writers have no idea of any composition of this sort; and bating the outward forms of 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 aB; who, after mutual compliments, and after admiring the fineness of 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, are beautifully 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, ofter sup- ported with much life and spirit, after the Socratic manner. For richness and beauty of imagination, no philosophie 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 inte allegory, fiction, en- thusiasm, and the airy regions of mysticai theslogy. The philoso - pher is, at times, lost in the poet. But whetl-er we be edified with the matter or not, (and much edification he dften affords,) we are always entertained with the manner; and left witha strong impres- sion of the sublimity of the author’s genius. Cicero’s dialogues, or those recitals of conversation, which he has introduced into several of his philosophical and critical works, are not so spirited, nor so characteristical, as those of Plato. Yet some, as that De Oratore especially, are agreeable and well supported. They show us conversation carried on among some of the principal persons of ancient Rome, with freedom, good breeding, and digni- ty. The author of the elegant dialogue. De Causis Corruptx Elo- quentie, which is annexed sometimes to the works of Quintilian,LECT. xxxvi1.] EPISTOLARY WRITING. 413 and sometimes to those of Tacitus, has happily imitated, perhaps has excelled Cicero, in this manner of writing. _ Lucian is a dialogue writer of much eminence: though his sub- jects are seldom such as can entitle him to be ranked among philo- sophical authors. He has given the model of the hight and hu- mourous dialogue, and has carried it to great perfection. A charac- ter of levity, and at the same time of wit and penetration, distin- guishes all his writings. His great object was, to.expose the folhes of superstition, and the pedantry of philosophy, which prevailed in his age; and he could not have taken any more successful me- thod for this end, than what he has employed in his dialogues, espe- cially in those of the gods and of the dead, which are full of pleasant- ry and satire. In this invention of dialogues of the dead, he has been followed by several modern authors. Fontenelle, in particu- lar, has given us dialogues of this sort, which are sprightly and agreeable; but as for characters, whoever his personages be, they all become Frenchmen in his hands. Indeed, few things in composi- tion are more difficult, than in the course of a moral dialogue to exhibit characters properly distinguished; as calm conversation furnishes none of those assistances for bringing characters into light, which the active scenes and interesting situations of the drama ai- ford. Hence few authors are eminent for characteristical dialogue on grave subjects. One of the most remarkable in the English lan- guage, is a writer of the last age, Dr. Henry More, in his Divine Dialogues, relating to the foundations of natural religion. Though his style be now in some measure obsolete, and his speakers be mark- ed with the academic stiffness of those times, yet the dialogue is ani- mated by a variety of character, and a sprightliness of conversation, beyond what are commonly met with in writings of this kind. Bishop Berkeley’s Dialogues concerning the existence of matter, do not attempt any display of characters; but furnish an instance of a very abstract subject, rendered clear and intelligible by means of conversation properly managed. I proceed next to make some observations on epistolary writing, which possesses a kind of middle place between the serious and amusing species of composition. Epistolary writing appears, at first view, to stretch into a very wide field. For there is no subject whatever, on which one may not convey his thoughts to the pub- lic, in the form ofa letter. Lord Shaftesbury, for instance. Mr. Harris, and several other writers, have chosen to give this form to philosophical treatises. But this is not sufficient to class such trea- tises under the head of epistolary composition. Though they bear, in the title page,a Letter toa Friend, after the first address, the friend disappears, and we see that it is, in truth, the public with whom the author corresponds. Seneca’s Epistles are of this sort. There is no probability that they ever passed in correspondence, as real letters. They are no other than miscellaneous dissertations on mo ral subjects; which the author, for his convenience, chose to put into the epistolary form. Even where one writes a real letter on some formal topic, as of moral or religious consolation, to a person Preeti a tae e ea ads re getise Se secess 5 Peas beceiv rt es Peer rere = Rye A SE Pea aS SbeST eT eTeTeLE Test esses IA NES Shr) at rst ae ad Aeis a ttt testis tt i5t.i5t 5 tale eee ee. : Be C7 ee ee ee Oe ere Pret er re retiree ti are ei Se eee Pe eee fed panini tho 4 ee ee of eee sees Se eStsTaMSteess Sel Sst FEF ry eters es 414 EPISTOLARY WRITING. — [xecr. xxxvr. ander distress, such as Sir William Temple has written to the coun- tess of Essex on the death of her daughter, he is at liberty, on such occasions, to write wholly as a divine or as a philosopher, and to assume the style and manner of one, without reprehension. We consider the author not as writing a letter, but as composing a dis- course, suited particularly to the circumstances of some one person. Epistolary writing becomes a distinct species of composition, sub- ject to the cognizance of criticism, only, or chiefly, when it is of the easy and familiar kind; when it is conversation carried on upon paper, between two friends at a distance. Such an intercourse, when well conducted, may be rendered very agreeable to readers of taste. If the subject of the letters be important, they will be the more valuable. Even though there should be nothing very consi- derable in the subject; yet, if the spirit and turn of the correspon- dence be agreeable ; if they be written in a sprightly manner, and with native grace and ease, they may still be entertaining; more especially if there be any thing to interest us, in the characters of those who write them. Hence the curiosity which the public has always discovered concerning the letters of eminent persons. We expect in them to discover somewhat of their real character. It is childish indeed to expect, that in letters we are to find the whole heart of the author unveiled. Concealment and disguise take place, more or less, in all human intercourse. But still, as letters from one friend to another make the nearest approach to conversation, we may expect to see more of a character displayed in these than in other productions, which are studied for public view. We please ourselves with beholding the writer in a situation which allows him to be at his ease, and to give vent occasionally to the overflowings of his heart. Much, therefore, of the merit, and the agreeableness of epistolary writing, will depend on its introducing us into some acquaintance with the writer. There, if any where, we look for the man, not for the author. Its first and fundamental requisite is, to be natural and simple; fora stiff and laboured manner is as bad in a letter, as it is in conversation. This does not banish sprightliness and wit. These are graceful in letters, just as they are in conversation; when they flow easily, and without being studied; when employed so as to season, not to cloy. One who, either in conversation or in let- ters, affects to shine and to sparkle always, will not please long. The style of letters should not be too highly polished ; it ought to be neat and correct, but no more. All nicety about words, be- trays study; and hence musical periods, and appearances of nam- ber and harmony in arrangement, should be carefully avoided in letters. The best letters are commonly such as the authors have writ- ten with most facility. What the heart or the imagination dictates, always flows readily ; but where there is no subject to warm or in- terest these, constraint appears; and hence, those letters of mere compliment, congratulation, or affected condolence, which have cost the authors most labour in composing, and which, for that reason, they perhaps consider as their masterpieces, never fail of being the most disagreeable and insipid to the readers.LECT. XXXVII. | EPISTOLARY WRITING, 415 _ It ought, at the same time, to be remembered, that the ease and simplicity which I have recommended in epistolary correspondence, are not to be understood as importing entire carelessness. In writ- ing to the most intimate friend, a certain degree of attention, both to the subject and the style, is requisite and becoming. It is no more than what we owe both to ourselves and to the friend with whom we correspond. A slovenly and negligent manner of writ- ing, 1s a disobliging mark of want of respect. ‘The liberty, besides, of writing letters with too careless a hand, is apt to betray persons in- to imprudence in what they write. The first requisite, both in con- versation and in correspondence, isto attend to all the proper deco- rums which ourown character and that of others demand. An imprudent expression in conversation may be forgotten and pass away ; but when we take the pen into our hand, we must remem- ber, that ‘ Litera scripta manet.” Pliny’s Letters are one of the most celebrated collections which the ancients have given us, in the epistolary way. They are elegant and polite; and exhibit a very pleasing and amiable view of the author. But, according to the vulgar phrase, they smell too much of the lamp. They are too elegant and fine; and it is not easy to avoid thinking, that the author is casting an eye towards the pub- lic, when he is appearing to write only for his friends. Nothing indeed is more difficult than for an author who publishes his own letters, to divest himself altogether of attention to the opinion of the world in what he says; by which means he becomes much less agreeable than a man of parts would be, if, without any constraint of this sort, he were writing to his intimate friend. Cicero’s Epistles, though not so showy as those of Pliny, are, on several accounts, a far more valuable collection; indeed, the most valuable collection of letters extant in any language. They are letters of real business, written to the greatest men of the age, com- posed with purity and elegance, but without the least affectation ; and, what adds greatly to their merit, written without any inten- tion of being published to the world. For it appears, that Cicero never kept copies of his own letters; and we are wholly indebted to the care of his freedman Tyro, for the large collection that was made, after his death, of those which are now extant, amounting to near a thousand.* They contain the most authentic materials of the history of that age: and are the last monuments which remain of Rome in its free state; the greatest part of them being written dur- ing that important crisis, when the republic was on the point of ruin; the most interesting situation, perhaps, which is to be found in the affairs of mankind. To his intimate friends, especially to Atticus, Cicero lays open himself and his heart, with entire freedom. in the course of his correspondence with others, we are introduced into acquaintance with several of the principal personages of Rome; and ‘tis remarkable that most of Cicero’s correspondents, as well as him- * See his letter to Atticus, which was written a year or two before his death, in which he tells him, in answer to some inquiries concerning his epistles, that he had no collection of them, and that Tyro had only about seventy of them. Ad. Att. xvi. 5. e eerie oe ie ace ta eee a ad at eda sce heehee Se eee ESR OP Per eter rere er ee ee a ree eae a oe egegtacgteeterere Teese as tees oS EB ea a ae Ea sf Ses Shi 2 at $33 8Et3 =? t eocra das %3 Pat at st Lee te tie $x! A ee £5 tf arte eee eter tT ae ce ee kc Boies eweteetogss ears eiepesepete, crs | a * =? r ’ oo * ts z 4 Bs - + = - . * a | 7] . es ry teeter eis es a5Segztsiseateetets Seay 416 EPISTOLARY WRITING. — [recr. xxxvu. self, are elegant and polite writers: which serves to heighten our idea of the taste and manners of that age. The most distinguished collection of letters in the English 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’salso are unaffect- ed; and asa 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 awit. His letters to ladies are full of affectation. Even in writing to his friends, how forced an introduction is the foliowing, 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 1t 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'Sevigné 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 perpetual sprightliness, they contain such easy and variedLECT. KREVEte| 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 Sevigné. 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 thisopinion. 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 proot 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 init, 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 not with these in true history, we have recourse to fictitious. We cre- ate worlds according to our fancy, in order to eratify 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 things to the desires of the mind, not bring: a : ; 1 i a ”? ing down the mind, as history:and philosophy do, to the course of events. 52 Peer as eee eee irs Pere r ety ere tr cae ee. eeeguseabregrdicr si ehe Gaye caee * bs ei Le Sheesece: Re ee er eh ser Pere re tee ee ee ieee ek eUeSegegegegtatetsseriteteccresizigece soe r a5 J . . . Megha ta at4 > * Pe sea eeheit ete at bh as BS z re ei eater test ti tise ei Pe cee rater titty eee CieoeteFois de ts Pris seset ele sede ede egret sesstTe eee Peionghtennie Sethe tin PS fk CAE Be ot eS ee beet St ak ke crn 418 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. [LECT. XXXVII wants neither dignity nor use, make a few observations on the rise 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 of 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 with a very humane morality. Among the ancient Greeks, we hear of the Ionian and Milesian Tales; but they have now perished, and, from any account that we have of them, appear to have been of the loose and wanton kind. Some fictitious histories yet remain, that were composed during the 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 fora 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 of story-tellers and bards in the county of Provence, where there sub- sisted some remains of literature and poetry. The language which prevailed in that, country was a mixture of Latin and Gallic, calledLECT. XXXVII.] FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 419 the 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 those romances is that which goes under the name of Turpin, the archbishop of Rheims, written in the 11th century. The subject is, the achievements of Charlemagne and his peers, or paladins, in driving the Saracens out of France and part of Spain; the same 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- eens made the common groundwork of them; and from the 11th 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 and enchantments, and the change in general of man- ners throughout Europe, began to give a new turn to fictitious com- position. Then appeared the Astrea of D’Urfé, 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. Still however, there was too much of the marvellous in them to please 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 IJ. 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 1s 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 Blas, by Le Sage, is a book full of good sense, and instructive know- — Pre rit t ts erase at Racer tes a Ga ee ewes eet ea et et Sk ees Bek ae hae eda * a a Ss ey SSG TESS SESS PSSTST ESTOS eeSetzes a teag Sassi ggreerteshsesste Ee a ee = Reeee Sere eer ere rete te ee ee ee WP ees ok ee S a as ar] Cae rs oy? rae —ee Stet tee PPLGS TA SATs Pt esege. a > SatataGalssa ga tata peed es Pettit a c AP ees ror DS poe oak ea ee eT Sa Ser ees riper ee eee weer Pe eee rer te tT te tie lit Se eh er teks ae Ate ek ee CaM ae Rib ee te siete esrets bed 3 eS eee sTesert ty : SeteTe PG Se ees eT ec Fasse aes SS STesiey ra ps a esti te heietsldhctates st. T ses sie ft sri = a ae 3 err ke = eereerers seeee 420 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. freon xk xcyir ledge of the world. The works of Marivaux, especially his Mart- 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 rank among the highest productions of fictitious history. In this kind of writing we are, it must be confessed, in Great Brt- 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 immeasurablelength. The trivial performances which daily appear in public under the title of Lives, Adventures, and Histories, by anonymous authors, if they be often innocent, yet are most commonly insipid; and though in the general it ought to be admitted that 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.( 421 ) LECTURE XXXVIII. —- ee NATURE OF POETRY....ITS ORIGIN AND PRO- GRESS....VERSIFICATION. I nave now finished my observations on the different kinds of writing in prose. What remainsis, to treat of poetical composition Before entering on the consideration of any of its particular kinds, ] design this lecture as an introduction to the subject of poetry in general, wherein [ 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 tais 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 inform, to persuade, or to instruct. But the primary aim of a poet is to please, and to move; and, therefore, it is to the imagination, and the passions, that he speaks. He may, and he ought to have it in his view, to 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 Janguage of passion, or imagination, Is formed, most commonly, into regular numbers; because, though vergification 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, TT eee ee ee ae oe eee tor eee te at Tee - iesateresecstasisee SLOMEREE SS PRS er eT ree ete ts rere ae Ce Pe ead Pie ae EERE ee Tee he ae be be te ok ee es eres cet Pki st el Throne toa siere TL ta is hithteeeas bt} giela peeled .) Ci ‘ " See Terre TT. PE eee c eee hened sisisseeeteletedstegevesegesticie: iereitioss rrererete res rie hede et ets ee ee od eit ti 8 ge ro ’ ree FaPSesyessysiciess oa oe ee pes eistst i treet et Ty TEP SiezerS yeep S et ~~ ad er ri = Ssh taFit a2ptths 422 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [LECT. XXXVIII. as to approach very near to péetical 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 isunderstood. These are the minutiz 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 Museus. 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 isa 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 afirms, 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 beginning of 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 we have had most intercourse, music and song are, at ail their 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 lament 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 theirLECT. XXXVIII. | UF POETRY. 423 heroes; 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, in 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. ‘T'wo 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 they 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. Underthe influence too of any strong emotion, objects do not appear tous 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 thingsinanimate. 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, prosopopcia, simile, &c. but which are no other than the native original language of poetry among the most barbarous nations. Man is both a poet and a musician by nature. The same impulse which prompted the enthusiastic poetic style, prompted a certain melody, or modulation of sound, suited to the emotions of joy or grief, of admiration, love, or anger. There is a power in sound, which, partly from nature, partly from habit and association, makes such pathetic impressions on the fancy, as delight even the most wild barbarians. Music and poetry, therefore, had the same rise: they were prompted by the same 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- erees, passed into an art. : tl 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 noother. 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- self forth, or to draw the crowd to listen, but the high powers of pas- Sirti ta eta eee Lat lies peta oe a ——t oo hae a ae ba dated Shee2 > see pees pre Gt t ore tee er os a eer Tk ee PAST Pe ere ree tee Se ee cat er 7 Pe. sa bd of ot ee ee ak ASe Se geciss & Tees oo wh pase ae Poad eS eos cae otk peau tort = a a Se . é att ¥ << p Caes y te oe i bf 3 cep ez eye te Hi 5 Perce es ieee ts tata eer ee Pec eT e ie PeEST Te eT tori tee eS ™ Se imp ewetetas aks edet esr so gepeto yee Kteoet Pes Rey SGa tetas ee 7S ee mab) ees - boo oe ee eo Leas rns > §=34 Peete toe Serer e ts FEEL BesPrtie aoe te * od sete ta = 3 es PS Soe 424 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [LECT. XXXVIII. sion, of music, and of song. This vehicle, therefore, and no other, could 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 Greece, priests, philosophers, and statesmen, all delivered their instructions in poetry. Apollo, Orpheus,and Amphion, their mostancient bards, arerepresent- edas the first tamers of mankind, the first founders of law and civili- zation. 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 antiquities of all countries, so we may expect, thatin 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 glowing 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 Jong 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 more oriental than occidental ; it is characteristical of an age rather than ot a country ; and belongs, in some measure, to ali nations at that pe- riod which first gives rise to music and tosong. Mankind never re- * Strabo, lib. x.LEOT. XXVIII] OF POETRY. 425 semble each other so much as they do in the beginnings of society. \ts 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 Celt, by means of a series and succession of bards which had been established fcr ages. So Lucan informs us: Vos quoque qui fortes animos, belloque peremptos Laudibus in longum vates diffunditis evam, Plurima securi fudistis 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 Muszus, who treated of creation and of chaos, of the generation of the world, and of the rise of things; and we know that the Greeks advanced sooner to philosophy, and 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.t The ancient Arabs, we are informed,t 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 same form of composition appears also in the book of Job. A Mole: * 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 5 Securely now the useful task renew, And noblest themes in deathless songs pursue Rowe. Vid. Voyages de Chardin, chap dela Poésie des Persans. Vid. Preliminary discourse to Sale’s Translation of the Koran. 54 ~f + * Sie & CR a ed SOPH SY er eke Gers Cee A a ed eSerasesees sree Ss fet aot tts Pee ee Pere PERE Eee a ee egretete2 She bet ES age ai Tht he es a . pitts $age es > . - See ee Pasar eat ti he ee eee ed pales Se a * peestre tt errr rise tree. al nee ei Terese: ott ertoteet Tei e ete ree ish tl te ke oe ated be ze ed “e - es - - ee’ ' + 4 . Pees ee ete eer ts. te Sh eh ebsfeteisPetetesseess tsps tse ee Pe; ' ; Viyete ttre teiee ray ————— ts 5 ce » 426 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS [LECT. XXXVIII Greeks seem to have been the first who introduced a more regalar structure, and closer connexion of parts, into their poetical writings. During the infancy of poetry, all the different kinds of it lay sonfused, 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 of poetry then mixed together, but all that we now call letters, or composition of any kind, was then blended in one mass. At first, history, eloquence, and poetry, were all the same. Whoever 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 the 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 ‘o the imagination and passions. Even its earliest companion, music, was in a great measure divided from it.LECT. XXXVIII. | OF POETRY. 427 These separations, brought all the literary arts into a more regular form, and contributed to the exact and accurate cultivation of each. Poetry, however, in its ancient original condition, was 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 country or his friends, the early bard arose andsung. 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 féel. Composing coolly in their closets, they endeavoured to imitate passion, rather than to express it; they tried to force their imagination into raptures, or to supply the defect of native warmth, by those artificial ornaments which might give composition a splendid appearance. The separation of music from poetry, produced consequences not 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 and Music TaARse oi Pes grSeDeraary prety eo. teres we s@esetate Cae nat ee th pret eet es be pena we aad Oy o pers ee eee ee ee et eee = BES ees SS ft oe ca tes greta rersieteectitas rs Bes Le ts + - = > 3 bi Ly Sesche des" . res reece ye Tee Pt Peart st te Sete ta eee Sat Teese ee hed pyerare et St rete rertree gee. ie ar sini sevetete feds sade ese gest fees e Pe seitiesss ea et " ee: © Py J Pes Bh he 4 4 "i n 4 eee Sole Se fees toe 8 Stessre Fa es “ es aiiss te teeta eis ee ee pe eee ad ttle Se cette te Sees Pa eS a FE 428 VERSIFICATION. [LECT. XXXVIII in song, it was formed into numbers, or into an artificial arrangement of words and syllables, very differentin different countries; but such, as to the inhabitants of each, seemed most melodious and agree able in sound. Whence arises that great characteristic of poetry which we now call verse; a subject which comes next to be treated of. It is a subject of a curious nature; but as 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 wasalways equal to that of 12 long syllables. In order to ascertain the regular time of every verse, and the proper mixture and succession of Jong and short syllables which ought to compose it, were invented, what the grammarians call metrical feet, dactyles, spondees, iambus, &e. 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 nexameter 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 bea 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 Asclepedean verse (in which the first ode of Horace is written) may be scanned either by a Spondeus, two Choriambus’s, and a Pyrrichius ; or by a Spon- deus, a Dactylus succeeded by a Cesura, and two Dactylus’s. The common Pentac meter, and some other forms of verse, admit the like varieties; and yet the melody of the verse, remains always the same, thongh it be scanned by different feet. This proves, that the metrical feet were not sensible in the pronunciation of the line, but were intended only to regulate its construction ; or applied as measures, to tryLECT. XXXVIII. | 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 syllables, 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 eertain order and succession of accented and unaccented syllables, infinitely more than upon their being long or short, that the melody of our verse depends. Ifwe 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 may be called an iambic struc- ture ; that is, composed ofa succession, nearly alternate, of syllables, not short and long, but unaccented and accented. With regard to the place of these accents, however, some liberty is admitted, for the sake of variety. Very often, though not always, the line begins with an unaccented syllable; and sometimes, in the course of it, two un- accented syllables follow each other. But in general, there are nither five, or four, accented syllables in each line. ‘The number of syllables 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 melody of the verse; and as feet of different kinds could sometimes be applied for this purpose, hence it happened, that some forms of verse were capable of being 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 uniformly scanned. But no ear is sensible of the termination of each foot,. in reading an hex- ameter line. From a misapprehension of this matter, I apprehend that confusion has sometimes arisen among writers, in treating of the prosody both of Latin and of English verse. f ie * See this well illustrated in Lord Monboddo’s Treatise of The Origin and Progress of Language, vol. ii. under the head of the prosody of language. He shows that this is not only the constitution of our own verse, but that, by our manner of reading Latin verse, we make its music nearly the same. For we certainly do not pronounce it ac- cording to the ancient quantities, so as to make the musical time of one long syllabie equal to two short ones; but according toa succession of accented and unaccented sylla- bles, only mixed in a ratio different from that of our own verse. No Roman could pos- sibly understand our pronunciation. Teta ERS ea eee te pe : z oe. bebe r i Fe os FA REDEE ae ee tee PS siwsetwes od ee as Pe rete re eet eiwisiwiwoie et ars iF re td Se in 3 shegegeasgearerereriteRectesinsads feesSoe 3 eT teat te Fy eee ort yo 21): tata aoe tie Lees eee aks eS 335) o> eye} a bo ae [ee ea eee oe te Sd Pest rete restr tri r tris etes ree: shar Bs nae Paae PIES B. igcetePosede ts isessesehe terete te aese eres stisit ties er 7 cs ae es es ee eee sé ce tt rae e Teer seers st nes Seed @30 VERSIFICATION. [LECT. XXXVIII. so slurred in pronouncing, as to bring the verse, with respect to its effect upon the ear, within the usual bounds. Another essential circumstance in the constitution of our verse, is the cxsural 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. Inthe 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 cesural pause, di- viding the line into two equal hemisticks. For example, in the first lines of Boileau’s Epistle to the King: Jeune & vaillant heros | dont la haute sagesse N’est point le fruit tardif | d’une lente vieillesse, Qui seul sans Ministre | 4 l’example des Dieux, Soutient tout par toi-méme | & 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, | O goddess sing!L¥CT. XXXVIII. | VERSIFICATION. 43} But the grave, solemn cadence becomes still more sensible, when the pause falls after the 7th syllable, which is the nearest place te the end of the line that it can occupy. This kind of verse occurs the seldomest, but has a happy effect in diversifying the melody. It produces that slow Alexandrine air which is finely suited to a close ; and for this reason, such lines almost never occur together, but are used in finishing the couplet. And in the smooth description | murmur still, Long lov’d, ador’d ideas ! | 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 good 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 cz- 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 Poétique Frangoise, 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 ceesural 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. Seale Rathod de cal Rerihe delhi dh hee bk eset res. ery yer Lees fer et a ee a Ra Nee ee Aa pee te ee eee eee Jegeteieresees Fa a ail SSPHRS1 SH RESTS erst Reeys Pe Ek ee Ss PT ares ce ok tet Sees exe Phe eae 2 a iyares a be s¢iersts roee tery te yy te Ee . Pete ot oe. so T et eeereteTerari rit te crusen Psisirserntelatedsiedeessesrseiets eke eee ed eb ae ED; fe Boe rete eh Pet ce TH Fose ds , +f d oy Te Per er es tee et ST ae Pte Pi ete Sa eres re eee tee Steere etre tes | S23 * oo » ae ot ad * fanns eh eee Pert se he oe 432 VERSIFICATION. [LECT. XXXVIII free and manly numbers thanrhyme. The constraint and strict re- gularity of rhyme, are unfavourable to the sublime, or to the highly pathetic strain. An epic poem, ora 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 sufh- 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 Lo 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 ifany one, after reading Mr. Pope’s Rape of the Loek, 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 smooth 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 aboundLECT! XXXix, | PASTORAL POETRY. 435 ed. Dryden’s versification, however, has very great merit; and, like all his productions, has much spirit, mixed with carelessness. If not so smooth and correct as Pope’s, it is however more varied and easy. He subjects himself less to the rule of closing the sense with the coup- let; and frequently takes the liberty of making his couplets run into one another, with somewhat of the freedom of blank verse. 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 les- ser 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 I 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 of 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- tions, 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 life which their forefathers led, or which, at least, they fancied them to have led: they looked back upon it with pleasure, and in those rural 5 Petia eae eC a ee Felindy e ees aise Ae eese ss 5 54 oP id bast bag al ce es ie SS Se piieseterasecesa = tEQseEte Pe oe kB SESE a POE er rere ere Ca tees ers nee ee ere key is ae Ce a ea egegtaggtaterereritetesiotss ES SS ot anePe AT Etistie terete iter sti te ite Le ehhh Tet ts Li oa ti tals ta tehasa . r . oe L . nd nd ' Y - 24s8 eae SEs pe Ae RARER TSS | BSEEES. aoeaee ese oe < << Se Mbeoet + ee te te te . * sai 8 PR ES te pol ee eR eS Lot SFT hte Tep seers Fa Peles PES eee pee Ee Pt es Pe eee ee ergy te saz ae Tossa eeiens® +4 ib rye tres a 4 434 PASTORAL POETRY. [ LECT. XXXIX. 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, andshepherds 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 as we may suppose it once to have been, in the more early and simple ages, when it was a life of ease and abundance, when the wealth of men consisted chiefly in flocks and herds, and the shepherd, though unrefined in his manners, was respectable in his state ; or lastly, such as it never was, and never can in reality be, when, to the ease, inno- cence, and simplicity of the early ages, we attempt to add the po- lished taste and cultivated manners of moderntimes. 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 theservile 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 agreeable, without beingdearned or refined; and plain and artlessLECT. XXXIX. | PASTORAL POETRY. 435 without being gross and wretched. The great charm of pastoral poe- try arises, from the view which it exhibits 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 toit; 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 such 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! hic inter flumina nota, Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum. Hinc tibi, que semper vicino ab limite sepes, Hybleis apibus, florem depasta salicti, Sepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro. Hinc altA sub rupe, canet frondator ad auras ; Nec tamen interea rauce, tua cura, palumbes, Nec gemere aéria cessabit turtur ab ulmo. Happy old man! here mid th’ accustom’d streams And sacred springs, you'll shun the scorching beams ; While from yon willow fence, thy pasture’s bound, The bees that suck their flowery stores around, Shall sweetly mingle, with the 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, - : Mcanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting strain, Nor turtles from the aérial elms to plain. WaRToR. aR ee Peon Serre err. ere rere eee ee ee hice ge lesteers ve Wee a" Re ea Ea egedtgedtereteieret reese eis othe es Stele 4 Tea . . @25: ; 4 2 a 2 aUSC eT eet re erties yt) tee te fle f . . PRZEAL ES 6% Sg ES Oe oe ap * = Tey eerie ioe Ee tsieie sesededeeedsieicsedegeseseie sie es pees pte Pe Pt os = ye zs ibs taka) ee tes ee Pal sei 7 eere Seer eee SE ot a ce oe eee eres a et reer erie 436 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXxXIX. 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 io give us 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: hic ubi densas Agricole stringunt frondes. Ect. 1X.t * What rural scenery, for instance, can be painted in more lively colours, than the following description exhibits ? ty re Cabeines 6 / ‘ / > / Adelas oxivoso yamevvior exrlyOntetc, "Ey te veotmadroios peyabores civapéoics. Tloaaai d° dupesy vrreg he nara uparos Sovéorra “Atyeipos werertas re TOS ey ydbey lepov Uwe Nupoay t& dvreoto xatesBouxsyov xera'pucds. Tol St work oxsepais opodauviow aibarlores Tirrsyss acaaysuvres Exov rover, ad” oAoAuyar TradSev ty wuniviot Barov rpiCeoney axavdass. "Aadoy xopudor nai dnavOldec, trrevs Tevyar Tlaravto £xbal aegi widaxas Aut uériooas. \ 14 \ \ ‘ ~ >” ‘ Tlavr’ wodey Seeecs mura Thovos, acds JY oawens. “Oxvar iv wae wool, reed mrevenct d% Mare Aarinios &uuery exvaivdero™ Tol J” extyurro e ‘ / * Opmanes BexBuroics xaraBplboyres teacde. Tueocrit. Idyl. vii. 132. itiek ie kin WR me 2 on soft beds recline Of lentisk, and young branches of the vine ; Poplars and elms above their foliage spread, Lent a cool shade, and wav’d the breezy head; Below, a stream, from the nymph’s sacred cave, In free meanders led its murm’ring wave. In the warm sunbeams, verdant shades among, Shrill grasshoppers renew'd their plaintive song; At distance far, conceal’d in shades, alone, Sweet Philomela pour’d her tuneful moan; The lark, the goldfinch, warbled lays of love, And sweetly pensive coo’d the turtle dove ; While honey bees, forever on the wing, Humm’d round the flowers, or sipt the silver spring; The rich, ripe season, gratified the sense With summer’s sweets, and autumn’s redolence. Apples and pears lay strew’d in heaps around, And the plum’s loaded branches kiss’d the ground. Fawkes. To our mid journey are we come, I see the top of old Bianor’s tomb ; Here, Meris,where the swains thick branches prune, And strew their leaves, our voices let us tune. WaARTOR.ELECT. XXXIX<] PASTORAL POETRY. 437 Not only in professed descriptions of the scenery, but in the frequent allusions to natural objects, which occur, of course, in. pastorals, the poet must, above all things, study variety. He must diversify his face of nature, by presenting to us new images; or otherwise, he will soon become insipid with those known topics of description, which were original, it is true, in the first poets, who copied them from nature, but which are now worn thread-bare by incessant imi- tation. It is also incumbent on him, to suit the scenery to the sub- ject of the pastoral ; and, according as it is of a gay or a melancholy kind, to exhibit nature under such forms as may correspond with the emotions or sentiments which hedescribes. Thus Virgil, in his second Eclogue, which contains the lamentation of a desparing lover, gives, with propriety, a gloomy appearance to the scene: Tan*im inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos Assidué veniebat ; ibi hec incondita solus Montibus & sylvis studio jactabat inani.* With regard to the characters, or persons, which are proper to be introduced into pastorals, it is not enough that they be persons resid- ing inthe country. The adventures, or the discourses of courtiers, or citizens, in the country, are not what we look for insuch writings; we expect to be entertained by shepherds, or persons wholly en- gaged in rural occupations; whose innocence and freedom from the cares of the world may, in our imagination, form an agreeable con- trast with the manners and characters of those who are engaged in the bustle of life. One of the principal difficulties which here occurs has been al- ready hinted; that of keeping the exact medium between too much rusticity on the one hand, and too much refinement on the other. The shepherd, assuredly, must be plain and unaffected in his manner of thinking, on all subjects. An amiable simplicity must be the ground-work of his character. ’ At the same time, there is no ne- cessity for his being dull and insipid. He may have good sense and reflection; he may have sprightliness and vivacity; he may have very tender and delicate feelings; since these are, more or less, the portion of men in all ranks of life; and since, undoubtedly, there was much genius in the world, before there were learning or arts to refine it. But then he must not subtilize; he must not deal in ge- neral reflections and abstract reasoning; and still less in the points and conceits of an affected gallantry, which surely belong not to his character and situation. Some of these conceits are the chief blemishes of the Italian pastorals, which are otherwise beautiful. When Aminta, in Tasso, is disentangling his mistress’s hair from the tree to which a savage had bound it, he is represented as saying: ‘Cruel tree! how couldst thou injure that lovely hair which did thee so much honour? Thy rugged trunk was not worthy of such lovely # Mid shades of thickest beech he pin’d alone, To the wild woods and mountains made his moan 5 Still day by day, in incoherent strains, _ "Twas all he could, despairing told his pains. . Warton. SUP ee et a eh ot ot eg ee = etc stp bssasesetet seca gegate jagetinvecesediie rere r eo Peete er es ES $= 3 ha egegegegreteretéreteteceessziede face eae he is > 4 a Sestelest iJ 7 s oz :. \ 2 i ee Te tpt e gatas a: TLL LAL tabi nbadbehe ta thee eee 438 PASTORAL POETRY. [ LECT. XXXIX. knots. What advantage have the servants of love, if those precious chains are common to them, and tothe trees ?* Such strained senti- ments as these, ill befit the woods. Rural personages are supposed | to speak the language of plain sense, and natural feelings. When they | Pe describe, or relate, they do it with simplicity, and naturally allude - to rural circumstances; as in those beautiful lines of one of Virgil’s Kelogues: Sepibus in nostris parvam te roscida mala (Dux ego vester eram) vidi cum matre legentem: Alter ab undecimo tum me jam ceperat annus, Jam fragiles pcteram ad terr4 contingere ramos. Ut vidi, ut perii, ut me malus abstulit error !t VIII. 37. In another passage, he makes a shepherdess throw an apple at her lover: er = ——e ra eee Tee jesseeera PER ute es et eae SpistpsespeePetedstedessdresseieie eierseti ee dSie set at ee: Sah ee. Tum fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri.} III. 65. This is naive, as the French express it, and perfectly suited to pas- toral manners. Mr. Pope wanted to imitate this passage, and, as he thought, to improve upon it. He does it thus: The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, She runs ; but hopes she does not run unseen ; While a kind glance at her pursuer flies, How much at variance are her feet and eyes ! This falls far short of Virgil; the natural and pleasing simplicity of the description is destroyed, by the quaint and affected turn in the last line: ‘‘ How much at variance are her feet and eyes.” Supposing the poet to have formed correct ideas concerning his pastoral characters and personages: the next inquiry is, about what is-he to employ them? and what are to be the subjects of his Eclogues? For itis not enough, that he gives us shepherds discoursing together. Every good poem, of every kind, ought to have asubject which should, in some way, interest us. Now, here [ apprehend, lies the chief difficulty of pastoral writing. The ac- tive scenes of country life either are, or to most describers appear to be, too barren of incidents. The state of a shepherd, or a per- son occupied in rural employments only, is exposed to few of those aK tgoeteFeis ke Berane cs $5= FaPseSeeessyteeG Pers * Gia di nodi si bei non era degno Cosi rovido tronco; or che vantaggio Hanno i servi d’ amor, se lor commune E’con le piante il pretioso laccio ? Pianta crudel! potesti quel bel crine Offender, tu, ch’a te seo tanto onore ? Arto III. Se. I SIBBLATIEN es ae ee oo e “+ Once with your mother to our field you came For dewy apples; thence I date my flame; The choicest fruit I pointed to your view, Tho’ young, my raptur’d soul was fix’d on you; The boughs | just could reach with little arms ; But then, even then, could feel thy powerful charms. O, how I gaz’d, in pleasing transport tost : How glow’d my heart, in sweet delusion lost ! Warton. Stee ete eerrtes et a $ My Phyllis me with pelted apples plies ; Then, trippmg to the wood, the wanton hies, And wishes to be seen, before she flies. DrypEN — C7 triste teasers) eyes, re er St SSD ay eae ae EERE rs aLECT. KXKIX. | PASTORAL POETRY. 439 accidents and revolutions which render his situation interesting, or produce curiosity or surprise. The tenour of his life is uniform. His ambition is conceived to be without policy, and his love with- out intrigue. Hence it is, that, of all poems, the most meagre com- monly in the subject, and the least diversified in the strain, 1s the pastoral. From the first lines, we can, generally, guess at all that is to fol- low. Itis either a shepherd who sits down solitary by a brook, to lament the absence or cruelty of his mistress, and to tell us how the trees wither, and the flowers droop, now that she is gone; or we have two shepherds who challenge one another to sing, rehearsing alternate verses, which have little either of meaning or subject, till the judge rewards one with a studded crook, and another with a beechen bowl. ‘To the frequent repetition of common-place topics of this sort, which have been thrummed over by all Eclogue writers since the days of Theocritus and Virgil, is owing much of that insi- pidity which prevails in pastoral compositions. I much question, however, whether this insipidity be not owing to the fault of the poets, and to their barren and slavish imitation of the ancient pastoral topics, rather than to the confined nature of the subject. For why may not pastoral poetry take a wider range? Human nature, and human passions, are much the same in every rank of life; and wherever these passions operate on ob- jects that are within the rural sphere, there may be a proper subject for pastoral. One would indeed choose to remove from this sort of composition the operations of violent and direful passions, and to present such only as are consistent with innocence, simplicity, and virtue. But under this limitation, there will still be abundant scope for a careful observer of nature to exert his genius. The various adventures which give occasion to those engaged in country life to display their disposition and temper; the scenes of domestic felic1- ty or disquiet; the attachment of friends and brothers; the rival- ship and competition of lovers; the unexpected success or mis- fortunes of families, might give occasion to many a pleasing and tender incident; and were more of the narrative and sentimental -ntermixed with the descriptive in this kind of poetry, it would be- come much more interesting than it now generally is, to the bulk of readers.* : : The two great fathers of pastoral poetry are, Theocritus and Vir- gil. Theocritus was a Sicilian ; and as he has laid the scene of his Eclogues in his own country, Sicily became ever afterwards a sort of consecrated ground for pastoral poetry. His Idylia, as he has enti- tled them, are not all of equal merit; nor indeed are they all pas- torals; but sorne of them poems of a quite different nature. In such, however, as are properly pastorals, there are many and grea¢ * The above observations on the barrenness of the common Eclogues were written before any translation from the German had made us acquainted in this country with Gesner’s Idyls, in which the ideas that had occurred to me for the improvement of pas toral poetry, are fully realized. aoe or ea ee eee SSS ora ea See ee ee ee ee s exe te mee 5 4es odbi i » re] bd aaeeets fest ves! a aed reac at te ete t es to ee Se4eersetit ty? ee at 3 SESE Teer e tree a a a= taeda sesededaie&ds wheqedegs pegs eee See Eide sede FaRSedgeesshiceesseeyeeeys IZPTRE TSF S2tS petesss see etis tars ed ad Peres sooo Se 23 ea Ont * tee es oe pit as SS ~ ees 440 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT x RRIX: beauties. He is distinguished for the simplicity of his sentiments; for the great sweetness and harmony of his numbers, and for the richness of his.scenery and description. He is the original, of whicn Virgil is the imitator. For most of Virgil’s highest beauties in his Eclogues are copied from Theocritus; in many places he has done nothing more than translate him. He must be allowed, however, to have imitated him with great judgment, and in some respects to have improved upon him. For Theocritus, it cannot be denied, descends sometimes into ideas that are gross and mean, and makes his shepherds abusive and immodest; whereas Virgil is free from offensive rusticity, and at the same time preserves the character of pastoral simplicity. The same distinction obtains be- tween Theocritus and Virgil, as between many other of the Greek and Roman writers. The Greek led the way, followed nature more closely, and showed more original genius. The Roman dis- covered more of the polish and correctness of art. We have a few remains of two other Greek poets in the pastoral style, Moschus and Bion, which have very considerable merit; and if they want the simplicity of Theocritus, excel him in tenderness and delicacy. The modern writers of pastorals have, generally, contented them- selves with copying, or imitating,the descriptions and sentiments of the ancient poets. Sannazarius, indeed, a famous Latin poet, in the age of Leo X. attempted a bold innovation. He composed Pis- catory Eclogues, changing the scene from woods to the sea, and from the life of shepherds to that of fishermen. But the innovation was so unhappy, that he has gained no followers. For the life of fish- ermen is, obviously, much more hard and toilsome than that of shepherds, and presents to the fancy much less agreeable images. Flocks, and trees, and flowers, are objects of greater beauty, and more generally relished by men, than fishes and marine productions. Of all the moderns, M. Gesner, a poet of Switzerland, has been the most successful in his pastoral compositions. He has introduced into his Idyls (as he entitles them) many new ideas. His rural scenery is often striking, and his descriptions are lively. He pre- sents pastoral life to us, wich all the embellishments of which it is susceptible; but without any excess of refinement. What forms the chief merit of this poet is, that he writes to the heart; and has enriched the subject of his Idyls with incidents which give rise to much tendersentiment. Scenes of domestic felicity are beautifully painted. The mutual affection of husbands and wives, of parents and children, of brothers and sisters, as well as of lovers, are displayed in a pleasing and touching manner. From not understanding the language in which M. Gesner writes, I can be no judge of the po- etry of his style: but, in the subject and conduct of his pastorals, he appears to me to have outdone all the moderns. Neither Mr. Pope’s nor Mr. Philips’s pastorals, do any great hon- our to the English poetry. Mr. Pepe’s were composed in his youth; which may be an apology for other faults, but cannct well excuse the barrenness that appears in them. They are written in re- markably smooth and flowing numbers: and this is their chiefLECT. XXxIx. | PASTORAL POETRY. 44} merit; for there is scarcely any thought in them which can be called his own; scarcely any description, or any image of nature, which has the marks of being original, or copied from nature herself; but a repetition of the common images that are to be found in Virgil, and in all poets who write of rural themes. Philips attempted to be more simple and natural than Pope; but he wanted genius to support his attempt, or to write agreeably. He, too, runs on the common and beaten topics; and endeavouring to be simple, he be- comes flat and insipid. There was no small competition between these two authors, at the time when their pastorals where pub- lished. In some papers of the Guardian, great partiality was shown to Philips and high praise bestowed uponhim. Mr. Pope, resenting this preference, under a feigned name, procured a paper to be in- serted in the Guardian, wherein he seemingly carries on the plan of extolling Philips; but in reality satirises him most severely with ironical praises; and in an artful covered manner, gives the palm to himself.* About the same time, Mr. Gay published his Shep- herd’s Week, in six pastorals, which are designed to ridicule that sort of simplicity which Philips and his partisans extolled, andare, indeed, an ingenious burlesque of pastoral writing, when it rises no higher than the manners of modern clowns and rustics. Mr. Shenstone’s pastoral ballad, in four parts, may justly be reckonea, I think, one of the most elegant poems of this kind which we have in English. I have not yet mentioned one form in which pastoral writing has appeared in latter ages, that is, when extended into a play, or regu- lar drama, where plot, characters, and passions, are joined with the simplicity and innocence of rural manners. This is the chief improvement which the moderns have made on this species of composition ; and of this nature, we have two Italian pieces which are much celebrated, Guarini’s Pastor Fido, and Tasso’s Aminta. Both of these possess great beauties and are entitled to the reputa- tion they have gained. To the latter, the preference seems due, as being less intricate in the plot and conduct, and less strained and affec- ted in the sentiments; and though not wholly free from Italian refine- ment, (of which I already gave one instance, the worst indeed, that occurs in all the poem,) it is, on the whole, a performance of high merit. The strain of the poetry is gentle and pleasing; and the Italian language contributes to add much of that softness, which is peculiarly suited to pastoral. t * See Guardian, No. 40. t It may be proper to take notice here, that the charge against Tasso for his points and conceits, has sometimes been carried too far. Mr. Addison, for in- stance, in a paper of the Guardian, censuring his Aminta, gives this example: ‘That Sylvia enters adorned with a garland of flowers, and after viewing herself in a fountain, breaks out in a speech to the flowers on her head, and tells ee that she did not wear them to adorn herself, but to make them ashamed. | Whoever can bear this, he adds, ‘may be assured, that he has no taste for pastoral.’ Guard. No. 38. But Tasso’s Sylvia, in truth, makes no such ridiculous figure, and we are obliged *o suspect that Mr. Addison had not read the Aminta. Daphne, a companion of Sylvia, appears in conversation with Thyrsis, the confidant of Amin- ta, Sylvia’s lover, and * order to show him that Sylvia was not so simple, or in Se ee ee ee BS <1 gE eee se ee eCesate = Pea preots et eee ee ETE PES A See ee a ere eS eS ee ae crs egegeegeecerecsriteeeciesit ae aah ae om” = Fd Sate, a ne eo etee ar Seeueniet rs pee re TS peu ea LST tL Lt ea hie bth hel a ; : Sok ES Sa S OPES Serr sie repress erect tities cei Sakae hich 5 ot ‘ere ; Se A ig ey ee eee | ee. See ee es ise ES eS oS) Sete SST s tees Pe et tS Ged eal Stats Fe ee o 442 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXxXIX I must not omit the mention of another pastoral drama, which will bear being brought into comparison with any composition of this kind, in any language; that is, Allan Ramsay’s Gentle Shepherd. It is a great disadvantage to this beautiful poem, that it is written in the old rustic dialect of Scotland, which, in a short time, will pro- bably beentirely obsolete, and not intelligible; and it is a farther dis- advantage, that it is so entirely formed on the rural manners of Scot- land, that none but a native of that country can thoroughly under- sensible to her own charms, as she affected to be, gives him this instance; that she had caught her one day adjusting her dress by a fountain, and applying now one flower and now another to her neck, and after comparing their colours with her own, she broke into a smile, as if she had seemed to say, I will wear you not for my ornaments, but to show how much you yield to me; and when caught thus admiring herself, she threw away her flowers, and blushed for shame. This de- scription of the vanity of a rural coquette, is no more than what is natural, and very dif- ferent from what the author of the Guardian represents it. This censure on Tasso was not originally Mr. Addison’s. Bouhours in his Ma- niere de bien penser dans les owvrages d’esprit, appears to have been the first who gave this misrepresentation of Sylvia’s speech, and founded a criticism on it. Fonte- nelle, in his discourse on Pastoral Poetry, followed him in this criticism. Mr. Ad- dison, or whoever was the author of that paper in the Guardian, copied from them both. Mr. Warton, in the Prefatory Discourse to his Translation of Virgil’s Eclogues, repeats the observation. Sylvia’s speech to the flowers, with which she was adorned, is always quoted as the flagrant instance of the false taste of the Italian poets. Whereas, Tasso gives us no such speech of Sylvia’s, but only in- forms us of what her companion supposed her to be thinking, or saying to herself when she was privately admiring her own beauty. After charging so many emi- nent critics, for having fallen into this strange inaccuracy, from copying one anoth- er, without looking into the author whom they censure, it is necessary for me to insert the passage which has occasioned this remark Daphne speaks thus te Thyrsis : Hora per dirti il ver, non mi resolvo Si Silvia é semplicetta, come pare A Je parole, a gli atti. Hier vidi un segno Che me ne mette indubbio. [o la trovai La presso la cittade in quei gran prati, Ove fra stagni grace un isoletta, Sovra essa uu lago limpido e tranquillo, Tutta pendente in atto, che parea Vagheggiar fe medesma, e’nsieme insieme Chieder consiglio & l’acque, in qual maniera Dispor dovesse in su la fronte i crini, E sovra i crini il velo, e sovral velo I fior, che tenea in grembo; e spesso spesso Hor prendeva un ligustro, hor una rosa, E laccostava al bel candido collo, A le guancie vermiglie, e de colori Fea paragone ; e poi, ficome lieta De la vittoria, lampeggiava un riso Che parea che dicesse: io pur vi vinco; Ni porto voi per ornamento mio, Ma porto voi sol per vergogna vostra, Perche si veggia quanto mi cedete. Ma mentre ella s’ornava, e vagheggiava Rivolsi gli occhi a caso, e si fu accorta, Ch'io di la m’era accorta, e vergognando, Rizzosi tosto, ei fior lascid cadere; in tanto io piu ridea del suo rossore, Ella piu s’arrossia de} riso mio. Aminta. Atto II Se, ii.LECT. XXXIXx.] LYRIC POETRY. 443 stand or relish it. But, though subject to those local disadvantages, which confine its reputation within narrow limits, itis full of so much natural description, and tender sentiment, as would do honour to any poet. The characters are well drawn, the incidents affecting, the scenery and manners lively and just. It affords a strong proof, both of the power which nature and simplicity possess, to reach the heart in every sort of writing; and of the variety of pleasing charac- ters and subjects, with which pastoral poetry, when properly mana- ged, is capable of being enlivened. I proceed next, to treat of lyric poetry, or the ode; a species of poetical composition which possesses much dignity, and in which many writers have distinguished themselves, inevery age. Its pe- culiar character is, that it is intended to be sung, or accompanied with music. Its designation implies this. Ode is, in Greek, the same with song or hymn; and lyric poetry imports, that the verses are accompanied with a lyre, or musical instrument. This distinc- tion was not, at first, peculiar to any one species of poetry. For, as I observed in the last lecture, music and poetry were coéval, and were, originally, always joined together. But after their separation took place, after bards had begun to make verse compositions, which were to be recited or read, not to be sung, such poems as were de- signed to be still joined with music or song, were, by. way of distinc- tion, called odes. In the ode, therefore, poetry retains its first and most ancient form; that form, under which the original bards poured forth their enthusi- astic strains, praised their gods and their heroes, celebrated their vic- tories, and lamented their misfortunes. Itis from this circumstance, of the ode’s being supposed to retain its original union with music, that we are to deduce the proper idea, and the peculiar qualities of this kind of poetry. It is not distinguished from other kinds, by the subjects on which it isemployed; for these may be extremely vari- ous. J know no distinction of subject that belongs to it, except that other poems are often employed in the recital of actions, whereas sentiments of one kind or other, form, almost always, the subject of the ode. But it is chiefly the spirit, the manner of its execution, that marks and characterizes it. Music and song naturally add to the warmth of poetry. They tend to transport, in a higher degree, both the person who sings, and the persons who hear. They justify, therefore, a bolder and more passionate strain, than can be support- edin simple recitation. On this is formed the peculiar character of the ode. Hence, the enthusiasm that belongs to it, and the liber- ties it is allowed to take, beyond any other species of poetry. Hence, that neglect of regularity, those digressions, and that disorder which it is supposed to admit; and which, indeed, most lyric poets have not failed sufficiently to exemplify in their practice. “a The effects of music upon the mind are chiefly two ; to raise it above its ordinary state, and fill it with high enthusiastic emotions ; or to sooth, and melt it into the gentle pleasurable feelings. Hence, the ode may either aspire to the former character of the sublime and noble, or it may descend to the latter of the pleasant and the cactageaeeicecikassseae® Ee added Seek Re saa Es a a dt oer: Seo ls an ere aoe 5 PEP RSe ET SSIE face Neo re an ek at Ste ee A Sete SRS ets Beker s: RPE PLS eS 3 Se eee Per Sey eS eS eR ee ee ee Re ee ee ee Pe eae Sees eae ae tt eras as ik oo ak Fitgtgeatateresere = yest othe ‘ay rh ee rex yt? Sa ctrsr ee To Tete SRE SS: Sod tig lala ade Pett et er ae erica ith Ys * 3 ° Peete eta rer ttc sti ee eels a rarest ee bs he i hake > Se - he ee pe. ‘=e ee peaks sy ieoet+¥o tetet sie ee eT te See tees ae tata? aed eS re ee es eo gee Py ee to ee ~~ a ee yep be areas 6 ba a oe Le z® rif 444 LYRIC POETRY. [ LECT. XXXIX. gay; and between these, there is, also, a middle region of the mild and temperate emotions, which the ode may often occupy to advan- tage. All odes may be comprised under four denominations. First, sa- cred odes; hymns addressed to God, or composed on religious sub- yects. Of this nature are the Psalms of David, which exhibit to us this species of lyric poetry, in its highest degree of perfection. Secondly, heroic odes, which are employed in the praise of heroes, and in the celebration of martial exploits and great actions. Of this kind are all Pindar’s odes, and some few of Horace’s. These two kinds ought to have sublimity and elevation, for their reigning character. Thirdly, moral and philosophical odes, where the sentiments are chiefly inspired by virtue, friend ship,and humanity. Of this kind, are many of Horace’s odes, and several of our best modern lyric pro- ductions; and here the ode possesses that middle region, which, as I observed, it sometimes occupies. Fourthly, festive and amorous odes, calculated merely for pleasure and amusement. Of this na- ture are all Anacreon’s, some of Horace’s; and a great number of songs and modern productions, that claim to be of the lyric species. The reigning character of these, ought to be elegance, smoothness, and gayety. One of the chief difficulties in composing odes, arises from that enthusiasm which is understood to be a characteristic of lyric po- etry. Fated nse enteleteds+eses epee seit eta he tS - Fe : ne a eeritetiss es ree Seis ett ieee tar eer oes ie Po rd rey re were eer see Tey. be Pies | Te ee stevia 460 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. [uecr. x11. 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 controversies among learned men, which it is unnecessary to our present purpose to discuss. Taking the Old Testament in our own translation, which is extremely literal, we find plain marks of ma- ny parts of the original being written in a measured style; and the ‘disjecti membra poéte,’ 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 Cesar’s Commentaries, to read Virgil’s Aineid. ‘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 writers under divine inspiration, and has been chosen as a proper channel for conveying to the world the knowledge of divine truth. From the earliest times, music and poetry were cultivated among the Hebrews. In the days of the judges, mention is made of the schools or colleges of the prophets ; where one part of the 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 it was to sing hymns, and to perform the instrumental music in the public worship. Asaph, Heman, and Jeduthun, were the chief directors of the music; and from the titles of some psalms, it would appear that they were also eminent composers of hymns or sacred poems. In chapter xxv. of the first book of Chronicles, an account is given of 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 of 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. xL1.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 4614 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 son —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 regula 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 He- 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 or bands of singers and musicians, who answered alternately toeach other. When, for instance, one band began the hymn thus: ‘The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice;’ the chorus, or semi-chorus, took up the 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; ‘ Alternatim,’ or by course; (Ezra iii. 11.) and some of David’s Psalms bear plain marks of their being composed in order to be thus performed. The 24th Psalm, in particular, which is thought to have been composed on the great and solemn occasion of the ark of the covenant being brought back to Mount Zion, must have had a noble effect when performed after this 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 procession 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 TP eae ee ee ee Fr esgreeDee ee Breer: cS wow itedetepesecetete sity bea to Ram Sok ort See Fe Ped eet eee See er ete ee eS ee Ce ee eee Peete Peseta ee cee cn eRe be ts ob oe ad ‘4 24 ate a the ol Pree C SteeTTT TAL Sith Lita tai eth lated ae 2 a E ese Se retiT iis eta h re he ears re > rein seeePeted Tee che tee ce he oe Fs, ee 3 a2 epee sesets oo hb tended etek ak eer tte See eo! ee eae ee 25e59=455 462 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. ‘[xxcv. xx. up his soul to vanity, nor sworn deceitfully.” As the procession approaches to the doors of the tabernacle, the chorus, with all their instruments, join in this exclamation: ‘ Lift up your heads, ye gates, and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory shall come in.’ Here the semi-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. Ix. 1.) ‘ Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee: for Jo! 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 Raman poets. Independently of this peculiar mode of 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. F or,as I have for- merly had occasion to show, nothing is so great an enemy to the sublime, as prolixity or diffuseness. The mind is never so much affected by any great idea that is presented to it, as whenit is struck all at once. By attempting to prolong the impression, we at theLECT. XLI.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 463 same time weaken it. Most of the ancient original poets of all nations are simple and concise. The superfluities and excrescences of style, were the result of imitation in after-times; when compo- sition passed into inferior hands, and flowed from art and study, more than from native genius. No writings whatever abound so much with the most bold and ani- mated figures, as the sacred books. It is proper to dwell a little upon this article ; as, through our early familiarity with these books, (a familiarity too often with the sound of the words, rather than with their sense and meaning,) beauties of style escape us in the Scripture, which, in any other book, would draw particular 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 Judea; and place before our eyes that scenery, and those objects, with which the Hebrew writers were conversant. Some attention of this kind is requisite, in order to relish the writings of any poet of a foreign country, and adifferentage. For the imagery of every good poet is copied from xature, 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 landof Judea. During the summer months, little or no rain falls throughout all that region. While the heats continued, the country was intolerably parched; want of water was a great distress ; and a plentiful shower falling, or a rivulet breaking forth, altered the whole face of nature, and introduced much higher ideas of refreshment and pleasure, than the like causes can suggest to us. Hence, to represent distress, such frequent allusions among them, to ‘a dry and thirsty land, where no water is;’ and hence to de- scribe a change from distress to prosperity, their metaphors are founded on the falling of showers, and the bursting out of springs in the desert. Thus in Isaiah:‘ The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. For in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert; and the parched ground shall become a pool; and the thirsty land, springs of water; in the habitation of dragons there shall be grass, with rushes and reeds.’ Chap. xxxv. 1 6, 7. Images of this nature are very familiar to Isaiah, and occur in many parts of his book. : Again, as Judea was a hilly country, it was, during the rainy months,exposed to frequent inundations by the rushing of torrents, specie { << pees - a — S Py oF lessee athe E eye ee t .&s#t= SDEPIO PSG EY shes ay gre ee Fi Sh Fe Rag US Peer Loree La ETE: Pin aes Tee Sa att et a a ee el Peres?) - seesesee ea TEeeee ey e855. Tess ee - FLEETS ee Pe Se See Pere ee Tere ee Pe eS Pore ee ee eee ene ag ad Sel PRE CE ty Fh oe EE EES STE ter SZRHSEST ST ate Teh eT e Rese ssste =Pree pe te esata te ey eT aT ee Siti ii ealiitl 3 iatere oes Peete tre eee sets e Seat tise coke eae i 3 res | * Fs s 2% - . ~ - t f 3 s 7 eee a igcetesehe ts er iesereteieiessig FLAT PT RS TST sa Pe ees spi icieiesey ey ees eretes tt es e re 7 Peres Es Pty gfsee > sults tees ee ss, i ay 464 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. © [xectv. xtt. which came down suddenly from the mountains, and carried every thing before them; and-Jordan, their only great river, annually ovebowed its battles 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 unto deep at the noise of thy water-spouts ; all thy waves and thy billows 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 vinesand 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 Beanie nll ‘The elory 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 Judea and Arabia, accompanied with whirlwinds and dbahtete! far exceed any thing of that sort which happens in more temperate regions. {saiah describes, with great majesty, the earth ‘reeling to and fro like a drunkard, and removed like’a cottage.’ (xxiv. 20.) Andin those circumstances of terror, with which an appearance of the AI- mighty is described in the 18th Psalm, when his ‘ pavilion round about him was darkness; when hailstones and coals of fire were his voice ; and when, at his rebuke, the channels of the waters are said to be seen, and the foundations of the hills discovered ;’ though there may be some reference, as Dr. Lowth thinks, to the history of God’s descent upon Mount Sinai, yet it seems more probable, that the figures were taken directly from those commotions of na- ture with which the author was acquainted, and which suggested stronger and nobler images than what now occur to us. Besides the natural objects of their own country, we find the rites of their religion, and the arts and employments of their common life, frequently employed as grounds of imagery among the Hebrews. Tq hey were a people chiefly oeeupied 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 their laws and their religion; they were, during the better days of their state, strangers in a great measure to the refinements of luxury. Hence flowed, ofLECT. xti.] 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 chaff of 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 :mportance 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 Judea. The palm-trees, and the cedars of Lebanon, are ever rising in our view. The face of their territory, the circumstances of theirclimate, the manners of 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 isthe 39 eee sebsesetesesecesatteers Eee eR rr Te ete tot ree ee re .-P as rae Sey ee eet SEtHSTST ET STS erate Rese Ss. Stee he — as es oe APSE. Lt tes ohe a 3 one aeres e ys 4. reve atti Stti li set ea rh te ea a Ce eee, eee Pe Peer rte tte re cree eet bt est Sob thee aku Pete cahteme dette tk A ie A ee poh ee D PRETSS 7 Ah Be SSSR SESS ee. PETS: oe pees eerie . ee aia pd es eretestsese: " es] cee Pte bs oe re oe re eee ee TP Pe Sh eo eee Le etl be iH es SeeseSSeTiTesegerasaritsitisies: 466 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. [tecv. xu. following fine comparison, introduced to describe the happy influ- ence of good government upon a people, in what are called the last words of David, recorded in the 2d book of Samuel: (xxiii. 3.) “ He that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God; and he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun riseth; even a morning without clouds; as the tender grass springing out of the earth, by clear shining after rain.”” This is one of the most regular and formal comparisons in the sacred books. Allegory, likewise, is a figure frequently found in them. When 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 parabies, 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 prosopopeeia or personification. No personifications employed by any poets, are so magnificent and striking as those of the inspired writers. On great occasions, they animate every part of nature ; especially, when any appearance or operation of the Almighty is concerned. “Before him went the pestilence—the waters saw thee, O God, and were afraid—the mountains saw thee, and they 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 personified objects; the fir-trees and cedars of Lebanon breaking forth into exultation on the fall of the tyrant; hell from beneath, stirring up all the dead to meet him at his coming; and the dead kings introduced as speaking, and join- ing in the triumph. In the same strain, are the many lively and passionate apostrophes to cities and countries, to persons and things, with which the prophetical writings every where abound. QO thou sword of the Lord! how long will it be ere thou be quiet? put thyselfupintothe scabbard, restand 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,, xlvu. 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. Itis extremely different from that regular correct expres- sion, to which our ears are accustomed in modern poetry. Itisthe burst of inspiration. The scenes are not coolly describec, but re- presented as passing before our eyes. Every object, and everyperson, is addressed and spoken to, as if present. The transition is often abrupt; the connexion often obscure; the persons are often changed ; figures crowded, and heaped upon one another. Bold sublimity, not correct elegance, is its 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 Ecele- 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 1s undoubtedly a mystical allegory; in its form, it isa dramatic pasto- ral, or a perpetual dialogue between personages 1n 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 bymns 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 LecT. xu1.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 467 PESSe Ss fageretcerestesei gs st hese * ce) SerE TS serpteseted es ecesets Sete ® eer ad Pee one Eee Teer n Ste tt eee ete eS eS Pee ee te le od ea 2 etrteststss Z ‘eta Petr se sD oe ee eo ¥ Seed Poe oa he hk oe Ve de te kkSeoiyhatstsye ss 74a saths eee te sree seyeses peetT Siete S Elise erect iat gilt eRe ee Peer Te eT. ae eet TIT eee a ee ae Batata tS 3 ers eae ae eres tes! ed 3 cas S2FSF ee es ety =3 rv itere eee 2feles * 468 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. [xacvr. xtr. 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 beok 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 te Heaven. Isaiah is,;without exception, the most sublime of all poets his 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 res! of the Old Testament poets. He possesses, indeed, a dignity and grandeur, both in his conceptions and expressions, whichis altogether unparalleled, and peculiar to himself. There is more clearness and order too, anda 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 Jeremiaha 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 pené deformis; in dictione grandiloquus, gravis, austerus, et interdum incultus; frequens in repetitionibus, non decoris aut gratiez causa, sed ex indignatione et violentia. Quicquid susceperit tractandum id sedul6 persequitur; in eo unicé heret defixus ; a proposito raro deflectens. In ceteris, a plerisque vatibus fortasse superatus ; sed in eo genere, ad quod videtur a na-LwecT. xu1.j THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 469 tura unice comparatus, nimirum, vi, pondere, impetu, granditate, ne- mo unquam eum superayit.? The same learned writer compares Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah to Simonides, and Ezekiel to Auschylus. Most of the book of Isaiah is strictly poetical; of Jeremiah and Ezekiel, not above one half can be held to belong to poeiry. 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 Idumza, 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 Judzea. 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 only equal to that of any other of the sacred writings, but is superior to them all, except those of Isaiah alone. As Isaiah is the most sublime, David the most pleasing and tender, so Job is the most descriptive, of all the inspired poets. A peculiar glow of fancy, and strength of 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 asa 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 blown 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 Sapam aa rw Ee ERS cf Nog tag bh Rae ede ed a Coane gee ad tS Pe re ea ral ol es ie ee es a oe eee PECTS ESSE AE TOE Te OTe Ter ere ee rarity ate ee ee ey a aga be a Fak Bs Ae SSR POR, tel tet ee ree aes 5 eS ee she eee ee ee ei 33ye hoa . b 4 TE yats tia Lh abedate <7? asi 7 oe =% see | erst: a ee ee es eye Pea earae tk ta tu ta) eee Pe eee Oe ee Te Pe Te Ty Tee TT er teeter tas ec ee eae re peeeh ibee che rth Cet aL Ee ere $ B y By exe _ ; PELE ySs! SSORt RS Feet: eae PERSE: eee ee ee 9 ee Tok Priv tt Tt te Sei et ee FLATTS a eS Pts 470 EPIC POETRY. [LECT. XLII. 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 uponasnare. 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.’ LECTURE XLII. EPIC POETRY. Ir now remains to treat of the two highest kinds of poetical wri- ting, the epic and the dramatic. I begin with theepic. 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 exe- cution. ‘To contrive a story which shall please and interest all read- ers, by being at once entertaining, important, and instructive; to fill it with suitable incidents; to enliven it with a variety of charac- ters and of descriptions ; and, throughout a long work, to maintain hat 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 Adneid. 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 poemis. By Bossu’s-de- finition, it is a discourse invented by art, purely to form the manners of men, by means of instructions di seuised under the allegory of some important action which is related in verse. This definition would suit several of A%sop’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 AXsop’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 stcry, or a series of facts, without any names, such as he judges will be most proper forillustra-LECT ARETE] EPIC POETRY. A71 ting his intended moral. Lastly, he particularizes his story; that is, if he be a fabulist, he introduces his dog, his sheep, and his wolf ; ar 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 ofa 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 theirenemy. 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 hademployed the names of beasts, like 7&sop, or ofmen. He would have been equally instructive either way. But ashe rather fancied to write of heroes, he pitched upon the wall of Troy for the scene of his fable; he feigned such an action to happen there; he gave the name of Agamemnon to the common leader; that of Achilles to the offended prince; and so the Iliad arose. He that can believe Homer to have proceeded in this manner, may believe any thing. One may pronounce, with great certainty, that an author who should compose according to such a plan; who should 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 ofhis 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 of being celebrated in the highest strain of poetry. [here 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 1s another which arises as naturally, and may just as well be assigned for the moral of that poem; namely, that providence avenges those who have suffer- ed injustice; but that when they allow their resentment to carry them too far, it brings misfortunes on themselves. The subject ya te et a Cy ads pee ee ear Pee eer ee ete ee ee eS oe Ee = ny 4 se = Pee Tee Ie Ae eh Rg eat take SSeGSGtasSt ere seTeieteMaestPetre TS te ee re — ~_ Tri at ce Lt ta hace bk ha = . Pa De Peete tech os eset retest es, eee Pees Peer eer eet ey eri Serer at ore get ieee ea. Tee et eee PEON eE eres teter tapes eee 9 yt a ey ™ eae ph he dee iwie t>® SETS Pe heeed efi iciesssere a, Pee ES Pas 472 EPIC POETRY. [LEcT. XLU. 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 Auneid 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 of 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 and Temora, Camoéns’ 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 Auneid ; 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 amore 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 A®sop’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 cther 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, justice, fidelity, friendship, piety, magnanimity, are the objects which, in thecourse of such compositions, are presented to our minds, under the most splendid and honourable colours. In behalf of virta.ater Re Ste a Sa 8 ie De he Se LECT..anTi EPIC POETRY. 473 ous personages, 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 of the most refined and elegant entertainments of mankind, such as that species of poetical composition which we now consider, must be 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 fayour 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 amorecalm 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, 1n 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, and 60 erst er siete seas ea Piety ti St os a ee ee ea eres ra a ee y . -e re: exe = Gmie Seeeievesty tity eee ee sees SESE eer eC eet rere eres tay a a ee cee SreteteTeli te Bese esse Lz SR ae ks 2 ce _ a £ Per FY ele Heat rte ae?bs * _ A bd eT eEeSREa ST or . Ey 4 == J reset tt te Ti ee ae) ra ate ea a e ee Pe eee Pe eee Se ee eee ee eT erie reese ttt ts oto eee ay os 7 ial THOT IT STS eS OL lar ete oh bs - Papers es ee 7 : Pits eees $e si 4 AeRS Fe; EES bd Py ez ESFaPe Seeds Th ie Tes seer ee hss ao ass re tt = Pra Paps S -g+fegsases - aeeaee eset rare Petit sgeriearp ilies or. be bd 3 a bie Sates —— rs os Ord Tas 474 EPIC POETRY. [LECT. XLII. are all made to conspire for the accomplishment of one end. Ina 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 Auneas 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 »ve unexceptionable in the unity of the story. The professed subjec 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 Aineid. For, throughout many books of the Iliad, Achilles is out of sight; he islost 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 allits 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 Aineid; 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. The rules regarding them are the following: )LECT. XiAI.| 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 thisrule. It is too much detached from the rest of the work: and, being introduced so near the opening of the poem, misleads the reader into an expectation that it is to be of some future consequence ; whereas, it proves to be connected with nothing that follows. In proportion as any episode is slightly related to the main subject, it should always be the shorter. The passion of Dido in the A%neid, 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, and Erminia’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 to be particularly elegant and well finished; and, accordingly, it iS, for the most part, in pieces of this kind, that poets put forth their strength. The 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 1m any ar- ticle ungratified; he must bring us precisely to the accomplishment of his plan, and then conclude. crs 8 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- d in it. : nett contribute to the grandeur of the epic subject, that it be not of a modern date, nor fall within any period of history with which we are intimately acquainted. Both Lucan and Voltaire have, in the Pa a hare Oe en ae et es ee eTSe 3 pay ei RPeSR Sey eer ere ree ets eS ee ee ke Le ate S045 etre PUES re ae re bes ce ok tt5 oH yates testa ee ys : ra 22 ee ree eee ee TT St tt Se ea hil Shed ieetiees = cat. Perr. Peet er et Ser ti Tis teeter ists eet taser tt tk hee F * ‘ - 3 . ee . 7 Py th dis F = 7 . : 3 be 5 ae . ; i ee SB ge ae eae! ee eS Rae BS eS | = ee oe TeFewe Tet : eh Pa er te) ri —e PeSeesisi tts meee me SESpipseetezEt = vs € Peeve vests t: Peete sett. hee EbPSTHLSTTFa ep eTeisis ysis St 476 EPIC POETRY. [LECT. XLir. choice of their subjects, transgressed this rule, and they have, upon that account, succeeded worse. Antiquity is favourable to those high and august ideas, which epic poetry is designed to raise. It tends to aggrandize, in our imagination, both persons and events ; and what is still more material, it allows the poet the liberty of adorning his subject by means of fiction. Whereas, as soon as he comes within the verge of real and authenticated history, this liberty is abridged. He must either confine himself wholly, as Lucan has done, to strict historical truth, at the expense of rendering his story jejune; or if he goes beyond it, like Voltaire in his Henriade, this disadvantage follows, that, in well-known events, the true and the fictitious parts of the plan do not naturally mingle and incorporate wit'ieach 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. Itis not sufficient for this purpose thatit 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 savourite 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 batties; 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, and affection. ‘The more an epic poem abounds with situations which awaken the feelings of humanity, the more interesting it isA ie en Re one LECT. XLII. ] 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- »ense, 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 ef 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 hb- 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 days. 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 Acneid, 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 the Auneid, beginning with the storm, which throws Auneas upon the coast of Africa, is reckoned to include, at the most, a year and some months. Having thus treated of the epic action, or the subject of the 3 Z e eet ee eee ee ee > Teese Se Sree sess ze etre tere eer re er a eee eee jagetiwiessiveiinjmseivdwiates Sd ae. SS PPE is ee ee ES Ee eee SPITS Ue esa ee ee i ee la Eade Pee ie Ser he en rz eer er* Peeve se Seta a tes > c z Pe J SOL e awn —— ert Ss eerie ee Cer Te). ae Peeeee tree rere it rei Tatar stl sovis tts ius lel hit hee teh et et hehe eee Hieedee rests tty ee ry ot FaPeOevess Ti tctescie - pee ro as es Peedes ly ee fees es Ageasi tev) te ht hades +4 ty ek 4 } ees res iri se Se ore Se bee eae 478 EPIC POETRY. [LEoT. xuIt poem, I proceed next to make some observations on the actors or personages. As it is the business of an epic poet to copy after nature, and to form a probable and interesting tale, he must study to give all his per- sonages proper and well-supported characters, such as display tne features of human nature. This is what Aristotle calls giving man- ners tothe 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 which any one iseminent. They exhibit the peculiar features which distin- euish one individual from another, which mark the difference of the same moral quality in different men, according as itis 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 toa 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 1s 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 itsform. For Adam is undoubtedly his hero; that is, the capital and most interesting figure in his poem. Besides human actors, there are personages of another kind, that usually occupy no small place in epic poetry; I mean the gods, or supernatural beings. ‘This brings us to the consideration of what is called the machinery of the epic poem; the most nice and difficultLECT. SLin.] 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, precipitandus 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 fairv 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 with 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 heaven, and earth, and 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 what system of the marvellous he pleases. It must always have some foundation in popular belief. H+ must avail himself, in a decent manner, either of the religious faith, or the superstitious * See Elements of Criticism, ch, 22 $2524 cG@ahesserisbsaleeus acetate Sete thts Sise2 SS Se Sis eiegedegeacerereciteBeciesiige eee Ree Se Te eee eS ek 3: eleseaetete 4 4 ed ~ % esos pat ee +s. m= 4 atei rei ya et hthts ety. J . See evaEe ree ee weet rT eeataldsaGa te leisadbarereie ty Pr ererit a ett ari eret eee te St Liat tits at si hi ha teks beer as ed hook CAS bk kaia cPeEe repens meth 4 Seh034 BAL RIES ¢ b 7 - - . a . . "i <*> - . > . a i errs a - rc 4 " y ‘ > 4 a = =? a2 Tess. Sa 7 pets _ iti Serres errr es Ts ease ee ae es be ae 2 sapeteq= ee eee a2; 480 EPIC POETRY. [LECT. XLII. eredulity of the country wherein he lives, or of which 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- scure 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 one method in his Iliad, and the other in his Odyssey. Virgil has, in this respect, imitated the conduct of the Odyssey ; Tasso, that of the Iliad. The chief advantage which ari- ses from any of the actors being employed to relate part of the sto- ry, is, that it 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 spreading out such parts of the subject as he is inclined to dwellupon 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 Auneid, 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 own person. In the proposition of the subject, the invocation of the muse, and other ceremonies of the introduction, poets may vary at their plea- sure. It is perfectly trifling tomake these little formalities the object of precise rule, any farther, than that the subject of the work should always be clearly proposed, and without affected or unsuitable pomp.LECT. XLII. | THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 4S. 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. Nosortof composition requires more strength, dignity, and fire, than the epic poem. It is the region within which we look for every thing that is sublime in description, tender in sentiment, and bold and lively in expression; and, therefore, though an author’s plan should be faultless, and his story ever so well conducted, yet, if 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 Har- pies, in the third book of the Aineid, and the allegory of Sin and Death, in the second book of Paradise Lost, had been: better omit- ted in these celebrated poems. LECTURE XLIII. HOMER’S ILIAD AND ODYSSEY....VIRGIL’S ASNEID. As the epic poem is universally allowed to possess the highest rank among poetical works, it merits a particular discussion. Hay- ing treated of the nature ofthis composition, and of the principal rules relating to it, I proceed to make some observations on the most dis- tinguished 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 mankind. What he is to expect, is a picture of the ancient world. He must reckon upon finding characters and manners, that retain a considerable tincture of the savage state; moral ideas, as yet 1mper- 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 are accustomed; but bodily strength prized as one of the chief heroic endowments ; the preparing of a meal, and the appeas~ 61 et eto ae cee ee pas eats Cr ha eed eres eens coat Peet ee ere Tt tt SETS See 2 S2zSt afd, pt Sd dhe aes eee hese ere ta oe ke ee i Ses Ry eo Sh SRLS ES Spot e rah <1 espero Se) Pe ee er Pan See ee eer Ce te ee Se Se eee ee a ee — ee Tee oe De ok Se aa +e: a ST eee in el ote ‘ Se Pt s ee Pha ieeeLt Be i Preeye cece skis ses Pee ee rit ttt Stte eee Spebsteress ts pateritasettieriietes eco ita titi tits ths be tthe org tet tthe se Rb Ct eek add F A 5 : eats we ta ee Ss ee ee tows ee TF. Rok. eae PERS Se ees Ti icTesssare see ee a ee ed a pee tres Es 482 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [LECT. XLII. ing of hunger, described as very interesting objects ; and the heroes boasting of themselves openly, scolding one another outrageously, and. glorying, as we should now think very indecently, over their fallen enemies. The opening of the Iliad possesses none of that sort of dignity, which a modern looks for ina great epic poem. Itturns on no higher subject, than the quarrel of two chieftains about a female slave. The priest of Apollo beseeches Agamemnon to restore his daughter, who, in the plunder of a city, had fallen to Agamemnon’s share of booty. He refuses. Apollo, at the prayer of his priest, sends a plague intotheGreciancamp. ‘The augur, when consulted, declares that there is no way of appeasing Apollo, but by restoring the daugh- ter of his priest. Agamemnon is enraged at the augur; professes that he likes this slave better than his wife Clytemnestra; but since he must restore her, in order to save the army, insists to have another in her place ; and pitches upon Briseis, the slave of Achilles. Achil- les, as was to be expected, kindles into a rage at this demand, re- proaches him for his rapacity and insolence, and after giving him many hard names, solemnly swears, that, if he is to be thus treated by the general, he will withdraw his troops, and assist the Grecians no more against the Trojans. He withdraws accordingly. His mother, the goddess Thetis, interests Jupiter in his cause ; who, to revenge the wrong which Achilles had suffered, takes part against the Greeks, and suffers them to fall into great and long distress; un- til Achilles is pacified, and reconciliation brought about between him and Agamemnon. Such is the basis of the whole action of the Iliad. Hence rise all those ‘ speciosa miracula,’ as Horace terms them, which fill that ex- tracrdinary poem; and which have had the power of interesting al- most all the nations of Europe, during every age, since the days of Homer. The general admiration commanded by a poetical plan, so very different from what any one would have formed in our times, ought not, upon reflection, to be matter of surprise. For, besides that a fertile genius can enrich and beautify any subject on which it is employed, it is to be observed, that ancient manners, how much soever they contradict our present notions of dignity and refinement, afford, nevertheless, materials for poetry, superior, in some respects, to those which are furnished by a more polished state of society. They discover human nature more open and undisguised, without any of those studied forms of behaviour which now conceal men from one another. They give free scope to the strongest and most impetuous emotions of the mind, which make a better figure in de- scription than calm and temperate feelings. They show us our na- tive prejudices, appetites, and desires, exerting themselves without control. From this state of manners, joined with the advantage of that strong and expressive style, which, as I formerly observed, com- monly distinguishes the compositions of early ages, we have ground to look for more of the boldness, ease, and freedom of native genius, in compositions of such a period, than in those of more civilized times. And, accordingly, the two great characters of the HomericLECT. XiIII. } THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 483 poetry are fire and simplicity. Let us now proceed to make some more particular observations on the Iliad, under the three heads of the sutgect and action, the characters, and narration of the poet. _ The subject of the Iliad must unquestionably be admitted to be, in the main, happily chosen. In the days of Homer, no object could be more splendid and dignified than the Trojan war. So great a confederacy of the Grecian states, under one leader, and the ten years’ siege which they carried on against Troy, must have spread far abroad the renown of many military exploits, and interested all Greece in the traditions concerning the heroes who had most emi- nently signalized themselves. Upon these traditions Homer ground- ed his poem; and though he lived, as is generally believed, only two or three centuries after the Trojan war, yet, through the want of written records, tradition must, by this time, have fallen into the degree of obscurity most proper for poetry; and have left him at full liberty to mix as much fable as he pleased with the remains of true history. He has not chosen for his subject the whole Trojan war; but, with great judgment, he has selected one part of it, the quarrel betwixt Achilles and Agamemnon, and the events to which that quarrel gave rise; which, though they take up forty-seven days only, yet included the most interesting and most critical period of the war. By this management, he has given greater unity to what would have otherwise been an unconnected history of battles. He has gained one hero, or principal character, Achilles, who reigns throughout the work; and he has shown the pernicious effect of discord among confederated princes. At the same time, I admit that Ho- mer is less fortunate in his subject than Virgil. The plan of the ZEneid includes a greater compass, and a more agreeable diversity of events; whereas the Iliad is almost entirely filled with battles. The praise of high invention has, in every aze, been given to Homer, with the greatest reason. The prodigious number of in- cidents, of speeches, of characters divine and human, with which he abounds; the surprising variety with which he has diversified his battles, in the wounds and deaths, and little history pieces of almost all the persons slain, discover an invention next to bound- less. But the praise of judgment is, in my opinion, no less due to Homer, than that of invention. His story is all along conducted with great art. He rises upon us gradually ; his heroes are brought out, one after another, to be objects of our attention. The distress thickens, as the poem advances; and every thing is so contrived as to aggrandize Achilles, and to render him, as the poet intended he should be, the capital figure. ie But that wherein Homer excels all writers is the characteristical part. Here he is without a rival. His lively and spirited exhibition of characters is, in a great measure, owing to his being so dra- matic a writer, abounding every where with dialogue and conversa- tion. There is much more dialogue in Homer than in Virgil: or, indeed, than in any other poet. What Virgil informs us of by two words of narration, Homer brings about by a speech. We may observe here, that this method of writing is more ancient than ieee ee LCE eC eee eeeiete sete r ets a eta ee ee ee ae oe ot ee ee ed ra Sk ek edna | Pee Sere eet ere ree Pe eS Poe ee oe Shel Tye. ed Se ie ee od LERF SPetatetels te tesess = Seer ae Sees geeiFir] ae Se - ses |e iS eee E 2 2S. , ¥ Pz oF :‘=F a ; ye te esata leer “, v Pet | rs PITT Tiree rir tiir t eaie itis slate eae 4 2 Percocet Tete e Se Cee. Cote Fae oe be eo) a AA de ok Be Pw oS Bo clee eee ; She ee Sk ak Beat? et eae % ee Pe es Ces per as bs oes Toe elt et i aha : > ash S2 Se os PS a at Cree Seve tert ri st retire ero eae verre fe Serre o es, Pe Ps SEAEP Eee Stat —_—. 7 Pie ht ty A484 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [LEOT. XLT the narrative manner. Ofthis we have a clear proof in the books of the Old Testament, which, instead of narration, abound with speeches, with answers and replies, upon the most familiar subjects. ‘Thus, in the book of Genesis: ‘ Joseph said unto his brethren, Whence come ye? and they answered, From the land of Canaan we come to buy food. And Joseph said, Ye are spies; to see the nakedness of the land are ye come. And they said unto him, Nay, my lord, but to buy food are thy servants come; we are all one man’s sons, we are true men, thy servants are no spies. And he said unto them, Nay, but to see the nakedness of the land ye are come. “And they said, Thy servants are twelve brethren, the sons of one man in the land of Canaan; and behold, the youngest is this day with our fa- ther; and oneis not. And Joseph said unto them; This it is that I spake unto you, saying, ye are spies. Hereby ye shall be pro- ved ; by the life of Pharaoh, ye shall not go forth, except your young- est brother come hither,’ &c. Genesis xlii. 7—15. Such a style as this, is the most simple and artless form of writing, and must, therefore, undoubtedly, have been the mostancient. Itis copying directly from nature; giving a plain rehearsal of what passed, or was supposed to pass, in conversation between the persons of whom the author treats. In progress of time, when the art of writing was more studied, it was thought more elegant to compress the substance of conversation into short distinct narrative, made by the poet or historian in his own person; and to reserve direct speeches for solemn occasions only. The ancient dramatic method which Homer practised has some advantages, balanced with some defects. It renders composition more natural and animated, and more expressive of manners and characters ; but withal less grave and majestic, and sometimes tire- some. Homer, it must be admitted, has carried his propensity to the making of speeches too far; and if he be tedious any where, :¢ is in these ; some of them trifling, and some of them plainly un- seasonable. Together with the Greek vivacity, he leaves upon our minds some impression of the Greek loquacity also. His speeches, however, are upon the whole characteristic and lively ; and to them we owe, In a great measure, that admirable display which he has given of human nature. Every one who reads him, becomes fa- miliarly and intimately acquainted with his heroes. We seem to have lived among them, and to have conversed with them. Not only has he pursued the single virtue of courage through all its dif- ferent forms and features, in his different warriors ; but some more delicate characters, into which courage either enters not at all, or but for an inconsiderable part, he has drawn with singular art. How finely, for instance, has he painted the character of Helen, so as, notwithstanding her frailty-and her crimes, to prevent her fram being an odious object! The admiration with which the old generals behold her, in the third book, when she is coming towards them, presents her to us with much dignity. Her veiling herself and shedding tears, her confusion in the presence of Priam, her griefLECT. XLII. | THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 485 and self-accusations at the sight of Menelaus, her upbraiding Paris for his cowardice, and, at the same time, her returning fondness for him, exhibit the most striking features of that mixed female character, which we partly condemn, and partly pity. Homer never introduces her without making her say something to move our compassion: while, at the same time, he takes care to contrast her character with that of a virtuous matron, in the chaste and tender Andromache. Paris himself, the author of all the mischief, is characterized with the utmost propriety. He is, as we should expect him, a mixture of gallantry andeffeminacy. He retreats from Menelaus, on his first appearance; but, immediately afterwards, enters into single combat with him. He isa great master of civility, remarkably courteous in his speeches; and receives all the reproofs of his brother Hector with modesty and deference. He is described as a person of ele- gance and taste. He was the architect of his own palace. He is, in the sixth book, found by Hector, burnisning and dressing up his armour; and issues forth to battle with a peculiar gayety and osten- tation of appearance, which is illustrated by one of the finest com- parisons in all the Iliad, that of the horse prancing to the river. Homer has been blamed for making his hero Achilles of too bru- tal and unamiable a character. But I am inclined to think, that in- justice is commonly done to Achilles upon the credit of two lines of Horace, who has certainly overloaded his character. Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arroget armis. A; Pe AZ, Achilles is passionate, indeed, toa great degree; but he is far from being a contemner of laws and justice. In the contest with Aga- memnon, though he carries it on with too much heat, yet he has reason on hisside. He was notoriously wronged; but he submits, and resigns Briseis peaceably, when the heralds come to demand her; only he will fight no longer under the command of a leader who had affronted him. Besides his wonderful bravery and con- tempt of death, he has several other qualitiesof ahero. Heis open and sincere. He loves his subjects, and respects the gods. Me is distinguished by strong friendships and attachments ; he is through- out, high-spirited, gallant, and honourable; and allowing for a de- gree of ferocity which belonged to the times, and enters into the characters of most of Homer’s heroes, he is, upon the whole, abun- dantly fitted to raise high admiration, though not pure esteem. Under the head of characters, Homer’s gods, or his machinery, according to the critical term, come under consideration. The gods make a great figure in the Iliad; much greater indeed than they do in the /Eneid, or in any other epic poem; and hence Ho- mer has become the standard of poetic theology. Concerning ma- chinery in general, I delivered my sentiments In the former lec- ture. Concerning Homer’s machinery, 1n particular, we must ob- serve, that it was not his own invention. Like every other good e unquestionably followed the traditions of his country. +, hs The f the Trojan war approached the age of the gods and de- The age o Pere e ee tere Sere eee fi ee eee ee Pere ee ee eee eee Gees 4 SEtGte eat eta tereieteRest sedate Nese rd =3eF mec oS < os —e vf ae 5. 3 Le Ses oh desteeo eegreseapiritacee + zs Meera Tie titi ti ete it ts isla e eee $i bad- Se sedeses eds odes ase sr sesorPer Sheers ies SesSr SPs gesotehsteleé EES TZSE SKS SESS ete oh ee Ree veneer tts bh ie dictate fk tis Pees ee te hee cok as eee ea ee m et s5etaz$ss gfeee> eee ctor PetTPESTe T+ TF eters? i aor < epagerZ me F. +2 486 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. (THOT. Xr. mi-gods in Greece. Several of the heroes concerned in that war were reputed to be the children of these gods. Of course, the tra- ditionary tales relating to them, and to the exploits of that age, were blended with the fables of the deities. These popular legends Homer very properly adopted; though it is perfectly absurd to infer from this, that therefore poets arising in succeeding ages, and writing on quite different subjects, are obliged to follow the same system of machinery. In the hands of Homer, it produces, on the whole, a noble effect; it is always gay and amusing; often lofty and magnificent. It in- troduces into his poem a great number of personages, almost as much distinguished by characters as his human actors. It diversi- fies his battles greatly, by the intervention of the gods; and by fre- quently shifting the scene from earth to heaven, it gives an agree- able relief to the mind, in the midst of so much blood and slaughter. Homer’s gods, it must be confessed, though they be always lively and animated figures, yet sometimes want dignity. The conjugal contentions between Juno and Jupiter, with which he entertains us, and the indecent squabbles he describes among the inferior deities, according as they take different sides with the contending parties, would be very improper models for any modern poet to imitate. In apology for Homer, however, it must be remembered, that ac- cording to the fables of those days, the gods are but one remove above the condition ofmen. They have allthe human passions. They drink and feast, and are vulnerable like men; they have children and kinsmen in the opposite armies; and: except that they are im- mortal, that they have houses on the top of Olympus, and winged chariots, in which they are often flying down to earth, and then reascending, in order to feast on nectar and ambrosia; they are in truth no higher beings than the human heroes, and therefore very fit to take part in their contentions. At the same time, though Homet so frequently degrades his divinities, yet he knows how to make them appear, in some conjunctures, with the most awful ma- jesty. Jupiter, the father of gods and men, is, for the most part, introduced with great dignity; and several of the most sublime conceptions in the Iliad are founded on the appearances of Neptune, Minerva, and Apollo, on great occasions. With regard to Homer’s style and manner of writing, it is easy, natural, and in the highest degree animated. It will be admired by such only as relish ancient simplicity, and can make allowance for certain negligences and repetitions, which greater refinement in the art of writing has taught succeeding, though far inferior, poets toavoid. For Homer isthe most simple in his style of all the great poets, and resembles most the style of the poetical parts of the Old Testament. They can have no conception of his manner, who are acquainted with him in Mr. Pope’s translation only. An excellent poetical performance tliat translation is, and faithful in the main to the original. In some places, it may be thought to have even im- proved Homer. It has certainly softened some of his rudenesses, and added delicacy and grace to some of his sentiments, But with-LECT. XLIIt. | THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 487 al, it is no other than Homer modernized. In the midst of the ele- gance and luxuriancy of Mr. Pope’s language, we lose sight of the old bard’s simplicity. I know indeed no author, to whom it is more difficult to do justice in a translation, than Homer. As the plainness of his diction, were it literally rendered, would often appear flat in any modern language; so, in the midst of that plainness, and not a little heightened by it, there are every where breaking forth upon us flashes of native fire, of sublimity and beauty, which hardly any language, except his own, could preserve. His versification has been universally acknowledged to be uncommonly melodious; and to carry, beyond that of any poet, a resemblance in the sound to the sense and meaning. In narration, Homer is, at all times, remarkably concise, which renders him lively and agreeable ; though, in his speeches, as T have before admitted, sometimes tedious. He is every where descriptive ; and descriptive by means of those well chosen particulars which form the excellency of description. Virgil gives us the nod of Ju- piter with great magnificence : Annuit, et totum nutu tremefecit Olympum. IX. 106. But Homer, in describing the same thing, gives us the sable eye- prows of Jupiter bent, and his ambrosial curls shaken, at the mo- ment when he gives the nod; and thereby renders the figure more natural and lively. Whenever he seeks to draw cur attention to some interesting object, he particularizes it so happily, as to paint it ‘1 a manner to our sight. The shot of Pandarus’s arrow, which broke the truce between the two armies, as related in the fourth book, may be given for an instance; and above all, the admirable snterview of Hector with Andromache, in the sixth book; where all the circumstances of conjugal and parental tenderness, the child affrighted with the view of his father’s helmet and crest, and clinging to the nurse; Hector putting off his helmet, taking the child into his arms, and offering up a prayer for him to the gods; Andromache receiving back the child with a smile of pleasure, and at the same instant bursting into tears, Jaxpudev yeracoga, as it 18 finely expressed in the original, form the most natural and affecting picture that can possibly be imaginea. “In the description of battles, Homer particularly excels. He works up the hurry, the terror, and confusion of them in so mas- terly a manner, as to place the reader 1n the very midst of the en- gagement. It is here, that the fire of his genius 1s most highly dis- played ; insomuch that Virgil’s battles, and indeed those of most other poets, are cold and inanimate in comparison of Homer’s. With regard to similes, no poet abou nds so much with them. Se veral of them are beyond doubt extremely beautiful: such as those of the fires in the Trojan camp compared to the moon and stars by night ; Paris going forth to battle, to the war-horse prancing to the river; and Euphorbus slain, to the flowering shrub cut down by 2 sudden blast: all which are among the finest poetical passages that are any where to be found. I am not, however, of opinion that SFUSOBbro oe ye Gey si sess es er ky et Wesetete Presse re tee SA ES os ba gag Sa ek eed Pee See et ee ee ee Oe oe ra eo t, = TE Oa ae ee Sa Fs gtatetelerete® = he ae oe be ts ne a3 ta aaa cee a Pee 5 t Sees :< 7 eT ke os sessereeenes Fa egeei Fe +k Bt Lee es Pe eT Te Te Seer Tete hid tee ie ae ota 188 THE ODYSSEY OF HOMER. [LEcT. xi Homer’s comparisons, taken in general, are his greatest beauties. They come too thick upon us; and often interrupt the train of his narration or description. The resemblance on which they are founded, is sometimes not clear; and the objects whence they are taken are too uniform. His lions, bulls, eagles, and herds of sheep, recur too frequently ; and the allusions in some of his similes, even after the allowances that are to be made for ancient manners, must be admitted to be debasing.* My observations, hitherto, have been made upon the Iliad only It is necessary to take some notice of the Odyssey also. Longi- nus’s criticism upon it is not without foundation, that Homer may in this poem be compared to the setting sun, whose grandeur still remains without the heat of his meridian beams. It wants the vi- gour and sublimity of the Iliad; yet, at the same time, possesses so many beauties, as to be justly entitled to high praise. It isa very amusing poem, and has much greater variety than the Iliad ; 1t con- tains many interesting stories, and beautiful descriptions. We see every where the same descriptive and dramatic genius, and the same fertility of invention that appears in the other work. It de- scends indeed from the dignity of gods, and heroes, and warlike achievements; but in recompense we have more pleasing pictures of ancient manners. Instead of that ferocity which reigns in the Uiad, the Odyssey presents us with the most amiable images of hos- pitality and humanity ; entertains us with many a wondertul adven- ture, and many a landscape of nature; and instructs us by a con- stant vein of morality and virtue, which runs through the poem. At the same time there are some defects which must be acknow- ledged in the Odyssey. Many scenes in it fall below the majesty which we naturally expect in an epic poem. The last twelve books, after Ulysses is landed in Ithaca, are, in several parts, tedious and languid ; and though the discovery which Ulysses makes of him- self to his nurse, Euryclea, and his interview with Penelope, before she knows hin, in the nineteenth book, are tender and affecting, yet * The severest critic upon Homer in modern times, M. la Motte, admits all that his admirers urge for the superiority of his genius and talents as a poet: “C’étoit un génie natnrellement poétique, ami des fables et des merveilleux, et porté en général a Limitation, soit des objets de la nature, soit des sentimens et des actions des hommes. [fl avoit Pesprit vaste et fécond ; plus élevé que délicat, plus naturel qu’ingé- nieux, et plus amoureux de l’abondance que du choix —II a saisi, par une supériorite de goit, les premigres idées de l’éloquence dans toutes les genres; if a parlé le langage de toutes les passions; et il a du moins ouvert aux écrivains qui doivent le suivre une infinité de routes, qu’il ne restoit plus qu’ applanir. Il y a apparence qu’en quelques temps qu’ Homére eit vécu, il efit été, du moins, le plus grand poéte de son pays: et a ne le prendre que dans ce sens, on peut dire, qu’il est le mattre de ceux mémes qui l’ont. surpassé.”—Discours sur Homére. (CEuvres de la Motte, tome ii. After these high praises of the author, he indeed endeavours to bring the merit of the Iliad very low. But his principal objections turn on the debasing ideas which are there given of the gods, the gross characters and manners of the heroes, and the imperfect morality of the sentiments ; which, as Voltaire observes, is like ac- cusing a painter for having drawn his figures in the dress of the times. Homer paint- ed his gods such as popular tradition then represented them 3 and describes such characters and sentiments, as he found among those with whom he lived.LECT. xLim |, THE A.NEID OF VIRGIL. 489 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 /Eneid are, elegance and tenderness. Virgil is, beyond doubt, less animated and less sub- 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 Auneid, 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 Aneas’s establishment in Italy, and Auneas 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 Aineid 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 Auneas. 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 Auneas, 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 Aineid. I see no foundation for the opinion, entertained by some critics, that the Aineid is to be considered as an allegorical poem, which carries a constant reference to the character and reign of Augustus Cesar; or, that Virgil’s main design in composing the Auneid, was to recon- cile the Romans to the government of that prince, who is supposed to be shadowed out under the character of Auneas. 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, |. 792. Hic vir, hic est, tibi quem promitti sepius audis, &e. dodhdam dh hal tesibtiaias nh de) La Se Se tees ee es Pere errr ree ete tS, Sa es = ae ee od - Ma Poe Ps beeret te es He Se vares gees oe Stas gis beste: ereEePeUSS IP tg sete ete lelet esc ese esBie q ye tei eahtie rel: 7 OTT TT Ta Te Si te tt alii Te ala ad aoee imdnSqvedereiedsspderepegsseseTe sieypespiogertererdeseetots tetetcs Ee hae at Pr ties eee = : : : Peer SS eee rs tess a Pe Paes | de Ble Ped 5 Fe tence Hota de ts ; rok ee | eerie strc re st a bee ee a ee ee -F= cpesezesae Shanes Bpsregersrarjprieisiei+ ps F arr Pi, Te 490 THE AANEID OF VIRGIL. [LECT. XLII. motives, as a poet, to determine him to the choice of his subject, from its being, in itself, both great and pleasing; from its being suited to his genius, and its being attended with the peculiar 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 fineas in Italy, by the order of the gods. As the story compre- hends the transactions of several years, vart 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 A{neas’s undertaking, and connects the hu- man with the celestial operations, throughout the whole work. Hence arise the tempest which throws Adneas upon the shore ot 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 hisartand 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 Auneid. 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 Aineas 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 Auneas 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 throvghout his behaviour to Dido, in the fourth book, especially in the speech which he makes after she suspected his intention of leaving her, there appears a certain hardness and want of relenting, which is far from rendering him amiable.* Dido’s own character is by much the best supported in the whole Ac‘neid. 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 whicn Virgil has drawn. Besides this defect of. character in the A‘neid, the distribution and management of the subject are, in some respects, exception- able. The A®neid, it is true, must be considered with the indul- ‘Seee —- * Num fletu ingemuit nostro ? num lumina flexit ? Num lacrymas victus dedit, aut miseratus amantem est? JEn. iy. 369.LEGT.. XEIUH, | THE AXNEID 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, by his will, the Auneid 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 Auneas. 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 A‘neas, 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 inthe Aineid, 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 of 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, 1s more beautifully described than the death of old Priam; and the family-pieces of Auneas, Anchises, and Creusa, are as tender as can be conceived. In many passages of the Auneid, the same pathetic spirit shines; and they have been always the favourite passages in that work. The fourth book, for instance, relating the unhappy passion and death of Dido, has been always most justly admired, and abounds with beauties of the highest kind. The interview of SEP HAFASLDESIG Pa reheat e se scecetete prea Ed Peas eds orl Ree eS yk ee ee coe ee be eee Shine Pee sere Per rr ere re ere rs ets rere rt as bie Retr te te bf at Ste ee ee ee peers he =e A S2F% « cea Pht eee e SSeS stele 5i Proc tes atat ety r z etree eit ee tt atest tata ad hb rte: : co . —, eee tare ci eee DS Rraeeete ET eAEAth ieee te th ith 15132 36 30 oo abt hk doe A bh a #4 eRe eee es SESE ERS — Fa = 24 Dee ~?if2tssse ae Py etre Pr igtr eaters Pete e es’ * 33 eh eee ee Pin — hy t Se eh. eS bl he ton eras ra 492 THE ASNEID OF VIRGIL. [LECT. XLimr. Aineas 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, areall striking instances of the poet’s power of raising the tender emotions. For we must observe, that though the Aineid be an unequal poem, and, in some places, languid, yet there are beauties scattered through it all; and nota few, even in the last six books. The best and most finished books, upon the whole, are, the first, the second, the fourth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, and the twelfth. Virgil’s battles are far inferior to Homer’s, in point of fire and sublimity ; but there is one important episode, the descent into hell, in which he has outdone Home: in the Odyssey, by many degrees. There is nothing in all antiquity equal, in its kind, to the sixth book of the Auneid. 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 J7tnces of epic poetry, Homer and Virgil; the former must, un- coubtedly, 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 sueceed 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 Alineid, and Adneas’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 other than copies of thoseof Homer. The pre-eminence in invention, therefore, must, beyond doubt, beascribed 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 teuch- 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 deLEcT. xtiv.]| THE PHARSALIA OF LUCAN. 493 tects 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 AEineid, this excuse ought to be admitted, that the Auneid was left an unfinished work. LECTURE XLIV. = LUCAN’S PHARSALIJA......TASSO’S JERUSALEM......CA- MOENS’ LUSIAD.....FENELON’S TELEMACHUBS...... aoe HENRIADE.....MILTON’S PARADISE _Avrrer Homer and Virgil, the next great epic poet of ancient times, who presents himself, is Lucan. He is‘a poet who deserves our attention, on account of a very peculiar mixture of great beau- ties, with great faults. Though his Pharsalia discover too little in- vention, and be conducted in too historical a manner, to be account- eda perfectly regular epic poem, yet it were the mere squeamishness of criticism, to exclude it from the epic class. ‘The boundaries, as I formerly remarked, are far from being ascertained by any such pre- cise limit, that we must refuse the epic name to a poem, which treats of great and heroic adventures, because it is not exactly con- formable to the plans of Homer and Virgil. The subject of the Pharsalia carries, undoubtedly, all the epic grandeur and dignity 5 neither does it want unity of object, viz. the triumph of Ceesar over the Roman liberty. As it stands at present, it is, indeed, brought to no proper close. But either time has deprivedus of the last books, or it has been left by the author an incomplete work. Though Lucan’s subject be abundantly heroic, yet I cannot reck- on him happy in the choice of it. It has two defects. The one is, that civil wars, especially when as fierce and cruel as those of the Romans, present too many shocking objects to be fit for epic poetry, and give odious and disgusting views of human nature. Gallantand honourable achievements furnish a more proper theme for the epic muse. But Lucan’s genius, it must be confessed, seems to delight in savage scenes; he dwells upon them too much; and not content with those which his subject naturally furnished, he goes out of his way to introduce a long episode of Marius and Sylla’s proscriptions, which abounds with all the forms of atrocious cruelty. The other defect of Lucan’s subject is, its being too near the times in which he lived. This is a circumstance, as I observed ina former lecture, always unfortunate fora poet; asit deprives him of the assistance of fiction and machinery ; and thereby renders his work less splendid and amusing. Lucan has submitted to this disadvan- tage of his subject; and in doing so, he has acted with more pro- priety than if he had made an unseasonable attempt to embellish it with machinery ; for the fables of the gods would have made a very HER ee ee rarer et rere fe eee er eet re eee es wee sipgkstoe ee eee er ere rer ee ere tere eee nee) ever ts ~*~ eeGtacdeereretsit teResinegedegeseterssts : SlSi Fs = = sei eeeis ee a Pee r eo ep 3 TS TESS caa3 =a Pret ye se ieaaeii ees: iy - ca eee retire se teser iT sir Titi lcci ei eee e eR ethos pee hee Peetee rete tL es 20 ri Ered eke as ate ery rete eeh! Sar aPLtet SPESSTER FSS I=ISEIS Pert re ey! es 5 oe Pe ‘ ea: reper tetra ‘<7 | oo coin +$ ee ea 34 pie hr Fl 494 THE PHARSALIA OF LUCAN. [ tect. xttv unnatural mixture with the exploits of Cesar and Pompey ; and in- stead of raising, would have diminished the dignity of such recent and well-known facts. With regard to characters, Lucan draws them with spirit, and with force. But though Pompey be his professed hero, he does not suc- ceed in interesting us much in his favour. Pompey is not made to possess any high distinction, either for magnanimity in sentiment, or bravery in action; but,on the contrary, is always eclipsed by the su- perior abilities of Cesar. Cato is, in truth, Lucan’s favourite charac- ter ; and wherever he introduces him, he appears to rise above him- self. Some of the noblest and most conspicuous passages in the work, are such as relate to Cato ; either speeches put into his mouth, or descriptions of his behaviour. His speech in particular to Labi- enus, who urged him to inquire at the oracle of Jupiter Ammon, con- cerning the issue of the war, (book ix. 564.) deserves to be remark- ed, as equal, for moral suiilimity, to any thing that is to be found in all antiquity. In the conduct of the story, our author has attached himself too much to chronological order. This renders the thread of his narra- tion broken and interrupted, and makes him hurry us too often from place to place. He is too digressive also; frequently turning aside from his subject, to give us, sometimes, geographical descriptions of a country ; sometimes,philosophical disquisitions concerning natural objects; as, concerning the African serpents in the ninth book, and the sources of the Nile in the tenth. There are in the Pharsalia several very poetical and spirited de- scriptions. But the author’s chief strength does not lie either in narration or description. His narration is often dry and harsh: his descriptions are often over-wrought, and employed too upon disagreeable objects. His principal merit consists in his sentiments, which are generally noble and striking, and expressed in that glow- ing and ardent manner, which peculiarly distinguishes him. Lucan is the most philosophical and the most public-spirited poet of all antiquity. He was the nephew of the famous Seneca, the philo~ sopher; was himself a stoic; and the spirit of that philosophy breathes throughout his poem. We must observe too, that he is the only ancient epic poet whom the subject of his poem really and deeply interested. Lucan recounted no fiction. He was a Roman, and had felt all the direful effects of the Roman civil wars, and of that severe despotism which succeeded the loss of liberty. His high and bold spirit made him enter deeply into this subject, and kin- dle, on many occazions, into the most real warmth. Hence, he abounds in exclamations and apostrophes, which are, almost al- ways, well-timed, and supported with a vivacity and fire that do him no small honour. But it is the fate of this poet, that his keauties can never be men- tioned without their suggesting his blemishes also. As his princi- pal excellency is a lively and glowing genius, which appears, some- times in his descriptions, and very often in his sentiments, his great defect in both is, want of moderation He carries every thing toLECT. Saiv.] THE PHARSALIA OF LUCAN. 495 an extreme. He knows not where to stop. From an effort to ag- grandize his objects, he becomes tumid and unnatural: and it fre- quently happens, that where the second line of one of his descrip- tions is sublime, the third, in which he meant to rise still higher, is perfectly bombast. Lucan lived in an age when the schools of the declaimers had begun to corrupt the eloquence and taste of Rome. He was not free from the infection ; and too often, instead of show- ing the genius of the poet, betrays the spirit of the declaimer. On the whole, however, he is an author of lively and original genius. His sentiments are so high, and his fire, on occasions, so great, as to atone for many of his defects; and passages may be pro- duced from him, which are inferior to none in any poet whatever The characters, for instance, which he draws of Pompey and Cz sar, in the first book, are masterly; and the comparison of Pompey to the aged decaying oak, is highly poetical : totus popularibus auris Impelli, plausuque sui gaudere theatri ; Nec reparare novas vires, multumque priori Credere fortune ; stat magni nominis umbra. Qualis, frugifero quercus sublimis in agro, E:xuvias veteres populi sacrataque gestans Dona ducum ; nec jam validis radicibus herens, Pondere fixa suo est, nudosque per aera ramos Effundens, trunco, non frondibus, efficit umbram, At, quamvis primo nutet casura sub Euro, Et circum silve firmo se robore tollant, Sola tamen colitur. Sed non in Cesare tantum Nomen erat, nec fama ducis, sed nescia virtus Stare loco, solusque pudor non vincere bello ; Acer et indomitus.* Liieise. But when we consider the whole execution of his poem, we are obliged to pronounce, that his poetical fire was not under the government of either sound judgment or correct taste. His genius had strength, but not tenderness; nothing of what might be called amenity, or sweetness. In his style there is abundance of force: but a mixture of harshness, and frequently of obscurity, occasioned by his desire of expressing himself in a pointed and unusual man- ner. Compared with Virgil, he may be allowed to have more fire and higher sentiments, but in every thing else, falls infinitely below him, particularly in purity, elegance, and tenderness. ® With gifts and liberal bounty sought for fame, And lov’d to hear the vulgar shout his name 5 In his own theatre rejoic’d to sit, Amidst the noisy praises of the pit. Careless of future ills that might betide, No aid he sought to prop his falling side, But on his former fortune much rely’d. Still seem’d he to possess, and fil. his place ; But stood the shadow of what once he was So, in the field with Ceres’ bounty spread, Uprears some ancient oak his rev’rend head : Chaplets and sacred gifts his boughs adorn, And spoils of war by mighty heroes worn ; Set eee a ee st ss Cee ee Ne eee eee Pex re yt te rot - Rae Pee ete ce oe et Pa pa ee eek a Pee Te ret ae 4 oe ta baie 3 =": eeFF TRSeente srs ngiges? TE Tsat tei ti tate iei 5s} ate e aoe, Be ay eet terete. et tif a ¢*3 Tt Pa ey ea i ee Pee eT eT Pee ee ert ee eet ti caer ee a ri > ry LS ° r iJ Pai = id ° + 4 sre *, F * . Hi . - Le" res i BS ES eee SURF oe — Se eed sakes ret tr Teese Coes Said ae oe pone oes rN ee ee pee Se SFESFTESE JF este St see oa & 496 TASSO’S JERUSALEM. [LECT. xLIV As Statius and Silius Italicus, though they be poets of the epic class, are too inconsiderable for particular criticism, I proceed next to Tasso, the most distinguished epic poet in modern ages. His Jerusalem Delivered was published in the year 1574. It is a poem regularly and strictly epic in its whole construction ; and adorned with all the beauties that belong to that species of: compo- sition. The subject is, the recovery of Jerusalem from the infi- dels, by the united powers of Christendom; which, in itself, and more especially according to the ideas of Tasso’s age, was a splen- did, venerable, and heroic enterprise. The opposition of the Chris- tians to the Saracens, forms an interesting contrast. The subject produces none of those fierce and shocking scenes of civil discord, which hurt the mind in Lucan; but exhibits the efforts of zeal and bravery, inspired by an honourable object. The share which reli- gion possesses in the enterprise, both tends to render it more au- gust, and opens a natural field for machinery, and sublime descrip- tion. The action, too, lies in a country, and at a period of time, sufficiently remote to allow an intermixture of fabulous tradition and fiction with true history. In the conduct of the story, Tasso has shown a rich and fertile invention, which, in a poet, is a capital quality.’ He is full of events; and those, too,abundantly various, and diversified in their kind. He never allows us to be tired by mere war and fighting. He frequently shifts the scene ; and, from camps and battles, transports us to more pleasing objects. Sometimes the solemnities of religion; some- times the intrigues of love; at other times, the adventures of a journey, or even the incidents of pastoral life, relieve and enter- tain the reader. At the same time, the whole work is artfully con- nected ; and while there is much variety in the parts, there is per- fect unity in the plan. The recovery of Jerusalem is the object kept in view through the whole, and with it the poem closes. All the episodes, if we except that of Olindo and Sophronia, in the second book, on which I formerly passed a censure, are sufficiently related to the main subject of the poem. But the first vigour of his root now gone, He stands dependent on his weight alone ; All bare his naked branches are display’d, And with his leafless trunk he forms a shade. Yet, though the winds his ruin daily threat, As every blast would heave him from his seat ; Though thousand fairer trees the field supplies, , That, rich in youthful verdure, round him rise, F'ix’d in his ancient seat, he yields to none, And wears the hcnours of the grove alone. But Cesar’s greatness, and his strength, was more Than past renown and antiquated power ; "Twas not the fame of what he once had been, Or tales in old records or annals seen ; But ’twas a valour restless, unconfin’d, Which no success could sate, nor limits bind ; ’Twas shame, a soldier’s shame, untaught to yield, That blush’d for nothing but an ill-fought field.—Rowr.Lach, xia TASSO’S JERUSALEM. 497 _ The poem is enlivened with a variety of characters, and those too both clearly marked and well supported. Godfrey, the leader of the enterprise, prudent, moderate, brave; Tancred, amorous, gene- rous, and gallant, and well contrasted with the fierce and brutal Ar- gantes; Rinaldo, (who is properly the hero of the poem, and is in part copied after Homer’s Achilles,) passionate and resentful, seduc- ed by the allurements of Armida; but a personage, on the whole, of much zeal, honour, and heroism. The brave and high-minded Solyman, the tender Erminia, the artful and violent Armida, the masculine Clorinda, are all of them well drawn and animated figures. In the characteristical part, Tasso is indeed remarkably dis- tinguished ; he is, in this respect, superior to Virgil; and yields to no poet except Homer. He abounds very much with machinery; and in this part of the work his meritis more dubious. Wherever celestial beings are made to interpose, his machinery is noble. God looking down upon the hosts, and, on different occasions, sending an angel to check the Pa- gans, and to rebuke the evil spirits, produces a sublime effect. The description of heli too, with the appearance and speech of Satan, in the beginning of the 4th book, is extremely striking; and plainly has been imitated by Milton, though he must be allowed to have im- proved upon it. But the devils, the enchanters, and the conjurors, act too great a part throughout Tasso’s poem; and form a sort of dark and gloomy machinery, not pleasing to the imagination. The enchanted wood, on which the nodus, or intrigue of the poem, is made in a great measure to depend; the messengers sent in quest of Rinaldo, in order that he may break the charm; their being con- ducted by a hermit to a cave in the centre of the earth; the won- derful voyage which they make to the fortunate islands; and their recovering Rinaldo from the charms of Armida and voluptuousness ; are scenes which, though very amusing, and described with the high- est beauty of poetry, yet must be confessed to carry the marvellous to a degree of extravagance. In general, that for which Tasso is most liable to censure, 1s a certain romantic vein, which runs through many of the adventures and incidents of his poem. The objects which he presents to us, are always great; but, sometimes, too remote from probability. He retains somewhat of the taste of his age, which was not reclaimed from an extravagant admiration of the stories of knight-errantry ; stories, which the wild, but rich and agreeable imagination of Arios- to, had raised into fresh reputation. In apology, however, for Tasso, it may be said, that he is not more marvellous and romantic than either Homer or Virgil. All the difference is, that in the one we find the romance of paganism, in the other, that of chivalry. With all the beauties of description, and of poetical style, Tasso remarkably abounds. Both his descriptions and his style are much diversified, and well suited to each other. In describing magnificent objects, his style is firm and majestic ; when he descends to gay a pleasing ones, such as Erminia’s one retreat in the seventh hook, 4C $QcgarsigeresetegesEcese Nesey + 2 sheet PAN See Tee et ee eee eS ee Re eer Pk ed See preys ese Ngee ke ta Seg esereiitetentsssisee bz eke hed Pea Pat he ae Ps Se» 7 sos? oro ee ee ere treet: Pree) ats ara as ide & s 4 Perry ete e Peete estas et ae to eae a * nl Sa a vcs . . 3 : ee R- - n - - ee te te ee ee Phe Ae de ch te OS oft | 3 raed ott. Teter eee he tete | ett ve "ees Rt oe ee Basse Te ® ¥ Lie Foie F yt ; ote ok Mrert eT Te eee ees bs Boe Pe oe 95033 498 ORLANDO FURIOSO OF ARIOSTO. [LeEctT. xLiv and the arts and beauty of Armida in the fourth book, it is soft and insinuating. Both those descriptions which I have mentioned, are exquisite in theirkind. His battles are animated, and very properly varied in the incidents; inferior however to Homer’s, in point of spirit and fire. In his sentiments, Tasso is not so happy as in his descriptions. It is indeed rather by actions, characters, and descriptions, that he in- terests us, than by the sentimental part of the work. He 1s far infe- rior to Virgil in tenderness. When he aims at being pathetic and sentimental in his speeches, he is apt to become artificial and strained. With regard to points and conceits, with which he has often been reproached, the censure has been carried too far. Affectation is by no means the general character of Tasso’s manner, which, upon the whole, is masculine, strong, and correct. Onsome occasions, indeed, especially, as I just now observed, when he seeks to be tender, he degenerates into forced and unnatural ideas; but these are far from being so frequent or common as has been supposed. ‘Threescore or fourscore lines retrenched from the poem, would fully clear it, I am persuaded, of all such exceptionable passages. With Boileau, Dacier, and the other French critics of the last age, the humour prevailed of decrying Tasso; and passed from them to some of the English writers. But one would be apt to imagine, they were not much acquainted with Tasso; or at least they must haye read him under the influence of strong prejudices. For to me it appears clear, that the Jerusalem is, in rank and dignity, the third regular epic poem in the world; and comes next to the Iliad and Auneid. Tasso may be justly held inferior to Homer, in simplicity and in fire; to Virgil, in tenderness; to Milton, in daring sublimity of geni- us; but he yields to no other in any poetical talents ; and for fertility of invention, variety of incidents, expression of characters, richness of description, and beauty of style, I know no poet, except the three just named, that can be compared to him. Ariosto, the great rival of Tasso in Italian poetry, cannot, with any propriety, be classed among the epic writers. The fundamental rule of epic composition is, to recount an heroic enterprise, and to form it into a regular story. Though there is a sort of unity and connexion in the plan of Orlando Furioso, yet, instead of rendering this apparent to the reader, it seems to have been the author’s in- tention to keep it out of view by the desultory manner in which the poem is carried on, and the perpetual interruptions of the several stories before they are finished. Ariosto appears to have despised all regularity of plan, and to have chosen to give loose reins to a copious and rich, but extravagant fancy. At the same time, there is so much epic matter in the Orlando Furioso, that it would be improper to pass it by without some notice. It unites, indeed, all sorts of poetry ; sometimes comic and satiric; sometimes light and licentious; at other times, highly heroic, descriptive, and tender. Whatever strain the poet assumes, he excels in it. He is always master of his sub- ject; seems himself to play withit; and leaves us sometimes at a loss to know whether he be serious or in jest. He is seldom draLECT. XLIv.] CAMOENS’ LUSIAD. 499 matic ; sometimes, but not often, sentimental ; but in narration and description, perhapsno poet ever went beyondhim. He makes every scene which he describes, and every event which he relates, pass before our eyes; and in his selection of circumstances, is eminently picturesque. His style is much varied, always suited to the subject, and adorned with a remarkably smooth and melodious versification. As the Italians make their boast of Tasso, so do the Portuguese of Camoéns; who was nearly contemporary with Tasso, but whose poem was published before the Jerusalem. The subject of it is the first discovery of the East Indies by Vasco de Gama; an enterprise splendid in its nature, and extremely interesting to the countrymen of Camoéns, as it laid the foundation of their future wealth and con- sideration in Europe. The poem opens with Vasco and his fleet ap- pearing on the ocean, between the island of Madagascar and the coast of AXthiopia. After various attempts to land on that coast, they are at last hospitably received in the kingdom of Melinda. Vasco, at the desire of the king, gives him an account of Europe, recites a poetical history of Portugal, and relates all the adventures of the voyage, which had preceded the opening of the poem. This recital takes up three cantos or books. It is well imagined; contains a great many poetical beauties ; and has no defect, except that Vasco makes an unseasonable display of learning to the African prince, in frequent allusions to the Greek and Roman histories. Vasco and his countrymen afterwards set forth to pursue their voyage. The storms and distresses which they encounter ; their arrival at Cale- cut, on the Malabar coast; their reception and adventures in that country, and at last their return homewards, fill up the rest of the poem. The whole work is conducted according to the epic plan. Both the subject and the incidents are magnificent ; and, joined with some wildness and irregularity, there appear in the execution much poetic spirit, strong fancy, and bold description ; as faras I can judge from translations, without any knowledge of the original. There is no attempt towards painting characters in the poem ; Vasco is the hero, and the only personage indeed that makes any figure. The machinery of the Lusiad is perfectly extravagant; not only is it formed of asingular mixture of Christian ideas, and Pagan my- thology; but it is so conducted, that the Pagan gods appear to he the true deities, and Christ and the Blessed Virgin, to be subordi- nate agents. One great scope of the Portuguese expedition, our author informs us, is to propagate the Christian faith, and to extir- pate Mahometanism. In this religious undertaking, the great pro- tector of the Portuguese is Venus, and their great adversary is Bac- chus, whose displeasure is excited by Vasco’s attempting to rival his fame in the Indies. Councils of the gods are held, in which Ju- piter is introduced as foretelling the downfall of Mahometanism, and the propagation of the Gospel. Vasco, in great distress from a storm, prays most seriously to God; implores the aid of Christ aa Virgin, and begs for such assistance as was given to the Israe i when they were passing through the Red Sea, and to the Apostle Pipers aA ees ieee eet at: eg ee ee — mes StS = fs here re ck Sa er ee ape eeeeracss ee SS PSeseet — Tce ese eet 7 es Rt Re Se Stee eseteSstes Se a ad at i egaesrses Sk a eee Reet ee ere ee eee eee ee ae ee Te ee) Eee Pe Yer Sag Si aa ee toe ee gS ci et ee PETS ST ST eT Ie! oe Sees Theiss keds ‘ ‘ SS Pee) * at te et pesest ce ot odrer rye eee et tre ys yeh 8 3a ke 4 Ser etee tiers es Srretr re Ts eee 2s; Se ded ee peer rere Tree eee STi rt rier tt eth tt hese eae eae ‘ , dias Tee Stet te eT ee 8 PCRS Pee TS pe he: he Poe ees bee oe ve rs a rere oe ee Se Sat ess hike 500 FENELON’S TELEMACHUS. [Ewer xurv: Paul, when he was in hazard of shipwreck. In return to this prayer, Venus appears, who, discerning the storm to be the work of Bac- chus, complains to Jupiter, and procures the winds to be calmed. Such strange and preposterous machinery, shows how much authors have been misled by the absurd opinion, that there could be no epic poetry without the gods of Homer. Towards the end of the work, indeed, the author gives us an awkward salvo for his whole mytho- logy ; making the goddess Thetis inform Vasco, that she, and the rest of the heathen deities, are no more than names to describe the operations of Providence. There is, however, some fine machinery, of a different kind, in the Lusiad. The genius of the river Ganges appearing to Emanuel, king of Portugal, in a dream, inviting that prince to discover his secret springs, and acquainting him, that he was the destined mon- arch for whom the treasures of the East were reserved, is a happy idea. But the noblest conception of this sort, is in the fifth canto, where Vasco is recounting to the king of Melinda, all the wonders which he met with in his navigation. He tells him, that when the fleet arrived at the Cape of Good Hope, which never before had been doubled by any navigator, there appeared to them, on a sudden, a huge and monstrous phantom, rising out of the sea, in the midst of tempests and thunders, with a head that reached the clouds, and a countenance that filled them with terror. This was the genius, or guardian, of that hitherto unknown ocean. It spoke to them with a voice like thunder; menacing them for invading those seas which he had so long possessed undisturbed ; and for daring to explore those secrets of the deep, which never had been revealed to the eye of mortals: required them to proceed no farther; if they should proceed, foretold all the successive calamities that were to befall them; and then, with a mighty noise, disappeared. This is one of the most solemn and striking pieces of machinery that ever was employed; and is sufficient to show that Camoéns isa poet, though of an irregular, yet of a bold and lofty imagination.* In reviewing the epic poets, 1t were unjust to make no mention of the amiable author of the Adventures of Telemachus. His work, though not composed in verse, is justly entitled to be held a poem. The measured poetical prose, in which it is written, is remarkably harmonious; and gives the style nearly as much elevation as the French language is capable of supporting, even in regular verse. The plan of the work is, in general, well contrived ; and is de- ficient neither in epic grandeur, nor unity of object. The author has entered with much felicity into the spirit and ideas of the an- cient poets, particularly into the ancient mythology, which retains more dignity, and makes a better figure in his hands, than in those of any other modern poet. His descriptions are rich and beautiful ; * T have made no mention of the Araucana, an epic poem, in Spanish, composed by Alonzo d’Ercilla, because | am unacquainted with the original language, and have not seen any translation of it. A full account of it is given by Mr. Hayley, in the Wotes upon his essay on epic poetry.LECT. XLIV. | FENELON’S TELEMACHUS. 501 especially of the softer and calmer scenes, for which the genius of Fenelon was best suited ; such as the incidents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue, or a country flourishing in peace. There is an inimitable sweetness and tenderness in several of the pictures of this kind which he has given. The best executed part of the work, is the first six books, in which Telemachus recounts his adventures to Calypso. The nar- ration, throughout them, is lively and interesting. Afterwards, es- pecially in the last twelve books, it becomes more tedious and lan- guid; and in the warlike adventures, which are attempted, there is a great defect of vigour. The chicf objection against this work being classed with epic poems, arises from the minute details of virtuous policy, into which the author in some places enters; and from the discourses and instructions of Mentor, which recur upon us too often, and too much in the strain of common-place morality. Though these were well suited to the main design of the author, which was to form the mind of a young prince, yet they seem not congruous to the nature of epic poetry ; the object of which is to improve us by means of actions, characters, and sentiments, rather than by delivering professed and formal instruction. Several of the epic poets have described a descent into hell; and in the prospects they have given us of the invisible world, we may observe the gradual refinement of men’s notions concerning a state of future rewards and punishments. The descent of Ulysses into hell, in Homer’s Odyssey, presents to us a very indistinct and dreary sort of object. The scene is laid in the country of the Cimmeri- ans, which is always covered with clouds and darkness, at the ex- tremity of the ocean. When the spirits of the dead begin to ap- pear, we scarcely know whether Ulysses is above ground or below it. None of the ghosts, even of the heroes, appear satisfied with their condition in the other world ; and when Ulysses endeavours to comfort Achilles, by reminding him of the illustrious figure which he must make in those regions, Achilles roundly tells him that all such speeches are idle; for he would rather be a day-labour- er on earth, than have the command of all the dead. In the sixth book of the Auneid, we discern a much greater re finement of ideas, corresponding to the progress which the world had then made in philosophy. The objects there delineated, are both more clear and distinct, and more grand and awful. The se parate mansions of good and of bad spirits, with the punishments of the one, and the employments and happiness of the other, are finely described, and in consistency with the most pure morality. But the visit which Fenelon makes 'elemachus pay to the shades, ismuch more philosophical still than Virgil’s. He employs the same fables and the same mythology ; but we find the ancient mythology refined by the knowledge of the true religion, and adorned with that beautiful enthusiasm, for which Fenelon was so distinguished. His account of the happiness of the just is an excellent description in the mystic strain; and very expressive of the genius and spirit of the author. aed eel oe i ded Eset mak et ot Ga eer rue el eres Srese Pot Sores ree Set ek see od ae et ee a ee ree ee ee re a ee aT fe eS ane aa Seitstesetetetersiete A deate othe od oe. Sh Pee x #253. irtists=r CTs To hes 2202 HAE § . . a ee erie eT Ts) feu eat it Lette Lt ee sh eee fi SEVERE d <= : = staPetchivd = eee RTI OTi Its terete tee ts teh e eee e sinestetet stat eessererasictoreteseesites tery teeesgey eis SPht_oet Fete ke ty ies Ser te ett tee bl ee ones bets pee Oe eee re ete es offer g= es rete | '" a revert gi eesast is tee se ha bo i ? = ree et bo brie 3 Soh Es of » = 502 VOLTAIRE’S HENRIADE. [LECT. XLIV Voltaire has given us, in his Henriade, a regular epic poem, in French verse. In every performance of that celebrated writer, we may expect to find marks of genius; and, accordingly, that work discovers, in several places, that boldness in the conceptions, and that liveliness and felicity in the expression, for which the author is so remarkably distinguished. Several of the comparisons, in particular, which occur in it, are both new and happy. But, con- sidered upon the whole, I cannot esteem it one of his chief pro- ductions; and am of opinion, that he has succeeded infinitely bet- ter in tragic than in epic composition. French yersification seems jl] adapted to epic poetry. Besides its being always fettered by rhyme, the language never assumes a sufficient degree of élevation or ma- Jesty ; and appears to be more capable of expressing the tender in tragedy, than of supporting the sublime in epic. Hence a feeble- ness, and sometimes a prosaic flatness, in the style of the Henriade; and whether from this, or from some other cause, the poem often languishes. It does not seize the imagination, nor interest and carry the reader along, with that ardour which ought to be ‘nspired by a sublime and s»irited epic poem. The subject of the Henriade is the triumph of Henry the Fourth over the arms of the League. The action of the poem properly includes only the siege of Paris. It isan action perfectly epic in its nature; great, interesting, and conducted with a sufficient re- gard to unity’, and all the other critical rules. But it is liable to both the defects which I before remarked in Lucan’s Pharsalia. It is founded wholly on civil wars; and presents to us those odious and detestable objects of massacres and assassinations, which throw a gloom over the poem. It is also, like Lucan’s, of too recent a date, and comes too much within the bounds of well-known history. To remedy this last defect, and to remove the appearance of being a mere historian, Voltaire has chosen to mix fiction with truth. The poem, for instance, opens with a voyage of Henry’s to England, and an interview between him and Queen Elizabeth; though every one knows that Henry never was in England, and that these two illustrious personages never met. In facts of such public notorie- ty,a fiction like this shocks the reader, and forms an unnatural and ill-sorted mixture with historical truth. The episode was contrived, in order to give Henry an opportunity of recounting the former transactions of the civil wars, in imitation of the recital which /iineas makes to Dido in the Aineid. But the imitation was inju- dicious. Auneas might, with propriety, relate to Dido transactions of which she was either entirely ignorant, or had acquired only an imperfect knowledge by flying reports. But Queen Elizabeth could not but be supposed to be perfectly apprized of all the facts, which the poet makes Henry recite to her. In crder to embellish his subject, Voltaire has chosen to employ a great deal of machinery. But here, also, I am obliged to censure his conduct ; for the machinery which he chiefly employs is of the worst kind, and the least suited to an epic poeem—that of allegorical beings, Discord, cunning, and love, appear as personages, mix withLECT. xLiv.] MILTON’S PARADISE LOST. 503° the human actors, and make a considerable figure in the intrigue of the poem. Thisis contrary to every ruleof rational criticism. Ghosts, angels, and devils, have popular belief on their side, and may be con- ceived asexisting. But every one knows, that allegorical beings are no more than representatives of human dispositions and passions. They may be employed like other personifications and figures of speech ; or in a poem, that is wholly allegorical, they may occupy the chief place’; they are there in their native and proper region. But in a poem which relates to human transactions, as I had occasion before to remark, when such beings are described as acting along with men, the imagination is confounded ; it is divided between phantasms and realities, and knows not on what to rest. In justice, however, to our author, I must observe, that the machi- nery of St. Louis, which he also employs, is of a better kind, and possesses real dignity. The finest passage in the Henriade, indeed one of the finest that occurs in any poem, is the prospect of the in- visible world, which St. Louis gives to Henry ina dream, in the se- venth canto: Death bringing the souls of the departed in succes- sion before God; theirastonishment when, arriving from alldifferent countries and religious sects, they are brought into the Divine pre- sence; when they find their superstitions to be false, and have the truth unveiled to them; the palace of the Destinies opened to Hen- ry, and the prospect of his successors which is there given him: are striking and magnificent objects, and do honour to the genius of Voltaire. Though some of the episodes in this poem are properly exten- ded, yet the narration is, on the whole, too general; the events are too much crowded, and superficially related ; which is doubtless, one cause of the poem making a faint impression. The strain of senti- ment which runs through it, is high and noble. Religion appears, on ever y occasion, with great and proper lustre ; and the author breathes that spirit of humanity and toleration, which is conspicuous in all his works. Milton, of whom it remains now to speak, has chalked out for himselfa new and very extraordinary road in poetry. As soon as we open his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves introduced all at once into an invisible world, and surrounded with celestial and inferna! beings. Angels and devils are not the machinery, but principal ac- tors, in the poem; and, what in any other composition would be the marvellous, is here only the natural course of events. A subject so remote from the affairs of this world, may furnish ground to those who think such discussions material, to bring it into doubt, whether Para- dise Lost can properly be classed among epic poems. | By whatever name it isto be called, it is, undoubtedly, one of the highest efforts of poetical genius; and in one great ee 7 ee majesty and sublimity, it 1s fully equal to any that bear that name, How far the author was altogether happy in the choice of his ee ject, may be questioned. It has led him into very eas ees Had he taken a subject that was more human, and less theological; eee eed oh et eee ea ate peta ep eer fis Age Fa aR eh wed aa I Pe ee eae ek at od Pe ee er er ee ed ce eee oe be gee oe Sa Peer ete re ee Panos SESE Pee cae i SEERLESI ET TETELET ISS al RIT athe bdeT resee st tite ett tte be a feee eee eee aS a ee Pe pee re eee Oe ee eee Tey eT erie ee ts el eet es ei i eae, bd be 2 : s Y « ) , ro 2 © PM a Pe 3h di 2 z 4 ¢ . hy , ~ i i 4 rs bay FS 9S $32 Pose ps ee Ss Berti ey = ey $rteyetetetsz 504 MILTON’S PARADISE LOST. frexcr. xxrv that was more connected with the occurrences of life, and afforded a greater display of the characters and passions of men, his poem would, perhaps, have, to the bulk of readers, been more pleasing and attractive. But the subject which he has chosen, suited the daring sublimity of his genius.* It is a subject for which Milton alone was fitted; and in the conduct of it, he has shown a stretch both of imagination and invention, which is perfectly wonderful. It is astonishing how, from the few hints given usin thesacred Scriptures, he was able to raise so complete and regular a structure, and to fill his poem with such a yariety of incidents. Dry and harsh passa- ges sometimes occur. The author appears, upon some occasions, a metaphysician and a divine, rather than a poet. But the general tenour of his work is interesting ; he seizes and fixes the imagination; engages, elevates, and affects us as we proceed; which is always a sure test of merit in an epic composition. The artful change of his objects; the scene laid now in earth, now in hell, and now in hea- ven, affords a sufficient diversity ; while unity of plan is, at the same time, perfectly supported. We have still life, and calm scenes, in the employments of Adam and Eve in Paradise ; and we have busy scenes, and great actions, in the enterprise of Satan, and the wars of the angels. The innocence, purity, and amiableness of our first parents, opposed to the pride and ambition of Satan, furnishes a happy contrast, that reigns throughout the whole poem; only the conclusion, as I before observed, is too tragic for epic poetry. The nature of the subject did not admit any great display of cha- racters; but such as could be introduced, are supported with much propriety. Satan, in particular, makes a striking figure, and is, in- deed, the best drawn character inthe poem. Milton has not describ- ed him such as we suppose an infernal spirit to be. He has, more suitably to his own purpose, given him a human, that is, a mixed character, not altogether void of some good qualities. He is brave and faithful to his troops. In the midst of his impiety, he is not without remorse. He is even touched with pity for our first pareats ; and justifies himself in his design against them, from the necessity of his situation. He is actuated by ambition and resentment, ra- ther than by pure maiice. In short, Milton’s Satan is no worse than many a conspirator or factious chief, that makes a figure in history. The different characters of Beelzebub, Moloch, Belial, are exceed- ingly well painted in those eloquent speeches which they make in the second book. Thegood angels, though always described with dig- nity and propriety, have more uniformity than the infernal spirits in their appearance; though among them, too, the dignity of Michael, the mild condescension of Raphael, and the tried fidelity of Abdiel, form proper characteristical distinctions. The attempt to describe God Almighty himself, and to recount dialogues between the Father * «Fle seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know what it was that nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon others ; the pow- er of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing the awful, darkening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful. He therefore chose a subject, on which too rauch could not be said; on which he might tire his fancy, without the censure of ex- travagance ’ Dy. Jounson’s Life of Milton.LECT. Ey | 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 and elevation. Homer’s sublimity appears most in the description of 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 nany 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 wondertully adapted to his subject. His biank verse is harmonious and diversified, and affords the most complete example of the elevation which our language Is ca able of attaining by the force of numbers. It does not flow, like the French verse, in tame, regular, uniform melody, which soon tires the ear; but is 64 ia RE ge ae pa oe Nae re ee ed ee ot Sr a als as fg FASSTS RS SHAME Dep edogelagecesssssode ee eee ee eee eee e hehSSt ea = Poe ee tin ne Pie eee ok Patgtgiatstettiei MAAR ST the ok 7 ns oa Px eePeers tye ys Pe eee tree ts hc bi tals Lae! pesesegrissegrTe, efereseiererterere ts Fesetse Tete ts. tain dsseeet@advet age eae et a tb ee Pe ES PaPeSeped ds FsigTe steer seh tes eB ee ee es pSagesestsics ee rEreeieseitige Te TTT ee pr etieh se Sa =273 ae ees 506 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV 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 beau- ties 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 dar- ing genius, not to be uniform and correct. Milton is too frequently theological and metaphysical; sometimes harsh in his language; often too technical in his words, and affectedly ostentatious of his learning. Many of his faults must be attributed to the pedantry of the age in which he lived. He discovers a vigour, a grasp of geuius,equal to every thing that is great; if at some times he falls much below him- self, at other times he rises above every poet, of the ancient or modern world, LECTURE XLV. ——E DRAMATIC POETRY..... TRAGEDY. Dramatic poetry has, among all civilized nations, been consider- ed as a rational and useful entertainment, and judged worthy of careful and serious discussion. A \ ccording as it is employed upon the light and the gay, or upon the grave e and affecting incidents of human life, it divides itself into the two forms, of comedy or trage- dy. 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 man- kind. "F he. other on chat humours, follies, and pleasures. Terror and pity are the great instruments of the former; ridicule is the sole instrument of the latter. Tr agedy shall therefore be the object of our fullest discussion. This and the following lecture shall be em- ployed on it; after which I shall treat of what is peculiar to comedy. Tragedy, eonsaered 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. Nokind of writing has so much power when happily executed, to raise the strongest emotions. It is, o1A NR ae oe a RN See et Saree a ae ieee er LECT. Xi¥,] 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 extraya- gant. As tragedy isa 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. L | Every poet finds, that it is impossible to interest usin 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 ke 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, lam 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, i 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 1n 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 Wet oy ot ee eae ci Pee ee ead pear ha toa te os ee ee eee et ere ee eer) Peer cer ee re ef PF SES Ras wHSS ia od Fs Ceo ree Le eo ne ae etetets $tSeitgts CFS Eat he a he o:eeof 3 a rary | s8atatatatedatase $4352 ee Seas ree TS eee i arena sett rartotees eee te ti iris Litt str Ss ee tre atte s ete be Bese he bh he ke keke: * * o - P. Ms e . . - > cr “i . et pe a ee be Oe re ee oe s2siezes svete ts oes Cs Sei gests eer S Seo cam rete ye Sr t4 eeres 8 e*s — aoe tre L cf BS Pa Pe See ed ss ieies ES esis CT oe | 508 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 of the life and actions of men. For the end which it pursues is not so much to elevate the imagination, as to affect the heart; and the heart always judges more nicely than the imagination, of what is probable. Passion can he raised, only by making the i 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 —. 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 w hich 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, itis 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 w hen tragedy | .orrows 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 are entirely fictitious in the subject ; such as Voltaire’s Zaire and Alzire, the Orphan, Douglas, the Fair Penitent, and several others. Whether the subject be of the real or feigned kind, that on which most depends for rendering the incidents in a tragedy probable, and by means of their probability affecting, is the conduct or manage- ment of the story, and the connexion of its several parts. To re- gulate this conduct, critics have laid down the famous rule of theLECT. XLV] TRAGEDY. 509 three Unities ; the importance of which it will benecessary 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 tr agedy, 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, reayos, a goat,joined with #07, 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, Auschylus, 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 some interesting story, 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 regular form, which was soon after brought to perfection, by Sophocles and Euripides. It is remarkable in how short a space of time tragedy grew up among the Greeks, from the rudest beginnings to its most perfect state. For Sophocles, the greatest and most correct of all the tragic poets, flourished only 22 years after Auschylus, 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 chores, 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. i This has given rise to a question, much agitated between the par- tisans of the ancients and the moderns, whether the drama has eained, or has suffered, by the abolition of the chorus. Jt 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 FE PAFULS HDRES PSH ey sh ss HS yy 7 Bare ops Ss Sse peat See Oe ee ea te ee aed Pe tee ho be aie ee ee yk ee Sect tt Co ee re ee ee ee ee as Pat ta kf ha 79 a oe ee ke eee ee setae Le cd Phe 3 eiesgizeeirs “re 4bebshs rs STE aEe Tetris s tt testi tases epepetert aa tate 13 e+ coos tt st etaiapetsi eer oe celeb: eee rite se Sa) tt wettt Sievert eis eset tiesto eh ees Si ee ee ee FTG SSTETPLTT PERS CST Se ees sys ictess a ¢ Bene er 510 TRAGEDY. [THOT xLy 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 by means of the chorus, the inconyeniences,on the other side, are so ereat,as to render the modern practice of excluding the chorus, far 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 real 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 hereat apte. Ille bonis faveatque et consilietur amice, Et regat iratos, et amet pacare tumentes : Ille dapes laudet mensz brevis ; ille salubrem Justitiam, legesque, et apertis otia portis : Ille tegat commissa, deosque precetur et oret, Ut redeat miseris, abeat fortuna superbis. De Art. Porr. @ The chorus must support an 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. FRANCIS.LECT. XLy.] TRAGEDY. : 511 rus, during all the incidents of the play, shall consist with any pro- pability. The scene must be constantly, and often absurdly, laid 1n some public place, that the chorus may be supposed to have free access toit. ‘l’o 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 preserve, 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 thé 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. 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 1n 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, 1s worse conduct in a tragic poet, than to carry on two independent actions 1n the same play ; EHS (SESE of which is, that the mind being suspended and ieee heeds SSeRia ey oe peers t poe te et Sees CB hs ws ee ee ee ee ea et et ot ee ee aD a a estgisice 3 Set ee eee ete Ce te ee ere eee ee er ees eee 3 SS Re a kk a ehete® ere Tete tz Sete Let gs ies e2eeeeteted ye ra ea! erat TS bie PIU TTT eT Stet yt Petia ieee! 2 eeeerree ett tt Pet Tite TT teh eres e sere ttt ee ett eek ea eee e Tt 384 Ti eET Ets - : : : Pe a - eT io - ‘ - Cy 5 os . bd : bs . a ar M 5 ott eee Pe ess es PES Pree ey oe re os ra = -22ieesa5e2 Ps Pere ee | 512 TRAGEDY. [Ler XLV. divided between them, cannot give itself up entirely either to the gne 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 Gdipus Coloneus, for instance, of Sophocles, the whole sub- ject is no more than this: Q&dipus, 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 to 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, nich greater variety of events has been admitted into tragedy. It has become more the theatre of passionLECT. XLV. ] TRAGEDY. - 513 than it was among the ancients. A greater display of characters is attempted; more intrigue and action are carried on; our curiosity is more awakened, and more interesting situations arise. This 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 its 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, ts 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. Port. 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, and 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 toend. The stage was never empty, nor the curtain let fall. But at certain intervals, when the actors retired, the chorus continu- edandsung. 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 ight acts.t a 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 + See the dissertation prefixed so Franklin’s translation of Sophocles. 64 Prior sia e ee te Pee ae eee ee ett 0 oe ea ee St eo tiQeeerees ee getestpistie Lageinissscogeie gareary rere es Sete ee Se tr Sree re Oe aa ks ee oe et ee bs MoH atte ar ar ks ay he le aTethett ae Le ra Dy eaeatasasatete TRehareie Po Pe 214 eerie Ect trae Stitie estas tt is hes cit he eee ee eres eee eT ee os hee ee re ree re Pe ees SS ese eSFsts yo ee eieeee aes te ee sc: 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- ful 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. J 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 theirseveral 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 bya single actor appearing, and giving full and direct information to the spectators. Some of /uschy- 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, 1s, by interesting us in his story, to keep our passions always awake. As soon as he allows us to lan- guish, there isno 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 ereat 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 pe 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- takes of one person for another, and other such theatrical and roman- tic circumstances, are to be condemned as faulty. In the wext place, the catastrophe ought always to be simple; to depend on few events, and to include but few persons. Passion never rises so high whenLECT. XLv. ] TRAGEDY. 515 » it is divided among many objects, as when it is directed towards one, orafew. And it is sti ll 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 theserules. 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 revo- 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 Gidipus 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- feringsand 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 the Orphan of China, with some few English tragedies likewise, have a 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 question 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 representations at which they assist? Do we not see their tears flow? and yet, while the impression of what they have suffered remains upon their minds, they again assemble in crowds to renew the same distresses. The question is not without difficulty, and various solutions of it have been proposed by ingenious men.* ‘The most plain and satisfactory * See Dr. Campbell’s Philosophy of Rhetoric, Book i. ch. xi. where an account is given of the hypothesis of different critics on this subject ; and where one is proposed, with which, in the main, I agree. See also Lord Kaimes’s Essays on the Principles of Ma: vality, Essay i.; and Mr David Hume’s Essay on Tragedy. Re ST Re ee Ee H ond be eee ee ere oe pea bags Phebe ee ti BN a Se sare PSLTSSESIS IF! eSktaretet See Marte Naseer ea he cx ot ma Bs ree Feet aoe toes eer pee hs SST PPTs as Pe Ee ee Ee CEP eee pe es ae See TS ee Te Tere ee ee ee eS ee ee ee ee ee 2k eee nets ae esatt tr. Peres cones PETS iat sete Ist = ss Feit: gi zisie - ese ON ; ; es Eee APE ae . F285 SEztSt = =rer a j ere ease tral: eT eee ere rile ee ee re baat abe sioih Pe tated PEt ie Se oe Ss Se Pe ee ee ee] are ey Pet ses eee - See! 3e-¥ : Ppeette tt ess Pies ire cc rs rs Pires te see fe tee stedspeteis ere seca Ps Fy ore raat aS & 316 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV. account of the matter, appears to me to be the following. By the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, the exercise of all the social passions is attended with pleasure. Nothing is more pleasing and grateful, than love and friendship. Wherever man takesa strong interestin the concerns of his fellow creatures, an internal satisfaction is made toaccompany 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. Weare pleased with ourselves, for feeling as 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. Atthe 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- ledanewscene. ‘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 rext scene, independent of the former. This makes a gap, or total interruption in the representation, which, 1n effect, puts an end to that act. For, whenever the stage is evacuated,SECT. XLV. | TRAGEDY. the act is closed. This rule is, very generally, French tragedians; but the English writers, 17 observed by the 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 th equal propriety, their their scenes is so much broken, that, wi 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 cnter, 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 oo 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 personze 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 be- 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 ke 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 poeta 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; Te eee ees ee seesaseras esate si seeg? is eerie ee eee Shae EER TLE AE. aT Se PETS See See eee ee PERRI ee See ee eee ete ete Oe ee ee ee ee Per Pk oe pe 6 oe a. > SESE TS: Pee ga na he $3as ea bs te oa oe of Ba aS eS Pes as rt cS te oka ~ Ps SF ursii . oa oP ee Ff = TS De ee a Seer eres ae te ; 4 4 tape detele Pie eter te) ee a3 ee eee Pe reer errr eer ee tte ears sa teh it ots ite al i eee eo. Pa rs - - _ ‘ - . . ° L . ° = Ps * * - ° bbeTepideteeehss ere ry eT et Te yy SEDPSAEPERSE ee re es ey rere re eee Tet 518 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 limiting themselves se 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 days 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 supposed 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 place, and shift the scene in the midst of one act, shows great incor- rectness, and destroys the whole intention of thedivision ofa 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. tn 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. XLVI.| TRAGEDY. 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 afiction. Nosuch 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. Huis 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 eaves him hurt and displeased. This is the whole mystery of the theatrical illusion. LECTURE XLVI. TRAGEDY....GREEK....FRENCH....ENGLISH TRAGEDY. Havine treated of the dramatic action in tragedy, I proceed next to treat of the characters most proper to be exhibited. It has been thought, by several critics, that the nature of tragedy requires the principal personages to be always of illustrious character, and of high, or princely rank; whose misfortunes and sufferings, it is said, take faster hold of the imagination, and impress the heart more forcibly, than similar events happening to persons in private life. But this is more specious than solid. It is refuted by facts. For the distresses of Desdemona, Monimia, and Belvidera, interest us as deeply as if they had been princesses or queens. The dignity of tragedy does, indeed, require that there should be nothing degrad- ing or mean in the circumstances of the persons which it exhibits, but it requires nothing more. Their high rank may render the spectacle more splendid, and the subject seemingly of more impor- tance, but conduces very little to its being interesting or pathetic; which depends entirely on the nature of the tale, on the art of the poet in conducting it, and on the sentiments to which it gives oe- easion. In every rank of life, the relations of father, husband, son, brother, lover, or friend, lay the foundation of those affecting sifua- tiens, which make man’s heart feel for man. Red oe es a ee ee een Spree ear ee ee ete erertezeret pope eeresesegare ee EEE Se er ee eer Tee eee te tae ee ee eee eee et a eee eee, FS She es Tat ot ie oe ~ _ x is Bete oss es 25 a m A See aa rss S.sea an Treva te east het ar: “i , = , PUP etter tt oi tit 1s tata ae % . — —~ - Tt Pahl Fas ekotetetacays 4 Pa, cyceiePrsyaetshticsgrstetg ihe esoreerecestotossterreritee et erererteires ad - ‘ : $ os eee! a 3 . ees os eo cere Se ee wis poe pe eee oS meee Bs PS rertre tt. Re Pere ry Se ates asst te tia ssiser = - fe rrr ey 520 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLVI The moral characters of the persons represented, are of much greater consequence than the external circumstances in which the poet places them. Nothing, indeed, in the conduct of tragedy, de- mands a poet’s attention more, than so to describe his personages, and so to order the incidents which relate to them, as shall leave upon the spectators impressions favourable to virtue, and to the ad- ministration of Providence. It is not necessary, for this end, that poetical justice, as it is called, should be observed in the catastrophe of the piece. This has been long exploded from tragedy ; the end of which is, to affect us with pity for the virtuous in distress, and to afford a probable representation of the state of human life, where calamities often befall the best, and a mixed portion of good and evil is appointed forall. But, withal, the evthor must beware of shock- ing our minds with such representations of life as tend to raise horror, or to render virtue an object of aversion. Though innocent persons suffer, their sufferings ought to be attended with such cir- cumstances, as shall make virtue appear amiable and venerable ; and shall render their condition, on the whole, preferable to that ot bad men, who have prevailed against them. The stings and the remorse of guilt, must ever be represented as productive of greater miseries, than any that the bad can bring upon the good. Aristotle’s observations on the characters proper for tragedy, are very judicious. He is of opinion, that perfect unmixed charac- ters, either of good or ill men, are not the fittest to be introduced. The distresses of the one, being wholly unmerited, hurt and shock 4s; and the sufferings of the other, occasion no pity. Mixed cha- racters, such as in fact we meet with in the world, afford the most proper field for displaying, without any bad effect on morals, the vicissitudes of life; and they interest us the more deeply, as they display the emotions and passions of which we have all been conscious. When such persons fall into distress through the vices of others the subject may be very pathetic; but it is always more instructive when a person has been himself the cause of his misfortune, and when his misfortune is occasioned by the violence of passion, or by some weakness incident to human nature. Such subjects both dis- pose us to the deepest sympathy, and administer useful warnings to us for our own conduct. Upon these principles, it surprises me that the story of Cidipus should have been so much celebrated by all the critics, as one of the fittest subjects for tragedy, and so often brought upon the stage, not by Sophocles only, but by Corneille also, and Voltaire. An in- nocent person, one in the main, of a virtuous character, through no crime of his own, nay, not by the vices of others, but through mere fotolity and blind chance, is involved in the greatest of all human miseriss. Ina casual rencounter he kills his father, without know- ing him ; he afterwards is married to his own mother; and, discover- ing himself, in the end, to have committed both parricide and incest, he becomes frantic, and dies in the utmost misery. Such a subject excites horror rather than pity. As it is conducted by Sophocles, it is indeed extremely affecting; but it conveys no instruction; it awa~LECT, XLVI.] TRAGEDY 523 kens in the mind no tender sympathy ; it leaves no impression fa- vourable to virtue or humanity. It must be acknowledged, that the subjects of the ancient Greek tragedies were too often founded on mere destiny and inevitable misfortunes. They were too much mixed with their tales about oracles, and the vengeance of the gods, which led to many an in- cident sufficiently melancholy and tragical; but rather purely tra- gical, than useful or moral. Hence, both the Cidipuses of Sopho- cles, the Iphigenia in Aulis, the Hecuba of Euripides, and several of the like kind. In the course of the drama, many moral senti- ments occurred. But the instruction which the fable of the play conveyed, seldom was any more than that reverence was owing te the gods, and submission due to the decrees of destiny. Modern tragedy has aimed at a higher object, by becoming more the theatre of passion; pointing out to men the consequences of their miscons duct; showing the direful effects which ambition, jealousy, love, resentment, and other such. strong emotions, when misguided, or left unrestrained, produce upon human life. An Othello, hurried by jealousy to murder his innocent wife; a Jaffier, insnared by re- sentment and want, to engage in a conspiracy, and then stung with remorse, and involved in ruin; a Siffredi, through the deceit which he employs for public spirited ends, bringing destruction on all whom he loved; a Calista, seduced into a criminal intrigue, which overwhelms herself, her father, and all her friends in misery; these, and such as these, are the examples which tragedy now displays to public view; and by means of which it inculcates on men the proper government of their passions. Of all the passions which furnish matter to tragedy, that which has most occupied the modern stage, is love. To the ancient thea- tre, it was ina manner wholly unknown. In few of their tragedies is itever mentioned ; and I remember no more than one which turns upon it, the Hippolitus of Euripides. This was owing to the na- tional manners of the Greeks, and to that greater separation of the two sexes from one another, than has taken place in modern times ; aided too, perhaps, by this circumstance, that no female actress ever appeared on the ancient stage. But though no reason appears for the total exclusion of love from the theatre, yet with what justice or propriety it has usurped so much place, as to be ina manner the sole hinge of modern tragedy, may be much questioned. Voltaire, who is no less eminent as a critic than as a poet, declares loudly and strongly against this predominancy of love, as both degrading the majesty, and confining the natural limits of tragedy. And assuredly, the mixing of it perpetually with all the great and solemn revolu- tions of human fortune which belong to the tragic stage, tends to give tragedy too much the air of gallantry and juvenile entertainment. The Athalie of Racine, the Mérope of Voltaire, the Douglas of Mr. Home, are sufficient proofs, that without any assistance from love, the drama is capable of producing its highest effects upon the mind. This seems to be clear, that wherever love 1s introduced into tra- gedy, it ought to reign in it, and ° give rise to the principal action os Se a gk ek a st ee Peete eee ere terete s te ra re rere see eee i eee eee Se 55505 Be ok Ra Sk are eres e§egtgceieteteisiitriesssess See Ae Pesce test at eae raee ete echt a sr crs ia . ¥ | Ey ree eerste Stl i site ile Siete eee! Ad oe > te. -- * Load « ee~ ek Cd ed sd o ~ ~ pd vip. ry P lala an ee cae 4 re Gore au &- ” que a « P yt a fru. hb La oe re pores & eo cd e oI & oo aan ae vm ro * PY Co ra * Pt a r i ‘> > ‘ tecet ®t o8>k grstetessiet shy a a se vere TT Tt Pe Sere oe > = PS FSPSS SSS FTE SH Sales Ete Pe) ezetarze aac aa Site Ss atte bee at bs = - re >. gegresarete? 3 b .- a 522 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLVI. It ought to be that sort of love which possesses all the force and ma- jesty of passion; and whith occasions great and important conse- quences. For nothing can have a worse effect, or be more debasing to tragedy, than, together with the manly and heroic passions, to mingle a trifling love intrigue, as a sort of seasoning to the play. The bad effects of this are sufficiently conspicuous both in the Cato of Mr. Addison, as I had occasion before to remark, and in the Iphigénie of Racine. After a tragic poet has arranged his subject, and chosen his per- sonages, the next thing he must attend to, is the propriety of sen- timents; that they be perfectly suited to the characters of those persons to whom they are attributed, and to the situations in which they are placed. The necessity of observing this general rule is so obvious, that I need not insist upon it. It is principally in the pa- thetic parts, that both the difficulty and the importance of it are the greatest. Tragedy is the region of passion. We come to it expect- ing to be moved; and let the poet be ever so judicious in his con- duct, moral in his intentions, and elegant in his style, yet if he fails in the pathetic, he has no tragic merit; we return cold and disappoint- ed from the performance; and never desire to meet with it more. To paint passion so truly and justly as to strike the hearts of the hearers with full sympathy, is a prerogative of genius given to few. It requires strong and ardent sensibility of mind. It requires the author to have the power of entering deeply into the characters which he draws; of becoming fora moment the very person whom he exhibits, and of assuming all his feelings. For, as I have often had occasion to observe, there is no possibility of speaking properly the language of any passion, without feeling it; and it is to the absence or deadness of real emotion, that we must ascribe the want of suc- cess in so many tragic writers, when they attempt being pathetic. No man, for instance, when he is under the strong agitations of anger, or grief, or any such violent passion, ever thinks of describ- ing to another what his feelings at that time are; or of telling them what he resembles. This never was, and never will be, the lJan- guage of any person, when he is deeply moved. It is the lan- guage of one who describes coolly the condition of that person to another; or it is the language of the passionate person himself, after his emotion has subsided, relating what his situation was in the moments of passion. Yet this sort of secondary description, is what tragic poets too often give us, instead of the native and pri- mary language of passion. ‘Thus,in Mr. Addison’s Cato, when Lucia confesses to Portius her love for him, but at the same time, swears with the greatest solemnity, that in the present situation of their country she will never marry him; Portius receives this un- expected sentence with the utmost astonishment and grief; at least the poet wants to make us believe that he so received it. How does he express these feelings? Fix’d in astonishinent, [ gaze upon thee, Like one just blasted by a stroke from heavn, Who pants for breath, and stiffens yet alive In dreadful looks ; a monument of wrathLECT. XLVI. | 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 us 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 her extreme distress, and finding that he had forgiven her, calls on the rains to give her their drops, and the springs to give her their streams, that she may never want a supply of tears; in such 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 gentus, 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, ard interrupted speeches : corresponding to the vio- lent and desultory emotions of the mind. a. When we examine the French tragedians by these principles, eet eee ee ee a oe meet ator tee eas Legrgersecisesete: saeseees aoe a ee te Pe ee er ees = FLESLR Ras SHSM RSS TO Lwde Ge lscace ee Ve eee Ye 7 Sooke ee eae aa pet eo ia eo #8FSTETIS. 4 = » =. . “egeeseé Soe ot et e = Ase ot ekhg be rye tose astiie tr » 4 > Pe > roe etre rer tite pi eels ta eee igcelePesndet civiriereteTetedsbegeregeeestitte: tieeset inet tena hts ta sote terete: an aT oe 2 | Cm: ee See Ee Re ie Te eee eres ee: ee Pert tte Seale zMweS Sg ageestspseateset res: eter ee re St 524 TRAGEDY. [LuOT? 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 creat occasions, they seldom fail of touching ‘the heart.* This too is Sh 1akspeare’s great excellency; 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 wife, and all his children, being slaughtered in his absence. The emotions, first of grief, and then of the most fierce resentment rising against Macbeth, a are painted i 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 mora] 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 be altogether omitted in tragedies. When properly introduced, they give dignity to the composition, and on many occasions, they are extremely naturel. 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 lifey 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 resolution of putting them to death, and nothing more natoral than the conflict which she is de- scribed as suffering on that occasion: Dev, oev* i meoodépner dt ee bu macy, Téxva, TE 7 ooyehare roy Wa vorreroy yerws 5 ; Ai, at al Serre ; ; xagdia ye obyerat, Turaines, 3 Guu paidpoy we edov Téxver. Ovx av dyvaiuny xaipire Pourwuara.LECT. XLVI. | TRAGEDY. 525 moral reflections naturally occur to them, whether they be persons of much virtue or not. Almost every human being is, on such oc- casions, disposed to be serious. It is then the natural tone of the mind; and therefore no tragic poet should omit such proper oppor- tunities, when they occur, for favouring the interests of virtue. Cardinal Wolsey’s soliloquy upon his fall, for instance, in Shak- speare, when he bids a long farewell to all his greatness, and the ad- vices which he afterwards gives to Cromwell, are, in his situation, ex- tremely natural; touch and please all readers; and are at once in- structive and affecting. Much of the merit of Mr. Addison’s Cato depends upon that moral turn of thought which distinguishes it. I have had occasion, both in this lecture and in the preceding one, to take notice of some of its defects ; and certainly neither for warmth of passion nor proper conduct of the plot, is it at all eminent. It does not, however, follow, that it is destitute of merit. For, by the purity and beauty of the language, by the dignity of Cato’s character, by that ardour of public spirit, and those virtuous senti- ments of which it is full, it has always commanded high regard ; and has, both in our own country and among foreigners, acquired no small reputation. The style and versification of tragedy ought to be free, easy, and varied. Our blank verse is happily suited to this purpose. It has sufficient majesty for raising the style ; it can descend to the simple and familiar; it is susceptible of great variety of cadence; and is quite free from the constraint and monotony ofrhyme. For mono- tony is, above all things, to be avoided by a tragic poet. - If he main- tains every where the same stateliness of style, if he uniformly keep up the same run of measure and harmony in his verse, he cannot fail of becoming insipid. He should not indeed sink into flat and careless lines; his style should always have force and dignity, but not the uniform dignity of epic poetry. It should assume that brisk- ness and ease, which is suited to the freedom of dialogue, and the fluctuations of passion. we One of the greatest misfortunes of the French tragedy is, its be- ing always written in rhyme. The nature of the French language, indeed, requires this, in order to distinguish the style from mere prose. Butit fetters the freedom of the tragic dialogue, fills it with a languid monotony, and is, In a manner, fatal to the high strength and power of passion. Voltaire maintains, that the difficulty of com- posing in French rhyme, is one great cause of the pleasure which the audience receives from the composition. Tragedy would be ruined, says he, if we were to write it in blank verse; take away ibe difficulty, and you take away the whole merit. A strange idea! as if the entertainment of the audience arose, not from the emotions which the poet is successful in awakening, but from a reflection on the toil which he endured in his closet, from assorting male and fe- malerhymes. With regard to those splendid comparisons 1n rhyme, and strings of couplets, with which it was, some time ago, fashiona- ble for our English poets to conclude, not only every act of atragedy, but sometimes also the most interesting scenes, nothing need be said, FRSAFUSSBS SHS eH ey sl elS srs Fes 25 J ay BE Fd a ot te ae AC eee rk ed ee ete ee be pea oe Soe PAN Se Te eer ete Te ee es ve tae ee ee eee St ig erase an bs od Oa a eae ee a ee rae Peres ecete ~ 3 aos r [7a — : $2455 Cagis Pert OL Fe TePt . 1 a3 SresShei te lepeeges H sfge dif Pye rate trite ti tier lara a Ttsto att) bd bated oo hoe bd tos bs hhh eat ck ekh eee eahhenie tk hak ted ee Soe ee SSTe F545 4 re besa gers Pa Peet rt sete Se Se Sets ti ist ae cease Pre es = ereses to é Tet t. aeeecae Rom a BAS Teena rica areas see 526 GREEK TRAGEDY. [LECT. x1v1 but that they were the most perfect barbarisms; childish ornaments, introduced to please a false taste in the audience and now univer- sally laid aside. Having thus treated of all the different parts of tragedy, I shall conclude the subject, with a short view of the Greek, the French, and the English stage, and with observations on tue principal writers. Most of the distinguishing characters of the Greek tragedy have been already occasionally mentioned. Itwas embellished with the lyric poetry of the chorus, of the origin of which, and of the advan- tages and disadvantages attending it, I treated fully in the preceding lecture. The plot was always exceedingly simple. It admitted of few incidents. It was conducted with a very exact regard to the uni- ties of action, time, and place. Machinery, or the intervention of the gods, was employed; and, which is very faulty, the final un- ravelling sometimes made to turn upon it. Love, except in one or two instances, was never admitted into the Greek tragedy. Their subjects were often founded on destiny, or inevitable misfortunes. A vein of religious and moral sentiment always runs through them ; but they made less use than the moderns of the combat of the pas- sions, and of the distresses which our passions bring uponus. Their plots were all taken from the ancient traditionary stories of their own nation. Hercules furnishes matter for two tragedies. The history of Gidipus, king of Thebes, and his unfortunate family, for six. The war of Troy, with its consequences, for no fewer than sev- enteen. There is only one of later date than this; which is the Per- se, or expedition of Xerxes, by Auschylus. fischylus is the father of Greek tragedy, and exhibits both the beauties and the defects of an early original writer. He is bold, nervous, and animated, but very obscure and difficult to be under- stood; partly by reason of the incorrect state in which we have his works, (they having suffered more by time, than any of the ancient tragedians) and partly, on account of the nature of his style, which is crowded with metaphors, often harsh and tumid. He abounds with martial ideas and descriptions. He has much fire and eleva- tion; less of tenderness than of force. He delights in the marvel- lous. The ghost of Darius in the Perse, the inspiration of Cassan- dra in Agamemnon, and the songs of the Furies in the Eumenides, are beautiful in their kind, and strongly expressive of his genius. Sophocles is the most masterly of the three Greek tragedians, the most correct in the conduct of his subjects; the most just and sublime in his sentiments. He is eminent for his descriptive talent. The relation of the death of Gidipus, in his GSdipus Coloneus, and of the death of Hemon and Antigone, in his Antigone, are perfect patterns of description to tragic poets. Euripides is esteemed more tender than Sophocles, and he is fullerof moral sentiments. But, in the conduct of his plays, he is more incorrect and negligent; his expositions, or openings of the subject, are made in a less artful manner; and the songs of his chorus, though remarkably poetical, have, commonly, less connexion with the main action, than those of Sophocles. Both Euripides and Sophocles, however, have veryLECT. XLVI. | GREEK TRAGEDY. 527 high merit as tragic poets. They are elegant and beautiful in their style; just, for the most part, in their thoughts; they speak with the voice of nature ; and, making allowance for the difference of an- erent and modern ideas, in the midst of all their simplicity, they are touching and interesting. The circumstances of theatrical representation on the stages of Greece and Rome, were, in several respects, very singular, and widely different from what obtains among us. Not only were the sougs of the chorus accompanied with instrumental music, but,as the Abbé du Bos, in his reflections on poetry and painting, has pro- ved, with much curious.erudition, the dialogue part had also a modulation of its own, which was capable of being set to notes ; it was carried:on in a sort of recitative between the actors, and was supported by instruments. He has farther attempted to prove, but the proof seems.more incomplete, that on some occasions, on the Roman stage, the pronouncing and gesticulating parts were divided ; that one actor spoke, and another performed the gestures and mo- tions corresponding to what the first said. The actors in tragedy wore a long robe, called Syrma, which flowed upon the stage. They were raised upon Cothurni, which rendered their stature uncom- monly high; and they always played in masks. These masks were like helmets, which covered the whole head; the mouths of them were so contrived, as to give an artificial sound to the voice, in order to make it be heard over their vast.theatres; and the visage was so formed and painted, as to suit the age, characters, or dis- positions of the persons represented. When, during the course of one scene, different emotions were to appear in the same person, the mask’ is said to have-been so painted, that the actor, by turn ing one or other profile of his face to the spectators, expressed the change of the situation. This, however, wasa contrivance attended with many disadvantages. The mask must have deprived the spectators of all the pleasure which arises from the natural animated expression of the eye and the countenance ; and, joined with the other circumstances which I have mentioned, is apt to give us but an unfavourable idea of the dramatic representations of the ancients. In defence of them, it must, at the same time, be remembered, that their theatres were vastly more extensive in the area than ours, and filled with immense crowds. They were always uncovered, and ex posed to the open air. The actors were beheld at a much greatei distance, and of course much more imperfectly by the bulk of the spectators, which both rendered their looks of less consequence, and might make it in some degree necessary that their features should be exaggerated, the sound of their voices enlarged, and their whole appearance magnified beyond the life, in order to make the stronger impression. It is certain, that, as dramatic spectacles were the favour- ite entertainments of the Greeks and Romans, the attention given to their proper exhibition, and the magnificence of the apparatus be- stowed on their theatres, far exceeded any thing that has been at- tempted in modern ages. ! In the compositions of some of the French dramatic writers Pas A ee ae er pee ret ct eee lsggedeees Siet Pen ete tt Pr te rere eee ee te ee oe ee ee ee rors SESGS SST ere Thiele Test eA Leena 3 : ar o Fj ‘ ete et: tsEsFSFwert o Ts hiss ata ct ‘ ee vs a peu e ee tte ts yi tk, Tig taess 2 $ Aoeir a outa rerertren ie ett tities Lett iss ciel be beti othe ete bd hts ot hah kde Gekko ek . we - ee N oe | es ° teers L oe Be edie pet | e232" 4 eee pore ra a treet eee ee ees ear a) pe aT rersrs tres rs Pies | Pre | Steksgee a s*5 reeset se ee) Peter esis y+iss 528 FRENCH. TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLVI particularly Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, tragedy has appeared with much lustre and dignity. ‘They must be allowed to have im- proved upon the ancients, in introducing more incidents, a greater variety of passions, a fuller display of characters, and in rendering the subject thereby more interesting. They have studied to imitate the ancient models in regularity of conduct.. They are attentive to all the unities, and to all the decorums of sentiment and morali- ty; and their style is, generally, very poetical.and elegant. What an English taste is most apt to censure in them, is the want of fer- vour, Strength, and the natural language of passion. There is often too much conversation in their pieces, instead.of action. They are too declamatory, as was before observed, when they should be passionate; too refined, when they should be,simple. ~ Voltaire freely acknowledges these defects of the French theatre. He ad- mits, that their best tragedies do not make a sufficient impression on the heart; that the gallantry which reigns in them, and the leng fine-spun dialogue with which they over-abound, frequently spread a languor over them; that:the authors seemed to be afraid of being too tragic; and very candidly gives it as his judgment, that an union of the vehemence and the action, which characterize the English theatre, with the correctness and decorum of the French theatre, would be necessary to form a perfect tragedy. Corneille, who is properly the father of French tragedy, is distin- guished by the majesty and, grandéur of his sentiments, and the fruitfulness of hts imagination. His genius was unquestionably very rich, but seemed more turned towards.the epic than the tragic vein; for, in general, he is magnificent-and splendid, rather than tender and. touching. Heisthemostdeclamatory of all the French trage- dians. He united the copiousness of Dryden with the fire of Lu- can, and he resembles) them also in their faults, in their extrava- gance and impetuosity.. He has composed a great number of tra- gedies, very unequal in their merit. His best and most esteemed pieces are, the Cid, Horace, Polyeucte, and Cinna. Racine, as a tragic poet, is much superior to Corneille. He want- ed the copiousness and grandeur of Corneille’s imagination ; but is free from his bombast, and excels him greatly in tenderness. Few poets, indeed, are more tender and moving than Racine. His Phe- dra, his Andromaque, his Athalie, and his Mithridate, are excellent dramatic performances, and do no small honour to the French stage. His language and versification are uncommonly beautiful. Of all the French authors, he appears to me to have most excelled in poet- ical style; to have managed their rhyme with the greatest advantage and facility, and to have given it the most complete harmony. Vol- taire has, again and-again, pronounced Racine’s Athalie to be the ‘Chef d’Chuvre’ of the French stage. _ It is altogether a sacred dra- ma, and owes much of its elevation to the majesty of religion, but it is less tender and interesting than Andromaque. Racine has formed two of his plays upon plans of Euripides. In the Phaedra he is extremely successful; but not so,in my opinion, in the Iphigénie; where he has degraded the ancient characters, byLECT. XLVi.] FRENCH TRAGEDY. 529 unseasonable gallantry modern lady.* Voltaire, in several of his tragedies, is inferior predecessors, In one great article, he has outdone them all: in the delicate and interesting situations which he has contrived to intro- duce. Inthese lie his chief strength. He is not, indeed, exempt from the defects of the other French tragedians, of wantin atl g j vantine force and of being sometimes too Jong and declamatory in his speeches; but his characters are drawn with spirit, his events are strikine aad in his sentiments there is muchelevation. His Zayre, A Izire, Méropé and Orphan of China, are four capital tragedies, and deserve the highest praise. What one might perhaps not expect, Voltaire is, in the strain of his sentiments, the most religious, and the most moral of all tragic poets. . Though the musical dramas of Metastasio fulfil not the character Achilles is a French lover; and Eriphile, a to -none of his mith be characters of Corneille and Racine are happily contrasted with each other, m the following beautiful lines of a French poet, which will gratify several readers: CORNEILLE. Illum nobilibus majestas evehit alis Vertice tangentem nubes: stant ordine longo Magnanimi circum heroes, fulgentibus omnes Induti trabeis; Polyenctus, Cinna, Seleucus, Et Cidus, et rugis signatus Horatius ora. RACINE, Hunce circumvolitat penna alludente Cupido, Vincula triumphatis insternens florea scenis; Colligit hec mollis genius, levibusque catenis Heroas stringit dociles, Phyrrhosque, Titosque, Pelidasque, ac Hippolytos, qui sponte sequuntur Servitium, facilesque ferunt in vincula palmas. Ingentes nimirum animos Cornelius ingens, Et quales habet ipse, suis heroibus afflat Sublimes sensus; vox olli mascula, magnum os, Nec mortalesonans. Rapido fluit impetu vena, Vena Sophocleis non inficianda fluentis. Racinius Gallis haud visos ante theatris Mollior ingenio teneros induxit amores. Magnanimos quamvis sensus sub pectore verset Agrippina, licet Romano robore Burrhus Polleat, et magni generosa superbia Pori Non semel eniteat, tamen esse ad mollia natum Credideris vatem ; vox olli mellea, lenis Spiritus est; non ille animis vim concitus infert, Et ceecos animorum aditus rimatur, et imis Mentibus occultos, sizen penetrabilis, ictus Insinuans, palpando ferit, leditque placendo. Vena fluit facili non intermissa nitore, Nec rapidos semper volvit cum murmure. fluctus, Agmine sed leni fluitat. Seu gramina lambit Rivulus, et ceco per prata virentia lapsu, Aufugiens, tacita fluit indeprensus arena; Flore mivant ripe illimes; huc vulgus amantum Convolat, et lacrymis auget rivalibus undas : Singultus unde referunt, gemitusque sonoras Ingeminant, molli gemitus imitante susurro. , Templum Trageedia, per Fr. Marsy, e Soctetate foe wgeprseDkees eicy sists ee tan ee eed cro rere coi peta ee te ea te ee a corer e rere es ve ro ee ee ers td eatery i ve OEE SE Fes 28 She ee a eee eee Seretete ereceze Fitgtst+ bee e Ts , Pree sere Pee S epebat essere eee ra Ee teat te te. eeett Savio otis sees tetas te loi alee a toe. £2 eee S ee > SSeteeeci=s Ste ie. ~ ae rete re SPert se Sa eee gesrei sre i . } Pr sose@oete leds bec“ l Foie Bet > b . tick hoe ioe | PeSepessssicteese oe Pees cites Pieters ripe te erst Shree. Pe eee Hy Fs e"s # 530 ENGLISH TRAGEDY. [emor. xzay3. of just and regular tragedies, they approach howeyer so near to it, and possess so much merit, that it would be unjust to pass them over without notice. For the elegance of style, the charms of lyric po- etry, and the beauties of sentiment, they are eminent. They abound in well contrived and interesting situations. ‘The dialogue, by its closeness and rapidity, carries a considerable resemblance to that of the ancient Greek tragedies; and is both more animated and more natural, than the long declamation of the French theatre. But the shortness of the several dramas, and the intermixture of so much lyric poetry as belongs to this sort of composition, often occasions the course of the incidents to be hurried on too quickly, and pre- vents that consistent display of characters, and that full preparation of events, which are necessary to give a proper verisimilitude to tragedy. It only now remains to speak of the state of tragedy in Great Britain; the general character of which is, that it is more animated and passionate than French tragedy, but more irregular and incor- rect, and less attentive to decorum and to elegance. The pathetic, it must always be remembered, is the soul of tragedy. The English, therefore, must be allowed to have aimed at the highest species of excellence; though, in the execution, they have not always joined the other beauties that ought to accompany the pathetic. The first object which presents itself to us on the English theatre, is the great Shakspeare. Great he may be justly called, as the extent and force of his natural genius, both for tragedy and come- dy, are altogether unriyalled.* But, at the same time, it is genius shooting wild; deficient in just taste, and altogether unassisted by knowledge orart. Long has he been idolized by the British nation ; much has been said, and much has been written,concerning him; criticism has been drawn to the very dregs, in commentaries upon his words and witticisms; and yet it remains, to this day, in doubt, whether his beauties, or his faults,be greatest. Admirable scenes, and passages without number, there are in his plays; passages be- yond what are to be found in any other dramatic writer; but there is hardly any one of his plays which can be called altogether a good one, or which can be read with uninterrupted pleasure from begin- ning to end, Besides extreme irregularities in conduct, and grotesque mixtures of serious and comic in one piece, we are often interrupted by unnatural thoughts, harsh expressions, a certain obscure bombast, and a play upon words, which he is fond of pursuing; and these interruptions to our pleasure too frequently occur, on occasions * The character which Dryden has drawn of Shakspeare is not only just, but uncom- monly elegant and happy. ‘He was the man, who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily. When he describes any thing, you more than see it; you feel ittoo. They who accuse him of wanting learn- ing, give him the greatest commendation. He was naturally learned. He needed not the spectacles of books to read nature. He looked inward, and found her there. 1 cannot say he is every where alike. Were he so, I should do him injury, to compare him to the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid; his comie wit dege- nerating into clenches ; his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some great occasion is presented to him.’ DrypeEn’s Essay on Dramatic PoetryLECT. XLyI.] ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 531 when we would least wish to meet with them. All these faults, however, Shakspeare redeems, by two of the greatest excellencies which any tragic poet can possess; his lively and diversified paint- ings of character; his strong and natural expressions of passion. These are his two chief virtues; on these his merit rests. Not- withstanding his many absurdities, all the while we are reading his plays, we find ourselves in the midst of our fellows; we meet with men, vulgar perhaps in their manners, coarse or harsh in their sentiments, but still they are men; they speak with human voices, and are actuated by human passions; we are interested in what they say or do, because we feel that they are of the same na- ture with ourselves. It is therefore no matter of wonder, that from the more polished and regular, but more cold and artificial perform- ances of other poets, the public should return with pleasure to such warm and genuine representations of human nature. Shak- speare possesses likewise the merit of having created, for himself, a sort of world of preternatural beings. His witches, ghosts, fairies, and spirits of all kinds, are described with such circumstances of awful and mysterious solemnity, and speak a language so peculiar to themselves, as strongly to affect the imagination. His two master- pieces, and in which, in my opinion, the strength of his genius chiefly appears, are, Othello and Macbeth. With regard to his historical plays, they are, properly speaking, neither tragedies nor comedies; but a peculiar species of dramatic entertainment, calculated to de- scribe the manners of the times of which he treats, to exhibit the principal characters, and to fix our imagination on the most interest- ing events and revolutions of our own country.* After the age of Shakspeare, we can produce in the English lan. guage several detached tragedies of considerable merit. But we have not many dramatic writers whose whole works are entitled either to particular criticism, or very high praise. In the tragedies of Dryden and Lee, there is much fire, but mixed with much fustian and rant. Lee’s Theodosius, or the ‘ Force of Love,’ is the best of his pieces, and, in some of the scenes, does not want tenderness and warmth, though romantic in the plan, and extravagant in the sen- timents. Otway was endowed with a high portion of the tragic spirit; which appears to great advantage in his two principal trage- dies, ‘The Orphan,’ and ‘ Venice Preserved.’ In these, he is perhaps too tragic; the distresses being so deep, as to tear and overwhelm the mind. He isa writer, doubtless, of genius and strong passion ; but at the same time, exceedingly gross and indelicate. No tragedies are less moral than those of Otway. There are no generous or noble sentiments in them; but a licentious spirit often discovers itself. He is the very opposite of the French decorum ; and has contrived to introduce obscenity and indecent allusions, into the midst of.deep tragedy. ’s Histori j er- * See an excellent defence of Shakspeare’s Historical Plays, and sapree ones yations on his peculiar excellencies asa tragic poet, in Mrs. Montague’s y writings and genius of Shakspeare. Seepeati site? rs or ie Bad LESS SI ES = decedrGiicjesesngeievettyptsisesere: ete re eee ee ee ee Paar ee eee ne Rae eee st Grerethtereteteceedy 3 a4 E3 By tes Scetesta tire kelsTeT ae rar yi —*: ea Pert iti te ths Pee Pe eer et reste Ts iti iets sth es Set os] erst sc sess! Apeparecpererese se ys 3 7) en ace a bs a it ee te. tr a eisresneese ee segrTer: sie psrt ings rterers es vetets fete et: . Pebevessysintes eee re tr et es et et boa oo 8 as §32 ENGLISH TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLVI Rowe’s tragedies make a contrast to those of Otway. He is full of elevated and moral sentiments. The poetry is often good, and the language always pure and elegant ; but in most of his plays, he is too cold and uninteresting ; and flowery rather than tragic. ‘Two, however, he has produced, which deserve to be exempted from this censure, Jane Shore and the Fair Penitent; in both of which there are so many tender and truly pathétic scenes, as to render them justly favourites of the public. Dr. Young’s Revenge, is a play which discovers genius and fire; but wants tenderness, and turns too much upon the shocking and direful passions. In Congreve’s Mourning Bride, there are some fine situations, and much good poetry. The two first acts are ad- mirable. The meeting of Almeria with her husband Osmyn, in the tomb of Adselmo, is one of the most solemn and striking situations to be found in any tragedy. The defects in the catastrophe, I point- ed outin the last lecture. Mr. Thomson’s tragedies are too full of stiff morality, which renders them dull and formal. Tanered and Sigis- munda, far excels the rest; and for the plot, the characters, and sentiments, justly deserves a plece among the best English tragedies. Of later pieces, and of living authors, it is not my purpose to treat. Upon the whole; reviewing the tragic compositions of different nations, the following conclusionsarise. A Greek tragedy is the re- lation of any distressful or melancholy incident; sometimes the ef- fect of passion or crime, oftener of the decree of the gods, simply exposed; without much variety of parts or events, but naturally and beautifully set before us; heightened py the poetry of the chorus. A French tragedy, is a series of artful and refined conversations, founded upon a varicty of tragical and interesting situations ; carried on with little action and vehemence; but with much poetical beauty, and high propriety and decorum. An English tragedy is the com- bat of strong passions, set before us in all their violence; producing deep disasters; often irregularly conducted; abounding in action; and filling the spectators with grief. The ancient tragedies were more natural and simple ; the modern are more artful and complex. Among the French, there is more correctness; among the English more fire. Andromaque and Zayre, suften; Othello and Venice Preserved, rend the heart. It deserves remark, that three of the greatest masterpieces of the French tragic theatre, turn wholly up- on religious subjects: the Athalie of Racine, the Polyeucte of Cor- neille, and the Zayre of Voltaire. The first is founded upon a his- torical passage of the Old Testament; in the other two, the distress arises from the zeal and attachment of the principal personages to the Christain faith; and in all the three, the authors have, with much propriety, availed themselves of the majesty which may be derived trom religious ideas.( 533 ) LECTURE XLVII. —==ii COMEDY....GREEK AND ROMAN....FRENCH....ENGLISH COMEDY. Comepy 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 lecture upon tragedy, belong equally to comedy ; and hence, of course, our disquisitions concerning it are shortened. It is equally necessary to both these forms of dramatic composition, that there be a proper unity of action and subject, that the unities of time and place be, as much as possible, preserved; that is, that the time of the action be brought within reasonable bounds ; and the place of the action never changed, at least, not during the course of each & ees et eed eters ee oe tt ba eee ee ee eee eS Pests Fy be al Rae eee Oe ea hed at et Sesobiin Gasosegeyetesty trtgeste te: FLEETS IS VISA SSS IH Ewdegelecece rors . Pep ne te a Sgtereterele te Mae s2 hehe ke irs Set tee ei hs iees se a eve ee ERE eet oT gr eigies? . ~ a fo o a Py eo “i fs ye Sad hd ee m Cd ore nd J oO PS ps [ od co a ues Pe VTE stta treet tts coe tek io. inet se eetedai ede eees ese re ett se S| er ay Pert Tt tee. FSSs HSFATE FE He PSE Ps 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 act closes; and that the reason should appear to us, why the per- 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 bring the 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, both 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 our own country, and in our own times. ‘The comic poet who aims at correcting improprieties and follies of behaviour, should study ‘to catch the manners living as they rise.’ It is not his business to amuse us with a tale of the last age, or with a Spanish ora French intrigue, but to give us pictures taken from among ourselves; to satirize reigning and present vices; to exhibit to the age a faithful copy of itself, with its 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 Jawsand 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 cther Greek writers. In after times, it is known that the Romans had the‘ Co- meedia 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,LECT. XLVII. | 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. All 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 ene 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, ts his principal object. The ac- tion in comedy, though it demands his eare, 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 nvich 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 revoluti6ns 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 sag: 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 5 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 wes see it is impossible to Eek, ae man in his wits suspecting another aving more than two hands. a : he feces in comedy. ought to be clearly distinguished in — another; but the artificial contrasting of characters, anc the intr iuel in pairs, and ive too theatrical and ducing them always in pairs, an by opposites, give to Red oe eee ot ete eh ees es Sele oe oot 4 Rrra toa ae ca te SS oat ee ba eee ert se ees ee Perrone tr tere reer ss Pee Set Oe te $5 SEP ROPES ye ee Se tePStere te Terk Tete see TISigaANt este estes ae oe oe= , " ie rr ts isthe tir Pers ta ea TTL tet Lee rai Satese F a. eee ete ae toa Mert >. +eeecasere seis? Prseseteteieds sTaPO Cees s Shing Fees pee ee re rst es se 536 COMEDY. hLate es, XLV. affected an air to the piece. This is become too common a resource of comic writers, in order to heighten their characters, and display them to more advantage. Assoon as the violent and impatient per-. son arrives upon the stage, the spectator knows that, in the next scene, he is to be contrasted with the mild and good-natured man ; or if one of the lovers introduced be remarkably gay and airy, we are sure that his companion is to be a grave and serious lover; like Frankly and Bellamy, Clarinda and 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 arhetorical 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; anda 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 bySECT XLvu. | ANCIENT COMEDY. 537 uame.. Of this nature are the plays of Aristophanes, eleven of which are still extant; plays of a very singular nature, and wholly different from all compositions which have, since that age, borne the name of comedy. They show what a turbulent and licentious republic that of Athens was, and what unrestrained scope the 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. Severalof 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. The abound, too, with parodies of the great tragic poets, particularly of Euripides ; to whom the author bore much enmity, aad has written two comedies, almost wholly in order to ridicule him. Vivacity, satire, and buffoonery, are the characteristic¢s of Aristo- phanes. Genius and force he displays upon many occasions; but his performances, upon the whole, are not caleulated to give us any high opinion of the Attic taste of wit, inhisage. 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 Théatre Grec, makes it appear, that it could not have been, as 1s commonly sup- posed, the cause of decreeing the death of that philosopher, which did not happen till twenty-three years after the representation of Aristophanes’ Clouds. There isa chorus in Aristophanes’ plays ; but altogether of an irregular kind. Itis partly serious, partly comic; somctimes mingles in the action, sometimes addresses the spectators, dezends 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 1s called the middle comedy, took rise ; which was no other than an elusion of helaw. Fictitious names, indeed, were employed; but living persons were still attacked ; and described in such a manner eS to be sufficiently known. Of these comic pieces, we have no remains. To them succeeded the new comedy; when the stage being oblig- ed 40 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 eae he a tds ae hid RSS te tere rpte Ries cea heer ord Be ce et oa eee a ton Nk un Sed ree nat eee See Ee ee ee Tee ere Te ree pa a eit at oe oe oe Seeisstesis eta sGea set J eS 2 bal de PSPS TP ee itt it tae es a PT ee rue Stat lee eyeEeoeepimeestersegetstastots hots. ittthth th tite Cth et ce he oes Re tsind tz £S) Teer rr es ere ete. See a ate ee Pee re ree Pe at Syb PTS GARS SES Petar ester Tees bei is Sous Frere- evra Te TSR ieee aS 2283 Trlr artiste Lier h a alee s oe Peres sr iee . jegraPe seers eimrec tere ee eeeesotet . Petecgsr@seveirie te ete Be ee Be | f ee ee Titra teh etter h heh th te ores ook th hi 3 : Sane $2 : See ee es Pero es bi rsare ira erer te tte e Sy +Fats bs94 5274349 ~ estes Ss esereperisieteit isis ee ePitat ea be | re S eho) ae te 542 ENGLISH COMEDY. [LECT. XLVIX i01 roduc- The latter, ‘The ror sabe old : eee ieee on oe 7 Vanburgh and Cibber,) 1s, perhaps, or Rea eee in the Baglish te ee “ 1s es objection, of having a double Pa ee a separate and inde- head family, and those of Lord Townley Ss, are separé ; pendent af back other. But this irregular.ty . pen a by ye ee rate aWocon lntedy ee to find so mour with which it abounds. e are, ? mistttinscta unexceptionable a comedy Dis sieees annie Sake Ie a for, in its general strain, it 1s oa 0 eX] folly ; and would do honour to any stage. Batis cone ct Sir John Vanburgh has spirit, wit, and co ee of meee) sie Te solkedeWate) ia full of such indecent ail our COMmedIans. ; : t of all reputable sentiments and allusions, as ought to explode it ou = society. His ‘Relapse’ is eanaie iad frre 80 nc oe a only two considerable pieces. Congreve is, ut ' ‘ask hear er of genius. He is lively witty, and sparkling ; fu D8 ONE ’ eae His chief fault, as a comic writer, Ss - we overflows with wit. It is often introduced unseasonably bays ? aT : -oportion of it for natura most every where, there is too great a prop ee ae well-bred conversation.* Farquhar isa light and gay w3 tens ak ne rect and less sparkling than Congreve ; but he ar prictes : a haps fully as great a share of the vis comida. ne woinas 7 fanet 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 represent of virtue and honour. Indeed, there are hard] ters in their plays except two: a virtuous character is manners. The censure which I have now ] medians, is far from being overstr the indelicacy of our own comec humour of it, its immorality too But all foreigners, the French esp better regulated, and more d and astonishment. austere moralists, pl ations of a woman y any female charac- women of loose principles ; or, when attempted to be drawn, women of affected dassed upon these celebrated co- ained or severe. Accustomed to ly, and amused with the wit and easily escapes our observation. ecially, who are accustomed to a ecent stage, speak of it with surprise Voltaire, who is, assuredly, none of the most umes himself not alittle upon the superior dzen- * Dr. Johnson says of him, in his gladiators; every sentence intermitted Life, that ¢ his personages are is to ward, or to strike ; > his witisa meteor, playing to a kind of intellectual] the contest of smartness js never and fro, with alternate corruscations.’LECT. XLYII. | BE 1 I. | ENGLISH COMEDY. 543 séance of th seme? : e French theatre; and says, that the language of Eng : Oy 1s the language of debauchery, not of politeness M oralt, in his le aa 7 ; aoe sis : ) s letters upon the French and English nations, ascribes f & M the corruption of manners in London to comedy, as its chi Their comedy, he says, is like that of ee Bhuel aoe saool in sche ER e that of no other country; it is the * vi In which the youth of both sexes familiarize themselves with mee Die hiie a Br maprovEntey there as vice, but as mere gayety. : dies, says the ingenious M. Diderot, in his observations upon dramatic paetny,, the Emalish:baye.none;.they.havedn. thea Bdge: sau AS, full, indeed, of gvayety and ace. bus avi that oe pd oul ee; sont mre an go. Tr sao woe eee a Sp ME tiements of riticism, should ee or RETF nigse upon ae spies of the indelicacy of Eng 1edy, in terms much stronger than ‘any that I have used: concluding his invective against it in these words: ‘How odicus eught those writers to be, who thus spread infection through eae miner one nas a aaa DOA Fes y 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 Jost to all sense of virtue.? Vol. II, 479. I am happy, however, to have it in my power to observe, that ot iale years, a sensible reformation has begun to take place in English eomedy. 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 they have 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. ‘Fhis,which is called the serious, or, tender comedy, and was termed by its opposers, La Comédie Larmoyante, isnotaltoge- ther a modern invention. Several of Terence’s plays, as the Andria, in particular, partake of this character 5 and as we know that Terence copied Menander, we have sufficient reason to believe that his comer dies, also, were of the same kind. The nature of this composition does not by any means exclude gayety and ridicule 5 but it lays the chief stress upon tender and interesting situations; 1¢ 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 1 f affection and joy which it draws forth. excites, as from the tears ot ‘negli 5 : Lovers is a comedy which ap- In English, Steele’s Conscious Lovers 1s é 1 ap 1 7 r wT a _ proaches to this character, and it has always heen favourably recely 1 ere ceyver re é l= ed by the public. In French, there are severai dramatic compos jle merit and reputation ; tions of this kind, which possess consideral pA piReSerioreherses ee < ae a | wee Fo tes eal ee Bae ae aie eee rae ak a SELeTE: SSceee eee ee te eee See oe ee ee at a Pevrrees nD oe Pease Sr Rage eT Perea ee Steteteteritetece et bg seeeitSries 2 = Phe SaaS7. a b se *s . eevee TETAS ES | eRebthestis 7 Pee 7 7 ¥Str | “ _* Pree rie itis iE St SF z ane rr See piqeserteeetrigdereseeraticiestitececices rt erere tery re a ea ta Poin de ts iss bh alt dite dindethahe Shah pea eteez Meet ti tT eck ieee bi saya oo ra Perest Cte te Ses eet t ee Sikes ae oe ee | at $abeseRs a Pees cy » ie es ~ * xe ry a ed a a a oe Seer S ey ri oy a aT ie eed x 544 ENGLISH COMEDY. [LECT. XLYII. such as the Melanide, and Préjugé a la Mode, of La Chaussée ; the Pere de Famille, of Diderot; the Cénie, 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 usin 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. Ifit become insipid and drawling, this must be impu- ted to the fault of the author, not to the nature of the com which may admit much liveliness and vivacity. In general, whatever form comedy assumes, whether 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 amused the Greeks for a while, they advanced by d 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. position, gay or’seri- of Aristophanes egrees to a chas * ‘Il y a beaucoup de tres-bonnes piéces, ot il ne regne que de la gaieté: d’autres toutes serieuses ; d’autres melangées ; d’autres, od !’atteridrissement va jusqu’aux larmes. Il ne faut donner exclusion A aucun genre; etsi l'on me demandoit, quel genre est le meilleur ? je répondrois, celui qui est le mieux traité.’ VOLTAIRE. J if ) qAccents, thrown farther back from the ter- mination in the English than in any oth- er language, 99. Seldom more than one in English words, 368. Govern the measure of English verse, 430. Achilles, his character in the liad 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 represent>tion ought to fall proper- ly, 514. Adam, his character in Milten’s Paradise Lost, 504. Addison, general view of his Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagination, 3l. His invocation of the muse in his Campaign censured, 48. Blemishes in his style, 115, 116,124. Ease and perspicuity of, 127, 128, 130. His beautiful description flight and colours, 155. Instance of his use of metaphor, 165. Improper use of similes, 184. His general cha- racter as a writer, 208. Character of his Spectator, 216. Critical examina- tion of some of those papers, ibid. Re- marks on his criticism of Tasso’s Amin- ta, 44], 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, woid. Adverbs, their nature and use defined, 93. Importance of their position in a sen- tence illustrated, 115. JEneid, of Virgil, critical examination of that poem, 489. The subject, ibid. Ac- tion, 490. Is deficient in characters, ibid. Distribution and management of the subject, ibid. Abounds with awful and tender scenes, 491. The descent of Aineas into hell, 492. The poem left unfinished by Virgil, 493. JEschines, a comparison between him and Demosthenes, 272. JEschylus, his character as a tragic writer, 526. Etna, remarks on Virgil’s description of AK a INDEX. that mountain, 46. And on that by Sir Richard Rlackmore, ibid. Affectation, the disadvantages of, in public speaking, 376. Ages, four, peculiarly fruitful in learned men, pointed out, 388. Akenside, his comparison between sublimi- ty in natural and mcral 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, 114. Amplification in speech, what, 191. Its principal instrument, zhid. American languages, the figurative style of, 67, 152. Anagnorisis, in ancient tragedy explained, 516. Annals and history, the distinction be- tween, 408. Ancients and moderns distinguished, 388. 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, zbid. 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. Apostrophe, the nature of this figure ex- plained, 179. Find one from Cicero, 290, note. Arabian Nights Entertainments, a charac- ter of those tales, 418. Arabian poetry, its character, 425. Arbuthnot, character of his epistolary writ- ing, 416. Archilecture, sublimity in, whence it arises, 35. The sources of beauty in, 54. Arguments, the proper management of in a discourse, 303. Analytic and synthe- Pe toa ie tended be bt Mi teh hk 30 2 es we eS er eee ed eed Ea | *eegehe tes: ie Roget ede t esses, —e- Ea SS gk ed ee tees as eer rere Te Te to es ee re es Caen re ere Ste ce ee Sy perros. Gate Per ete teri tete PTET eae ae be be tetd eary te + oe . = 7 eR e7S PRLS te MT rite ita tata ia SRehe Pestle cart 4 soeetete? istedsseseseseirte sieresticge petite este tetotetetet: oa bo te bee tee? etre So et oad Peo Pees banger eS PS eers re py ese sete sort Petra ts ae teesta ire: erat sey, « 7 546 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. Arithmelical figures, universal characters, 75. Ark of the covenant, choral service per- formed in the procession of bringing it back to Mount Zion, 461. Armstrong, character of his Artof Preserv- ing Health, 449. Art, works of, considered as a source of beauty, 54. Articles, 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 Tillotson, 142. Critical examination of one of his sermons, 326. His exordium to a 30th of January sermon, 345. Attici and Asiani, parties at Rome, account of, 278. Authors, petty, why no friends to criticism, 28. Why the most ancient afford the most striking instances of sublimity, 39. Must write with purity 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 popularassemblies, 299. In what respect ancient pleadings differ from those of modern times, tbid. 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 as dramatic poets, 540. Beauty, the emotion raised by, distinguish- ed from that of sublimity, 49. Is a term of vague application, 50. Colours, thid Figures, 51. Hogarth’s line of beauty and line of grace considered, 51. The human 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, 2bd. Bergerus,a German critic, writes a treatise on the sublimity of Cesar’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 tna, 46. Blackwell, his character as a wrifer, 210. Boileau, his character as a didactic poet, 451. Bolingbroke, instances of inaccuracy in his 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 faneral 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 eharacter as an historian, 407. Building, how rendered sublime, 35. Cadmus, account of his alphabet, 76. Cesar’s commentaries, the style of charac- terized, 38. Is considered by Bergerus as a standard of sublime writing, ibid. Instance of his happy talent in historical painting, 404, note. His character ot Terence the dramatist, 538. Cameons, critical examination of his Lusi- 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, hischaracter as a lyric poet, 446. Catastrophe, the proper conduct of, in dra- matic representations, 514. Caudine Forks, Livy’s happy description of the disgrace of the Roman army there, 402. Celtic language, its antiquity and charac- ter, 95. The remains of it where to be found, ibid. Poetry,its character, 424Characters, 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, 509. 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, 897. Gimysoston, St. his oratorical character, 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, 143. His account of the origin of figurative language, 152. His obser- vations on suiting language to the sub- ject, 161. His rule for the use of meta- phor, 162. Instance of antithesis in, 187. The figure of speech called vision, 90. His caution against bestowing profuse ornaments on an oration, 198. 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 Avitus Cluentius, 305. Analysis of Cicero’s oration for him, ibid. The ex- ordium of his second oration against Rul- lus, 343. His method of preparing intro- 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,412, 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 settled beyond controversy, 388. The study of them recommended, 393. _ Climax, a great beauty in composition, 129. In what it consists, 191. Cluentius, Avitus, history of his prosecu- tion, 305, His cause undertaken by Ci- cero, thid. Analysis of Cicero’s oration for him, ibid. Colours, considered ag the foundation of beauty, 60. INDEX. 547 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, 534. Two kinds of, ibid. Characters ought to be distinguished, 535. Style, 536. Rise and progress of comedy, ibid. Spa- nish comedy, 588. French comedy, 539. English comedy, 540. Licentiousness of, from the era of the restoration, 541. The restoration of, to what owing, 543. General remarks, 544. Comparison, distinguished from metaphor, 158." 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, 541. Conjugation of verbs, the varieties of, 90. Conviction, distinguished from persuasion, 262. Copulatives, caution for the use of them, 4 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, zid. Cyphers, or arithmetical figures, a kind of universal character, 75. David, King, his magnificent institutions for the cultivation of sacred music and poetry, 460. His character as a poet, 468. Debatein popular assemblies, the eloquence of, defined, 262. More particularly con- 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 and beautiful, 86. Deities, heathen, probable cause of the number of, 173. Deliberative orations what, 284. Delivery, the importance of,in public speak- ing, 292, 365. The four chief requisites in, 366. The powers of voice, ibid. Articulation, 367. Pronnnciation, 368. Empuasis, 369. Pauses, 370. Decla matory delivery, 374. Action tbid. Af fectation, 376. Be Pata aot ot te el el eT Tee eee Tee es Rete et ee SratareTeriteeestescseoans fess os Le ks See e ei¢2e3eEt3 SLtes> raters: Cy ti Pett 7a PRL BASE EST UTS - 4 ? veer Te a rer ee” mT Tit ate LLY! 4 3 Th. Nie tek eal pede eee ae sabe wile ah nid Foy searetat es on ra Ps Pee Se re Bes Sg . ePset rte e et ers esr ed ry Ci Tapetere be i . ao * Pec ETit ye Searels eet ee eisspareeiree 7 Pebeoeds seen at oes ae oe eS | ago) eet ig ett sas FF 548 INDEX. Demetrius, Phalerus, the rhetorician, his character, 273. Demonslralive orations, what, 284. Demosthenes, his eloquence characterized, 267. His expedients to surmount the disadvantages of hisperson and address, 271. His opposition to Philip of Ma- cedon, ibid. His rivalship with Ais- chines, 272. His style and action, dbid. Compared with Cicero, 276. Why his orations still please in perusal, 286. Extracts from his Philippies, 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 o7 radical letters and syllables, 61, note. Dialogue writire, the properties of, 411. Is very difficult to execute, 412. Mo- dern dialogues characterized, ibid. Nidactic 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, zbid. Diderot, M. his character of English co- medy, 543. Dido, her character ia the Aneid examin- ed, 490. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, his ideas of excelleney in a sentence, 136 ~~ His dis- tinction of style, 196. Character of his treatise on Grecian oratory, 269. His comparison between Lysias and Iso- crates, 270,nole. Wis criticism on Thu- ceydides, 397. Discourse. See Oration. Dramatie 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, tbtd, 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, Abbé, 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- in¢ of, 73. This anearly stage of the art of writing, thid. The alphabet pro- bably invented in that country, 76. Emphasis, its importance in public speak- ing, 369. Rule for, zbid. Eloquence, the several objects of tonsidera- tion under this head, 261. Definition of the term, 262,377. Fundamental max- ims of the art, 262. Defended against the objection of the abuse of the art of persuasion, tbid. Three kinds of elo- quence distinguished, 263. Oratory, the highest degree of, the ofispring 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- ern eloquence, ibid. Parliament, 283. The barand pulpit,ibid. Thethreekinds of orations distinguished by the ancients, 284. These distinctions how far corres- pondent with those made at present, 285. Eloquence of popular assemblies © considered, iid. The foundation of elo- quence, 286. The danger of trusting to prepared speeches at public meetings, 987. 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 Yanguage, the arrangement of words ion, more refined than that of an- cient languages, 70. But more limited, ibid. The principles of general grammar seldom applied toit, 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 ot Britain, ibid. The Teutonic tongue the basis of our present speech, 96. Its ir- regularities accounted for, zbid. Its copiousness, ibid. Compared with the French language, 97. Its style charac- terized, ibid. Its flexibility, 98. Is more harmonious than is generally allowed, wid. Is rather strong than graceful, 99. Accent thrown farther back in Enelish words, than in those of any other lan- euage, tbid. General properties of the Engksh tongue, ibid. Why so loosely and inaccurately written, 100. The fundamental rules of syntax, common both to the English and Latin, zbid. No author can gain esteem if he does not write with purity, 101. Grammati- cal authors recommended, ibid, note, Epic poetry, the standards of, 398. Is the highest effort of poctical genius, 470. The characters of, obscured by criti¢s, thd. Examination of Bossu's account of the formation of the Hliad, ibid. Epic poetry considered as to its moral tenden-cy, 472. Predominant character uf, 473. Action of, ibid. Episodes, 474. The subject should be of remote date, 475. Modern history more proper for dr math: writing than for epic poetry, abid. The story must be interesting and skilfully managed, 476. The intrigue, 477. The question ‘Ep nsidted oy istics it ought to end successfully, zbid. 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 y 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 asa 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, haman, 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 compe tion 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 figures, 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. Sce Metaphor. Figure, considered as a source of beauty, Bl. i Figures of speech, the origin of, 66. INDEX. 549 Figures of thought among rhetoricians, de- fined, 148. Fitness and design, considered as sources of beauty, 54. Fleece, a poem, harmonious passage from, 145. Fonienelle, character of his dialogues, 413. French, Nor man, when intcodueeds into England, 95. French writers, general remarks on their style, 198. Eloquence,265, 280. French and English oratory compared, 282. Frigidity in writing characterized, 48. Gay, a character of his pastorals, 441. 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 Action. Gil Blas of Le Sage, character of that no- vel, 419. Girard, abbé, character of his Synonymes Frangois, 111, Gordon, instances of his unnatural disposi- tion of words, 56. Gorgius of Leontium, the rhetorician, his character, 268. Golhic 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, &1. Number, gender, and case of nouns, 82. Prepositions, $5. Pronouns, 88. Ad- jectives, ibid. Verbs, 90. Verbs the most artificial complex of all the parts of speech, 92. Adverbs, 93. Prepo- sitions and conjunctions, ibid. Impor- tance of the study of grammar, 94. Grandeur. See Sublimily. Greece, short account of the 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. Its flexibility, 98. Writers distinguished for simplicity, 207. Guarini, character of his Pastor Fido, 441. Guicciardini, his character as an historian, 406. H. Habakkuk, sublime representation of the Deity in, 40. Harris, explanatory simile cited from, 183 ot Poke tet rey ered oe es or Sak pe a he stg beteeseielicas ged | per aeee ee) eo Tete Cre ee te re et eae ee ES od Setelsteieret et ee oe Saree ts va th ae bade MTU Tac Sts od bil Sa pr § eae PTE te Steet rise cir Ae > Peete r teeth te i tt as te ke on) K_cetsFeindyt TT Lt e Ss ihe hee oie sd etetalut eo ee Portes tes es bt eo Set eee ttt oe! eg sietsS aearys Peet se! 550 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- ned, 484. Heil, 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 397. Heroism, sublime instances of pointed out, 35. Harvey, character of his style, 204. Meroglyphics, the second stage of writing, 73. Of Egypt, ibid. Historians, modern, their advantages over as an historian, the ancient, 390. Ancient models of, 393. The objects of their duty, 394. Character of Polybius, 896. 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 torender it interesting, 402. Danger of refining too much in drawing characters, 404. Character of the Italian historians, 406. The French and English, 407. fisiory, 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. ‘he 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, 51. omer, not acquainted with poetry asa systematic art, refined taste, 30. ty in, 41. 27. Did not possess a Instances of sublimi- Is remarkabie for the use of personification, 175. Story of the Hiad, 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, 455. His style, 48€. His skill in narrative description, 487. His simi- INDEX. les, tbid. General character of his Odyssey, 488. Defects of the Odyssey, ibid. Compared with Virgil, 489. Hooker, a specimen of his style, 200. Horace, figurative passages cited from, 153. Instance of mixed metaphor in, 165. Crowded metaphers, 166. His charac- ter as a poet, 393, 445. Was the refor- mer of satire, 450. Humour, why the English possess their quality more eminently than other na- tions, 540. Hyperbole, an explanation of that figure, 169. Cautions for the use of, 170. Two kinds of, ibid. I, Ideas, abstract, entered into the first for- mation of language, 80. Jeremiah, his poeti ‘cal character, 468. See Lamentations. Iliad, story of, 482. Remarks on, ibid. The principal characters, 484. Machi- nery of, 485. Imagination, the pleasures of, as specified by Mr. Addison, 31. The powers of, to enlarge the sphere of our pleasure, a striking instance of divine benevolence, ibid. Is the source of figurative ian- guage 147, 151. Imitation, considered as a source of plea- sure to taste, 58. And description dis- tinguished, 57 Inferences eu a 1 sermon, the proper man- agement of, 364. In ufinily of space, numbers, or duration af- fect the mind with sublime i ideas, 32. Interjections, the first elements of speech, 60. Interrogation, instances of the happy use and effect of, 189. Mode of their ope- ration, bid. Rule for using, 190. Job, exe mplification of the sublimity of obscurity in the book of, 34. Remarks on the style of, 460. The subject and poetry of, 468. Fine passage from, 469. Johnson, his character of Dryden's prose style, 200, nole. His remarks on the Style of Swift, 250, note. His character of Thompson, 454, note. His character of Dryden’s comedies, 541, note. acter of Congreve, 542. Jonson, Ben, poet, 540. Iseus, the rhetorician, his character, Isaiah, sublime representation of the Deity in, 40. His description of the fall of the A Ssuyriak empire, 180. His metaphors suited to the climate of Judea, 463, 464, His character as a poet, 468. Isocrates, the 269. His char- his character as a dramatic 270. rhetorician, his character, Judea, remarks on the climate and natura} circumstances of that countr y, 463. Judicial orations, what. 284, Juvenai, a character of his satires, 450.K. Kaimes,Lord, his severe censures of English comedies, 543. Knight errantry, foundation of the roman- ces concerning, 418. Knowledge an essential requisite for elo- quence, 380. The progress of, in favour of the moderns, upon a comparison with the ancients, 391. The acquisition of, difficnit in former ages, 392. Ae Lamentations of Jeremiah, the most perfect elegiac composition in the sacred scrip- tures, 467. Landscape, considered as an assemblage of beautiful objects, 418. Language, the improvement of, studied even by rude nations, 9. In what the true improvement of language consists, 10. Importance of thestudy of language thid. wWefined, 59. The present refine- ments of, zbid. Origin and progress of, 60. The first elements of, ibid. Ana- logy between words and things, 61. The great assistance afforded by gestures, 63. The Chinese language, 64. The Greek and Roman languages, tbid. Ac- tion much used by ancient orators, 64. Roman pantomimes, 65, Great differ- ence between ancient and modern pro- nunciation, 7zbid. Figures of speech the origin of, 66. Figurative style of Ame- rican languages, 67, Cause of the de- cline of figurative language, ibid. ‘The natural and original arrangement of words in speech, 68. The arrangemcns of words in modern languages, different from that of the ancients, 70. An exem- plification, ibid. Summary of the fore- going observations, 72. [ts wonderful powers, 155. All language strongly tinctured with metaphor, 158. In mo- dern productions, often better than the subjects of them, 260. Written and oral, distinction between, 383. See Grammar, Style, and Writing. Latin language, the pronunciation of, musica! and gesticulating, 64, 136. The natural arrangement of words in, 69. The want of articles a defect im, 81. Remarkson words deemed synonymous in, 108. Learning, an essential requisite for elo- quence, 380. Lebanon, metaphorical allusions to, in He- brew poetry, 464. Lee, extravagant hyperboie quoted from, 171. His character as a tragic poet, 531. : oe Liberty, the nurse of true genius, 265. Literary composition, importance of the study of language, preparatory (0, ike The beauties of, indefinite, 54. To what the pleasures received from elo- e, poetry and fine writing, are to clas quer 8 1C INDEX. ; 551 be referred, 56. The beauties of, not dependant on tropes and figures, 192. The different kinds of distinguished, 394. See History, Poetry, &c. Livy, his character as an historian, 399, 402. Locke, general character of his style, 202, The style of his Treatise on Human Un- derstanding, compared with the writings of Lord Shaftesbury, 411. Longinus, strictures on his Treatise on the Sublime, 38. His account of the conse- quences of liberty, 265. Hissententious opinion of Homer’s Odyssey, 488. Lopez dela Vega, his character as adrama- tic poet, 538. Love, too much importance and frequency allowed to, on the modern stage, 521. Lowth’s English Grammar recommended, 101, note, 124, note. His character of the prophet Ezekiel, 468. Lucan, instances of his destroying a sub- lime expression of Czsar, by amplifica- tion, 43. Extravagant hyperbole from, 171. Critical examination of his Phar- salia, 493. ‘The subject,zbid. Charac ters and conduct of the story, 494. Lucian, character of his dialogues, 413. Lucretius, his sublime representation of the dominion of superstition over mankind, 34, note. The most admired passages in his Treatise De Rerum Natura, 449. Tusiad. See Camoens. Lyric poetry, the peculiar character of, 443. Tour classes of odes, 444. Char- acters of the most eminent lyric poets, 45, Lysias, the rhetorician, his character, 270. M Machiavel, his character as an historian, 406. Machinery, the great use of in epic poetry, 478. Cautions for the use of, 479, 485. Mackenzie,Sir George, instance of regular climax in his proceedings, 191. Man, by nature both a poet and musician, 423. Marivaux, a character of his novels, 420. Marmontel, his comparative remarks on French, English, and Italian poetry, 431, note. Mars;, Fr. his contrast between the cha- racters of Corneille and Racine, 529, note. Massillon, extracts from a celebrated ser- mon of his, 323, note. Encom?1m on, by Louis XIV. 326. His artful divi- sion of a text, 350. ‘ Memoirs, their class in historical composi- tion assigned, 408. Why the French are fond of this kind of writing, ibid. Melalepsis, in figurative language explain- ed, 156. Metaphor, in figurative style, explained, 157, 168. All language strongly tinct aero Bae eA Oe ore rtd eet nga aie es TCT ere tS te eee re eee Shen wh SF aS SE: ST ese ae a eh be eae Pere e Les Pao se oe Tere 2 ee oe ok 238% Pitas athe ae ae aoe if cw eaiv it pGSSEET TE Reete a bd Pe Sith ard Pe Peer Tr erie ye Pete eee td Fa <7] Pee See testis ie eet thsi a eae *? cote t Seer ee ed : atte ied Mererttits iene a. PeSevees eS eee ce eat ee Be Ee, ee a “3 Tot. ‘cer tere ey ss. etafvetes PEsseRsiersis tse ee’ a kag re ecinar 552 INDEX. ured with, 159. Approaches the nearest to painting of all the figures of speech, tbid. Rules to be observed in the con- duct of, 160. See Allegory. Metastasio, his character as a dramatic writer, 529, Metonomy, in figurative style, explained, 159. Mexico, historical pictures the records of that empire, 73. Milo, narrative of the encounter between him and Clodius, by Cicero, 361. ‘Milton, instances of sublimity in, 33, 4, 46. Of harmony, 135, 144. Hyperboli- cal sentiments of Satan in, 170. Striking instances of personification in, 175, 176. Excellence of his descriptive poetry, 454. Who the proper hero of his Paradise Lost, 478. Critical examination of this poem, 505. His sublimity characterized, 505. His language and versification, ibid. Moderns. See Ancients. Moliere, his character as a dramatic poet, 539. Monboddo,Lord, his observations on Eng- lish and Latin verse, 429, note Monotony in language, often the result of too great atiention to musical arrange- ment, 141. Montague, Lady Mary Wortley, a charac- ter of her epistolary style, 417. Montesquieu, character of his style, 154. Monumental inscriptions, the numbers suit- ed to the style, 145. Moralt, M. his severe censure of Enctish comedy, 543. More, Dr. Henry, character of his divine dialogues, 413. Motion, considered as a source of beauty, > Motte, M. de la, his observations on lyrie poetry, 445, note. Remarks on his cri- ticism on Homer, 488. Music, its influence on the passions, 423. Its uniun with poetry, ibtd. Their se- paration injurious to each, 427. Natvelé, import of that French term, 207. Narration, an important point in pleadings at the bar, 350. Night scenes commonly sublime, 33. Nomic melody of the Athenians, what, 137. Novels, a species of writing,not so insignifi- cant as may be imagined, 416. Might be employed for very useful purposes, 417. Rise and progress of fictitious history, 418. Characters of the most celebrated romances and novels, 419. dYoveliy, considered as a source of beauty, 55. dVouns, substantive, the foundation of all grammar, 79, Number, gender, and cases of, 83. 0. Obscurity, not unfavourable to sublimity, 34. Of style, owing toindistinct concep- tions, 102, Ode, the nature of defined, 443. Four distinctions of, 444. Obscurity ard ir- regularity, the great faults in, zbid. Odyssey, general character of, 488. De- fects of, zbid. (Edipus, an improper character for the stage, 521. Orators, ancient, declaimed inrecitative, 64. Orations, the three kinds of, distinguished by the ancients, 284. The present dis- tinctions of, 285. hose in popular assemblies considered, ibid. Prepared speeches not to be trusted to,287. Ne- cessary degrees of premeditation, ibid. Method, 288. Style and expression, ibid. Impetuosity, 289. Attention to decorums, 290. Delivery, 292, 365. The several parts of a regular oration, 341. Introduction, 342. Introduction to replies, 347. Introduction tosermons, wid. Division of a discourse, 848. Rules for dividing it, 349. Explication, 350. The argumentative part, 353. The pathetic, 358. The peroration, 364. Vir- tue necessary to the perfection of elo- quence, 878. Description of a true ora- tor, 380. Qualifications for, ibid. The best ancient writers on oratory, 385, 393. The use made of orations by the ancient historians, 405. See Eloquence. Orienial poetry, more characteristical of an age than of a country, 424. Style of scripture language, 67. Orlando Furioso. See Ariosto. Ossian, instances of sublimity in his works, 42. Correct metaphors, 164. Confu- sed mixture of metaphorical and _ plain language in, ibid. Fine apostrophe, 180. Delicate simile, 183. Lively descrip- tions in, tid. Otway, his character as a tragic poet, 512. Dp Pantomime, an entertainment of Roman origin, 65. Parables, Eastern, their general vehicle for the conveyance of truth, 465. Paradise Lost, critical review of that poem, 503. The characters in, 504. Sublimity of, 505. Language and ver- sification, ibid. Parenthesis, cautions for the use of them, 121. Paris, his character in the Iliad, exam- ined, 485. Parliament of Great-Britain, why elo- quence has never been so powerful an instrament in, as in the ancient popular assemblies of Greece and Rome, 283. Parnel, his character as a descriptive poet, 454. Particles, cautions for the use of them, 124 Ought never to close sentences, 180.Passion, the source of oratory, 264. Passions, when ard how to be addressed ky orators, 358. The orator must feel emotions before he can communicate them to others, 360. The language of, 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. Pathelic, 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, 871, 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 for 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 styie, 102. Not merely a negative virtue, 103. The three qualities of, zbid. Persuasion, distinguished from conviction, 262. Objection brought from the abuse of this art, answered, ibid. Rules for, 286. Peruvians, their method of transmittmg their thoughts to each other, 74. Petronius 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, their superiority over the ancient, unquestionable, 390. Philosophy, the proper style of writing adapted to, 410. Proper embellishment for, ibid. an Pictures, the first essay toward writing, 72. Pindar, his chavacter as a lyric poet, 445. Pitcairn, 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. Pliny’s letters, general character of, 415. INDEX. 553 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, 3871. Compared with oratory, 377. Epic, the standards of, 398. 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 conyeyed in poetry, 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, abid. 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, 182. Confused mix- tures of metaphorical and plain lan- guage in, 163. Mixed metaphor in, 166. Confused personification, 178. Instance of his fondness for antithesis, 188. Character of his epistolary writings, 416. Criticism on, ibid. Construction of his verse, 420. Peculiar character of his versification, 482. His pastorals, 438, 440. His ethic epistles, 451. The merit of his various poems examined, wbid. 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 from, ‘168. Pronouns, their use, varieties, and cases, 70 eae Ree acer e FRSAF USO DESO eth Ss Se he pacisi ek st Peer eS te ee ee ee eee ee SFSn SHSF SSS. ree Pe ee ae Pee ee eee Se Se ee eee Sok ok ee oe ee eee 2d ® Steteretsiite Fara ear ut Tete et bet om3 : A . ore : ese TS PRR ARED: PET TaT tL Si ti Lada sal oe} alee ae — 1 PETE Tee Toit elise eet tiie ete i eee eT re Stee eT ee peer Fa sgn eevee? ey re eer ee re ers sae — re cae ae Stgstsesesrer Seer SECRET Te ee Pest Se Se oe. tases tees cd Pata Para) 7 o> Pe ‘a ry Ns e 87. Relative instances illustrating the importance of their proper position ina sentence, 116. if Pronunciation, distinctness of, necessary a in public speaking, 367. Tones of, 372. ma Proverbs, book of, a didactic poem, 497. . Psalm xviii. sublime representation of the Deity in, 39. Ixxxth, 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 i in England, disadvantageous to oratory, 283. The art of persuasion resigned to the Puritans, ibid. Advantages and dis- advantages of pulpit eloquence, 312. i Rules for preaching, 313. The chief bh characteristics of pulpit eloguence, 316. wit 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. Genera] observations, 325. Pisistratus, the first who cultivated the arts of speech, 267. pi bicigepiee is 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 i style, 102, 108. On climax, 129. On mile the structure of sentences, 131. Which i) ought not to offend the ear, 134, 140. His caution against too great an atten- tion to harmony, 141. lis 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 style, 193. His distinction of style, 196, 203. His instructions for good writing, 213 His character of Cicero’s oratory, 204 Wis instructions to public speakers for preserving decorum, 291. His instruc- tions to judicial pleaders, 301. His ob- servations 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. Racine, 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 and character of, 268. Rhyme, in English verse, unfavourable to 554 INDEX. sublimity, 43. And blank verse com pared, 431. The former, why improper in the Greek and Latin languages, 432. The first introduction of couplets in English poetry, zbid. 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 asa lyric poet, 446. Rowe, his character as a tragic poet, 532. Sallust, his character as an historian, 399. Sanazarius, his piscatory eclogues, 440. Satan, examination of his character in Milton’s Paradise Lost, 504. Salire, 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, wid. Book of Proverbs, 467. Lamentations of Jeremiah, ibid. Scuderi, Madam, her romances, 419. Seneca, his frequent antithesis censured, 187. Character of his general style, 198. His epistolary writings, 411. Sentence, in language, definition of, 112. )istinguished into long and short, 113. A variety in,to be studied, zbid. The properties essential toa perfectsentence, 114.