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THE following Lectures
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 himself often threatened with surreptitious publications
of them, he judged it to be high time that they should proceed from his own
hand, rather than come into public view under some very defective and erroneous
form.
[Page iv]
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 consulted his own ideas and reflections: and a
great part of what will be found in these Lectures is entirely his own. At the
same time, he availed himself of the ideas and reflections of others, as far as
he thought them proper to be adopted. To proceed in this manner, was his duty
as a Public Professor. It was incumbent on him, to convey to his Pupils all the
knowledge that could improve them; to deliver not merely what was new, but what
might be useful, from whatever quarter it came. He hopes, that to such as are
studying to cultivate their Taste, to form their Style, or to prepare
themselves for Public Speaking or Composition, his Lectures will [Page v]
afford a more comprehensive 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 his Lectures, he may, perhaps, have adopted the
sentiments of some Author into whose Writings he had then looked, without now
remembering whence he derived them.
In the opinions which
he has delivered concerning such a variety of Authors, and of literary matters,
as come under his consideration, he cannot expect that all his Readers will
concur with him. The subjects are of such a nature, as allow room for much
diversity of taste and sentiment: and the Author will respectfully submit to
the judgment of the Public.
[Page vi]
Retaining the
simplicity of the Lecturing Style, as best fitted for conveying instruction, he
has aimed, in his Language, at no more than perspicuity. If, after the
liberties which it was necessary for him to take, in criticising the Style of
the most eminent Writers in our language, his own Style shall be thought open
to reprehension, all that he can say, is, that his Book will add one to the
many proofs already afforded to the world, of its being much easier to give
instruction, than to set example.
[Page]
ONE of the most
distinguished privileges which Providence has conferred upon mankind, is the
power of communicating their thoughts to one another. Destitute of this power,
Reason would be a solitary, and, in some measure, an unavailing principle.
Speech is the great instrument by which man becomes beneficial to man: and it
is to the intercourse and transmission of thought, by means of speech, that we
are chiefly indebted for the improvement of thought itself. Small are the
advances which a single unassisted individual can make towards perfecting any
of his powers. What we call human reason, is not the effort or ability of one,
so much as it is the result of the reason of many, arising from lights mutually
communicated, in consequence of discourse and writing.
It is obvious, then,
that writing and discourse are objects intitled to the highest attention.
Whether the influence of the [Page 2] speaker, or the entertainment of the
hearer, be consulted; whether utility or pleasure be the principal aim in view,
we are prompted, by the strongest motives, to study how we may communicate our
thoughts to one another with most advantage. Accordingly we find, that in
almost every nation, as soon as language had extended itself beyond that scanty
communication which was requisite for the supply of men’s necessities, the
improvement of discourse began to attract regard. In the language even of rude
uncultivated tribes, we can trace some attention to the grace and force of
those expressions which they used, when they sought to persuade or to affect.
They were early sensible of a beauty in discourse, and endeavoured to give it
certain decorations which experience had taught them it was capable of
receiving, long before the study of those decorations was formed into a regular
art.
But, among nations in a
civilized state, no art has been cultivated with more care, than that of
language, style, and composition. The attention paid to it may, indeed, be
assumed as one mark of the progress of society towards its most improved
period. For, according as society improves and flourishes, men acquire more
influence over one another by means of reasoning and discourse; and in
proportion as that influence is felt to enlarge, it must follow, as a natural
consequence, that they will bestow more care upon the methods of expressing
their conceptions with propriety and eloquence. Hence we find, that in all the
polished nations of Europe, this study has been treated as highly important,
and has possessed a considerable place in every plan of liberal education.
[Page 3]
Indeed, when the arts
of speech and writing are mentioned, I am sensible that prejudices against them
are apt to rise in the minds of many. A fort of art is immediately thought of,
that is ostentatious and deceitful; the minute and trifling study of words
alone; the pomp of expression; the studied fallacies of rhetoric; ornament
substituted in the room of use. We need not wonder, that under such
imputations, all study of discourse as an art, should have suffered in the
opinion of men of understanding: and I am far from denying, that rhetoric and
criticism have sometimes been so managed as to tend to the corruption, rather
than to the improvement, of good taste and true eloquence. But sure it is
equally possible to apply the principles of reason and good sense to this art,
as to any other that is cultivated among men. If the following Lectures have
any merit, it will consist in an endeavour to substitute the application of
these principles in the place of artificial and scholastic rhetoric; in an endeavour
to explode false ornament, to direct attention more towards substance than
show, to recommend good sense as the foundation of all good composition, and
simplicity as essential to all true ornament.
When entering on the
subject, I may be allowed, on this occasion, to suggest a few thoughts
concerning the importance and advantages of such studies, and the rank they are
intitled to possess in academical education . I am under no temptation, [Page
4] for this purpose, of extolling their importance at the expence of any other
department of science. On the contrary, the study of Rhetoric and Belles
Lettres supposes and requires a proper acquaintance with the rest of the
liberal arts. It embraces them all within its circle, and recommends them to
the highest regard. The first care of all such as wish either to write with
reputation, or to speak in public so as to command attention, must be, to
extend their knowledge; to lay in a rich store of ideas relating to those
subjects of which the occasions of life may call them to discourse or to write.
Hence, among the ancients, it was a fundamental principle, and frequently
inculcated, "Quod omnibus disciplinis et artibus debet esse instructus
orator;" that the orator ought to be an accomplished scholar, and conversant
in every part of learning. It is indeed impossible to contrive an art, and very
pernicious it were if it could be contrived, which should give the stamp of
merit to any composition rich or splendid in expression, but barren or
erroneous in thought. They are the wretched attempts towards an art of this
kind which have so often disgraced oratory, and debased it below its true
standard. The graces of composition have been employed to disguise or to supply
the want of matter; and the temporary applause of the ignorant has been
courted, instead of the lasting approbation of the discerning. But such
imposture can never maintain its ground long. Knowledge and science must
furnish the materials that form the body and substance of any valuable
composition. Rhetoric serves to add the polish; and we know that none but firm
and solid bodies can be polished well.
Of those who peruse the
following Lectures, some, by the profession to which they addict themselves, or
in consequence [Page 5] of their prevailing inclination, may have the view of
being employed in composition, or in public speaking. Others, without any prospect
of this kind, may wish only to improve their taste with respect to writing and
discourse, and to acquire principles which will enable them to judge for
themselves in that part of literature called the Belles Lettres.
With respect to the
former, such as may have occasion to communicate their sentiments to the
Public, it is abundantly clear that some preparation of study is requisite for
the end which they have in view. To speak or to write perspicuously and
agreeably, with purity, with grace and strength, are attainments of the utmost
consequence to all who purpose, either by speech or writing, to address the
Public. For without being master of those attainments, no man can do justice to
his own conceptions; but how rich soever he may be in knowledge and in good
sense, will be able to avail himself less of those treasures, than such as
possess not half his store, but who can display what they possess with more
propriety. Neither are these attainments of that kind for which we are indebted
to nature merely. Nature has, indeed, conferred upon some a very favourable
distinction in this respect, beyond others. But in these, as in most other
talents she bestows, she has left much to be wrought out by every man’s own
industry. So conspicuous have been the effects of study and improvement in
every part of eloquence; such remarkable examples have appeared of persons
surmounting, by their diligence, the disadvantages of the most untoward nature,
that among the learned it has long been a contested, and remains still an
undecided point, whether [Page 6] nature or art confer most towards excelling
in writing and discourse.
With respect to the
manner in which art can most effectually furnish assistance for such a purpose,
there may be diversity of opinions. I by no means pretend to say that mere
rhetorical rules, how just soever, are sufficient to form an orator. Supposing
natural genius to be favourable, more by a great deal will depend upon private
application and study, than upon any system of instruction that is capable of
being publicly communicated. But at the same time, though rules and
instructions cannot do all that is requisite, they may, however, do much that
is of real use. They cannot, it is true, inspire genius; but they can direct
and assist it. They cannot remedy barrenness; but they may correct redundancy.
They point out proper models for imitation. They bring into view the chief
beauties that ought to be studied, and the principal faults that ought to be
avoided; and thereby tend to enlighten taste, and to lead genius from unnatural
deviations, into its proper channel. What would not avail for the production of
great excellencies, may at least serve to prevent the commission of
considerable errors.
All that regards the
study of eloquence and composition, merits the higher attention upon this
account, that it is intimately connected with the improvement of our
intellectual powers. For I must be allowed to say, that when we are employed,
after a proper manner, in the study of composition, we are cultivating reason
itself. True rhetoric and sound logic [Page 7] are very nearly allied. The
study of arranging and expressing our thoughts with propriety, teaches to
think, as well as to speak, accurately. By putting our sentiments into words,
we always conceive them more distinctly. Every one who has the slightest
acquaintance with composition knows, that when he expresses himself ill on any
subject, when his arrangement becomes loose, and his sentences turn feeble, the
defects of his style can, almost on every occasion, be traced back to his
indistinct conception of the subject: so close is the connection between
thoughts and the words in which they are clothed.
The study of
composition, important in itself at all times, has acquired additional
importance from the taste and manners of the present age. It is an age wherein
improvements, in every part of science, have been prosecuted with ardour. To
all the liberal arts much attention has been paid; and to none more than to the
beauty of language, and the grace and elegance of every kind of writing. The
public ear is become 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 be deficient in elegance or [Page 8] ornament in times when they are in such
high estimation, it is still more requisite to attain the power of
distinguishing false ornament from true, in order to prevent our being carried
away by that torrent of false and frivolous taste, which never fails, when it
is prevalent, to sweep along with it the raw and the ignorant. They who have
never studied eloquence in its principles, nor have been trained to attend to
the genuine and manly beauties of good writing, are always ready to be caught
by the mere glare of language; and when 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 erroneous, that
may be.
But as there are many
who have no such objects as either composition or public speaking in view, let
us next consider what advantages may be derived by them, from such studies as
form the subject of these Lectures. To them, rhetoric is not so much a
practical art as a speculative science; and the same instructions which assist
others in composing, will assist them in judging of, and relishing, the
beauties of composition. Whatever enables genius to execute well, will enable
taste to criticise justly.
When we name
criticising, prejudices may perhaps arise, of the same kind with those which I
mentioned before with respect to rhetoric. As rhetoric has been sometimes
thought to signify nothing more than the scholastic study of words, and
phrases, and tropes, so criticism has been considered as merely the art of
finding faults; as the frigid application of certain technical terms, by means
of which persons are taught to cavil [Page 9] and censure in a learned manner.
But this is the criticism of pedants only. True criticism is a liberal and
humane art. It is the offspring of good sense and refined taste. It aims at
acquiring a just discernment of the real merit of authors. It promotes a lively
relish of their beauties, while it preserves us from that blind and implicit
veneration which would confound their beauties and faults in our esteem. It
teaches us, in a word, to admire and to blame with judgment, and not to follow
the crowd blindly.
In an age when works of
genius and literature are so frequently the subjects of discourse, when every
one erects himself into a judge, and when we can hardly mingle in polite
society without bearing some share in such discussions; studies of this kind,
it is not to be doubted, will appear to derive part of their importance from
the use to which they may be applied in furnishing materials for those
fashionable topics of discourse, and thereby enabling us to support a proper
rank in social life.
But I should be sorry
if we could not rest the merit of such studies on somewhat of solid and
intrinsical use independent of appearance and show. The exercise of taste and
of sound criticism, is in truth one of the most improving employments of the
understanding. To apply the principles of good sense to composition and
discourse; to examine what is beautiful, and why it is so; to employ ourselves
in distinguishing accurately between the specious and the solid, between
affected and natural ornament, must certainly improve us not a little in the
most valuable part of all philosophy, the philosophy of human [Page 10] nature.
For such disquisitions are very intimately connected with the knowledge of
ourselves. They necessarily lead us to reflect on the operations of the
imagination, and the movements of the heart; and increase our acquaintance with
some of the most refined feelings which belong to our frame.
Logical and Ethical
disquisitions move in a higher sphere; and are 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. In
these they point out to man the improvement of his nature as an intelligent
being; and his duties as the subject of moral obligation. Belles Lettres and
criticism chiefly consider him as a Being endowed with those powers of taste
and imagination, which were intended to embellish his mind, and to supply him
with rational and useful entertainment. They open a field of investigation
peculiar to themselves. All that relates to beauty, harmony, grandeur, and
elegance; all that can sooth the mind, gratify the fancy, or move the
affections, belongs to their province. They present human nature under a
different aspect from that which it assumes the view of 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, frequently 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 enquiries acute, but not painful; profound, but not dry nor
abstruse. [Page 11] They strew flowers in the path of science; and while they
keep the mind bent, in some degree, and active, they relieve it at the same
time from that more toilsome labour to which it must submit in the acquisition
of necessary erudition, or the investigation of abstract truth.
The cultivation of
taste is farther recommended by the happy effects which it naturally tends to
produce on human life. The most busy man, in the most active sphere, cannot be
always occupied by business. Men of serious professions cannot always be on the
stretch of serious thought. Neither can the most gay and flourishing situations
of fortune afford any man the power of filling all 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 have not some employment subsidiary to
that which forms their main pursuit. How then shall these vacant spaces, those
unemployed intervals, which, more or less, occur in the life of every one, be
filled up? How can we contrive to dispose of them in any way that shall be more
agreeable in itself, or more consonant to the 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 amusement for his leisure hours, to save him from the danger
of many a pernicious passion. He is not in hazard of being a burden to himself.
He is not obliged to fly to low company, or to court the riot of loose
pleasures, in order to cure the tediousness of existence.
[Page 12]
Providence seems
plainly to have pointed out this useful purpose to which the pleasures of taste
may be applied, by interposing them in a middle station between the pleasures
of sense, and those of pure intellect. We were not designed to grovel always
among objects so low as the former; nor are we capable of dwelling constantly
in so high a region as the latter. The pleasures of taste refresh the mind
after the toils of the intellect, and the labours of abstract study; and they
gradually raise it above the attachments of sense, and prepare it for the
enjoyments of virtue.
So consonant is this to
experience, that in the education of youth, no object has in every age appeared
more important to wise men, than to tincture them early with a relish for the
entertainments of taste. The transition is commonly made with ease from these
to the discharge of the higher and more important duties of life. Good hopes
may be entertained of those whose minds have this liberal and elegant turn.
Many virtues may be grafted upon it. Whereas to be entirely devoid of relish
for eloquence, poetry, or any of the fine arts, is justly constructed to be an
unpromising symptom of youth; and raises suspicions of their being prone to low
gratifications, or destined to drudge in the more vulgar and illiberal pursuits
of life.
There are indeed few
good dispositions of any kind with which the improvement of taste is not more
or less connected. A cultivated taste increases sensibility to all the tender
and humane passions, by giving them frequent exercise; while it tends to weaken
the more violent and fierce emotions. [Page 13] --- Ingenuas didicisse
fideliter artes Emollit mores, nec sinit esse . The elevated sentiments and
high examples which poetry, eloquence and history are often bringing under our
view, naturally tend to nourish in our minds publick spirit, the love of glory,
contempt of external fortune, and the admiration of what is truly illustrious
and great.
I will not go so far as
to say that the improvement of taste and of virtue is the same; or that they
may always be expected to coexist in an equal degree. More powerful correctives
than taste can apply, are necessary for reforming the corrupt propensities
which too frequently prevail among mankind. Elegant speculations are sometimes
found to float on the surface of the mind, while bad passions possess the
interior regions of the heart. At the same time this cannot but be admitted,
that the exercise of taste is, in its native tendency, moral and purifying.
From reading the most admired productions of genius, whether in poetry or
prose, almost every one rises with some good impressions left on his mind; and
though these may not always be durable, they are at least to be ranked among
the means of disposing the heart to virtue. One thing is certain, and I shall
hereafter have occasion to illustrate it more fully, that without possessing
the virtuous affections in a strong degree, no man can attain eminence in the
sublime parts of eloquence. He must feel what a good man feels, if he expects
greatly to move or to interest mankind. They are the ardent [Page 14]
sentiments of honour, virtue, magnanimity, and publick 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 distinguished efforts of eloquence, it must be necessary also to our
relishing them with proper taste and feeling.
On these general topics
I shall dwell no longer; but proceed directly to the consideration of the
subjects which are to employ the following Lectures. They divide themselves
into five parts. First, some introductory differtations 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 publick
speaking in its different kinds. Lastly, a critical examination of the most distinguished
species of composition, both in prose and verse.
[Page 15]
THE nature of the
present undertaking leads me to begin with some enquiries concerning Taste, as
it is this faculty which is always appealed to in disquisitions concerning the
merit of discourse and writing.
There are few subjects
on which men talk more loosely and indistinctly than on Taste; few which it is
more difficult to explain with precision; and none which in this Course of
Lectures will appear more dry or abstract. What I have to say on the subject
shall be in the following order. I shall first explain the Nature of Taste as a
power or faculty in the human mind. I shall next consider how far it is an
improveable faculty. I shall shew the sources of its improvement, and the
characters of taste in its most perfect state. I shall then examine the various
fluctuations to which it is liable, and enquire whether there be any standard
to which we can bring the different [Page 16] 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 answered.
For nothing can be more clear, than that taste is not resolveable into any such
operation of Reason. It is not merely through a discovery of the understanding
or a deduction of argument, that the mind receives pleasure from a beautiful
prospect or a fine poem. Such objects often strike us intuitively, and make a
strong impression when we are unable to assign the reasons of our being
pleased. They sometimes strike in the same manner the philosopher and the
peasant; the boy and the man. Hence the faculty by which we relish such
beauties, seems more akin 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, 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 [Page 17] and instinctive sensibility to beauty, yet
reason, as I shall shew hereafter, assists Taste in many of its operations, and
serves to enlarge its power.
Taste, in the sense in
which I have explained it, is a faculty common in some degree to all men.
Nothing that belongs to human nature is more universal 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
themselves very early in a thousand instances; in their fondness for regular
bodies, their admiration of pictures and statues, and imitations of all kinds;
and their strong attachment to whatever is new or marvellous. The most ignorant
peasants are delighted with ballads and tales, and are struck with the
beautiful appearances of nature in the earth and heavens. Even in the desarts
of America, where human nature shews itself in its most uncult 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.
[Page 18]
But although none be
wholly devoid of this faculty , yet the degrees in which it is possessed are
widely different. In some men only the feeble glimmerings of Taste appear; the
beauties which they relish are of the coarsest kind; and of these they have but
a weak and confused impression: while in others, Taste rises to an acute
discernment, and a lively enjoyment of the most refined beauties. In general,
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 constitution of our nature in this, as in all other
respects, discovers admirable wisdom. In the distribution of those talents
which are necessary for man’s well-being, Nature hath made less distinction
among her children. But in the distribution of those which belong only to the
ornamental part of life, she hath bestowed her favours [Page 19] with more
frugality. She hath both sown the seeds more sparingly; and rendered a higher
culture requisite for bringing them to perfection.
This inequality of
Taste among men is owing, without doubt, in part, to the different frame of
their natures; to nicer organs, and finer internal powers, with which some are
endowed beyond others. But, if it be owing in part to nature, it is owing to
education and culture still more. The illustration of this leads to my next
remark on this subject, that Taste is a most improveable faculty, if there be
any such in human nature; a remark which gives great encouragement to such a
course of study as we are now proposing to pursue. Of the truth of this
assertion we may easily be convinced, by only reflecting on that immense superiority
which education and improvement give to civilized, above barbarous nations, in
refinement of Taste; and on the superiority which they give in the same nation
to those who have studied the liberal arts, above the rude and untaught vulgar.
The difference is so great, that there is perhaps no one particular in which
these two classes of men are so far removed from each other, as in respect of
the powers and the pleasures of Taste: and assuredly for this difference no
other general cause can be assigned, but culture and education.---I shall now
proceed to shew what the means are, by which Taste becomes so remarkably
susceptible of cultivation and progress.
Reflect first upon that
great law of our nature, that exercise is the chief source of improvement in
all our faculties. This holds both in our bodily, and in our mental powers. It
holds even in our external senses; although these be less the subject [Page 20]
of cultivation than any of our other faculties. We see how acute the senses
become in persons whose trade or business leads to nice exertions of them.
Touch, for instance, becomes infinitely more exquisite in men whose employment
requires them to examine the polish of bodies, than it is in others. They who
deal in microscopical observations, or are accustomed to engrave on precious
stones, acquire surprising accuracy of sight in discerning the minutest
objects; and practice in attending to different flavours and tastes of liquors,
wonderfully improves the power of distinguishing them, and of tracing their
composition. Placing internal Taste therefore on the footing of a simple sense,
it cannot be doubted that frequent exercise, and curious attention to its
proper objects, must greatly heighten its power. Of this we have one clear
proof in that part of Taste, which is called an ear for music. Experience every
day shews, that nothing is more improveable. Only the simplest and plainest
compositions are relished at first; use and practice extend our pleasure; teach
us to relish finer melody, and by degrees enable us to enter into the intricate
and 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 composition 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 sentiment
which attends them is [Page 21] 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 peculiar
qualities which he praises or blames. The mist dissipates which seemed formerly
to hang over the object; and he can at length pronounce firmly, and without
hesitation, concerning it. Thus in Taste, considered as mere sensibility,
exercise opens a great source of improvement.
But although Taste be
ultimately founded on sensibility, it must not be considered as instinctive
sensibility alone. Reason and good sense, as I before hinted, have so extensive
an influence on all the operations and decisions of Taste, that a thorough good
Taste may well be considered as a power compounded of natural sensibility to
beauty, and of improved 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 characters, 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
understanding, which compares the copy with the original.
In reading, for
instance, such a poem as the Æneid, a great part of our pleasure arises from
the plan or story being well [Page 22] conducted, and all the parts joined
together with probability and due connexion; from the characters being taken
from nature, the sentiments being suited to the characters, and the style to
the sentiments. The pleasure which arises from a poem so conducted, is felt or
enjoyed by Taste as an internal sense; but the discovery of this conduct in the
poem is owing to reason; and the more that reason enables us to discover such
propriety in the conduct, the greater will be our pleasure. We are pleased,
through our natural sense of beauty. Reason shews 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 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 considerable source of the improvement of Taste, from the
application of reason and good sense to such productions of genius. Spurious
beauties, such as unnatural characters, forced sentiments, affected style, may
please for a little; but they please only because their opposition to nature
and to good sense has not been examined, or attended to. Once shew how nature
might have been more justly imitated or represented; how the writer might have
managed his subject to greater advantage; the illusion will presently be
dissipated, and those false beauties will please no more.
[Page 23]
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
frequent attention to the most beautiful objects, and at the same time to be
guided and improved by the light of the understanding.
I must be allowed to
add, that as a sound head, so likewise a good heart, is a very material
requisite to just Taste. The moral beauties are not only in themselves superiour
to all others, but they exert an influence, either more near or more remote, on
a great variety of other objects of Taste. Wherever the affections, characters,
or actions of men are concerned (and these certainly afford the noblest
subjects to genius), there can be neither any just or affecting description of
them, nor any thorough feeling of the beauty of that description, without our
possessing the virtuous affections. He whose heart is indelicate or hard, he
who has no admiration of what is truly noble or praiseworthy, nor the proper
sympathetic sense of what is soft and tender, must have a very imperfect relish
of the highest beauties of eloquence and poetry.
The characters of Taste
when brought to its most perfect state are all reducible to two, Delicacy and
Correctness.
Delicacy of Taste
respects principally the perfection of that natural sensibility on which Taste
is founded. It implies those finer organs or powers which enable us to discover
beauties [Page 24] 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. In this state Taste generally exists among rude and unrefined
nations. But a person of delicate Taste both feels strongly, and feels
accurately. He sees 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 is judged of by the same marks that we use in
judging of the delicacy of an external sense. As the goodness of the palate is
not tried by strong flavours, but by a mixture of ingredients, where, not-
withstanding the confusion, we remain sensible of each; in like manner delicacy
of internal Taste appears, by a quick and lively sensibility to its finest,
most compounded or most latent objects.
Correctness of Taste
respects chiefly the improvement which that faculty receives through its
connexion with the understanding. A man of correct Taste is one who is never
imposed on by counterfeit beauties; who carries always in his mind that
standard of good sense which he employs in judging of every thing. He estimates
with propriety the comparative merit of the several beauties which he meets
with in any work of genius; refers them to their proper classes; assigns the
principles, as far as they can be traced, whence their power of pleasing us flows;
and is pleased himself precisely in that degree in which he ought, and no more.
[Page 25]
It is true that these
two qualities of Taste, Delicacy and Correctness, mutually imply each other. No
Taste can be exquisitely delicate 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 antient critics, Longinus possessed
most Delicacy; Aristotle, most Correctness. Among the moderns, Mr. Addison is a
high example of delicate Taste; Dean Swift, had he written on the subject of
criticism, would perhaps have afforded the example of a correct one.
Having viewed Taste in
its most improved and perfect state, I come next to consider its deviations
from that state, the fluctuations and changes to which it is liable; and to
enquire whether, in the midst of these, there be any means of distinguishing a
true from a corrupted Taste. This brings us to the most difficult part of our
task. For it must be acknowledged, that no principle of the human mind is, in
its operations, more fluctuating and capricious than Taste. Its variations have
been so great and frequent, as to create a suspicion with some, of its being merely
arbitrary; grounded on no foundation, ascertainable by no standard, but wholly
dependent on changing fancy; the consequence of which would be, that all
studies or regular enquiries concerning the objects of Taste were vain. In
architecture, the Grecian models were long esteemed the most perfect. In
succeeding ages, the Gothic [Page 26] architecture alone prevailed, and
afterwards the Grecian Taste revived in all its vigour, and engrossed the
public admiration. In eloquence and poetry, the Asiatics at no time relished
any thing but what was full of ornament, and splendid in a degree that we would
denominate gawdy; whilst the Greeks admired only chaste and simple beauties,
and despised the Asiatic ostentation. In our own country, how many writings that
were greatly extolled two or three centuries ago, are now fallen into entire
disrepute and oblivion? Without going back to remote instances, how very
different is the taste of poetry which prevails in Great Britain now, from what
prevailed there no longer ago than the reign of king Charles II. 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 unnatural conceits were admired as the very quintessence of genius; 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 instances as these? Is there any thing that
can be called a standard of Taste, by appealing to which we may distinguish
between a good and a bad Taste? 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 subtile one it is, which we are now to
discuss.
[Page 27]
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, its
absurdity presently becomes glaring. For is there any one who will seriously
maintain that the Taste of a Hottentot or a Laplander is as delicate and as
correct as that of a Longinus or an Addison? or, that he can be charged with no
defect or incapacity who thinks a common news- writer as excellent an Historian
as Tacitus? As it would be held down-right extravagance to talk in this manner,
we are led unavoidably to this conclusion, that there is some foundation for
the preference of one man’s Taste to that of another; or, that there is a good
and a bad, right and a wrong in Taste, as in other things.
But to prevent mistakes
on this subject, it is necessary to observe next, that the diversity of Tastes
which prevails among mankind, does not in every case infer corruption of Taste,
or oblige us to seek for some standard in order to determine who are in the
right. The Tastes of men may differ very considerably as to their object, and
yet none of them be wrong. One man relishes Poetry most; another takes pleasure
in nothing but History. One prefers Comedy; another, Tragedy. One admires the
simple; another, the ornamented style. The young are amused with gay and
sprightly compositions. The elderly are more entertained with those of a graver
cast. Some nations delight in bold pictures of manners, and strong
representations [Page 28] of passion. Others incline to more correct and
regular elegance both in description and sentiment. Though all differ, yet all
pitch upon some one beauty which peculiarly suits their turn of mind; and
therefore no one has a title to condemn the rest. It is not in matters of
Taste, as in questions of mere reason, where there is but one conclusion that
can be true, and all the rest are erroneous. Truth, which is the object of
reason, is one; Beauty, which is the object of Taste, is manifold. Taste
therefore admits of latitude and diversity of objects, in sufficient
consistency with goodness or justness of Taste.
But then, to explain
this matter thoroughly, I must observe farther, that this admissible diversity
of Tastes can only have place where the objects of Taste are different. Where
it is with respect to the same object that men disagree, when one condemns that
as ugly, which another admires as highly beautiful; then it is no longer
diversity, but direct opposition of Taste that takes place; and therefore one
must be in the right, and another in the wrong, unless that absurd paradox were
allowed to hold, that all Tastes are equally good and true. One man prefers
Virgil to Homer. Suppose that I, on the other hand, admire Homer more than
Virgil. I have as yet no reason to say that our Tastes are contradictory. The
other person is most struck with the elegance and tenderness which are the
characteristics of Virgil; I, with the simplicity and fire of Homer. As long as
neither of us deny that both Homer and Virgil have great beauties, our
difference falls within the compass of that diversity of Tastes, which I have shewed
to be natural and allowable. But if the other man shall assert that Homer has
no beauties [Page 29] whatever; that he holds him to be a dull and spiritless
writer, and that he would as soon peruse any old legend of Knight-Errantry as
the Iliad; then I exclaim, that my antagonist either is void of all Taste, or
that his Taste is corrupted in a miserable degree; and I appeal to whatever I
think the standard of Taste, to shew him that he is in the wrong.
What that standard is,
to which, in such opposition of Tastes, we are obliged to have recourse,
remains to be traced. A standard properly signifies, that which is of such
undoubted authority as to be the test of other things of the same kind. Thus a
standard weight or measure, is that which is appointed by law to regulate all
other measures and weights. 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, that in all cases where an imitation is
intended of some object that exists in nature, as in representing human
characters or actions, conformity to nature affords a full and distinct
criterion of what is truly beautiful. Reason hath in such cases full scope for
exerting its authority; for approving or condemning; by comparing the copy with
the original. But there are innumerable cases in which this rule cannot be at
all applied; and conformity to nature, is an expression frequently used,
without any distinct or determinate meaning. We must therefore search for
somewhat that can be rendered more clear and precise, to be the standard of
Taste.
[Page 30]
Taste, as I before
explained it, is ultimately founded on an internal sense of beauty, which is
natural to men, and which, in its application to particular objects, is capable
of being guided and enlightened by reason. Now, were there any one person who
possessed in full perfection all the powers of human nature, whose internal
senses were in every instance exquisite and just, and whose reason was unerring
and sure, the determinations of such a person concerning beauty, would, beyond
doubt, be a perfect standard for the Taste of all others. Whereever 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 mankind will allow such submission to be due, what is there of sufficient
authority to be the standard of the various and opposite Tastes of men? Most
certainly there is nothing but the Taste, as far 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 ultimate appeal must ever lie, in all works of Taste. If any one
should maintain that sugar was bitter and tobacco was sweet, no reasonings
could avail to prove it. The Taste of such a person would infallibly be held to
be diseased, merely because it differed so widely from the Taste of the species
to which he belongs. In like manner, with regard to the objects of sentiment or
internal Taste, the common feelings of men carry the same authority, and have a
title to regulate the Taste of every individual.
[Page 31]
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 applied to
matters of Taste, as well as to the subjects of science and philosophy. He who
admires or censures any work of genius, is always ready, if his Taste be in any
degree improved, to assign some reasons of 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 concerning works of Taste, it is not to be
forgotten that the ultimate conclusions to which our reasonings lead, refer at
last to sense and perception. We may speculate and argue concerning propriety
of conduct in a Tragedy, or an Epic Poem. Just reasonings on the subject will
correct the caprice of unenlightened Taste, and establish principles for
judging of what deserves praise. But, at the same time, these reasonings appeal
always, in the last resort, to feeling. The foundation upon which they rest, is
what has been found from experience to please mankind must 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 [Page 32] attending to
the feelings of others, that any principles are formed which acquire authority
in matters of Taste .
When we refer to the
concurring sentiments of men as the ultimate test of what is to be accounted
beautiful in the arts, this is to be always understood of men placed in such
situations as are favourable to the proper exertions of Taste. Every one must
perceive, that among rude and uncivilized nations, and during the ages of
ignorance and darkness, any loose notions that are entertained concerning such
subjects carry no authority. In those states of society, Taste has no materials
on which to operate. It is either totally suppressed, or appears in its lowest
and most imperfect form. We refer to the sentiments of mankind in polished and
flourishing nations; when arts are [Page 33] cultivated and manners refined;
when works of genius are subjected to free discussion, and Taste is improved by
Science and philosophy.
Even among nations, at
such a period of society, I admit, that accidental causes may occasionally warp
the proper operations of Taste; sometimes the state of religion, sometimes the
form of government, may for a while pervert it; a licentious court may
introduce a taste for false ornaments, and dissolute writings. The usage of one
admired genius may procure approbation for his faults, and even render them
fashionable. 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 judgments of Taste, that appearance is easily corrected. In the
course of time, the genuine taste of human nature never fails to disclose
itself, and to gain the ascendant over any fantastic and corrupted modes of
Taste which may chance to have been introduced. These may have currency for a
while, and mislead superficial judges; but being subjected to examination, by
degrees they pass away; while that alone remains which is founded on found
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 report for clear and immediate determination. Where, indeed, is such a
standard to be found for deciding any of those great controversies in reason and
philosophy, which perpetually divide mankind? In [Page 34] 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 ascertain in every case with the
utmost exactness what is beautiful or elegant, was not at all necessary to the
happiness of man. And therefore some diversity in feeling was 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 determining whether it be false or true. Its
foundation is the same in all human minds. It is built upon sentiments and
perceptions which belong to our nature; and which, in general, operate with the
same uniformity as our other intellectual principles. When these sentiments are
perverted by ignorance and prejudice, they are capable of being rectified by
reason. Their sound and natural state is ultimately determined, by comparing
them with the general Taste of mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please,
concerning the caprice and the uncertainty of Taste, it is found, by
experience, that there are beauties, which, if they be displayed in a proper
light, have power to command 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, which, being properly struck,
the human heart is so made as to answer to it.
[Page 35]
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 Æneid of Virgil. Hence the authority which such
works have acquired, 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 indifferent poet, or a bad artist; but when
foreginers, or when posterity examine his works, his faults are discerned, and
the genuine Taste of human nature appears. "Opinionum commenta delet dies;
naturæ judicia confirmat." Time overthrows the illusions of opinion, but
establishes the decisions of nature.
[Page 36]
TASTE, Criticism, and
Genius, are words currently employed, without distinct ideas annexed to them.
In beginning a course of Lectures where such words must often occur, it is
necessary to ascertain their meaning with some precision. Having in the last.
Lecture treated of Taste, I proceed to explain the nature and foundation of
Criticism. True Criticism is the application of Taste and of good sense to the
several fine arts. The object which it proposes is, to distinguish what is
beautiful and what is faulty in every performance; from particular instances to
ascend to general principles; and so to form rules or conclusions concerning
the several kinds of beauty in works of Genius.
The rules of Criticism
are not formed by any induction, à priori, as it is called; that is, they are
not formed by a train of [Page 37] abstract reasoning, independent of facts and
observations. Criticism is an art founded wholly on experience; on the
observation of such beauties as have come nearest to the standard which I before
established: that is, of such beauties as have been found to please mankind
most generally. For example; Aristotle’s rules concerning the unity of action
in dramatic and epic composition, were not rules first discovered by logical
reasoning, and then applied to poetry; but they were drawn from the practice of
Homer and Sophocles: they were founded upon observing the superior pleasure
which we receive from the relation of an action which is one and entire, beyond
what we receive from the relation of scattered and unconnected facts. Such
observations taking their rise at first from feeling and experience, were found
on examination to be so consonant to reason, and to the principles of human
nature, as to pass into established rules, and to be conveniently applied for
judging of the excellency of any performance. This is the most natural account
of the origin of Criticism.
A masterly genius, it
is true, will of himself, untaught, compose in such a manner as shall be
agreeable to the most material rules of Criticism; for as these rules are
founded in nature, nature will often suggest them in practice. Homer, it is
more than probable, was acquainted with no systems of the art of poetry. Guided
by genius alone, he composed in verse a regular story, which all posterity has
admired. But this is no argument against the usefulness of Criticism as an art.
For as no human genius is perfect, there is no writer but may receive
assistance from critical observations upon the beauties and faults of those who
have gone before him. No observations [Page 38] or rules can indeed supply the
defect of genius, or inspire it where it is wanting. But they may often direct
it into its proper channel; they may correct its extravagancies, and point out
to it the most just and proper imitation of nature. Critical rules are designed
chiefly to shew the faults that ought to be avoided. To nature we must be
indebted for the production of eminent beauties.
From what has been
said, we are enabled to form a judgment concerning 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 of 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 shewn 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 number [Page 39] 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 to all men. But
with respect to this we are to observe, that the sense of the Public is often
too hastily judged of. The genuine public Taste does not always appear in the
first applause given upon the publication of any new work. There are both a
great vulgar and a small, apt to be catched and dazzled by very superficial
beauties, the admiration of which in a little time passes away: and sometimes 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 dispassionate, will
ever coincide at last.
Instances, I admit,
there are, of some works that contain gross transgressions of the laws of Criticism,
acquiring, nevertheless, a general, and even a lasting admiration. Such are
[Page 40] the plays of Shakespeare, which, considered as dramatic poems are
irregular in the highest degree. But then we are to remark, that they have
gained the public admiration, not by their being irregular, not by their
transgressions of the rules of art, but in spite of such transgressions. They
possess other beauties which are conformable to just rules; and the force of
these beauties has been so great as to overpower all censure, and to give the
Public a degree of satisfaction superior to the disgust arising from their
blemishes. Shakespeare 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 which he lived. But he pleases by his animated and
masterly representations of characters, by the liveliness of his descriptions,
the force of his sentiments, and his possessing, beyond all writers, the
natural language of passion: Beauties which true Criticism no less teaches us
to place in the highest rank, than nature teaches us to feel.---This much it
may suffice to have said concerning the origin, office, and importance of
Criticism.
I proceed next to
explain the meaning of another term, which there will be frequent occasion to
employ in these Lectures; that is, Genius.
Taste and Genius are
two words frequently joined together; and therefore, by inaccurate thinkers,
confounded. They signify however two quite different things. The difference
between them can be clearly pointed out; and it is of importance [Page 41] to
remember it. Taste consists in the power of judging: Genius, in the power of
executing. One may have a considerable degree of Taste in Poetry, Eloquence, or
any of the fine arts, who has little or hardly any Genius for composition or
execution in any of these arts: But Genius cannot be found without including
Taste also. Genius, therefore, deserves to be considered as a higher power of
the mind than Taste. Genius always imports something inventive or creative;
which does not rest in mere sensibility to beauty where it is perceived, but
which can, moreover, produce new beauties, and exhibit them in such a manner as
strongly to impress the minds of others. Refined Taste forms a good critic; but
Genius is farther necessary to form the poet, or the orator.
It is proper also to
observe, that Genius is a word, which, in common acceptation, extends much
farther than to the objects of Taste. It is used to signify that talent or
aptitude which we receive from nature, for excelling in any one thing whatever.
Thus we speak of a Genius for mathematics, as well as a Genius for poetry; of a
Genius for war, for politics, or for any mechanical employment.
This talent or aptitude
for excelling in some one particular, is, I have said, what we receive from
nature. By art and study, no doubt, it may be greatly improved; but by them
alone it cannot be acquired. As Genius is a higher faculty than Taste, it is
ever, according to the usual frugality of nature, more limited in the sphere of
its operations. It is not uncommon to meet with persons who have an excellent
Taste in several of the polite arts, such as music, poetry, painting, and
eloquence, [Page 42] altogether: But, to find one who is an excellent performer
in all these arts, is much more rare; or rather, indeed, such an one is not to be
looked for. A sort of Universal Genius, or one who is equally and indifferently
turned towards several different professions and arts, is not likely to excel
in any. Although there may be some few exceptions, yet in general it holds,
that when the bent of the mind is wholly directed towards some one object,
exclusive, in a manner, of others, there is the fairest prospect of eminence in
that, whatever it be. The rays must converge to a point, in order to glow
intensely. This remark I here chuse 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 supposes Taste; and it is clear, that
the improvement of Taste will serve both to forward and to correct the
operations of Genius. In proportion as the Taste of a poet, or orator, becomes
more refined with respect to the beauties of composition, it will certainly
assist him to produce the more finished beauties in his work. Genius, however,
in a Poet or Orator, may sometimes exist in a higher degree than Taste; that
is, Genius may be bold and strong, when Taste is neither very delicate, nor
very correct. This is often the case in the infancy of arts; a period, when
Genius frequently exerts itself with great vigour, and executes with much
warmth; while Taste, which requires experience, and improves by slower degrees,
hath not yet attained its full growth. Homer and Shakespear [Page 43] are
proofs of what I now assert; in whose admirable writings are found instances of
rudeness and indelicacy, which the more refined Taste of later writers, who had
far inferior Genius to them, would have taught them to avoid. As all human
perfection is limited, this may very probably be the law of our nature, that it
is not given to one man to execute with vigour and fire, and, at the same time,
to attend to all the lesser and more refined graces that belong to the exact
perfection of his work: While, on the other hand, a thorough Taste for those
inferior graces, is, for the most part, accompanied with a diminution of
sublimity and force.
Having thus explained
the nature of Taste, the nature and importance of Criticism, and the
distinction between Taste and Genius; I am now to enter on considering 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 purpose is, to give some openings into the
Pleasures of Taste in general; and to insist, more particularly, upon Sublimity
and Beauty.
We are far from having
yet attained to any system concerning this subject. Mr. Addison was the first
who attempted a regular enquiry, in his Essay on the Pleasures of the
Imagination, [Page 44] published in the sixth volume of the Spectator. He has
reduced these Pleasures under three heads; Beauty, Grandeur, and Novelty. His
speculations on this subject, if not exceedingly profound, are, however, very
beautiful and entertaining; and he has the merit of having opened a tract,
which was before unbeaten. The advances made since his time in this curious
part of philosophical Criticism, are not very considerable; though some
ingenious writers have pursued the subject. This is owing, doubtless, to that
thinness and subtility which are found to be properties of all the feelings of
Taste. They are engaging objects; but when we would lay firm hold of them, and
subject them to a regular discussion, they are always ready to elude our grasp.
It is difficult to make a full enumeration of the several objects that give
pleasure to Taste; it is more difficult to define all those which have been
discovered, and to reduce them under proper classes; and, when we would go
farther, and investigate the efficient causes of the pleasure which we receive
from such objects, here, above all, we find ourselves at a loss. For instance;
we all learn by experience, that certain figures of bodies appear to us more
beautiful than others. On enquiring 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 enquire what is the cause of regularity and variety producing in our minds
the sensation of Beauty, any reason we can assign is extremely imperfect. Those
first principles of internal sensation, nature seems to have covered with an
impenetrable veil.
[Page 45]
It is some comfort,
however, that although the efficient cause be obscure, the final cause of those
sensations lies in many cases more open: And, in entering on this subject, we
cannot avoid taking notice of the strong impression which the powers of Taste
and Imagination are calculated to give us of the benignity of our Creator. By
endowing us with such powers, he hath widely enlarged the sphere of the
pleasures of human life; and those, too, of a kind the most pure and innocent.
The necessary purposes of life might have been abundantly answered, though our
senses of seeing and hearing had only served to distinguish external objects,
without conveying to us any of those resined and delicate sensations of Beauty
and Grandeur, with which we are now so much delighted. This additional
embellishment and glory, which, for promoting our entertainment, the Author of
nature hath poured forth upon his works, is one striking testimony, among many
others, of benevolence and goodness. This thought, which Mr. Addison first
started, Dr. Akenside, in his Poem on the Pleasures of the Imagination, has
happily pursued. --- ---Not content With every food of life to nourish man, By
kind illusions of the wondering sense, Thou mak’st all nature, Beauty to his
eye, Or Music to his ear.---
I shall begin with
considering the Pleasure which arises from Sublimity or Grandeur, of which I
propose to treat at some length; both, as this has a character more precise and
distinctly marked, than any other, of the Pleasures of the Imagination, [Page
46] and as it coincides more directly with our main subject. For the greater
distinctness I shall, first, treat of the Grandeur or Sublimity of external
objects themselves, which will employ the rest of this Lecture; and, 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 Grandeur of the objects themselves when they
are presented to the eye, and the description of that Grandeur in discourse or
writing; though most Critics, inaccurately I think, blend them together; and I
consider Grandeur and Sublimity as terms synonymous, or nearly so. If there be
any distinction between them, it arises from Sublimity’s expressing Grandeur in
its highest degree .
It is not easy to
describe, in words, the precise impression which great and sublime objects make
upon us, when we behold them; but every one has a conception of it. It consists
in a kind of admiration and expansion of the mind; it raises the mind much
above its ordinary state; and fills it with a degree of wonder and
astonishment, which it cannot well express. The emotion is certainly
delightful; but it is altogether of the serious kind: a degree of awfulness and
solemnity, even 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 [Page 47] wide extended plains, to which the eye can see no
limits; the firmament of Heaven; or the boundless expanse of the Ocean. All
vastness produces the impression of Sublimity. It is to be remarked, however,
that space, extended in length, makes not so strong an impression as height or
depth. Though a boundless plain be a grand object, yet a high mountain, to
which we look up, or an awful precipice or tower whence we look down on the
objects which lie below, is still more so. The excessive Grandeur of the
firmament arises from its height, joined to its boundless extent; and that of
the ocean, not from its extent alone, but from the perpetual motion and
irresistible force of that mass of waters. Wherever space is concerned, it is
clear, that amplitude or greatness of extent, in one dimension or other, is
necessary to Grandeur. Remove all bounds from any object, and you presently
render it sublime. Hence infinite space, endless numbers, and eternal duration,
fill the mind with great ideas.
From this some have
imagined, that vastness, or amplitude of extent, is the foundation of all
Sublimity. But I cannot be of this opinion, because many objects appear sublime
which have no relation to space at all. Such, for instance, is great loudness
of sound. The burst of thunder or of cannon, the roaring of winds, the shouting
of multitudes, the sound of vast cataracts of water, are all incontestibly
grand objects. "I heard the voice of a great multitude, as the sound of
many waters, and of mighty thunderings, saying Allelujah." In general we
may observe, that great power and force exerted, always raise sublime ideas:
and perhaps the most copious source of these is derived from this quarter.
Hence the grandeur of earthquakes. [Page 48] 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 uncommon 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 grandeur in its idea. The
engagement of two great armies, as it is the highest exertion of human might,
combines a variety of sources of the Sublime; and has accordingly been always
considered as one of the most striking and magnificent spectacles that can be
either presented to the eye, or exhibited to the imagination in description.
For the farther
illustration of this subject, it is proper to remark, that all ideas of the
solemn and awful kind, and even bordering on the terrible, tend greatly to
assist the Sublime; such as darkness, solitude, and silence. What are the
scenes of nature that elevate the mind in the highest 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 commonly the most
sublime. The firmament when filled with stars, scattered in such vast numbers,
and with such magnificent profusion, strikes the imagination with a more awful
grandeur, than when we view it enlightened by all the splendour of the Sun. The
deep found [Page 49] of a great bell, or the striking of a great clock, are at
any time grand; but, when heard amid the silence and stillness of the night,
they become doubly so. Darkness is very commonly applied for adding sublimity
to all our ideas of the Deity. "He maketh darkness his pavilion; he
dwelleth in the thick cloud." So Milton ------How oft, amidst Thick clouds
and dark, does Heaven’s all-ruling Sire Chuse to reside, his glory unobscured,
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, umbræque silentes,
Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia latè, Sit mihi fas audita loqui;
sit numine vestro Pandere res altâ terrâ, & caligine mersas. Ibant obscuri,
sola sub nocte, per umbram, Perque domos Ditis vacuos, et inania regna; Quale
per incertam lunam, sub luce maligna Est iter in sylvis--- .
[Page 50]
These passages I quote
at present, not so much as instances of Sublime Writing, though in themselves
they truly are so, as to shew, by the effect of them, that the objects which
they present to us, belong to the class of sublime ones.
Obscurity, we are
farther to remark, is not unfavourable to the Sublime. Though it render the
object indistinct, the impression, however, may be great; for, as an ingenious
Author has well observed, it is one thing to make an idea clear, and another to
make it affecting to the imagination; and the imagination may be strongly
affected, and, in fact, often is so, by objects of which we have no clear
conception. Thus we see, that almost all the descriptions given us of the appearances
of supernatural Beings, carry some Sublimity, though the conceptions which they
afford us be confused and indistinct. Their Sublimity arises from the ideas,
which they always convey, of superior power and might, joined with an awful
obscurity. We may see this fully exemplified in the following noble passage 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 [Page 51] the form thereof; an
image was before mine eyes; there was silence; and I heard a voice---Shall
mortal man be more ?" (Job, iv. 15.) No ideas, it is plain, as are so
sublime as those taken from the Supreme Being; the most unknown, but the
greatest of all objects; the infinity of whose nature, and the eternity of
whose duration, joined with the omnipotence of his power, though they surpass
our conceptions, yet exalt them to the highest. In general, all objects that
are greatly raised above us, or far removed from us, either in space or in
time, are apt to strike us as great. Our viewing them, as through the mist of
distance or antiquity, is favourable to the impressions of their Sublimity.
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 [Page 52] altogether by the hand of nature with wildness and
confusion, strike the mind with more grandeur, than if they had been adjusted
to each other with the most accurate symmetry.
In the feeble attempts,
which human art can make towards producing grand objects (feeble, I mean, in
comparison with the powers of nature), greatness of dimensions always
constitutes a principal part. No pile of building can convey any idea of
Sublimity, unless it be ample and lofty. There is, too, in architecture, what
is called Greatness of manner; which seems chiefly to arise, from presenting
the object to us in one full point of view; so that it shall make its
impression whole, entire, and undivided, upon the mind. A Gothic cathedral
raises ideas of grandeur in our minds, by its size, its height, its awful
obscurity, its strength, its antiquity, and its durability.
There still remains to
be mentioned one class of Sublime objects what may be called the moral, or
sentimental Sublime; arising from certain exertions of the human mind; from
certain affections, and actions, of our fellow-creatures. These will be found
to be all, or chiefly, of that class, which comes under the name of Magnanimity
or Heroism; and they produce an effect extremely similar to what is produced by
the view of grand objects in nature; filling the mind with admiration, and
elevating it above itself. A noted instance of this, quoted by all the French
Critics, is the celebrated Qu’il Mourut of Corneille, in the Tragedy of Horace.
In the famous combat betwixt the Horatii and the Curiatii, the old Horatius,
being informed, that two of his sons are slain, and that the third had betaken
himself to flight, at first will not believe the report; [Page 53] but being
thoroughly assured of the fact, is fired with all the sentiments of high honour
and indignation at this supposed unworthy behaviour of his surviving son. He is
reminded, that his son stood alone against three, and asked what he would have
had him to have done?---"To have died,"---he answers. In the same
manner Porus, taken prisoner by Alexander, after a gallant defence, and asked
in what manner he would be treated? answering, "Like a king;" and Cæsar
chiding the pilot who was afraid to set out with him in a storm, "Quid
times? "Cæsarem vehis;" are good instances of this sentimental
sublime. Wherever, in some critical and high situation, we behold a man
uncommonly intrepid , and resting upon himself ;superior to passion and to fear
; animated by some great principle to the contempt of popular opinion , of
selfish interest , of dangers , or of death ; there we are struck with a sense
of the Sublime.
[Page 54]
High virtue is the most
natural and fertile source of this moral Sublimity. However, on some occasions,
where Virtue either has no place, or is but imperfectly displayed, yet if
extraordinary vigour and force of mind be discovered, we are not insensible to
a degree of grandeur in the character; and from the splendid conqueror, or the
daring conspirator, whom we are far from approving, we cannot with-hold our .
I have now enumerated a
variety of instances, both in inanimateobjects and in human life, wherein the
Sublime appears. In all these instances, the emotion raised in us is of the
same kind, although the objects that produce the emotion be of widely different
kinds. A question next arises, whether we are able to discover some one
fundamental quality in which all these different objects agree, and which is
the cause of [Page 55] their producing an emotion of the same nature in our
minds? Various hypotheses have been formed concerning this; but, as far as
appears to me, hitherto unsatisfactory. Some have imagined that amplitude, or
great extent, joined with simplicity, is either immediately, or remotely, the
fundamental quality of whatever is sublime; but we have seen that amplitude is
confined to one species of Sublime Objects; and cannot, without violent
straining, be applied to them all. The Author of "a Philosophical Enquiry
into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful," to whom we are
indebted for several ingenious and original thoughts upon this subject,
proposes a formal theory upon this foundation, That terror is the source of the
Sublime, and that no objects have this character, but such as produce
impressions of pain and danger. It is indeed true, that many terrible objects
are highly sublime; and that grandeur does not refuse an alliance with the idea
of danger. But though this is very properly illustrated by the Author (many of
whose sentiments on that head I have adopted), yet he seems to stretch his
theory too far, when he represents the Sublime as consisting wholly in modes of
danger, or of pain. For the proper sensation of Sublimity, appears to be very
distinguishable from the sensation of either of those; and, on several
occasions, to be entirely separated from them. In many grand objects, there is
no coincidence with terror at all; as in the magnificent prospect of wide
extended plains, and of the starry firmament; or in the moral dispositions and
sentiments, which we view with high admiration; and in many painful and
terrible objects also, it is clear, there is no sort of grandeur. The
amputation of a limb, or the bite of a snake, are exceedingly terrible; but are
destitute of all claim whatever to Sublimity. I am inclined to [Page 56] think,
that mighty force or power, whether accompanied with terror or not, whether
employed in protecting, or in alarming us, has a better title, than any thing
that has yet been mentioned, to be the fundamental quality of the Sublime; as,
after the review which we have taken, there does not occur to me any Sublime
Object, into the idea of which, power, strength, and force, either enter not
directly, or are not, at least, intimately associated with the idea, by leading
our thoughts to some astonishing power, as concerned in the production of the
object. However, I do not insist upon this as sufficient to found a general
theory: It is enough, now, to have given this view of the nature and different
kinds of Sublime Objects; by which I hope to have laid a proper foundation for
discussing, with greater accuracy, the Sublime in Writing and Composition.
[Page 57]
HAVING treated of
Grandeur or Sublimity in external objects, the way seems now to be cleared, for
treating, with more advantage, of the description of such objects; or, of what
is called the Sublime in Writing. Though I may appear early to enter on the
consideration of this subject; yet, as the Sublime is a species of Writing
which depends less than any other on the artificial embellishments of rhetoric,
it may be examined with as much propriety here, as in any subsequent part of
the Lectures.
Many critical terms
have unfortunately been employed, in a sense too loose and vague; none more so,
than that of the Sublime. Every one is acquainted with the character of Cæsar’s
Commentaries, and of the style in which they are written; a style remarkably
pure, simple, and elegant; but the most remote from the Sublime, of any of the
classical authors. Yet this author [Page 58] has a German critic, Johannes
Gulielmus Bergerus, who wrote no longer ago than the year 1720, pitched upon as
the perfect model of the Sublime, and has composed a quarto volume, entitled,
De naturali pulchritudine Orationis; the express intention of which, is to
shew, that Cæsar’s Commentaries contain the most complete exemplification of
all Longinus’s rules relating to Sublime Writing. This I mention as a strong
proof of the confused ideas which have prevailed, concerning this subject. The
true sense of Sublime Writing, undoubtedly, is such a description of objects,
or exhibition of sentiments, which are in themselves of a Sublime nature, as
shall give us strong impressions of them. But there is another very indefinite,
and therefore very improper, sense, which has been too often put upon it; when
it is applied to signify any remarkable and distinguishing excellency of
composition; whether it raise in us the ideas of grandeur, or those of
gentleness, elegance, or any other sort of beauty. In this sense, Cæsar’s
Commentaries may, indeed, be termed Sublime, and so may many Sonnets,
Pastorals, and Love Elegies, as well as Homer’s Iliad. But this evidently
confounds the use of words; and marks no one species, or character, of
composition whatever.
I am sorry to be
obliged to observe, that the Sublime is too often used in this last and
improper sense, by the celebrated critic Longinus, in his treatise on this
subject. He sets out, indeed, with describing it in its just and proper
meaning; as something that elevates the mind above itself, and fills it with
high conceptions, and a noble pride. But from this view of it he frequently
departs; and substitutes in the place of it, whatever, in any strain of
composition, pleases highly. Thus, many of [Page 59] the passages which he
produces as instances of the Sublime, are merely elegant, without having the
most distant relation to proper Sublimity; witness Sappho’s famous Ode, on
which he descants at considerable length. He points out five sources of the
Sublime. The first is, Boldness or Grandeur in the Thoughts; the second is, the
Pathetic; the third, the proper application of Figures; the fourth, the use of
Tropes and beautiful Expressions; the fifth, Musical Structure and Arrangement
of Words. This is the plan of one who was writing a treatise of rhetoric, or of
the beauties of Writing in general; not of the Sublime in particular. For of
these five heads, only the two first have any peculiar relation to the Sublime;
Boldness and Grandeur in the Thoughts, and, in some instances, the Pathetic, or
strong exertions of Passion: The other three, Tropes, Figures, and Musical
Arrangement, have no more relation to the Sublime, than to other kinds of good
Writing; perhaps less to the Sublime than to any other species whatever;
because it requires less the assistance of ornament. From this it appears, that
clear and precise ideas on this head are not to be expected from that writer. I
would not, however, be understood, as if I meant, by this censure, to represent
his treatise as of small value. I know no critic, antient or modern, that discovers
a more lively relish of the beauties of fine writing, than Longinus; and he has
also the merit of being himself an excellent, and, in several passages, a truly
Sublime, writer. But, as his work has been generally considered as a standard
on this subject, it was incumbent on me to give my opinion concerning the
benefit to be derived from it. It deserves to be consulted, not so much for
distinct instruction concerning the Sublime, [Page 60] as for excellent general
ideas concerning beauty in writing.
I return now to the
proper and natural idea of the Sublime in composition. The foundation of it
must always be laid in the nature of the object described. Unless it be such an
object as, if presented to our eyes, if exhibited to us in reality, would raise
ideas of that elevating, that awful, and magnificent kind, which we call
Sublime; the description, however finely drawn, is not entitled to come under
this class. This excludes all objects that are merely beautiful, gay, or
elegant. In the next place, the object must not only, in itself, be Sublime,
but it must be set before us in such a light as is most proper to give us a
clear and full impression of it; it must be described with strength, with
conciseness, and simplicity. This depends, principally, upon the lively
impression which the poet, or orator has of the object which he exhibits; and
upon his being deeply affected, and warmed, by the Sublime idea which he would
convey. If his own feeling be languid, he can never inspire us with any strong
emotion. Instances, which are extremely necessary on this subject, will clearly
show the importance of all those requisites which I have just now mentioned.
It is, generally
speaking, among the most antient authors, that we are to look for the most
striking instances of the Sublime. I am inclined to think, that the early ages
of the world, and the rude unimproved state of society, are peculiarly
favourable to the strong emotions of Sublimity. The genius of men is then [Page
61] much turned to admiration and astonishment. Meeting with many objects, to
them new and strange, their imagination is kept glowing, and their passions are
often raised to the utmost. They think, and express themselves boldly, and
without restraint. In the progress of society, the genius and manners of men
undergo a change more favourable to accuracy, than to strength or Sublimity.
Of all writings,
antient or modern, the Sacred Scriptures afford us the highest instances of the
Sublime. The descriptions of the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble; both
from the grandeur of the object, and the manner of representing it. What an
assemblage, for instance, of awful and sublime ideas is presented to us, in
that passage of the XVIIIth Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is
described? "In my distress I called upon the Lord; he heard my voice out
of his temple, and my cry came before him. Then, the earth shook and trembled;
the foundations also of the hills were moved; because he was wroth. He bowed
the heavens, and came down, and darkness was under his feet; and he did ride
upon a Cherub, and did fly; yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made
darkness his secret place; his pavilion round about him were dark waters, and
thick clouds of the sky." Here, agreeably to the principles established in
the last Lecture, we see, with what propriety and success the circumstances of
darkness and terror are applied for heightening the Sublime. So, also, the
prophet Habakkuk, in a similar passage: "He stood, and measured the earth;
he beheld, and drove asunder the nations. The everlasting mountains were
scattered; the perpetual hills did bow; his ways are everlasting. [Page 62] The
mountains saw thee; and they trembled. The overflowing of the water passed by.
The deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high."
The noted instance,
given by Longinus, from Moses, "God said, let there be light; and there
was light," is not liable to the censure which I passed on some of his
instances, of being foreign to the subject. It belongs to the true Sublime; and
the Sublimity of it arises from the strong conception it gives, of an exertion
of power, producing its effect with the utmost speed and facility. A thought of
the same kind is magnificently amplified in the following passage of Isaiah
(chap. xxiv. 24. 27, 28.): "Thus faith the Lord, thy Redeemer, and he that
formed thee from the womb: I am the Lord that maketh all things, that
stretcheth forth the heavens alone, that spreadeth abroad the earth by
myself---that faith to the deep, Be dry, and I will dry up thy rivers; that
faith of Cyrus, He is my shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure; even,
saying to Jerusalem, Thou shalt be built; and to the Temple, Thy foundation
shall be laid." There is a passage in the Psalms, which deserves to be
mentioned under this head; God," says the Psalmist, "stilleth the
noise of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tumults of the
people." The joining together two such grand objects, as the ragings of
the waters, and the tumults of the people, between which there is so much
resemblance as to form a very natural association in the fancy, and the
representing them both as subject, at one ’moment, to the command of God,
produces a noble effect.
[Page 63]
Homer is a poet, who,
in all ages, and by all critics, has been greatly admired for Sublimity; and he
owes much of his grandeur to that native and unaffected simplicity which
characterises his manner. His descriptions of hosts engaging; the animation,
the fire, and rapidity, which he throws into his battles, present to every
reader of the Iliad, frequent instances of Sublime Writing. His introduction of
the Gods, tends often to heighten, in a high degree, the majesty of his warlike
scenes. Hence Longinus bestows such high and just commendations on that
passage, in the XVth book of the Iliad, where Neptune, when preparing to issue
forth into the engagement, is described as shaking the mountains with his
steps, and driving his chariot along the ocean. Minerva, arming herself for
fight in the Vth book; and Apollo, in the XVth, leading on the Trojans, and
flashing terror with his Ægis on the face of the Greeks, are similar instances
of great Sublimity added to the description of battles, by the appearances of
those celestial beings. In the XXth book, where all the Gods take part in the
engagement, according as they severally favour either the Grecians, or the
Trojans, the poet seems to put forth one of his highest efforts, and the
description rises into the most awful magnificence. All nature is represented
as in commotion. Jupiter thunders in the heavens; Neptune strikes the earth
with his Trident; the ships, the city, and the mountains shake; the earth
trembles to its centre; Pluto starts from his throne, in dread lest the secrets
of the infernal region should be laid open to the view of mortals. The passage
is worthy of being inferted. * SPECIAL_IMAGE-ACgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-uacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-mgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ’
SPECIAL_IMAGE-oacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-mgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-OCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-uacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-mgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eeacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME , SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ’
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-kgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegragr.gif-REPLACE_ME , SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-oacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-uacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ’
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ACgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME ,
[Page 64]
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ACgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-uacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ’ SPECIAL_IMAGE-ACgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME ,
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-mgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-iacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-iacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ,---
SPECIAL_IMAGE-OCHgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-phgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-mgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-kgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-oacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-uacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ,
SPECIAL_IMAGE-SCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-uacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-mgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-bgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME ,
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ’ SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eeacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ggr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-bgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME : SPECIAL_IMAGE-DCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-oacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ’
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-bgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-oacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-UCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-psgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-oacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME :
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-uacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-PCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-iacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-xgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-GCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME . SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-iacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME , SPECIAL_IMAGE-oacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ’ SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-kgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-PCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ’
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-iacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-oacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-kgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ICgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME , SPECIAL_IMAGE-KCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-kgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-phgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME , SPECIAL_IMAGE-TCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-oacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ,
SPECIAL_IMAGE-kgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ACgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-khgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME .
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ECgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ’
SPECIAL_IMAGE-uacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-xgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME , SPECIAL_IMAGE-ACgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ,
SPECIAL_IMAGE-DCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-iacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME ’ SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-kgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-oacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-kgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-iacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-khgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME :
SPECIAL_IMAGE-mgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-uacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-pgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-GCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eeacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-xgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-PCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-iacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-khgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME , SPECIAL_IMAGE-OCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-kgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-iacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-khgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igragr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-phgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-iacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-SCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-mgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME , SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-aacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ggr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eacugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
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Iliad, 20. 47. &c.
[Page 65]
The works of Ossian (as
I have elsewhere shewn) abound with examples of the Sublime. The subjects of
that Author, and the manner in which he writes, are particularly favourable to
it. He possesses all the plain and venerable manner of the antient times. He
deals in no superfluous or gaudy ornaments; but throws forth his images with a
rapid conciseness, which enable them to strike the mind with the greatest
force. Among poets of more polished times, we are to look for the graces of
correct writing, for just proportion of parts, and skilfully conducted
narration. In the midst of smiling scenery and pleasurable themes, the gay and
the beautiful will appear, undoubtedly, to more advantage. But amidst the rude
scenes of nature and of society, such as Ossian describes; amidst rocks, and
torrents, and whirlwinds, and battles, dwells the Sublime; and naturally
associates itself with that grave and solemn spirit which distinguishes the
Author of Fingal. "As autumn’s dark storms pour from two echoing hills, so
toward each other approached the heroes. As two dark streams from high rocks
meet and mix, and roar on the plain; loud, rough, and dark, in battle, met
Lochlin and Inisfail; chief mixed his strokes with chief, and man with man.
Steel clanging sounded on steel. Helmets are cleft on high; blood bursts, and
smokes around. As the troubled [Page 66] noise of the ocean when roll the waves
on high; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven; such is the noise of
battle. The groan of the people spread over the hills. It was like the thunder
of night, when the cloud bursts on Cona, and a thousand ghosts shriek at once
on the hollow wind." Never were images of more awful Sublimity employed to
heighten the terror of battle.
I have produced these
instances, in order to demonstrate how essential conciseness and simplicity are
to Sublime Writing. Simplicity, I place in opposition to studied and profuse
ornament; and conciseness, to superfluous expression. The reason why a defect,
either in conciseness or simplicity, is hurtful in a peculiar manner to the
Sublime, I shall endeavour to explain. The emotion occasioned in the mind by
some great or noble object, raises it considerably above its ordinary pitch. A
sort of enthusiasm is produced, extremely agreeable while it lasts; but from
which the mind is tending every moment to fall down into its ordinary
situation. Now, when an author has brought us, or is attempting to bring us,
into this state; if he multiplies words unnecessarily, if he decks the Sublime
object which he presents to us, round and round, with glittering ornaments;
nay, if he throws in any one decoration that sinks in the least below the
capital image, that moment he alters the key; he relaxes the tension of the
mind; the strength of the feeling is emasculated; the Beautiful may remain, but
the Sublime is gone.---When Julius Cæsar said to the Pilot who was afraid to
put to sea with him in a storm, "Quid times? Cæsarem vehis;" we are
struck with the daring magnanimity of one relying with such confidence on his
cause and his fortune. These few [Page 67] words convey every thing necessary
to give us the impression full. Lucan resolved to amplify and adorn the
thought. Observe how every time he twists it round, it departs farther from the
Sublime, till it end at last in tumid declamation. Sperne minas, inquit,
pelagi, ventoque furenti Trade sinum: Italiam, si, coelo auctore, recusas, Me,
pete. Sola tibi causa hæc est justa timoris Victorem non nosse tuum; quem
numina nunquam Destituunt; de quo male tunc Fortuna meretur Cum post vota
venit. Medias perrumpe procellas Tutelâ secure meâ. Coeli isti fretique Non
puppis nostræ labor est. Hanc Cæsare pressam A fluctu defendet onus; nam
proderit undis I ste ratis.---Quid tanta strage paratur Ignoras? quærit pelagi
coelique tumultu .---
Phars. V. 578.
[Page 68]
On account of the great
importance of simplicity and conciseness, I conceive rhyme, in English verse,
to be, if not inconsistent with the Sublime, at least very unfavourable to it.
The constrained elegance of this kind of verse, and studied smoothness of the
sounds, answering regularly to each other at the end of the line, though they
be quite consistent with gentle emotions, yet weaken the native force of
Sublimity; besides, that the superfluous words which the poet is often obliged
to introduce, in order to fill up the rhyme, tend farther to enfeeble it. Homer’s
description of the nod of Jupiter, as shaking the heavens, has been admired, in
all ages, as highly Sublime. Literally translated, it runs thus: "He
spoke, and bending his fable brows, gave the awful nod; while he shook the
celestial locks of his immortal head, all Olympus was shaken." Mr. Pope
translates it thus: He spoke; and awful bends his fable brows, Shakes his
ambrosial curls, and gives the nod, The stamp of fate, and sanction of a God.
High Heaven with trembling the dread signal took, And all Olympus to its centre
shook.
The image is spread
out, and attempted to be beautified; but it is, in truth, weakened. The third
line--- "The stamp of [Page 69] fate, and sanction of a God," is
merely expletive; and introduced for no other reason but to fill up the rhyme;
for it interrupts the description, and clogs the image. For the same reason,
out of mere compliance with the rhyme, Jupiter is represented as shaking his
locks before he gives the nod;-- - Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the
nod," which is trifling, and without meaning. Whereas, in the original,
the hair of his head shaken, is the effect of his nod, and makes a happy
picturesque circumstance in the .
The boldness, freedom,
and variety of our blank verse, is infinitely more favourable than rhyme, to
all kinds of Sublime poetry. The fullest proof of this is afforded by Milton;
an author, whose genius led him eminently to the Sublime. The whole first and
second books of Paradise Lost, are continued instances of it. Take only, for an
example, the following noted description of Satan, after his fall, appearing at
the head of the infernal hosts: --- ---He, above the rest, In shape and gesture
proudly eminent, Stood like a tower: his form had not yet lost All her original
brightness, nor appeared Less than archangel ruined; and the excess Of glory
obscured: As when the sun, new risen, Looks through the horizontal misty air,
Shorn of his beams; or, from behind, the moon, In dim eclipse, disastrous
twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change [Page 70] Perplexes
monarchs. Darken’d so, yet shone Above them all th’ Archangel.--- Here concur a
variety of sources of the Sublime: The principal object eminently great; a high
superior nature, fallen indeed, but erecting itself against distress; the
grandeur of the principal object heightened, by associating it with so noble an
idea as that of the sun suffering an eclipse; this picture shaded with all
those images of change and trouble, of darkness and terror, which coincide so
finely with the Sublime emotion; and the whole expressed in a style and
versification, easy, natural, and simple, but magnificent.
I have spoken of
simplicitity and conciseness, as essential to Sublime Writing. In my general
description of it, I mentioned Strength, as another necessary requisite. The
Strength of description arises, in a great measure, from a simple conciseness;
but, it supposes also something more; namely, a proper choice of circumstances
in the description, so as to exhibit the object in its full and most striking
point of view. For every object has several faces, so to speak, by which it may
be presented to us, according to the circumstances with which we surround it;
and it will appear eminently Sublime, or not, in proportion as all these
circumstances are happily chosen, and of a Sublime kind. Here lies the great
art of the writer; and indeed, the great difficulty of Sublime description. If
the description be too general, and divested of circumstances, the object
appears in a faint light; it makes a feeble impression, or no impression at
all, on the reader. At the same time, if any trivial or improper circumstances
are mingled, the whole is degraded.
[Page 71]
A Storm or tempest, for
instance, is a Sublime object in nature. But, to render it Sublime in
description, it is not enough, either to give us mere general expressions
concerning the violence of the tempest, or to describe its common, vulgar
effects, in overthrowing trees and houses. It must be painted with such
circumstances as fill the mind with great and awful ideas. This is very happily
done by Virgil, in the following passage: Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte,
coruscâ Fulmina molitur dextrâ; quo maxima motu Terra tremit; fugere feræ;
& mortalia corda, Per gentes humilis stravit pavor: Ille, flagranti Aut
Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo .
Georg. I.
Every circumstance in
this noble description is the production of an imagination heated and
astonished with the grandeur of the object. If there be any defect, it is in
the words immediately [Page 72] following those I have quoted; "Ingeminant
Austri, et densissimus imber;" where the transition is made too hastily, I
am afraid, from the preceding Sublime images, to a thick shower, and the
blowing of the south wind; and shews how difficult it frequently is, to descend
with grace, without seeming to fall.
The high importance of
the rule which I have been now giving, concerning the proper choice of
circumstances, when description is meant to be Sublime, seems to me not to have
been sufficiently attended to. It has, however, such a foundation in nature, as
renders the least deflexion from it fatal. When a writer is aiming at the
beautiful only, his descriptions may have improprieties in them, and yet be
beautiful still. Some trivial, or misjudged circumstances, can be overlooked by
the reader; they make only the difference of more or less; the gay, or pleasing
emotion, which he has raised, subsists still. But the case is quite different
with the Sublime. There, one trifling circumstance, one mean idea, is
sufficient to destroy the whole charm. This is owing to the nature of the emotion
aimed at by Sublime description, which admits of no mediocrity, and cannot
subsist in a middle state; but must either highly transport us, or, if
unsuccessful in the execution, leave us greatly disgusted, and displeased. We
attempt to rise along with the writer; the imagination is awakened, and put
upon the stretch; but it requires to be supported; and if, in the midst of its
effort, you desert it unexpectedly, down it comes with a painful shock. When
Milton, in his battle of the angels, describes them as tearing up the
mountains, and throwing them at one another; there are, in his description, as
Mr. Addison [Page 73] has observed, no circumstances but what are properly
Sublime: From their foundations loos’ning to and fro, They plucked 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 war 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 circumstance, of one of his giants with the mountain Ida upon his
shoulders, and a river, which flowed from the mountain, running down along the
giant’s back, as he held it up in that posture. There is a description too in
Virgil, which, I think, is censurable, though more slightly, in this respect.
It is that of the burning mountain Ætna; a subject certainly very proper to be
worked up by a poet into a Sublime description: --- Horrificis juxta tonat Ætna
ruinis. Interdumque atram prorumpit ad æthera nubem, Turbine sumantem piceo,
& candente savilla; Attollitque globos flammarum, & fidera lambit.
Interdum scopulos, avulsaque viscera montis Erigit eructans, liquefactaque saxa
sub auras Cum gemitu glomerat, fundoque exæstuat imo .
Dryden.
ÆN.III. 571.
Here, after several
magnificent images, the Poet concludes with personifying the mountain under
this figure, "eructans [Page 74] 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 alludes to the fable of the gaint Enceladus lying under
mount Ætna; and that he supposes his motions and tossings to have occasioned
the fiery eruptions. He intended the description of a Sublime object; and the
natural ideas, raised by a burning mountain, are infinitely more lofty, than
the belchings of any giant, how huge soever. The debasing effect of the idea
which is here presented, will appear in a stronger light, by seeing what figure
it makes in a poem of Sir Richard Blackmore’s, who, through a monstrous
perversity of taste, had chosen this for the capital circumstance in his
description, and thereby (as Dr. Arbuthnot humorously observes, in his Treatise
on the Art of Sinking) had represented the mountain as in a fit of the cholic. Ætna,
and all the burning mountains find Their kindled stores with inbred storms of
wind Blown up to rage, and roaring out complain, As torn with inward gripes and
torturing pain; Labouring, they cast their dreadful vomit round, And with their
melted bowels spread the ground. [Page 75] Such instances shew how much the
Sublime depends upon a just selection of circumstances; and with how great care
every circumstance must be avoided, which, by bordering in the least upon the
mean, or even upon the gay or the trifling, alters the tone of the emotion.
If it shall now be
enquired, 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 rhetorical assistances, that we can expect to produce it. No:
it stands clear, for the most part, of these laboured resinements of art. It
must come unsought, if it come at all; and be the natural offspring of a strong
imagination. Est Deus in nobis; agitante calescimus illo. Wherever a great and
awful object is presented in nature, or a very magnanimous and exalted
affection of the human mind is displayed; thence, if you can catch the
impression strongly, and exhibit it warm and glowing, you may draw the Sublime.
These are its only proper sources. In judging of any striking beauty in
composition, whether it is, or is not, to be referred to this class, we must
attend to the nature of the emotion which it raises; and only, if it be of that
elevating, solemn, and awful kind, which distinguishes this feeling, we can
pronounce it Sublime.
From the account which
I have given of the nature of the Sublime, it clearly follows, that it is an
emotion which can never be long protracted. The mind, by no force of genius,
can be kept, for any considerable time, so far raised above its common tone;
but will, of course, relax into its ordinary situation. [Page 76] Neither are
the abilities of any human writer sufficient to supply a continued run of
unmixed Sublime conceptions. The utmost we can expect is, that this fire of
imagination should sometimes flash upon us like lightning from heaven, and then
disappear. In Homer and Milton, this effulgence of genius breaks forth more
frequently, and with greater lustre than in most authors. Shakespeare also
rises often into the true Sublime. But no author whatever is Sublime
throughout. Some, indeed, there are, who, by a strength and dignity in their
conceptions, and a current of high ideas that runs through their whole
composition, preserve the reader’s mind always in a tone nearly allied to the
Sublime; for which reason they may, in a limited sense, merit the name of
continued Sublime writers; and, in this class, we may justly place Demosthenes
and Plato.
As for what is called
the Sublime style, it is, for the most part, a very bad one; and has no
relation whatever to the real Sublime. Persons are apt to imagine, that
magnificent words, accumulated epithets, and a certain swelling kind of
expression, by rising above what is usual or vulgar, contributes to, or even
forms, the Sublime. Nothing can be more false. In all the instances of Sublime
Writing, which I have given, nothing of this kind appears. "God said, Let
there be light, and there was light." This is striking and Sublime. But
put it into what is commonly called the Sublime style: "The Sovereign
Arbiter of nature, by the potent energy of a single word, commanded the light
to exist;" and, as Boileau has well observed, the style indeed is raised,
but the thought is fallen. In general, in all good writing, the Sublime lies in
the thought, not in the words; and when the thought is truly noble, it will,
[Page 77] for the most part, clothe itself in a native dignity of language. The
Sublime, indeed, rejects mean, low, or trivial expressions; but it is equally
an enemy to such as are turgid. The main secret of being Sublime, is to say
great things in few and plain words. It will be found to hold, without
exception, that the most Sublime authors are the simplest in their style; and
wherever you find a writer, who affects a more than ordinary pomp and parade of
words, and is always endeavouring to magnify his subject by epithets, there you
may immediately suspect, that, feeble in sentiment, he is studying to support
himself by mere expression.
The same unfavourable
judgment we must pass, on all that laboured apparatus with which some writers
introduce a passage, or description, which they intend shall be Sublime;
calling on their readers to attend, invoking their Muse, or breaking forth into
general, unmeaning exclamations, concerning the greatness, terribleness, or
majesty of the object, which they are to describe. Mr. Addition, in his
Campaign, has fallen into an error of this kind, when about to describe the
battle of Blenheim. But O! my Muse! what numbers wilt thou find To sing the
furious troops in battle joined? Methinks, I hear the drum’s tumultuous sound,
The victor’s shouts, and dying groans, consound; &c. Introductions of this
kind, are a forced attempt in a writer, to spur up himself, and his reader,
when he finds his imagination flagging in vigour. It is like taking artificial
spirits in order to supply the want of such as are natural. By this observation,
however, [Page 78] I do not mean to pass a general censure on Mr. Addison’s
Campaign, which, in several places, is far from wanting merit; and in
particular, the noted comparison of his hero to the angel who rides in the
whirlwind and directs the storm, is a truly Sublime image.
The faults opposite to
the Sublime are chiefly two; the Frigid, and the Bombast. The Frigid consists,
in degrading an object, or sentiment, which is Sublime in itself, by our mean
conception of it; or by our weak, low, and childish description of it. This
betrays entire absence, or at least great poverty of genius. Of this, there are
abundance of examples, and these commented upon with much humour, in the
Treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift’s works; the instances taken
chiefly from Sir Richard Blackmore. One of these, I had occasion already to
give, in relation to mount Ætna, and it were needless to produce any more. The
Bombast lies, in forcing an ordinary or trivial object out of its rank, and
endeavouring to raise it into the Sublime; or, in attempting to exalt a Sublime
object beyond all natural and reasonable bounds. Into this error, which is but
too common, writers of genius may sometimes fall, by unluckily losing sight of
the true point of the Sublime. This is also called Fustian, or Rant.
Shakespeare, a great, but incorrect genius, is not unexceptionable here. Dryden
and Lee, in their tragedies, abound with it.
Thus far of the
Sublime; of which I have treated fully, because it is so capital an excellency
in fine writing, and because clear and precise ideas on this head are, as far
as I know, not to be met with in critical writers.
[Page 79]
Before concluding this
Lecture, there is one observation which I chuse to make at this time; I shall
make it once for all, and hope it will be afterwards remembered. It is with
respect to the instances of faults, or rather blemishes and imperfections,
which, as I have done in this Lecture, I shall hereafter continue to take, when
I can, from writers of reputation. I have not the least intention thereby to
disparage their character in the general. I shall have other occasions of doing
equal justice to their beauties. But it is no reflection on any human
performance, that it is not absolutely perfect. The task would be much easier
for me, to collect instances of faults from bad writers. But they would draw no
attention, when quoted from books which nobody reads. And I conceive, that the
method which I follow, will contribute more to make the best authors be read
with pleasure, when one properly distinguishes their beauties from their
faults; and is led to imitate and admire only what is worthy of imitation and
admiration.
[Page 80]
AS Sublimity
constitutes a particular character of composition, and forms one of the highest
excellencies of eloquence and of poetry, it was proper to treat of it at some
length. It will not be necessary to discuss so particularly all the other
pleasures that arise from Taste, as some of them have less relation to our main
subject. On Beauty only I shall make several observations, both as the subject
is curious, and as it tends to improve Taste, and to discover the foundation of
several of the graces of description and of poetry .
Beauty, next to
Sublimity, affords, beyond doubt, the highest pleasure to the imagination. The
emotion which it [Page 81] raises, is very distinguishable from that of
Sublimity. It is of a calmer kind; more gentle and soothing; does not elevate
the mind so much, but produces an agreeable serenity. Sublimity raises a
feeling, too violent, as I showed, to be lasting; the pleasure arising from
Beauty admits of longer continuance. It extends also to a much greater variety
of objects than Sublimity; to a variety indeed so great, that the feelings
which Beautiful objects produce, differ considerably, not in degree only, but
also in kind, from one another. Hence, no word in the language is used in a
more vague signification than Beauty. It is applied to almost every external object
that pleases the eye, or the ear; to a great number of the graces of writing;
to many dispositions of the mind; nay, to several objects of mere abstract
science. We talk currently of a beautiful tree or flower; a beautiful poem; a
beautiful character; and a beautiful theorem in mathematics.
Hence we may easily
perceive, that, among so great a variety of objects, to find out some one
quality in which they all agree, and which is the foundation of that agreeable
sensation they all raise, must be a very difficult, if not, more probably, a
vain attempt. Objects, denominated Beautiful, are so different, as to please,
not in virtue of any one quality common to them all, but by means of several
different principles in human nature. The agreeable emotion which they all
raise, is somewhat of the same nature; and, therefore, has the common name of
Beauty given to it; but it is raised by different causes.
Hypotheses, however,
have been framed by ingenious men, for assigning the fundamental quality of
Beauty in all [Page 82] objects. In particular, Uniformity amidst Variety, has
been insisted on as this fundamental quality. For the Beauty of many figures, I
admit that this accounts in a satisfying manner. But when we endeavour to apply
this principle to Beautiful objects of some other kind, as to Colour for
instance, or Motion, we shall soon find that it has no place. And even in
external figured objects, it does not hold, that their Beauty is in proportion
to their mixture of Variety with Uniformity; seeing many please us as highly
beautiful, which have almost no variety at all; and others, which are various
to a degree of intricacy. Laying systems of this kind, therefore, aside, what I
now propose is, to give an enumeration of several of those classes of objects
in which Beauty most remarkably appears; and to point out, as far as I can, the
separate principles of Beauty in each of them.
Colour affords, perhaps,
the simplest instance of Beauty, and therefore the fittest to begin with. Here,
neither Variety, nor Uniformity, nor any other principle that I know, can be
assigned, as the foundation of Beauty. We can refer it to no other cause but
the structure of the eye, which determines us to receive certain modifications
of the rays of light with more pleasure than others. And we see accordingly,
that, as the organ of sensation varies in different persons, they have their
different favourite colours. It is probable, that association of ideas has
influence, in some cases, on the pleasure which we receive from colours. Green,
for instance, may appear more beautiful, by being connected in our ideas with
rural prospects and scenes; white, with innocence; blue, with the serenity of
the sky. Independent of associations of this kind, all that we [Page 83] can
farther observe concerning colours is, that those chosen for Beauty are,
generally, delicate, rather than glaring. Such are those paintings with which
nature hath ornamented some of her works, and which art strives in vain to
imitate; as the feathers of several kinds of birds, the leaves of flowers, and
the fine variation of colours exhibited by the sky at the rising and setting of
the sun. These present to us the highest instances of the Beauty of colouring;
and have accordingly been the favourite subjects of poetical description in all
countries.
From Colour we proceed
to Figure, which opens to us forms of Beauty more complex and diversified.
Regularity first occurs to be noticed as a source of Beauty. By a regular
figure, is meant, one which we perceive to be formed according to some certain
rule, and not left arbitrary, or loose, in the construction of its parts. Thus,
a circle, a square, a triangle, or a hexagon, please the eye, by their
regularity, as beautiful figures. We must not, however, conclude, that all
figures please in proportion to their regularity; or that regularity is the
sole, or the chief, foundation of Beauty in figure. On the contrary, a certain
graceful variety is found to be a much more powerful principle of Beauty; and
is therefore studied a great deal more than regularity, in all works that are
designed merely to please the eye. I am, indeed, inclined to think, that
regularity appears beautiful to us, chiefly, if not only, on account of its
suggesting the ideas of fitness, propriety, and use, which have always a
greater connection with orderly and proportioned forms, than with those which
appear not constructed according to any certain rule. It is clear, that nature,
who is undoubtedly the most graceful artist, hath, in [Page 84] all her
ornamental works, pursued variety, with an apparent neglect of regularity.
Cabinets, doors, and windows, are made after a regular form, in cubes and
parallelograms, with exact proportion of parts; and by being so formed they
please the eye; for this good reason, that, being works of use, they are, by
such figures, the better suited to the ends for which they were designed. But
plants, flowers, and leaves are full of variety and diversity. A straight canal
is an insipid figure, in comparison of the mæanders of rivers. Cones and
pyramids are beautiful; but trees growing in their natural wildness, are
infinitely more beautiful than when trimmed into pyramids and cones. The
apartments of a house must be regular in their disposition, for the conveniency
of its inhabitants; but a garden, which is designed merely for Beauty, would be
exceedingly disgusting, if it had as much uniformity and order in its parts as
a dwelling-house.
Mr. Hogarth, in his
Analysis of Beauty, has observed, that figures bounded by curve lines are, in
general, more beautiful than those bounded by straight lines and angles. He
pitches upon two lines, on which, according to him, the Beauty of figure principally
depends; and he has illustrated, and supported his doctrine, by a surprising
number of instances. The one is the Waving Line, or a curve bending backwards
and forwards, somewhat in the form of the letter S. This he calls the Line of
Beauty; and shews how often it is found in shells, flowers, and such other
ornamental works of nature; as is common also in the figures designed by
painters and sculptors, for the purpose of decoration. The other Line, which he
calls the Line of Grace, is the former waving curve, twisted round [Page 85]
some solid body. The curling worm of a common jack is one of the instances he
gives of it. Twisted pillars, and twisted horns, also exhibit it. In all the
instances which he mentions, Variety plainly appears to be so material a
principle of Beauty, that he seems not to err much when he defines the art of
drawing pleasing forms, to be the art of varying well. For the curve line, so
much the favourite of painters, derives, according to him, its chief advantage,
from its perpetual bending and variation from the stiff regularity of the
straight line.
Motion furnishes
another source of Beauty, distinct from Figure. Motion of itself is pleasing;
and bodies in motion are, "cæteris paribus," preferred to those in
rest. It is, however, only gentle motion that belongs to the Beautiful; for
when it is very swift, or very forcible, such as that of a torrent, it partakes
of the Sublime. The motion of a bird gliding through the air, is extremely
Beautiful; the swiftness with which lightning darts through the heavens, is
magnificent and astonishing. And here, it is proper to observe, that the
sensations of Sublime and Beauful are not always distinguished by very distant
boundaries; but are capable, in several instances, of approaching towards each
other. Thus, a smooth running stream, is one of the most beautiful objects in
nature: as it swells gradually into a great river, the beautiful, by degrees,
is lost in the Sublime. A young tree is a beautiful object’s a spreading
antient oak, is a venerable and a grand one. The calmness of a fine morning is
beautiful; the universal stillness of the evening is highly Sublime. But to
return to the Beauty of motion, it will be found, I think, to hold very
generally, that motion in a straight line is not so beautiful as in an
undulating waving direction; and motion [Page 86] upwards is, commonly too,
more agreeable than motion downwards. The easy curling motion of flame and
smoke to be instanced, as an object singularly agreeable: and here Mr. Hogarth’s
waving line recurs upon us as a principle of Beauty. That artist observes very
ingeniously, that all the common and necessary motions for the business of
life, are performed by men in straight or plain lines; but that all the
graceful and ornamental movements are made in waving lines: an observation not
unworthy of being attended to, by all who study the grace of gesture and
action.
Though Colour, Figure,
and Motion, be separate principles of Beauty; yet in many beautiful objects
they all meet, and thereby render the Beauty both greater, and more complex.
Thus, in flowers, trees, animals, we are entertained at once with the delicacy
of the colour, with the gracefulness of the figure, and sometimes also with the
motion of the object. Although each of these produce a separate agreeable
sensation, yet they are of such a similiar nature, as readily to mix and blend
in one general perception of Beauty, which we ascribe to the whole object as
its cause: For Beauty is always conceived by us, as something residing in the
object which raises the pleasant sensation; a sort of glory which dwells upon,
and invests it. Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful objects that
can any where be found, is presented by a rich natural landscape, where there
is a sufficient variety of objects: fields in verdure, scattered trees and
flowers, running water, and animals grazing. If to these be joined, some of the
productions of art, which suit such a scene; as a bridge with arches over a
river, smoke rising from cottages in the midst of trees, and the distant [Page
87] view of a fine building seen by the rising sun; we then enjoy, in the
highest perfection, that gay, cheerful, and placid sensation which
characterises Beauty. To have an eye and a taste formed for catching the peculiar
Beauties of such scenes as these, is a necessary requisite for all who attempt
poetical description.
The Beauty of the human
countenance is more complex than any that we have yet considered. It includes
the Beauty of colour, arising from the delicate shades of the complexion; and
the Beauty of figure, arising from the lines which form the different features
of the face. But the chief Beauty of the countenance depends upon a mysterious
expression, which it conveys of the qualities of the mind; of good sense, or
good humour; of sprightliness, candour, benevolence, sensibility, or other
amiable dispositions. How it comes to pass, that a certain conformation of
features is connected in our idea with certain moral qualities; whether we are
taught by instinct, or by experience, to form this connection, and to read the
mind in the countenance; belongs not to us now to enquire, nor is indeed easy
to resolve. The fact is certain, and acknowledged, that what gives the human
countenance its most distinguishing Beauty, is what is called its expression;
or an image, which it is conceived to shew of internal moral dispositions.
This leads us to
observe, that there are certain qualities of the mind which, whether expressed
in the countenance, or by words, or by actions, always raise in us a feeling
similar to that of Beauty. There are two great classes of moral qualities; one
is of the high and great virtues, which require extraordinary efforts, and turn
upon dangers and sufferings; as [Page 88] heroism, magnanimity, contempt of
pleasures, and contempt of death. These, as I have observed in a former
Lecture, excite in the spectator an emotion of Sublimity and Grandeur. The
other class is generally of the social virtues, and such as are of a softer and
gentler kind; as compassion, mildness, friendship, and generosity. These raise
in the beholder a sensation of pleasure, so much akin to that produced by
Beautiful external objects, that, though of a more dignified nature, it may,
without impropriety, be classed under the same head.
A species of Beauty,
distinct from any I have yet mentioned, arises from design or art; or, in other
words, from the perception of means being adapted to an end; or the parts of
any thing being well fitted to answer the design of the whole. When, in
considering the structure of a tree or a plant, we observe, how all the parts,
the roots, the stem, the bark, and the leaves, are suited to the growth and
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
formerly mentioned. When I look at a watch, for instance, the case of it, if
finely engraved, and of curious workmanship, strikes me as beautiful in the
former sense; bright colour, exquisite polish, figures finely raised and
turned. But when I examine the construction of the spring and the wheels, and
praise the Beauty of the internal machinery; my pleasure then arises wholly
from the view of that admirable [Page 89] 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 influence over many of our ideas. It is
the foundation of the Beauty which we discover in the proportion of doors,
windows, arches, pillars, and all the orders of architecture. Let the ornaments
of a building be ever so fine and elegant in themselves, yet if they interfere
with this sense of fitness and design, they lose their Beauty, and hurt the
eye, like disagreeable objects. Twisted columns, for instance, are undoubtedly
ornamental; but as they have an appearance of weakness, they always displease
when they are made use of to support any part of a building that is massy, and
that seemed to require a more substantial prop. We cannot look upon any work
whatever, without being led, by a natural association of ideas, to think of its
end and design, and of course to examine the propriety of its parts, in
relation to this design and end. When their propriety is clearly discerned, the
work seems always to have some Beauty; but when there is a total want of
propriety, it never fails of appearing deformed. Our sense of fitness and
design, therefore, is so powerful, and holds so high a rank among our
perceptions, as to regulate, in a great measure, our other ideas of Beauty: An
observation which I the rather make, as it is of the utmost importance, that
all who study composition should carefully attend to it. For, in an epic poem,
a history, an oration, or any work of genius, we always require, as we do in
other works, a fitness, or adjustment of means, to the end which the author is
supposed to have in view. Let his descriptions be ever so rich, or his figures
ever so elegant, yet, if they [Page 90] 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 discourse; a term commonly used in a sense
altogether loose and undetermined. For it is applied to all that pleases,
either in style or in sentiment, from whatever principle that pleasure flows;
and a Beautiful poem or oration means, in common language, no other than a good
one, or one well composed. In this sense, it is plain, the word is altogether
indefinite, and points at no particular species or kind of Beauty. There is,
however, another sense, somewhat more definite, in which Beauty of writing
characterises a particular manner; when it is used to signify a certain grace
and amænity in the turn either of style or sentiment, for which some authors
have been peculiarly distinguished. In this sense, it denotes a manner neither
remarkably sublime, nor vehemently passionate, nor uncommonly sparkling; but
such as raises in the reader an emotion of the gentle placid kind, similar to
what is raised by the contemplation of beautiful objects in nature; which
neither lifts the mind very high, nor agitates it very much, but diffuses over
the imagination an agreeable and pleasing serenity. Mr. Addison is a writer
altogether of this character; and is one of the most proper and precise
examples that can be given of it. Fenelon, the author of the Adventures of
Telemachus, may be [Page 91] given as another example. Virgil too, though very
capable of rising on occasions into the Sublime, yet, in his general manner, is
distinguished by the character of Beauty and Grace rather than of Sublimity.
Among orators, Cicero has more of the Beautiful than Demosthenes, whose genius
led him wholly towards vehemence and strength.
This much it is
sufficient to have said upon the subject of Beauty. We have traced it through a
variety of forms; as next to Sublimity, it is the most copious source of the
Pleasures of Taste; and as the consideration of the different appearances, and
principles of Beauty, tends to the improvement of Taste in many subjects.
But it is not only by
appearing under the forms of Sublime or Beautiful, that objects delight the
imagination. From several other principles also, they derive their power of
giving it pleasure.
Novelty, for instance,
has been mentioned by Mr. Addison, and by every writer on this subject. An
object which has no merit to recommend it, except its being uncommon or new, by
means of this quality alone, produces in the mind a vivid and an agreeable emotion.
Hence that passion of curiosity, which prevails so generally among mankind.
Objects and ideas which have been long samiliar, make to saint an impression to
give an agreeable exercise to our faculties. New and strange objects rouse the
mind from its dormant state, by giving it a quick and pleasing impulse. Hence,
in a great measure, the entertainment afforded us by fiction and romance. The
[Page 92] 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 Pleasure to Taste. This gives rise to what Mr.
Addison terms, the Secondary Pleasures of Imagination; which form, doubtless, a
very extensive class. For all Imitation affords some pleasure; not only the
Imitation of beautiful or great objects, by recalling the original ideas of
Beauty or Grandeur which such objects themselves exhibited; but even objects
which have neither Beauty nor Grandeur, nay, some which are terrible or
deformed, please us in a secondary or represented view.
The Pleasures of Melody
and Harmony belong also to Taste. There is no agreeable sensation we receive,
either from Beauty or Sublimity, but what is capable of being heightened by the
power of musical sound. Whence 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 to 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 principles; it is time now to make the application
to our chief subject. If the question be put, To what class of those Pleasures
of Taste which I have enumerated, that Pleasure is [Page 93] to be referred,
which we receive from poetry, eloquence, or fine writing? My answer is, Not to
any one, but to them all. This singular advantage, writing and discourse
possess, that they encompass so large and rich a field on all sides, and have
power to exhibit, in great perfection, not a single set of objects only, but
almost the whole of those which give Pleasure to Taste and Imagination; whether
that Pleasure arise from Sublimity, from Beauty in its different forms, from
Design and Art, from Moral Sentiment, from Novelty, from Harmony, from Wit,
Humour and Ridicule. To whichsoever of these the peculiar bent of a person’s
Taste lies, from some writer or other, he has it always in his power to receive
the gratification of it.
Now this high power
which eloquence and poetry possess, of supplying Taste and Imagination with
such a wide circle of pleasures, they derive altogether from their having a
greater capacity of Imitation and Description than is possessed by any other
art. Of all the means which human ingenuity has contrived for recalling the
images of real objects, and awakening, by representation, similar emotions to
those which are raised by the original, none is so full and extensive as that
which is executed by words and writing. Through the assistance of this happy
invention, there is nothing, either in the natural or moral world, but what can
be represented and set before the mind, in colours very strong and lively.
Hence it is usual among critical writers, to speak of Discourse as the chief of
all the imitative or mimetic arts; they compare it with painting and with
sculpture, and in many respects prefer it justly before them.
[Page 94]
This style was first
introduced by Aristotle in his Poetics; and since his time, has acquired a
general currency among modern authors. But, as it is of consequence to
introduce as much precision as possible into critical language, I must observe,
that this manner of speaking is not accurate. Neither discourse in general, nor
poetry in particular, can be called altogether imitative arts. We must
distinguish betwixt Imitation and Description, which are ideas that should not
be confounded. Imitation is performed by means of somewhat that has a natural
likeness and resemblance to the thing imitated, and of consequence is
understood by all; such are statues and pictures. Description, again, is the
raising in the mind the conception of an object by means of some arbitrary or
instituted symbols, understood only by those who agree in the institution of
them; such are words and writing. Words have no natural resemblance to the
ideas or objects which they are employed to signify; but a statue or a picture
has a natural likeness to the original. And therefore Imitation and Description
differ considerably in their nature from each other.
As far, indeed, as a
poet or a historian introduces into his work persons actually speaking; and, by
the words which he puts into their mouths, represents the discourse which they
might be supposed to hold; so far his art may more accurately be called
Imitative: and this is the case in all dramatic composition. But in Narrative
or Descriptive works, it can with no propriety be called so. Who, for instance,
would call Virgil’s Description of a tempest, in the first Æneid, an Imitation
of a storm? If we heard of the Imitation of a battle, we might naturally think
of some mock fight, or representation of a battle [Page 95] 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
.
[Page 96]
Whether we consider
Poetry in particular, and Discourse in general, as Imitative or Descriptive; it
is evident, that their whole power, 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
enquiries, begin at this fountain head. I shall, therefore, in the next
Lecture, enter upon the consideration of Language: of the origin, the progress,
and construction of which, I purpose to treat at some length.
[Page 97]
HAVING finished my
observations on the Pleasures of Taste, which were meant to be introductory to
the principal subject of these Lectures, I now begin to treat of Language;
which is the foundation of the whole power of eloquence. This will lead to a
considerable discussion; and there are few subjects belonging to polite
literature, which more merit such a discussion. I shall first give a History of
the Rise and Progress of Language in several particulars, from its early to its
more advanced periods; which shall be followed by a similar History of the Rise
and Progress of Writing . I shall next give some account of the Construction of
Language , or the Principles of Universal Grammar; and shall , lastly , apply
these observations more particularly to the English Tongue
[Page 98]
Language, in general ,
signifies the expression of our ideas by certain articulate sounds, which are
used as the signs of those ideas. By articulate sounds, are meant those
modulations ofsimple voice, or of sound emitted from the thorax, which are
formed by means of the mouth and its several organs, the teeth, the tongue, the
lips, and the palate. How far there is any natural connexion between the ideas
of the mind and the sounds emitted, will appear from what I am afterwards to
offer. But as the natural connexion can, upon any system, affect only a small
part of the fabric of Language; the connexion between words and ideas may, in
general, be considered as arbitrary and conventional, owing to the agreement of
men among themselves; the clear proof of which is, that different nations have
different Languages, or a different set of articulate sounds, which they have
chosen for communicating theirideas.
This artificial method
of communicating thought, we now behold carried to the highest perfection.
Language is become avehicle by which the most delicate and refined emotions of
one mind can be transmitted, or, if we may so speak, transfused into another.
Not only are names given to all objects around us, by which means an easy and
speedy intercourse is carried [Page 99] on for providing the necessaries of
life, but all the relations and differences among these objects are minutely
marked, the invisible sentiments of the mind are described, the most abstract
notions and conceptions are rendered intelligible; and all the ideas which
science can discover, or imagination create, are known by their proper names.
Nay, Language has been carried so far, as to be made an instrument of the most
refined luxury. Not resting in mere perspicuity, we require ornament also; not satisfied
with having the conceptions of others made known to us, we make a farther
demand, to have them so decked and adorned as to entertain our fancy; and this
demand, it is found very possible to gratify. In this state, we now find
Language. In this state, it has been found among many nations for some thousand
years. The object is become familiar; and, like the expanse of the firmament,
and other great objects, which we are accustomed to behold, we behold it
without wonder.
But carry your thoughts
back to the first dawn of Language among men. Reflect upon the feeble
beginnings from which it must have arisen, and upon the many and great
obstacles which it must have encountered in its progress; and you will find
reason for the highest astonishment, on viewing the height which it has now
attained. We admire several of the inventions of art; we plume ourselves on
some discoveries which have been made in latter ages, serving to advance
knowledge, and to render life comfortable; we speak of them as the boast of human
reason. But certainly no invention is entitled to any such degree of admiration
as that of Language; which, too, [Page 100] must have been the product of the
first and rudest ages, if indeed it can be considered as a human invention at
all.
Think of the
circumstances of mankind when Languages began to be formed. They were a
wandering scattered race; no society among them except families; and the family
society too very imperfect, as their method of living by hunting or pasturage
must have separated them frequently from one another. In this situation, when
so much divided, and their intercourse so rare, How could any one set of
sounds, or words, be generally agreed on as the signs of their ideas? Supposing
that a few, whom chance or necessity threw together, agreed by some means upon
certain signs, yet by what authority could these be propagated among other
tribes or families, so as to spread and grow up into a Language? One would
think, that in order to any Language fixing and extending itself, men must have
been previously gathered together in considerable numbers; society must have
been already far advanced; and yet, on the other hand, there seems to have been
an absolute necessity for Speech, previous to the formation of Society. For, by
what bond could any multitude of men be kept together, or be made to join in
the prosecution of any common interest, until once, by the intervention of
Speech, they could communicate their wants and intentions to each other? So
that, either how Society could form itself, previously to Language; or how
words could rise into a Language, previously to Society formed, seem to be
points attended with equal difficulty. And when we consider farther, that
curious analogy which prevails in the construction of almost all Languages, and
that deep and subtile logic on which they are founded, difficulties increase so
much [Page 101] upon us, on all hands, that there seems to be no small reason
for referring the first origin of all Language to divine teaching or
inspiration.
But supposing Language
to have a Divine original, we cannot, however, suppose, that a perfect system
of it was all at once given to man. It is much more natural to think, that God
taught our first parents only such Language as suited their present occasions;
leaving them, as he did in other things, to enlarge and improve it as their
future necessities should require. Consequently, those first rudiments of
Speech must have been poor and narrow; and we are at full liberty to enquire in
what manner, and by what steps, Language advanced to the state in which we now
find it. The history which I am to give of this progress, will suggest several
things, both curious in themselves, and useful in our future disquisitions.
If we should suppose a
period before any words were invented or known, it is clear, that men could
have no other method of communicating to others what they felt, than by the
cries of passion, accompanied with such motions and gestures as were farther
expressive of passion. For these are the only signs which nature teaches all
men, and which are understood by all. One who saw another going into some place
where he himself had been frightened, or exposed to danger, and who sought to
warn his neighbour of the danger, could contrive no other way of doing so, than
by uttering those cries, and making those gestures, which are the signs of
fear: just as two men, at this day, would endeavour to make themselves be
understood by each other, who should be thrown together on a [Page 102]
desolate island, ignorant of one another’s Language. Those exclamations,
therefore, which by Grammarians are called Interjections, uttered in a strong
and passionate manner, were, beyond doubt, the first elements or beginnings of
Speech.
When more enlarged
communication became necessary, and names began to be assigned to objects, in
what manner can we suppose men to have proceeded in this assignation of names,
or invention of words? Undoubtedly, by imitating, as much as they could, the
nature of the object which they named, by the sound of the name which they gave
to it. As a Painter, who would represent grass, must employ a green colour; so,
in the beginnings of Language, one giving a name to any thing harsh or
boisterous, would of course employ a harsh or boisterous sound. He could not do
otherwise, if he meant to excite in the hearer the idea of that thing which he
sought to name. To suppose words invented, or names given, to things, in a
manner purely arbitrary, without any ground or reason, is to suppose an effect
without a cause. There must have always been some motive which led to the
assignation of one name rather than another; and we can conceive no motive
which would more universally operate upon men in their first efforts towards
Language, than a desire to paint by Speech, the objects which they named, in a
manner more or less complete, according as the vocal organs had it in their
power to effect this imitation.
Wherever objects were
to be named, in which sound, noise, or motion were concerned, the imitation by
words was abundantly obvious. Nothing was more natural, than to imitate, by the
sound of the voice, the quality of the sound or noise which [Page 103] any
external object made; and to form its name accordingly. Thus, in all Languages,
we find a multitude of words that are evidently constructed upon this
principle. A certain bird is termed the Cuckoo, from the sound which it emits.
When one sort of wind is said to whistle, and another to roar; when a serpent
is said to hiss; a fly to buz, and falling timber to crash; when a stream is
said to flow, and hail to rattle; the analogy between the word and the thing
signified is plainly discernible.
In the names of objects
which address the sight only, where neither noise nor motion are concerned, and
still more in the terms appropriated to moral ideas, this analogy appears to
fail. Many learned men, however, have been of opinion, that though, in such
cases, it becomes more obscure, yet it is not altogether lost; but that
throughout the radical words of all Languages, there may be traced some degree
of correspondence with the object signified. With regard to moral and
intellectual ideas, they remark, that, in every Language, the terms significant
of them, are derived from the names of sensible objects to which they are
conceived to be analogous; and with regard to sensible objects pertaining
merely to sight, they remark, that their most distinguishing qualities have
certain radical sounds appropriated to the expression of them, in a great
variety of Languages. Stability, for instance, fluidity, hollowness,
smoothness, gentleness, violence, &c. they imagine to be painted by the
sound of certain letters or syllables, which have some relation to those
different states of visible objects, on account of an obscure resemblance which
the organs of voice are capable of assuming to such external qualities. By this
natural [Page 104] mechanism, they imagine all Languages to have been at first
constructed, and the roots of their capital words .
As far as this system
is founded in truth, Language appears to be not altogether arbitrary in its
origin. Among the ancient Stoic and Platonic Philosophers, it was a question
much agitated, [Page 105] "Utrum nomina rerum sint naturâ, an
impositione?" SPECIAL_IMAGE-phgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-thgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME iacgr; by which they meant, Whether words were
merely conventional symbols; of the rise of which no account could be given,
except the pleasure of the first inventors of Language? or, Whether there was
some principle in nature that led to the assignation of particular names to
particular objects; and those of the Platonic school favoured the latter
This principle,
however, of a natural relation between words and objects, can only be applied
to Language in its most simple and primitive state. Though, in every Tongue, some
remains of it, as I have shown above, can be traced, it were utterly in vain to
search for it throughout the whole construction of any modern Language. As the
multitude of terms increase in every nation, and the immense field of Language
is filled up, words, by a thousand fanciful and irregular methods of derivation
and composition, come to deviate widely from the [Page 106] primitive character
of their roots, and to lose all analogy or resemblance in sound to the things
signified. In this state we now find Language. Words, as we now employ them,
taken in the general, may be considered as symbols, not as imitations; as
arbitrary, or instituted, not natural signs of ideas. But there can be no
doubt, I think, that Language, the nearer we remount to its rise among men,
will be found to partake more of a natural expression. As it could be
originally formed on nothing but imitation, it would, in its primitive state,
be more picturesque; much more barren indeed, and narrow in the circle of its
terms, than now; but so far as it went, more expressive by sound of the thing
signified. This, then, may be assumed as one character of the first state, or
beginnings, of Language, among every savage tribe.
A second character of
Language, in its early state, is drawn from the manner in which words were at
first pronounced, or uttered, by men. Interjections, I showed, or passionate
exclamations, were the first elements of Speech. Men laboured to communicate
their feelings to one another, by those expressive cries and gestures which
nature taught them. After words, or names of objects, began to be invented,
this mode of speaking, by natural signs, could not be all at once disused. For
Language, in its infancy, must have been extremely barren; and there certainly
was a period, among all rude nations, when conversation was carried on by a
very few words, intermixed with many exclamations and earnest gestures. The
small stock of words which men as yet possessed, rendered those helps
absolutely necessary for explaining their conceptions; and rude, uncultivated
men, not having always at hand even [Page 107] the few words which they knew,
would naturally labour to make themselves understood, by varying their tones of
voice, and accompanying their tones with the most significant gesticulations
they could make. At this day, when persons attempt to speak in any Language
which they possess imperfectly, they have recourse to all these supplemental
methods, in order to render themselves more intelligible. The plan too,
according to which I have shown, that Language was originally constructed, upon
resemblance or analogy, as far as was possible, to the thing signified, would
naturally lead men to utter their words with more emphasis and force, as long
as Language was a sort of painting by means of sound. For all those reasons
this may be assumed as a principle, that the pronunciation of the earliest
Languages was accompanied with more gesticulation, and with more and greater
inflexions of voice, than what we now use; there was more action in it; and it
was more upon a crying or singing tone.
To this manner of
speaking, necessity first gave rise. But we must observe, that, after this
necessity had, in a great measure, ceased, by Language becoming, in process of
time, more extensive and copious, the antient manner of Speech still subsisted
among many nations; and what had arisen from necessity, continued to be used
for ornament. Wherever there was much fire and vivacity in the genius of
nations, they were naturally inclined to a mode of conversation which gratified
the imagination so much; for, an imagination which is warm, is always prone to
throw both a great deal of action, and a variety of tones, into discourse. Upon
this principle, Dr. [Page 108] Warburton accounts for so much speaking by action,
as we find among the Old Testament Prophets; as when Jeremiah breaks the potter’s
vessel, in sight of the people; throws a book into the Euphrates; puts on bonds
and yokes; and carries out his household stuff; all which, he imagines, might
be significant modes of expression, very natural in those ages, when men were
accustomed to explain themselves so much by actions and gestures. In like
manner, among the Northern American tribes, certain motions and actions were
found to be much used as explantory of their meaning, on all their great
occasions of intercourse with each other; and by the belts and strings of
wampum, which they gave and received, they were accustomed to declare their
meaning, as much as by their discourses.
With regard to
inflexions of voice, these are so natural, that, to some nations, it has
appeared easier to express different ideas, by varying the tone with which they
pronounced the same word, than to contrive words for all their ideas. This is
the practice of the Chinese in particular. The number of words in their
Language is said not to be great; but, in speaking, they vary each of their
words on no less than five different tones, by which they make the same word
signify five different things. This must give a great appearance of music or
singing to their Speech. For those inflexions of voice which, in the infancy of
Language, were no more than harsh or dissonant cries, must, as Language
gradually polishes, pass into more smooth and musical sounds: and hence is
formed, what we call, the Prosody of a Language.
[Page 109]
It is remarkable, and
deserves attention, that, both in the Greek and Roman Languages, this musical
and gesticulating pronunciation was retained in a very high degree. Without
having attended to this, we will be at a loss in understanding several passages
of the Classics, which relate to the public speaking, and the theatrical
entertainments, of the antients. It appears, from many circumstances, that the
prosody both of the Greeks and Romans, was carried much farther than ours; or
that they spoke with more, and stronger, inflexions of voice than we use. The
quantity of their syllables was much more fixed than in any of the modern
Languages, and rendered much more sensible to the ear in pronouncing them.
Besides quantities, or the difference of short and long, accents were placed
upon most of their syllables, the acute, grave, and circumflex; the use of
which accents we have now entirely lost, but which, we know, determined the
speaker’s voice to rise or fall. Our modern pronunciation must have appeared to
them a lifeless monotony. The declamation of their orators, and the
pronunciation of their actors upon the stage, approached to the nature of
recitative in music; was capable of being marked in notes, and supported with
instruments; as several learned men have fully proved. And if this was the
case, as they have shown, among the Romans, the Greeks, it is well known, were
still a more musical people than the Romans, and carried their attention to
tone and pronunciation much farther in every public exhibition. Aristotle, in
his Poëtics, considers the music of Tragedy as one of its chief and most
essential parts.
The case was parallel
with regard to gestures: for strong tones, and animated gestures, we may
observe, always go together. [Page 110] Action is treated of by all the antient
critics, as the chief quality in every public speaker. The action, both of the
orators and the players in Greece and Rome, was far more vehement than what we
are accustomed to. Roscius would have seemed a madman to us. Gesture was of
such consequence upon the antient stage, that there is reason for believing,
that, on some occasions, the speaking and the acting part were divided, which,
according to our ideas, would form a strange exhibition; one player spoke the
words in the proper tones, while another performed the corresponding motions
and gestures. We learn from Cicero, that it was a contest between him and
Roscius, whether he could express a sentiment in a greater variety of phrases,
or Roscius in a greater variety of intelligible significant gestures. At last,
gesture came to engross the stage wholly; for, under the reigns of Augustus and
Tiberius, the favourite entertainment of the Public was the pantomime, which
was carried on entirely by mute gesticulation. The people were moved, and wept
at it, as much as at tragedies; and the passion for it became so strong, that
laws were obliged to be made, for restraining the Senators from studying the
pantomime art. Now, though in declamations and theatrical exhibitions, both
tone and gesture were, doubtless, carried much farther than in common
discourse; yet public speaking, of any kind, must, in every country, bear some
proportion to the manner that is used in conversation; and such public entertainments
as I have now mentioned, could never have been relished by a nation, whose
tones and gestures, in discourse, were as languid as ours.
[Page 111]
When the Barbarians
spread themselves over the Roman Empire, these more phlegmatic nations did not
retain the accents, the tones and gestures, which necessity at first
introduced, and custom and fancy afterwards so long supported, in the Greek and
Roman Languages. As the Latin Tongue was lost in their idioms, so the character
of speech and pronunciation began to be changed throughout Europe. Nothing of
the same attention was paid to the music of Language, or to the pomp of
declamation, and theatrical action. Both conversation and public speaking
became more simple and plain; such as we now find it; without that enthusiastic
mixture of tones and gestures, which distinguished the antient nations. At the
restoration of letters, the genius of Language was so much altered, and the
manners of the people become so different, that it was no easy matter to understand
what the Antients had said, concerning their declamations and public
spectacles. Our plain manner of speaking, in these northern countries;
expresses the passions with sufficient energy, to move those who are not
accustomed to any more vehement manner. But, undoubtedly, more varied tones,
and more animated motions, carry a natural expression of warmer feelings.
Accordingly, in different modern Languages, the prosody of Speech partakes more
of music, in proportion to the liveliness and sensibility of the people. A
Frenchman both varies his accents, and gesticulates while he speaks, much more
than an Englishman. An Italian, a great deal more than either. Musical
pronunciation and expressive gesture are, to this day, the distinction of
Italy.
From the pronunciation
of Language, let us proceed, in the third place, to consider of the Style of
Language in its most [Page 112] early state, and of its progress in this
respect also. As the manner in which men at first uttered their words, and
maintained conversation, was strong and expressive, enforcing their imperfectly
expressed ideas by cries and gestures; so the Language which they used, could
be no other than full of figures and metaphors, not correct indeed, but
forcible and picturesque.
We are apt, upon a superficial
view, to imagine, that those modes of expression which are called Figures of
Speech, are among the chief refinements of Speech, not invented till after
Language had advanced to its later periods, and mankind were brought into a
polished state; and that, then, they were devised by Orators and Rhetoricians.
The quite contrary of this is the truth. Mankind never employed so many figures
of Speech, as when they had hardly any words for expressing their meaning.
For first, the want of
proper names for every object, obliged them to use one name for many; and, of
course, to express themselves by comparisons, metaphors, allusions, and all
those substituted forms of Speech which render Language figurative. Next, as
the objects with which they were most conversant, were the sensible, material
objects around them, names would be given to those objects long before words
were invented for signifying the dispositions of the mind, or any sort of moral
and intellectual ideas. Hence, the early Language of men being entirely made up
of words descriptive of sensible objects, it became, of necessity, extremely
metaphorical. For, to signify any desire or passion, or any act or feeling of
the [Page 113] mind, they had no precise expression which was appropriated to
that purpose, but were under a necessity of painting the emotion, or passion,
which they felt, by allusion to those sensible objects which had most relation
to it, and which could render it, in some sort, visible to others.
But it was not
necessity alone, that gave rise to this figured style. Other circumstances
also, at the commencement of Language, contributed to it. In the infancy of all
societies, men are much under the dominion of imagination and passion. They
live scattered and dispersed; they are unacquainted with the course of things;
they are, every day, meeting with new and strange objects. Fear and surprise,
wonder and astonishment, are their most frequent passions. Their Language will
necessarily partake of this character of their minds. They will be prone to
exaggeration and hyperbole. They will be given to describe every thing with the
strongest colours, and most vehement expressions; infinitely more than men
living in the advanced and cultivated periods of Society, when their
imagination is more chastened, their passions are more tamed, and a wider
experience has rendered the objects of life more familiar to them. Even the
manner in which I before showed that the first tribes of men uttered their
words, would have considerable influence on their style. Wherever strong
exclamations, tones, and gestures, enter much into conversation, the
imagination is always more exercised; a greater effort of fancy and passion is
excited. Consequently, the fancy kept awake, and rendered more sprightly by
this mode of utterance, operates upon style, and enlivens it more.
[Page 114]
These reasonings are
confirmed by undoubted facts. The style of all the most early Languages, among
nations who are in the first and rude periods of Society, is found, without
exception, to be full of figures; hyperbolical and picturesque in a high
degree. We have a striking instance of this in the American Languages, which
are known, by the most authentic accounts, to be figurative to excess. The
Iroquois and Illinois, carry on their treaties and public transactions with
bolder metaphors, and greater pomp of style, than we use in our poetical
productions.
Another remarkable
instance is, the style of the Old Testament, which is carried on by constant
allusions to sensible [Page 115] objects. Iniquity, or guilt, is expressed by
"a spotted garment;" misery, by "drinking the cup of
astonishment;" vain pursuits, by "feeding on ashes;" a sinful
life, by "a crooked path;" prosperity, by "the candle of the
Lord shining on our head;" and the like, in innumerable instances. Hence,
we have been accustomed to call this sort of style, the Oriental Style; as
fancying it to be peculiar to the nations of the East: Whereas, from the
American Style, and from many other instances, it plainly appears not to have
been peculiar to any one region or climate; but to have been common to all
nations, in certain periods of Society and Language.
Hence, we may receive
some light concerning that seeming paradox, that Poetry is more antient than
Prose. I shall have occasion to discuss this point fully hereafter, when I come
to treat of the Nature and Origin of Poetry. At present, it is sufficient to
observe, that, from what has been said it plainly appears, that the style of
all Language must have been originally poetical; strongly tinctured with that
enthusiasm, and that descriptive, metaphorical expression, which distinguishes
Poetry.
As Language, in its
progress, began to grow more copious, it gradually lost that figurative style,
which was its early character. When men were furnished with proper and familiar
names for every object, both sensible and moral, they were not obliged to use
so many circumlocutions. Style became more precise, and, of course, more
simple. Imagination too, in proportion as Society advanced, had less influence
over mankind. The vehement manner of speaking by tones and [Page 116] gestures,
became not so universal. The understanding was more exercised; the fancy, less.
Intercourse among mankind becoming more extensive and frequent, clearness of style,
in signifying their meaning to each other, was the chief object of attention.
In place of Poets, Philosophers became the instructors of men; and, in their
reasonings on all different subjects, introduced that plainer and simpler sytle
of composition, which we now call Prose. Among the Greeks, Pherecydes of
Scyros, the master of Pythagoras, is recorded to have been the first, who, in
this sense, composed any writing in prose. The antient metaphorical and
poetical dress of Language, was now laid aside from the intercourse of men, and
reserved for those occasions only, on which ornament was professedly studied.
Thus I have pursued the
History of Language through some of the variations it has undergone: I have
considered it, in the first structure, and composition, of words; in the manner
of uttering or pronouncing words; and in the style and character of Speech. I
have yet to consider it in another view, respecting the order the arrangement
of words; when we shall find a progress to have taken place, similar to what I
have been now illustrating.
[Page 117]
WHEN we attend to the
order in which words are arranged in a sentence, or significant proposition, we
find a very remarkable difference between the antient and the modern Tongues.
The consideration of this will serve to unsold 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
unacquainted with words, he would, [Page 118] 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 gesture which nature taught the Savage to make, before he was acquainted
with words; and therefore it may be depended upon as certain, that he would fall
most readily into this arrangement.
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
suggested by imagination and desire, which always impel us to mention their
object in the first place. We might therefore conclude, a priori, that this
would be the order in which words were most commonly arranged at the beginnings
of Language; and accordingly we find, in fact, that, in this order, words are
arranged in most of the antient Tongues; as in the Greek and the Latin; and it
is said also, in the Russian, the Sclavonic, the Gaëlic, and several of the
American Tongues.
[Page 119]
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;
"Animi imperio, corporis servitio, magis utimur;" which order
certainly renders the sentence more lively and striking, than when it is
arranged according to our English construction; "We make most use of the
direction of the soul, and of the service of the body." The Latin 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 &
tenacem propositi virum, Non civium ardor prava jubentium,
Non vultus instantis tyranni, Mente quatit
solida.--- Every person of taste must be sensible, that here the words are
arranged with a much greater regard to the figure which the several objects
make in the fancy, than our English construction admits; which would require
the "Justum & 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 imagination of the speaker most. I do not, however,
pretend, [Page 120] that this holds without exception. Sometimes regard to the
harmony of the period requires a different order; and in Languages susceptible
of so much musical beauty, and pronounced with so much tone and modulation as
were used by those nations, the harmony of periods was an object carefully
studied. Sometimes too, attention to the perspicuity, to the force, or to the
artful suspension of the speaker’s meaning, alter this order; and produce such
varieties in the arrangement, that it is not easy to reduce them to any one principle.
But, in general, this was the genius and character of most of the antient
Languages, to give such full liberty to the collocation of words, as allowed
them to assume whatever order was most agreeable to the speaker’s imagination.
The Hebrew is, indeed, an exception: which, though not altogether without
inversions, yet employs them less frequently, and approaches nearer to the
English construction, than either the Greek or the Latin.
All the modern
Languages of Europe have adopted a different arrangement from the antient. In
their prose compositions, very little 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 object
of its action. So that the ideas are made to succeed to one another, not
according to the degree of importance which the several objects carry in the
imagination, but according to the order of nature and of time.
[Page 121]
An English writer,
paying a compliment to a great man, would say thus: "It is impossible for
me to pass over, in silence, such remarkable mildness, such singular and
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 impossible for me;" next, what that person is to do,
"impossible for him to pass over in silence;" and lastly, the object
which moves him so to do, "the mildness, clemency, and moderation of his
patron." Cicero, from whom I have translated these words, just reverses
this order; beginning with the object, placing that first which was the
exciting idea in the speaker’s mind, and ending with the speaker and his
action. "Tantam mansuetudinem, tam inusitatam inauditamque clementiam,
tantumque in summa potestate rerum omnium modum, tacitus nullo modo præterire
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 another. 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
[Page 122] liberty is allowed for transposition, and inversion. Even there,
however, that liberty is confined within narrow bounds, in comparison of the
Antient Languages. The different modern Tongues vary from one another, in this
respect. The French Language is, of them all, the most determinate in the order
of its words, and admits the least of inversion, either in prose or poetry. The
English admits it more. But the Italian retains the most of the antient
transpositive character; though one is apt to think, at the expence of a little
obscurity in the style of some of their authors, who deal most in these
transpositions.
It is proper, next, to
observe, that there is one circumstance in the structure of all the modern
Tongues, which, of necessity, limits their arrangement, in a great measure, to
one fixed and determinate train. We have disused those differences of
termination, which, in the Greek and Latin, distinguished the several cases of
nouns, and tenses of verbs; and which, thereby, pointed out the mutual relation
of the several words in a sentence to one another, though the related words
were disjoined, and placed in different parts of the sentence. This is an
alteration in the structure of Language, of which I shall have occasion to say
more in the next Lecture. One obvious effect of it is, that we have now, for
the most part, no way left us to shew the close relation of any two words to
one another in meaning, but by placing them close to one another in the period.
For instance; the Romans could, with propriety, express themselves thus;
Extinctum nymphæ crudeli funere Daphnim Flebant.--- --- [Page 123] 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 "nymphæ" plainly
appeared to be the nominative. The different terminations here reduced all into
order, and made the connection of the several words perfectly clear. But let us
translate these words literally into English, according to the Latin
arrangement; "Dead the nymphs by a cruel fate Daphnis lamented;" and
they become a perfect riddle, in which it is impossible to find any meaning.
It was by means of this
contrivance, which obtained in almost all the antient Languages, of varying the
termination of nouns and verbs, and thereby pointing out the concordance, and
the government of the words, in a sentence, that they enjoyed so much liberty
of transposition, and could marshal and arrange their words in any way that
gratified the 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 termination of verbs, with the more ease, because
they placed no great value upon the advantages arising from such a structure of
Language. They were attentive only to clearness, and copiousness of expression.
They neither regarded much the harmony of sound, nor sought to gratify the
imagination by the collocation of words. They studied solely to express
themselves in such a manner as should exhibit their ideas to others in the most
distinct and intelligible order. And hence, if our Language, by reason of [Page
124] the simple arrangement of its words, possesses less harmony, less beauty,
and less force, than the Greek or Latin; it is, however, in its meaning, more
obvious and plain.
Thus I have shewn what
the natural Progress of Language has been, in several material articles; and
this account of the Genius and Progress of Language, lays a foundation for many
observations, both curious and useful. From what has been said, in this, and
the preceding Lecture, it appears, that Language was, at first, barren in
words, but descriptive by the sound of these words; and expressive in the
manner of uttering them, by the aid of significant tones and gestures: Style
was figurative and poetical: arrangement was fanciful and lively. It appears,
that, in all the 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
from vivacity to accuracy; from fire and enthusiasm, to coolness and precision.
Those characters of early Language, descriptive sound, vehement tones and
gestures, figurative style, and inverted arrangement, all hang together, have a
mutual influence on each other; and have all gradually given place, to
arbitrary 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 [Page 125] antient state, more favourable to
poetry and oratory; in its present, to reason and philosophy.
Having finished my
account of the Progress of Speech, I proceed to give an account of the Progress
of Writing, which next demands our notice; though it will not require so full a
discussion as the former subject.
Next to Speech, Writing
is, beyond doubt, the most useful art of which men are possessed. It is plainly
an improvement upon Speech, and therefore must have been posterior to it in
order of time. At first, men thought of nothing more than communicating their
thoughts to one another, when present, by means of words, or sounds, which they
uttered. Afterwards, they devised this further method, of mutual 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 antient nations; of the latter sort, signs for words, are the
alphabetical characters, now employed by all Europeans. These two kinds of
Writing are generically, and essentially, distinct.
Pictures were,
undoubtedly, the first essay towards Writing. Imitation is so natural to man,
that, in all ages, and among all nations, some methods have obtained, of
copying or tracing the likeness of sensible objects. Those methods would [Page
126] 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 historical pictures, the Mexicans are said to have
transmitted the memory of the most important transactions of their empire.
These, however, must have been extremely imperfect records; and the nations who
had no other, must have been very gross and rude. Pictures could do no more
than delineate external events. They could neither exhibit the connections 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. Hieroglyphics painted invisible objects, by analogies taken from the
external world.
[Page 127]
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
ascribed to animals, or the qualities with which they supposed natural objects
to be endowed, they pitched upon them to be the emblems, or hieroglyphics, of
moral objects; and employed them in their Writing for that end. Thus,
ingratitude was denominated by a viper; imprudence, by a fly; wisdom, by an
ant; victory, by a hawk; a dutiful child, by a stork; a man universally
shunned, by an eel, which they supposed to be found in company with no other
fish. Sometimes they joined together two or more of these hieroglyphical
characters; as, a serpent with a hawk’s head; to denote nature, with God
presiding over it. But, as many of those properties of objects which they
assumed for the foundation of their hieroglyphics, were merely imaginary, and
the allusions drawn from them were forced and ambiguous; as the conjunction of
their characters rendered them still more obscure, and must have expressed very
indistinctly the connections and relations of things; this sort of Writing
could be no other than ænigmatical, and confused, in the highest degree; and
must have been a very imperfect vehicle of knowledge of any kind.
It has been imagined,
that hieroglyphics were an invention of the Egyptian priests, for concealing
their learning from common view; and that, upon this account, it was preferred
by them to the alphabetical method of Writing. But this is [Page 128] certainly
a mistake. Hieroglyphics were, undoubtedly, employed, at first, from necessity,
not from choice or refinement; and would never have been thought of, if
alphabetical characters had been known. The nature of the invention plainly
shows it to have been one of those gross and rude essays towards Writing, which
were adopted in the early ages of the world; in order to extend farther the
first method which they had employed of simple pictures, or 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
characters, as a sacred kind of Writing, now become peculiar to themselves, and
serving to give an air of mystery to their learning and religion. In this
state, the Greeks found hieroglyphical Writing, when they began to have
intercourse with Egypt; and some of their writers mistook this use, to which
they found it applied, for the cause that had given rise to the invention.
As Writing advanced,
from pictures of visible objects, to hieroglyphics, or symbols of things
invisible; from these latter, it advanced, among some nations, to simple
arbitrary marks which stood for objects, though without any resemblance or
analogy to the objects signified. Of this nature was the method of Writing
practised among the Peruvians. They made use of small cords, of different
colours; and by knots upon these, of various sizes, and differently ranged,
they contrived signs for giving information, and communicating their thoughts
to one another.
[Page 129]
Of this nature also,
are the written characters, which are used to this day, throughout the great
empire of China. The Chinese have no alphabet of letters, or simple sounds,
which compose their words. But every single character which they use in
Writing, is significant of an idea; it is a mark which stands for some one
thing, or object. By consequence, the number of these characters must be
immense. It must correspond to the whole number of objects, or ideas, which
they have occasion to express; that is, to the whole number of words which they
employ in Speech: nay, it must be greater than the number of words; one word,
by varying the tone, with which it is spoken, may be made to signify several
different things. They are said to have seventy thousand of those written
characters. To read and write them to perfection, is the study of a whole life;
which subjects learning, among them, to infinite disadvantage; and must have
greatly retarded the progress of all science.
Concerning the origin
of these Chinese characters, there have been different opinions, and much
controversy. According to the most probable accounts, the Chinese Writing
began, like the Egyptian, 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,
the Tonquinese, and the Coroeans, who speak different languages from one
another, and from the inhabitants of China, use, however, the same written
characters with them; [Page 130] and, by this means, correspond intelligibly
with each other in Writing, though ignorant of the Language spoken in their
several countries; a plain proof, that the Chinese characters are, like
hieroglyphics, independent of Language; are signs of things, not of words.
We have one instance of
this sort of Writing in Europe. Our 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 represents an
object; represents the number for which it stands; and, accordingly, on being
presented to the eye, is equally understood by all the nations who have agreed
in the use of these cyphers; by Italians, Spaniards, French, and English,
however different the Languages of those nations 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 institution, as
the Peruvian knots, the Chinese characters, and the Arabian cyphers.
At length, in different
nations, men became sensible of the imperfection, the ambiguity, and the
tediousness of each of these [Page 131] methods of communication with one
another. They began to consider, that by employing signs which should stand not
directly for things, but for the words which they used in Speech for naming
these things, a considerable advantage would be gained. For they reflected
farther, that though the number of words in every Language be, indeed, very
great, yet the number of 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 be practicable to express, in Writing, the
whole combinations of sounds which our words require.
The first step, in this
new progress, was the invention of an alphabet of syllables, which probably
preceded the invention of an alphabet of letters, among some of the antient
nations; and which is said to be retained, to this day, in Æthiopia, and some
countries of India. By fixing upon a particular mark, or character, for every
syllable in the Language, the number of characters, necessary to be used in
Writing, was reduced within a much smaller compass than the number of words in
the Language. Still, however, the number of characters was great; and must have
continued to render both reading and writing very laborious arts. Till, at
last, some happy genius arose; and tracing the sounds made by the human voice,
to their most simple elements, reduced them to a very few vowels and
consonants; [Page 132] and, by affixing to each of these the signs which we now
call Letters, taught men how, by their combinations, to put into Writing all
the different words, or combinations of sound, which they employed in Speech.
By being reduced to this simplicity, the art of Writing was brought to its
highest state of perfection; and, in this state, we now 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 inventor is deprived of those honours
which would still be paid to his memory, by all the lovers of knowledge and
learning. It appears from the books which Moses has written, that, among the
Jews, and probably among the Egyptians, letters had been invented prior to his
age. The universal tradition among the antients is, that they were first
imported into Greece by Cadmus the Phoenician; who, according to the common
system of chronology, was contemporary with Joshua; according to Sir Isaac
Newton’s system, contemporary with King David. As the Phoenicians are not known
to have been the inventors of any art or science, though, by means of their
extensive commerce, they propagated the discoveries made by other nations, the
most probable and natural account of the origin of alphabetical characters is,
that they took rise in Egypt, the first civilized kingdom of which we have any
authentic accounts, and the great source of arts and polity among the antients.
In that country, the favourite study of hieroglyphical characters, had directed
much attention to the art of Writing. Their hieroglyphics are known to have
been intermixed with abbreviated symbols, and arbitrary [Page 133] marks;
whence, at last, they caught the idea of contriving marks, not for things merely,
but for sounds. Accordingly, Plato (in Phoedro) 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 antients, to have been
originally of Thebes in Egypt. Most probably, Moses carried with him the
Egyptian letters into the land of Canaan; and there being adopted by the
Phoenicians, who inhabited part of that 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 afterwards added, according as signs for proper
sounds were found to be wanting. It is curious to observe, that the letters
which we use at this day, can be traced back to this very alphabet of Cadmus.
The Roman alphabet, which obtains with us, and with most of the European
nations, is plainly formed on the Greek, with a few variations. And all learned
men observe, that the Greek characters, especially according to the manner in
which they are formed in the oldest inscriptions, have a remarkable conformity
with the Hebrew or Samaritan characters, which, it is agreed, are the same with
the Phoenician, or the alphabet of Cadmus. Invert the Greek characters from
left to right, according to the Phoenician and Hebrew manner of Writing, and
they are nearly the same. Besides the conformity of figure, the names or
denominations of the letters, alpha, beta, gamma, &c. and the order in
which the letters are arranged, in all the several alphabets, [Page 134]
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 greedily received by mankind, and
propagated with speed and facility through many different nations.
The letters were,
originally, written from the right hand towards the left; that is, in a
contrary order to what we now practise. This manner of Writing obtained among
the Assyrians, Phoenicians, Arabians, and Hebrews; and from some very old
inscriptions, appears to have obtained also among the Greeks. Afterwards, the
Greeks adopted a new method, writing their lines alternately from the right to
the left, and from the left to the right, which was called Boustrophedon; or,
writing after the manner in which oxen plow the ground. Of this, several
specimens still remain; particularly, the inscription on the famous Sigæan
monument; and down to the days of Solon, the legislator of Athens, this
continued to be the common method of Writing. At length, the motion from the
left hand to the right being found more natural and commodious, the practice of
Writing, in this direction, prevailed throughout all the 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 employed. The leaves, and the bark of certain trees, were used in some
countries; and in others, [Page 135] 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 of the Progress of these two great arts, Speech and Writing; by which
men’s thoughts are communicated, and the foundation laid for all knowledge and
improvement. Let us conclude the subject, with comparing, in a few words,
spoken Language, and written Language; or words uttered in our hearing, with
words represented to the eye; where we shall find several advantages and
disadvantages to be balanced on both sides.
The advantages of
Writing above Speech are, that Writing is both a more extensive, and a more
permanent method of communication. More extensive; as it is not confined within
the narrow circle of those who hear our words, but, by means of written
characters, we can send our thoughts abroad, and propagate them through the
world; we can lift our voice, so as to speak to the most distant regions of the
earth. More permanent also; as it prolongs this voice to the most distant ages;
it gives us the means of recording our sentiments to futurity, and of
perpetuating the instructive memory of past transactions. It likewise affords
this advantage to such as read, above such as hear, that, having the written
characters before their eyes, they can arrest the sense of the writer. They can
pause, and revolve, and compare, at their leisure, one passage [Page 136] 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, render discourse, when it is well managed,
infinitely more clear, and more expressive, than the most accurate Writing. For
tones, looks, and gestures, are natural interpreters of the sentiments of the
mind. They remove ambiguities; they enforce impressions; they operate on us by
means of sympathy, which is one of the most powerful instruments of persuasion.
Our sympathy is always awakened more, by hearing the Speaker, than by reading
his works in our closet. Hence, though Writing may answer the purposes of mere
instruction, yet all the great and high efforts of eloquence must be made, by
means of spoken, not of written, Language.
[Page 137]
AFTER having given an
account of the Rise and Progress of Language, 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 belonging to those rudiments of knowledge, which were inculcated
upon us in our earliest youth. But what was then inculcated before we could
comprehend its principles, would abundantly repay our study in maturer years;
and to the ignorance of it, must be attributed 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 [Page 138] 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 reproach of the
country, have not been studied with equal care, or ascertained with the same
precision. Attempts have been made, indeed, of late, towards supplying this
defect; and some able writers have entered on the subject; but much remains yet
to be done.
I do not propose to
give any system, either of Grammar in general, or of English Grammar in particular.
A minute discussion of the niceties of Language would carry us too much off
from other objects, which demand our attention in this 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 particular remarks on the Genius of the English
Language.
The first thing to be
considered, is, the division of the several parts of Speech. The essential
parts of Speech are the same in all Languages. There must always be some words
which denote the names of objects, or mark the subject of discourse; other
words, which denote the qualities of those objects, and express what we affirm
concerning them; and other words, which point out their connections and
relations. Hence, substantives, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, prepositions, and
conjunctions, must necessarily be found in all Languages. The [Page 139] most
simple and comprehensive division of the parts of Speech is, into substantives,
attributives, and connectives . Substantives, are all the words which express
the names of objects, or the subjects of discourse; attributives, are all the words
which express any attribute, property, or action of the former; connectives,
are what express the connections, relations, and dependencies, which take place
among them. The common grammatical division of Speech into eight parts; nouns,
pronouns, verbs, participles, adverbs, prepositions, interjections, and
conjunctions, is not very logical, as might be easily shewn; as it comprehends,
under the general term of nouns, both substantives and adjectives, which are
parts of Speech generically and essentially distinct; while it makes a separate
part of speech of participles, which are no other than verbal adjectives.
However, as these are the terms to which our ears have been most familiarised,
and, as an exact logical division is of no great consequence to our present
purpose, it will be better to make use of these known terms than of any other.
We are naturally led to
begin with the consideration of substantive nouns, which are the foundation of
all Grammar, and [Page 140] may be considered as the most antient part of
Speech. For, assuredly, as soon as men had got beyond simple interjections, or
exclamations of passion, and began to communicate themselves by discourse, they
would be under a necessity of assigning names to the objects they saw around
them; which, in Grammatical Language, is called, the Invention 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. [Page 141] To give separate names
to every one of those trees, would have been an endless and impracticable
undertaking. His first object was, to give a name to that particular tree,
whose fruit relieved his hunger, or whose shade protected him from the sun. But
observing, that though other trees were distinguished from this by peculiar
qualities of size or appearance, yet, that they also agreed and resembled one
another, in certain common qualities, such as springing from a root, and
bearing branches and leaves, he formed, in his mind, some general idea of those
common qualities, and ranging all that possessed them under one class of
objects, he called that whole class, a tree. Longer experience taught him to
subdivide this genus into the several species of oak, pine, ash, and the rest,
according as his observation extended to the several qualities in which these
trees agreed or differed.
But, still, he made use
only of general terms in Speech. For the oak, the pine, and the ash, were names
of whole classes of objects; each of which included an immense number of
undistinguished individuals. Here then, it appears, that though the formation
of abstract, or general conceptions, is supposed to be a difficult operation of
the mind; such conceptions must have entered into the very first formation of
Language. For, if we except only the proper names of persons, such as Cæsar,
John, Peter, all the other substantive nouns which we employ in discourse, are
the names, not of individual objects, but of very extensive genera, or species
of objects; as, man, lion, house, river, &c. We are not, however, to
imagine, that this invention of general, or abstract terms, requires any great
exertion of metaphysical capacity: For, by whatever steps the [Page 142] mind
proceeds in it, it is certain, that, when men have once observed resemblances
among objects, they are naturally inclined to call all those which resemble one
another, by one common name; and of course, to class them under one species. We
may daily observe this practised by children, in their first attempts towards
acquiring Language.
But now, after Language
had proceeded as far as I have described, the notification which it made of
objects was still very imperfect: For, when one mentioned to another, in
discourse, any substantive noun; such as, man, lion, or tree, how was it to be
known which man, which lion, or which tree he meant, among the many
comprehended under one name? Here occurs a very curious, and a very useful
contrivance for specifying the individual object intended, by means of that
part of Speech called, the Article.
The force of the
Article consists, in pointing, or singling out from the common mass, the
individual of which we mean to speak. In English, we have two Articles, a and
the; a is more general and unlimited; the more definite and special. A is much
the same with one, and marks only any one individual of a species; that
individual being either unknown, or left undetermined; as, a lion, a king. The,
which possesses more properly the force of the Article, ascertains some known
or determined individual of the species; as, the lion, the king.
Articles are words of
great use in Speech. In some Languages, however, they are not found. The Greeks
have but one Article, SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME , which answers to our definite, or proper
[Page 143] Article, the. They have no word which answers to our Article a; but
they supply its place by the absence of their Article: Thus,
SPECIAL_IMAGE-BCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME signifies, a
king; SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-BCgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-igr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-lgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ugr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME , the king.
The Latins have no Article. In the room of it, they employ pronouns, as, hic,
ille, iste, for pointing out the objects which they want to distinguish.
"Noster sermo," says Quinctilian, "articulos non desiderat,
ideoque in alias partes orationis sparguntur." This, however, appears to
me a defect in the Latin tongue; as Articles contribute much to the clearness
and precision of Language.
In order to illustrate
this, remark, what difference there is in the meaning of the following
expressions in English, depending wholly on the different employment of the
Articles: "Th son of a king.---The son of the king---A son of the king’s."
Each of these three phrases has an entirely different meaning, which I need not
explain, because any one who understands the Language, conceives it clearly at
first hearing, through the different application of the Articles, a and the.
Whereas, in Latin, "Filius regis," is wholly undetermined; and to
explain, in which of these three senses it is to be understood, for it may bear
any of them, a circumlocution of several words must be used. In the same
manner, "Are you a king?" "Are you the king?" are questions
of quite separate import; which, however, are confounded together in the Latin
phrase, "esne tu rex?" "Thou art a man," is a very general
and harmless position; but, "thou art the man," is an assertion,
capable, we know, of striking terror and remorse into the heart. These
observations illustrate the force and importance of Articles: And, at the same
time, I gladly [Page 144] lay hold of any opportunity of showing the advantages
of our own Language.
Besides this quality of
being particularised 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 coëval
with the very infancy of Language; as there were few things which men had more
frequent occasion to express, than the difference between one and many. For the
greater facility of expressing it, it has, in all Languages, been marked by
some variation made upon the substantive noun; as we see, in English our plural
is commonly formed by the addition of the letter S. In the Hebrew, Greek, and
some other antient 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 creaturés,
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 [Page 145] grammarians call, the Neuter Gender, which is meant
to imply the negation of either sex. But, with respect to this distribution,
somewhat singular hath obtained in the structure of Language. For, in
correspondence to that distinction of male and female sex, which runs through
all the classes of animals, men have, in most Languages, ranked a great number
of inanimate objects also, under the like distinctions of masculine and
feminine. Thus we find it, both in the Greek and Latin Tongues. Gladius, a
sword, for instance, is masculine; sagitta, an arrow, is feminine; and this
assignation of sex to inanimate objects, this distinction of them into
masculine and feminine, appears often to be entirely capricious; derived from
no other principle than the casual structure of the Language, which refers to a
certain gender, words of a certain termination. In the Greek and Latin, however,
all inanimate objects are not distributed into masculine and feminine; but many
of of them are also classed, where all of them ought to have been, under the
neuter gender; as, templum, a church; sedile, a seat.
But the genius of the
French and Italian Tongues differs, in this respect, from the Greek and Latin.
In the French and Italian, from whatever cause it has happened, so it is, that
the neuter gender is wholly unknown, and that all their names of inanimate objects
are put upon the same footing with living creatures; and distributed, without
exception, into masculine and feminine. The French have two articles, the
masculine le, and the feminine la; and one or other of these is prefixed to all
substantive nouns in the Language, to denote their gender. The Italians make
the same universal use of their articles il and lo, for the masculine; and la,
for the feminine.
[Page 146]
In the English
Language, it is remarkable that there obtains a peculiarity quite opposite. In
the French and Italian, there is no neuter gender. In the English, when we use
common discourse, all substantive nouns, that are not names of living
creatures, are neuter, without exception. He, she, and it, are the marks of the
three genders; and we always use it, in speaking of any object where there is
no sex, or where the sex is not known. The English is, perhaps, the only
Language in the known world (except the Chinese, which is said to agree with it
in this particular), where the distinction of gender is properly and
philosophically applied in the use of words, and confined, as it ought to be,
to mark the real distinctions of male and female.
Hence arises a very
great and signal advantage of the English Tongue, which it is of consequence to
remark . Though in common discourse, as I have already observed, we employ only
the proper and literal distinction of sexes; yet the genius of the Language
permits us, whenever it will add beauty to our discourse, to make the names of
inanimate objects masculine 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 ordinary conversation, or of strict
reasoning, I refer the word to no sex or gender; I say, "Virtue is its own
reward;" or, "it is the law of our nature." But if I chuse to
rise into a [Page 147] 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 chuse to introduce with dignity; and by this change of manner, we give
warning, that we are passing from the strict and logical, to the ornamented and
rhetorical style.
This is an advantage
which, not only every poet, but every good writer and speaker in prose, is, on many
occasions, glad to lay hold of, and improve: and it is an advantage peculiar to
our Tongue; no other Language possesses it. For, in other Languages, every word
has one fixed gender, masculine, feminine, or neuter, which can, upon no
occasion, be changed; SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-egr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME , for
instance, in Greek, virtus in Latin, and la vertu in French, are uniformly feminine.
She, must always be the pronoun answering to the word, whether you be writing
in poetry or prose, whether you be using the style of reasoning, or that of
declamation: whereas, in English, we can either express ourselves with the
philosophical accuracy of giving no gender to things inanimate; or by giving
them gender, and transforming them into persons, we adapt them to the style of
poetry, and, when it is proper, we enliven prose.
It deserves to be
further remarked on this subject, that, when we employ that liberty which our
Language allows, of ascribing sex to any inanimate object, we have not,
however, the liberty of making it of what gender we please, masculine [Page
148] of feminine; but are, in general, subjected to some rule of gender which
the currency of Language has fixed to that object. The foundation of that rule
is imagined, by Mr. Harris, in his "Philosophical Enquiry into the
Principles of Grammar," to be laid in a certain distant resemblance, or
analogy, to the natural distinction of the two sexes.
Thus, according to him,
we commonly give the masculine gender to those substantive nouns used
figuratively, which are conspicuous for the attributes of imparting, or
communicating; which are by nature strong and efficacious, either to good or evil;
or which have a claim to some eminence, whether laudable or not. Those again,
he imagines, to be generally made feminine, which are conspicuous for the
attributes of containing, and of bringing forth; which have more of the passive
in their nature, than the active; which are peculiarly beautiful, or amiable;
or which have respect to such excesses as are rather feminine than masculine.
Upon these principles he takes notice, that the sun is always put in the
masculine gender with us; the moon in the feminine, as being the receptacle of
the sun’s light. The earth is, universally, feminine. A ship, a country, a
city, are likewise made feminine, as receivers, or containers. God, in all
Languages, is masculine. Time, we make masculine, on account of its mighty
efficacy; virtue, feminine, from its beauty, and its being the object of love.
Fortune is always feminine. Mr. Harris imagines, that the reasons which
determine the gender of such capital words as these, hold in most other
Languages, as well as the English. This, however, appears doubtful. A variety
of circumstances, which seem casual to us, because we cannot reduce [Page 149]
them to principles, must, unquestionably, have influenced the original
formation of Languages; and in no article whatever does Language appear to have
been more capricious, and to have proceeded less according to fixed rule, than
in the imposition of gender upon things inanimate; especially among such
nations as have applied the distinction of masculine and feminine to all
substantive nouns.
Having discussed
gender, I proceed, next, to another remarkable 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
particularised 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 little use to have a name for man, lion,
tree, river, without being able, at the same time, to signify how these stood
with respect to 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 important, 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; [Page 150] the relations which, of all others, we have the most
frequent occasion to mention. The proper idea then of cases in declension, is
no other than an expression of the state, or relation, which one object bears
to another, denoted by some variation made upon the name of that object; most
commonly in the final letters, and by some Languages, in the initial.
All Languages, however,
do not agree in this mode of expression. The Greek, Latin, and several other
Languages, use declension. The English, French, and Italian, do not; or, at
most, use it very imperfectly. In place of the variations of cases, these
modern Tongues express the relations of objects, by means of the words called
Prepositions, which are the names of those relations, prefixed to the name of
the object. English nouns have no case whatever, except a sort of genitive,
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, I, me,---he,
him,---who, whom. There is nothing, then, or at least very little, in the
Grammar of our Language, which corresponds to declension in the antient
Languages.
Two questions,
respecting this subject, may be put. First, Which of these methods of
expressing relations, whether that by declension, or that by prepositions, was
the most antient usage in Language? And next, Which of them has the best
effect? Both methods, it is plain, are the same as to the sense, and differ
only in form. For the significancy of the Roman Language would not have been
altered, though the nouns, [Page 151] like ours, had been without cases,
provided they had employed prepositions; and though, to express a disciple of
Plato, they had said, "Discipulus de Plato," like the modern
Italians, in place of "Discipulus Platonis."
Now, with respect to
the antiquity of cases, although they may, on first view, seem to constitute a
more artificial method than the other, of denoting relations, yet there are
strong reasons for thinking that this was the earliest method practised by men.
We find, in fact, that declensions and cases are used in most of what are
called the Mother Tongues, or Original Languages, as well as in the Greek and
Latin. And a very natural and satisfying account can be given why this usage
should have early obtained. Relations are the most abstract and metaphysical
ideas of any which men have occasion to form, when they are considered by
themselves, and separated from the related object. It would puzzle any man, as
has been well observed by an Author on this subject, to give a distinct account
of what is meant by such a word as of, or from, when it stands by itself, and
to explain all that may be included under it. The first rude inventors of
Language, therefore, would be long of arriving at such general terms. In place
of considering any relation in the abstract, and devising a name for it, they
would much more easily conceive it in conjunction with a particular object; and
they would express their conceptions of it, by varying the name of that object
through all the different cases; hominis, of a man; homini, to a man; homine,
with a man, &c,
[Page 152]
But, though this method
of declension was, probably, the only method which men employed, at first, for
denoting relations, yet, in progress of time, many other relations being
observed, besides those which are signified by the cases of nouns, and men also
becoming more capable of general and metaphysical ideas, separate names were
gradually invented for all the relations which occurred, forming that part of
Speech which we now call Prepositions. Prepositions being once introduced, they
were found to be capable of supplying the place of cases, by being prefixed to
the nominative of the noun. Hence, it came to pass, that, as nations were
intermixed by migrations and conquests, and were obliged to learn, and adopt
the Languages of one another, prepositions supplanted the use of cases and
declensions. When the Italian Tongue, for instance, sprung out of the Roman, it
was found more easy and simple, by the Gothic nations, to accommodate a few
prepositions to the nominative of every noun, and to say, di Roma, al Roma, di
Carthago, al Carthago, than to remember all the variety of terminations, Roma,
Romam, Carthaginis, Carthaginem, which the use of declensions required in the
antient nouns. By this progress we can give a natural 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 advantages and disadvantages to be balanced
on both sides. There is no doubt that, by abolishing cases, we have [Page 153]
rendered the structure of modern Languages more simple. We have disembarrassed
it of all the intricacy which arose from the different forms of declension, of
which the Romans had no fewer than five; and from all the irregularities in
these several declensions. We have thereby rendered our Languages more easy to
be acquired, and less subject to the perplexity of rules. But, though the
simplicity and ease of Language be great and estimable advantages, yet there
are also such disadvantages attending the modern method, as leave the balance,
on the whole, doubtful, or rather incline it to the side of antiquity.
For, in the first
place, by our constant use of prepositions for expressing the relations of
things, we have filled Language with a multitude of those little words, which
are eternally occurring in every sentence, and may be thought thereby to have
encumbered Speech, by an addition of terms; and by rendering it more prolix, to
have enervated its force. In the second place, we have certainly rendered the
sound of Language less agreeable to the ear, by depriving it of that variety,
and sweetness, which arose from the length of words, and the change of
terminations, 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 alteration, of which I am to speak in the next Lecture, in the
conjugation of verbs, we have deprived ourselves of that liberty of
transposition in the arrangement of words, which the Antient Languages enjoyed.
In the Antient Tongues,
as I formerly observed, the different terminations, produced by declension and
conjugation, [Page 154] pointed out the reference of the several words of a
sentence to one another, without the aid of juxtaposition; suffered them to be
placed, without ambiguity, in whatever order was most suited to give emphasis
to the meaning, 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 in the period. The meaning of the
sentence is brought out in separate members and portions; it is broken down and
divided. Whereas the structure of the Greek and Roman sentences, by the
government of their nouns and verbs, presented the meaning so interwoven and
compounded in all its parts, as to make us perceive it in one united view. The
closing words of the period ascertained the relation of each member to another;
and all that ought to be connected in our idea, appeared connected in the expression.
Hence, more brevity, more vivacity, more force. That luggage of particles (as
an ingenious Author happily expresses it), which we are obliged always to carry
along with us, both clogs style, and enfeebles sentiment.
[Page 155]
Pronouns are the class
of words most nearly related to substantive nouns; being, as the name imports,
representatives, or substitutes, of nouns. I, thou, he, she, and it, are no
other than an abridged way of naming the persons, or objects, with which we
have immediate intercourse, or to which we are obliged frequently to refer in
discourse. Accordingly, they are subject to the same modifications with
substantive nouns, of number, gender, and case. Only, with respect to gender,
we may observe, that the pronouns of the first and second person, as they are
called, I and thou, do not appear to have had the distinctions of gender given
them in any Language; for this plain reason, that, as they always refer to
persons who are present to each other, when they speak, their sex must appear,
and therefore needs not be marked by a masculine or feminine pronoun. But, as
the third person may be absent, or unknown, the distinction of gender there
becomes necessary; and accordingly, in English, it hath all the three genders
belonging to it; he, she, it. As to cases; even those Languages which have
dropped them in substantive nouns, sometimes retain more of them in pronouns,
for the sake of the greater readiness in expressing relations; as pronouns are
words of such frequent occurrence in discourse. In English, most of our
grammarians hold the personal pronouns to have two cases, [Page 156] besides
the nominative; a genitive, and an accusative,---I, mine, me;---thou, thine,
thee;---he, his, him;---who, whose, whom.
In the first stage of
Speech, it is probable that the places of those 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. I, 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 circumstances. It, 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 circumstances in which they are applied, they
never denote more than one precise individual; which they ascertain, and
specify, much in the same manner as is done by the article. So that pronouns
are, at once, the most general, and the most particular words in Language. They
are commonly the most irregular and troublesome words to the learner, in the
Grammar of all Tongues; as being the words most in common use, and subjected
thereby to the greatest varieties.
Adjectives, or terms of
quality, such as, great, little, black, white, yours, ours, are the plainest
and simplest of all that class of words which are termed attributive. They are
found in all Languages; and, in all Languages, must have been very early
invented; as objects could not be distinguished from, each other, nor any
intercourse be carried on concerning them, till once names were given to their
different qualities.
[Page 157]
I have nothing to
observe in relation to them, except that singularity which attends them in the
Greek and Latin, of having the same form given them with substantive nouns;
being declined, like them, by cases, and subjected to the like distinctions of
number and gender. Whence it has happened, that grammarians have made them to
belong to the same part of Speech, and divided the noun into substantive and
adjective; and 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 a-kin to verbs, which,
like them, express the attribute of some substance.
It may, at first view,
appear somewhat odd and fantastic, that adjectives should, in these antient
Languages, have assumed so much the form of substantives; since neither number,
nor gender, nor cases, nor relations, have any thing to do, in a proper sense,
with mere qualities, such as, good or great, soft or hard. And yet bonus, and
magnus, and tener, have their singular and plural, their masculine 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, considering qualities separately, or in the
abstract. They made them a part, or appendage, of the substance which they
served to distinguish; they made the adjective depend on its substantive, and
resemble it in termination, in number, and gender, in order [Page 158] 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, "Formosa fortis viri uxor;" it is only the agreement,
in gender, number, and case, of the adjective "formosa," which is the
first word of the sentence, with the substantive "uxor," which is the
last word that declares the meaning.
[Page 159]
OF the whole class of
words that are called attributive, indeed, of all the parts of Speech, the most
complex, by far, is the verb. It is chiefly in this part of Speech, that the
subtile and profound metaphysic of Language appears; and, therefore, in
examining the nature and different variations of the verb, there might be room
for ample discussion. But as I am sensible that such grammatical discussions,
when they are pursued far, become intricate and obscure, I shall avoid dwelling
any longer on this subject, than seems absolutely necessary.
The verb is so far of
the same nature with the adjective, that it 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 [Page 160] implied
at once; the attribute of some substantive, an affirmation concerning that
attribute, and time. Thus, when I say, "the sun shineth." Shining, is
the attribute ascribed to the sun; the present time is marked; and an
affirmation 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 carries 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 is often a kin to of a substantive noun;
and, both in English and Latin, is sometimes constructed as such. As,
"Scire tuum nihil est." "Dulce et decorum est pro patria
mori." And, in English, in the same manner. "To write well is
difficult; to speak eloquently is still more difficult." But as, through
all the other tenses and moods, the affirmation runs, and is essential to them;
"the sun shineth, was shining, shone, will shine, would have shone,"
&c. the affirmation seems to be that which chiefly distinguishes the verb
from the other parts of Speech, and gives it its most conspicuous power. Hence
there can be no sentence, or complete proposition, without a verb either
expressed or implied. For, whenever we speak, we always mean to assert, that
something is, or is not; and the word which carries this assertion, or affirmation,
is a verb. From this sort of eminence belonging to it, this part of Speech hath
received its name; verb, from the Latin, verbum, or the word, by way of
distinction.
[Page 161]
Verbs, therefore, from
their importance and necessity in Speech, must have been coëval with men’s
first attempts towards the formation 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 hath
suggested, that the radical verb, or the first form of it, in most Languages,
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 distinctions 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, into the past, the present, and the future: and we might imagine, that if
verbs had been so contrived, as simply to express these, no more was needful.
But Language proceeds with much greater subtilty. It splits time into its
several moments. It considers time as never standing still, but always flowing;
things past, as more or less perfectly completed; and things future, as more or
less remote, by different gradations. Hence the great variety of tenses in most
Tongues.
The present may,
indeed, be always considered as one indivisible point, susceptible of no variety.
"I write, or, I am [Page 162] writing; scribo." But it is not so with
the past. There is no Language so poor, but it hath two or three tenses to
express the varieties of it. Ours hath no fewer than four. 1. A past action may
be considered as left unfinished; which makes the imperfect tense, "I was
writing; scribebam." 2. As just now finished. This makes the proper
perfect tense, which, in English, is always expressed by the help of the
auxiliary verb, "I have written." 3. It may be considered as finished
some time ago; the particular time left indefinite. "I wrote;
scripsi;" which may either signify, "I wrote yesterday, or I wrote a
twelvemonth ago." This is what grammarians call an aörist, or indefinite
past. 4. It may be considered as finished before something else, which is also
past. This is the plusquamperfect. "I had written; scripseram. I had
written before I received his letter."
Here we observe, with
some pleasure, that we have an advantage over the Latins, who have only three
varieties upon the past time. They have no proper perfect tense, or one which
distinguishes an action just now finished, from an action that was finished
some time ago. In both these cases, they must say, "scripsi." Though
there be a manifest difference in the tenses, which our Language expresses, by
this variation, "I have written," meaning, I have just now finished
writing; and, "I wrote," meaning at some former time, since which,
other things have intervened. This difference the Romans have no tense to
express; and, therefore, can only do it by a circumlocution.
[Page 163]
The chief varieties in
the future time are two; a simple or indefinite future: "I shall write;
scribam:" And a future, relating to something else, which is also future.
"I shall have written; scripsero" I shall have written before he
arrives.
Besides tenses , or the
power of expressing time , verbs admit the distinction of Voices, as they are
called, the active and the passive; according as the affirmation respects
something that is done, or something that is suffered; "I love, or I am
loved." They admit also the distinction of moods, whichare designed to
express the affirmation, whether active or passive, under different forms. The
indicative mood, for instance, simply declares a proposition, "I write; I
have written;" the imperative requires, commands, threatens, "write
thou; let him write." The subjunctive expresses the proposition under the
form of a condition, or in subordination to some other thing, to which a
reference is made, "I might write, I could write, I should write, if the
case were so and so." This manner of expressing an affirmation, under so
many different forms, together also with the distinction of the three persons,
I, thou, and he, constitutes what is called, the conjugation of verbs, which
makes so great a part of the grammar ofall 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. [Page 164] Consider only, how many things are
denoted by thissingle Latin word "amavissem, I would have loved."
First,The person who speaks, "I." Secondly, An attribute, or action
of that person, "loving." Thirdly, An affirmation concerning that
action. Fourthly, The past time denoted in that affirmation, "have
loved:" and, Fifthly, A condition 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. Conjugation is esteemed most-perfect in
those Languages, which, by varying 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 moods are so
contrived, as to express a great variety of circumstances and relations. In the
Hebrew, for instance, they say, in one word, without the help of any auxiliary,
not only "I have taught," but, "I have taught exactly, or often;
I have been commanded to teach; I have taught myself." The Greek, which is
the most perfect of all the known Tongues, is very regular and complete in all
the tenses and moods. The Latin is formed on the same model, but more
imperfect; especially in the passive voice, which forms most of the tenses by
the help of the auxiliary "sum."
[Page 165]
In all the modern
European Tongues, conjugation is very defective. They admit few varieties in
the termination of the verb itself; but have almost constant recourse to their
auxiliary verbs, throughout all the moods and tenses, both active and passive.
Language has undergone a change in conjugation, perfectly similar to that
which, I showed in the last Lecture, it underwent with respect to declension.
As prepositions, prefixed to the noun, superseded the use of cases; so the two
great 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 formed the antient conjugations.
The alteration, in both
cases, was owing to the same cause, and will be easily understood, from
reflecting on what was formerly observed. The auxiliary verbs are like
prepositions, words of a very general and abstract nature. They imply the
different modifications 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, so to speak, with every particular verb in its tenses
and moods, long. before words were invented for denoting such abstract
conceptions of existence, alone, and by themselves. But after those auxiliary
verbs came, in the progress of Language, to be invented and known, and to have
tenses and moods given to them like other verbs; it was found, that as they
carried in their nature the force of that affirmation which distinguishes. the
verb, they might, by being joined with the participle which gives the meaning
of the verb, supply the place of most [Page 166] of the moods and tenses.
Hence, as the modern Tongues began to rise out of the ruins of the antient,
this method established itself in the new formation of Speech. Such words, for
instance; as, am, was, have, shall, being once familiar, it appeared more easy
to apply these to any verb whatever; as, I am loved; I was loved; I have loved;
than to remember that variety of terminations which were requisite in
conjugating the antient verbs, amor, amabar, amavi, &c. Two or three
varieties only, in the termination of the verb, were retained, as, love, loved,
loving; and all the rest were dropt. The consequence, however, of this
practice, was the same as that of 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 circumstance of an action, or of a quality, relative to its
time, place, order, degree, and the other properties of it, which we have
occasion to specify. They are, for the most part, no more than an abridged mode
of Speech, expressing, by one word, what might, by a circumlocution, be
resolved into two or more words belonging to the other parts of Speech.
"Exceedingly," for instance, is the same as, "in [Page 167] 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 established in the Language.
Prepositions and
conjunctions, are words more essential to discourse than the greatest part of
adverbs. They form that class of words, called Connectives, without which there
could be no Language; serving to express the relations which things bear to one
another, their mutual influence, dependencies, and coherence; thereby joining
words together into intelligibles and significant prepositions. Conjunctions
are generally employed for connecting sentences; or members of sentences; as,
and, because, although, and the like. Propositions are employed for connecting
words, by showing the relation which one substantive noun bears to another; as,
of, from, to, above, below, &c. Of the force of these I had occasion to
speak before, when treating of the cases and declensions of substantive nouns.
It is abundantly
evident, that all these connective particles must be of the greatest use in
Speech; seeing they point out the relations and 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 connection of thoughts. And, therefore, though
among barbarous nations, and in the rude [Page 168] uncivilised 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 any
nation is improved by science, and the more perfect their Language becomes, we
may naturally expect, that it will abound the more with connective particles;
expressing relations of things, and transitions of thought, which had escaped a
grosser view. Accordingly, no Tongue is so full of them as the Greek, in
consequence of the acute and subtile genius of that refined people. In every
Language, much of the beauty and strength of it depends on the proper use of
conjunctions, prepositions, and those relative pronouns, which also serve the
same purpose of connecting the different parts of discourse. It is the right,
or wrong management of these, which chiefly makes discourse appear firm and
compacted, or disjointed and loose; which causes it to march with a smooth and
even pace, or with gouty and hobbling steps.
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 conceptions
themselves, and the operations of our faculties; a subject that is always
instructive to man. "Nequis," says Quinctilian, an author of
excellent judgment, "nequis tanquam [Page 169] parva fastidiat grammatices
elementa. Non quia magnæ sit operæ consonantes a vocalibus discernere, easque
in semivocalium numerum, mutarumque partiri, sed quia interiora velut sacri
hujus adeuntibus, apparebit multa rerum subtilitas, quæ 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 its Structure. But it is proper, that we should be a
little more particular in the examination of it.
The Language which is,
at present, spoken throughout Great Britain, is neither the antient primitive
Speech of the island, nor derived 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, probably, one of the most
antient Languages in the world, obtained once in most of the western regions of
Europe. It was the Language of Gaul, of Great Britain, of Ireland, [Page 170]
and, very probably, of Spain also; till, in the course of those revolutions,
which, by means of the conquests, 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 antient 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 spoken now, is a mixture of the antient Saxon,
and this Norman French, together with such new and foreign words as commerce
and learning have, in progress of time, gradually introduced.
[Page 171]
The history of the
English Language can, in this manner, be clearly traced. The Language spoken in
the low countries of Scotland, is now, and has been for many centuries, no
other than a dialect of the English. How, indeed, or by what steps, the antient
Celtic Tongue came to be banished from the Low Country in Scotland, and to make
its retreat into the Highlands and Islands, cannot be so well pointed out, as
how the like revolution was brought about in England. Whether the southernmost
part of Scotland was once subject to the Saxons, and formed a part of the
kingdom of Northumberland; or, whether the great number of English exiles that
retreated into Scotland, upon the Norman conquest, and upon other occasions,
introduced into that country their own Language, which afterwards, by the
mutual intercourse of the two nations, prevailed over the Celtic, are uncertain
and contested points, the discussion of which would lead us too far from our
subject.
From what has been
said, it appears, that the Teutonic dialect is the basis of our present Speech.
It has been imported among us in three different forms, the Saxon, the Danish,
and the Norman; all which have mingled together in our Language. A very great
number of our words too, are plainly derived from the Latin. These, we had not
directly from the Latin, but most of them, it is probable, entered into our
Tongue through the channel of that Norman French, which William the Conqueror
introduced. For, as the Romans had long been in full possession of Gaul, the
Language spoken in that country, when it was invaded by the Franks and Normans,
was a sort of corrupted Latin, mingled with [Page 172] Celtic, to which was
given the name of Romanshe: and as the Franks and Normans did not, like the
Saxons in England, expel the inhabitants, but, after their victories, mingled
with them; the 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 Languages,
which have been formed in a manner within themselves, and built on one
foundation. Hence, as I before showed, it has but small remains of conjugation
or declension; and its syntax is narrow, as there are few marks in the words
themselves that can show their relation to each other, or, in the grammatical
style, point out either their concordance, or their government, in the
sentence. Our words having been brought to us from several different regions,
straggle, if we may so speak, asunder from each other; and do not coalesce so
naturally in the structure of a sentence, as the words in the Greek and Roman
Tongues.
[Page 173]
But these
disadvantages, if they be such, of a compound Language, are balanced by other
advantages that attend it; particularly, by the number and variety of words
with which such a Language is likely to be enriched. Few Languages are, in
fact, more copious than the English. In all grave subjects especially,
historical, critical, political, 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 point of numbers only, but in the very words
themselves; which shows what a stock and compass of words we have it in our
power to select and employ, suited to those different 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
our Language displays its power of expression. We are said to have thirty
words, at least, for denoting all the varieties of the passion of anger . But,
in describing the more delicate sentiments and emotions, our Tongue is not so
fertile. It must be confessed, that the [Page 174] French Language surpasses
ours, by far, in expressing the nicer shades of character; especially those
varieties of manner, temper, and behaviour, which are displayed in our social
intercourse with one another. Let any one attempt to translate, into English,
only a few pages of one of Marivaux’s Novels, and he will soon be sensible of
our deficiency of expression on these subjects. Indeed, no Language is so
copious as the French for whatever is delicate, gay, and amusing. It is,
perhaps, the happiest Language for conversation in the known world; but, on the
higher subjects of composition, the English may be justly esteemed 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 impression of their genius and manners; for, among all nations,
the original stock of words which they received from their ancestors, remain as
the foundation of their Speech throughout many ages, while their manners
undergo, perhaps, very great alterations. National character will, however,
always have some perceptible influence on the turn of Language; and the gaiety
and vivacity of the French, and the gravity and thoughtfulness of the English,
are sufficiently impressed on their respective Tongues.
From the genius of our
Language, and the character of those who speak it, it may be expected to have
strength and energy. It is, indeed, naturally prolix; owing to the great number
of particles and auxiliary verbs which we are obliged constantly to employ; and
this prolixity must, in some degree, [Page 175] enfeeble it. We seldom 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 is less compact; our conceptions being
spread out among more words, and split, as it were, into more parts, make a
fainter impression when we utter them. Notwithstanding this defect, by our
abounding in terms for expressing all the strong emotions of the mind, and by
the liberty which we enjoy, in a greater degree than most nations, of
compounding words, our Language may be esteemed to possess considerable force
of expression; comparatively, at least, with the other modern Tongues, though
much below the antient. 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 tender and gentle, or
pompous and magnificent, as occasions require, or as an author’s genius
prompts, is a quality of great importance in speaking and writing. It seems to
depend upon three things; the copiousness of a Language; the different
arrangements of which its words are susceptible; and the variety and beauty of
the sound of those words, so as to correspond to many different subjects. Never
did any Tongue possess this quality so eminently as the Greek, which every
writer of genius could so mould, as to make the style perfectly expressive of
his own manner and peculiar turn. It had all the three requisites, which I have
mentioned, as necessary for this purpose. It joined to these the graceful
variety of its different dialects; and thereby readily [Page 176] assumed every
sort of character which an author could wish, from the most simple and most
familiar, up to the most majestic. The Latin, though a very beautiful Language,
is inferior, in this respect, to the Greek. It has more of a fixed character of
stateliness and gravity. It is always firm and masculine in the tenor of its
sound; and is supported by a certain senatorial dignity, of which it is
difficult for a writer to divest it wholly, on any occasion. Among the modern
Tongues, the Italian possesses a great deal more of this flexibility than the
French. By its copiousness, its freedom of arrangement, and the great beauty
and harmony of its sounds, it suits itself very happily to most subjects,
either in prose or in poetry; is capable of the august and the strong, as well
as the tender; and seems to be, on the whole, the most perfect of all the
modern dialects which have arisen out of the ruins of the antient. 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 expression,
such a power of accommodation to the different taste of writers, as redounds
not a little to its honour.
What the English has
been most taxed with, is its deficiency in 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
evident grounds on which it may be [Page 177] 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. Sheridan has shown, in his Lectures, that we abound more in
vowel and diphthong sounds, than most Languages; and these too, so divided into
long and short, as to afford a proper diversity in the quantity of our
syllables. Our consonants, he observes, which appear so crowded to the eye on
paper, often form combinations not disagreeable to the ear in pronouncing; and,
in particular, the objection which has been made to the frequent recurrence of
the hissing consonant’s in our Language, is unjust and ill-founded. For, it has
not been attended to, that very commonly, and in the final syllables
especially, this letter loses altogether the hissing sound, and is transformed
into a z, which is one of the sounds on which the ear rests with pleasure; as
in has, these, those, loves, hears, and innumerable more, where, though the
letter s be retained in writing, it has really the power of z, not of the
common s.
After all, however, it
must be admitted, that smoothness, or beauty of sound, is none of the
distinguishing properties of the English Tongue. Though not incapable of being
formed into melodious arrangements, yet strength and expressiveness, more than
grace, form its character. We incline, in general, to a short pronunciation of
our words, and have shortened the quantity of most of those which we borrow
from the Latin, as [Page 178] orator, spectacle, theatre, liberty, and such
like. Agreeable to this, is a remarkable peculiarity of English pronunciation, the
throwing the accent farther back, that is, nearer the beginning of the word,
than is done by any other nation. In Greek and Latin, no word is accented
farther back than the third syllable from the end, or what is called the
antepenult. But, in English, we have many words accented on the fourth, some on
the fifth syllable from the end, as, mêmorable, convêniency, âmbulatory, prôfitableness.
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, of being the most simple in its form and
construction, of all the European dialects. It is free from all intricacy of
cases, declensions, moods and tenses. Its words are subject to fewer variations
from their original form than those of any other Language. Its substantives
have no distinction of gender, except what nature has made, and but one
variation in case. Its adjectives admit of no change at all, except what
expresses the degree of comparison. Its verbs, instead of running through all
the varieties of antient conjugation, suffer no more than four or five changes
in termination. By the help of a few prepositions and auxiliary verbs, all the
purposes of significancy in meaning are accomplished; while the words, for the
most part, preserve their form unchanged. The disadvantages in point of
elegance, brevity, and force, which follow from this structure of our Language,
I have before pointed out. But, [Page 179] at the same time, it must be
admitted, that such a structure contributes to facility. It renders the
acquisition of our Language less laborious, the arrangement of our words more
plain and obvious, the rules of our syntax fewer and more simple.
I agree, indeed, with
Dr. Lowth (preface to his Grammar), in thinking that this very simplicity and
facility of our Language proves a cause of its being frequently written and
spoken with less accuracy. It was necessary to study Languages, which were of a
more complex and artificial form, with greater care. The marks of gender and
case, the varieties of conjugation and declension, the multiplied 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 considered as an object of grammatical rule. We take it for granted,
that a competent skill in it may be acquired without any study; and that, in a
syntax so narrow and confined as ours, there is nothing which demands
attention. Hence arises the habit of writing in a loose and inaccurate manner.
I admit, that no
grammatical rules have sufficient authority to controul the firm and
established usage of Language. Established custom, 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 [Page 180] is understood to give foundation to the most reputable usage
of Speech; and which, in all cases, when usage is loose or dubious, possesses
considerable authority. In every Language, there are rules of syntax which must
be inviolably observed by all who would either write or speak with any
propriety. For syntax is no other than that arrangement of words, in sentence,
which renders the meaning of each word and the relation of all the words to one
another, most clear and intelligible.
All the rules of Latin
syntax, it is true, cannot be applied to our Language. Many of these rules
arose from the particular form of their Language, which occasioned verbs or
prepositions to govern, some the genitive, some the dative, some the accusative
or ablative case. But, abstracting from these peculiarities, it is to be always
remembered, that the chief and fundamental rules of syntax are common to the
English as well as the Latin Tongue; and, indeed, belong equally to all
Languages. For, in all Languages, the parts which compose Speech are
essentially the same; substantives, adjectives, verbs, and connecting
particles: And wherever these parts of Speech are found, there are certain
necessary relations among them, which regulate their syntax, or the place which
they ought to possess in a sentence. Thus, in English, just as much as in
Latin, the adjective must, by position, be made to agree with its substantive;
and the verb must agree with its nominative in person and number; because, 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, [Page 181] to which they
refer, to be placed in the plural number; otherwise, their common relation to
these verbs or pronouns is not pointed out. An active verb must, in every
Language, govern the accusative; that is, clearly point out some substantive
noun, as the object to which its action is directed. A relative pronoun must,
in every form of Speech, agree with its antecedent in gender, number, and
person; and conjunctions, or connecting particles, ought always to couple like
cases and moods; that is, ought to join together words which are of the same
form and state with each other. I mention these, as a few exemplifications of
that fundamental regard to syntax, which, even in such a Language as ours, is
absolutely requisite for writing or speaking with any propriety.
Whatever the
advantages, or defects of the English Language be, as it is our own Language,
it deserves a high degree of our study and attention, both with regard to the
choice of words which we employ, and with regard to the syntax, or the
arrangement of these words in a sentence. We know how much the Greeks and the
Romans, in their most polished and flourishing times, cultivated their own
Tongues. We know how much study both the French, and the Italians, have
bestowed upon theirs. Whatever knowledge may be acquired by the study of other
Languages, it can never be communicated with advantage, unless by such as can
write and speak their own Language well. Let the matter of an author be ever so
good and useful, his compositions will always suffer in the public esteem, if
his expression be deficient in purity and propriety. At the same time, the
attainment of a correct and elegant style, is an object which demands
application and labour. [Page 182] If any imagine they can catch it merely by
the ear, or acquire it by a slight perusal of some of our good authors, they
will find themselves much disappointed. The many errors, even in point of
grammar, the many offences against purity of Language, which are committed by
writers who are far from being contemptible, demonstrate, that a careful study
of the Language is previously requisite, in all who aim at writing it .
[Page 183]
HAVING finished the
subject of Language, I now enter on the consideration 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 a man expresses his conceptions, by means of
Language. It is different from mere Language or words. The words, which an
author employs, may be proper and faultless; and his Style may, nevertheless,
have great faults; it may be dry, or stiff, or feeble, or affected. Style has
always some reference to an author’s manner of thinking. It is a picture of the
ideas which rise in his mind, and of the manner in which they rise there; and,
hence, when we are examining an author’s composition, it is, in many cases,
extremely difficult to [Page 184] separate 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,
different countries have been noted for peculiarities of Style, suited to their
different temper and genius. The eastern nations animated their Style with the
most strong and hyperbolical figures. The Athenians, a polished and acute
people, formed a Style accurate, clear, and neat. The Asiatics, gay and loose
in their manners, affected a Style florid and diffuse. The like sort of
characteristical differences are commonly 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, or a spirited Style; which are plainly
the characters of a writer’s manner of thinking, as well as of expressing
himself: So difficult it is to separate these two things from one another. Of
the general characters of Style, I am afterwards to discourse; but it will be
necessary to begin with examining the more simple qualities of it; from the
assemblage of which, its more complex denominations, in a great measure,
result.
All the qualities of a
good Style may be ranged under two heads, Perspicuity and Ornament. For all
that can possibly be required of Language, is, to convey our ideas clearly to
the minds of others, and, at the same time, in such a dress, as by pleasing and
interesting them, shall most effectually strengthen the impressions which we
seek to make. When both these ends are answered, we certainly accomplish every
purpose for which we use Writing and Discourse.
[Page 185]
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 ornaments of Style only glimmer through the dark; and puzzle,
instead of pleasing, the reader. This, therefore, must be our first object, to
make our meaning clearly and fully understood, and understood without the least
difficulty. "Oratio," says Quinctilian, "debet negligenter
quoque audientibus esse aperta; ut in animum audientis, sicut sol in oculos,
eliamsi in eum non intendatur, occurrat. Quare, non solum ut intelligere
possit, sed ne omnino possit ." If we are obliged to follow a writer with
much care, to pause, and to read over his sentences a second time, in order to
comprehend them fully, he will never please us long. Mankind are too indolent
to relish so much labour. They may pretend to admire the author’s depth, after
they have discovered his meaning; but they will seldom be inclined to take up
his work a second time.
Authors sometimes plead
the difficulty of their subject, as an excuse for the want of Perspicuity. But
the excuse can rarely, if ever, be sustained. For whatever a man conceives
[Page 186] 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 indistinctness of their own conceptions. They see the object but in a
confused light; and, of course, can never exhibit it in a clear one to others.
Perspicuity in writing,
is not to be considered as only a sort of negative virtue, or freedom from
defect. It has higher merit: It is a degree of positive beauty. We are pleased
with an author, we consider him as deserving praise, who frees us from all
fatigue of searching for his meaning; who carries us through his subject
without any embarrassment or confusion; whose style flows always like a limpid
stream, where we see to the very bottom.
The study of
Perspicuity requires attention, first, to single words and phrases, and then to
the construction of sentences. I begin with treating of the first, and shall
consine myself to it in this Lecture.
Perspicuity, considered
with respect to words and phrases, requires these three qualities in them;
Purity, Propriety, and Precision.
[Page 187]
Purity and Propriety of
Language, are often used indiscriminately for each other; and, indeed, they are
very nearly allied. A distinction, however, obtains between them. Purity, is
the use of such words, and such constructions, as belong to the idiom of the
Language which we speak; in opposition to words and phrases that are imported
from other Languages, or that are obsolete, or new coined, or used without
proper authority. Propriety, is the selection of such words in the Language, as
the best and most established usage has appropriated to those ideas which we
intend to express by them. It implies the correct and happy application of
them, according to that usage, in opposition to vulgarisms, or low expressions;
and to words and phrases, which would be less significant of the ideas that we
mean to convey. Style may be pure, that is, it may all be strictly English,
without Scotticisms or Gallicisms, or ungrammatical irregular expressions of
any kind, and may, nevertheless, be deficient in Propriety. The words may be
ill chosen; not adapted to the subject, nor fully expressive of the author’s
sense. He has taken all his words and phrases from the general mass of English
Language; but he has made his selection among these words unhappily. Whereas,
Style cannot be proper without being also pure; and where both Purity and
Propriety meet, besides making Style perspicuous, they also render it graceful.
There is no standard, either of Purity or of Propriety, but the practice of the
best writers and speakers in the country.
When I mentioned
obsolete or new-coined words as incongruous with Purity of Style, it will be
easily understood, that some exceptions are to be made. On certain occasions,
they [Page 188] may have grace. Poetry admits of greater latitude than prose,
with respect to coining, or, at least, new-compounding words; yet, even here,
this liberty should be used with a sparing hand. In prose, such innovations are
more hazardous, and have a worse effect. They are apt to give Style an affected
and conceited air; and should never be ventured 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 necessity requires them, should always
be avoided. Barren Languages may need such assistances; but ours is not one of
these. Dean Swift, one of our most correct writers, valued himself much on
using no words but such as were of native growth: and his Language may, indeed,
be considered as a standard of the strictest Purity and Propriety in the choice
of words. At present, we seem to be departing from this standard. A multitude
of Latin words have, of late, been poured in upon us. On some occasions, they
give an appearance of elevation and dignity to Style. But often also, they
render it stiff and forced: And, in general, a plain native Style, as it is
more intelligible to all readers, so, by a proper management of words, it can
be made equally strong and expressive with this Latinised English.
Let us now consider the
import of Precision in Language, which, as it is the highest part of the
quality denoted by Perspicuity, merits a full explication; and the more,
because distinct ideas are, perhaps, not commonly formed about it.
[Page 189]
The exact import of
Precision may be drawn from the etymology of the word. It comes from
"precidere," to cut off: It imports retrenching all superfluities,
and pruning the expression so, as to exhibit neither more nor less than an
exact copy of his idea who uses it. I observed before, that it is often
difficult to separate the qualities of Style from the qualities of Thought; and
it is found so in this instance. For, in order to write with Precision, though
this be properly a quality of Style, one must possess a very considerable
degree of distinctness and accuracy in his manner of thinking.
The words, which a man
uses to express his ideas, may be faulty in three respects: They may either not
express that idea which the author intends, but some other which only
resembles, or is akin to it; or, they may express that idea, but not quite
fully and completely; or, they may express it, together with something more
than he intends. Precision stands opposed to all these three faults; but
chiefly to the last. In an author’s writing with Propriety, his being free of
the two former faults seems implied. The words which he uses are proper; that
is, they express that idea which he intends, and they express it fully; but to
be Precise, signifies, that they express that idea, and no more. There is
nothing in his words which introduces any foreign idea, any superfluous
unseasonable accessory, so as to mix it confusedly with the principal object,
and thereby to render our conception of that object loose and indistinct. This
requires a writer to have, himself, a very clear apprehension of the object he
means to present to us; to have laid fast hold of it in his mind; and never to
waver in any one view he takes of it: a perfection to which, indeed, few
writers attain.
[Page 190]
The use and importance
of Precision, may be deduced from the nature of the human mind. It never can
view, clearly and distinctly, above one object at a time. If it must look at
two or three together, especially objects among which there is resemblance or
connection, 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 by itself, and to stand alone, that there
might be nothing to distract my attention. The same is the case with words. If,
when you would inform me of your meaning, you also tell me more than what
conveys it; if you join foreign circumstances to the principal object; if, by
unnecessarily varying the expression, you shift the point of view, and make me
see sometimes the object itself, and sometimes another thing that is connected
with it; you thereby oblige me to look on several objects at once, and I lose
sight of the principal. You load the animal, you are showing me, with so many
trappings and collars, and bring so many of the same species before me,
somewhat resembling, and yet somewhat differing, that I see none of them
clearly.
This forms what is
called a Loose Style; and, is the proper opposite to Precision. It generally
arises from using a superfluity of words. Feeble writers employ a multitude of
words to make themselves 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 [Page 191] very precisely themselves; and, therefore, help it
out, as they can, by this and the other word, which may, as they suppose,
supply the defect, and bring you somewhat nearer to their idea: They are always
going about it, and about it, but never just hit the thing. The image, as they
set it before you, is always seen double; and no double image is distinct. When
an author tells me of his hero’s courage in the day of battle, the expression
is precise, and I understand it fully. But if, from the desire of multiplying
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 is
different; and 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 qualified sense, be perspicuous, while yet
he is far from being precise. He uses proper words, and proper arrangement; he
gives you the idea as clear as he conceives it himself; and so far he is
perspicuous: but the ideas are not very clear in his own mind; they are loose
and general; and, therefore, cannot be expressed with Precision. All subjects
do not equally require Precision. It is sufficient, on many occasions, that we
have a general view of the meaning. The subject, perhaps, is of the known and
familiar kind; and we are in no hazard of mistaking the sense of the author,
though every word which he uses be not precise and exact.
[Page 192]
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 meaning by several words, which shew you fully whereabouts it
lies, rather than to single out those expressions, which would convey clearly
the idea 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 Shaftsbury’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 Shaftsbury 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 Preeision, is not owing so much to
indistinct or confused ideas, as to perpetual affectation. He is fond, to
excess, of the pomp and parade of Language; he is never satisfied with
expressing any thing clearly and 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 described much better by
one of them. If he has occasion to mention any person or author, he very rarely
mentions him by his proper name. In the treatise, entitled, Advice to an [Page
193] Author, he descants 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 condescends to distinguish Homer, Socrates, and
Plato, in another passage of the same treatise. This method of distinguishing
persons is extremely affected; but it is not so contrary to Precision, as the
frequent circumlocutions he employs for all moral ideas; attentive, on every
occasion, more to the pomp of Language, than to the clearness which he ought to
have studied as a philosopher. The moral sense, for instance, after he had once
defined it, was a clear term; but, how vague becomes the idea, when, in the
next page, he calls it, "That natural 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 it is 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 rather 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 concerning Virtue, he means to show,
that, by every ill action we hurt our mind, as much as one who should swallow
poison, [Page 194] or give himself a wound, would hurt his body. Observe what a
redundancy of words he pours forth: "Now, if the fabrick of the mind or
temper appeared to us, such as it really is; if we saw it impossible to remove
hence any one good or orderly affection, or to introduce any ill or disorderly
one, without drawing on, in some degree, that dissolute state which, at its
height, is confessed to be so miserable; it would then, undoubtedly, be
confessed, that since no ill, immoral, or unjust action, can be committed,
without either a new inroad and breach on the temper and passions, or a further
advancing of that execution already done; whoever did ill, or acted in
prejudice of his integrity, good- nature, or worth, would, of necessity, act
with greater cruelty towards himself, than he who scrupled not to swallow what
was poisonous, or who, with his own hands, should voluntarily mangle or wound
his outward form or constitution, natural limbs or ." Here, to commit a
bad action, is first, "To remove a good and orderly affection, and to
introduce an ill or disorderly one;" next, it is, "To commit an
action that is ill, immoral, and unjust;" and in the next line, it is,
"To do ill, or to act in prejudice of integrity, good-nature, and
worth;" nay, so very simple a thing as a man’s wounding himself, is,
"To mangle, or wound, his outward form and constitution, his natural limbs
or body." Such superfluity of words is disgustful to every reader of
correct taste; and serves no purpose but to embarrass and perplex the sense.
This sort of Style is elegantly described by Quinctilian, "Est in
quibusdam turba inanium verborum, qui dum communem loquendi [Page 195] morem
reformidant, ducti specie nitoris, circumeunt omnia copiosa loquacitate quæ dicere
volunt ." Lib. vii. cap. 2.
The great source of a
loose Style, in opposition to Precision, is the injudicious use of those words
termed Synonymous. They are called Synonymous, because they agree in expressing
one principal idea; but, for the most part, if not always, they express it with
some diversity in the circumstances. They are varied by some accessory idea
which every word introduces, and which forms the distinction between them.
Hardly, in any Language, are there two words that convey precisely the same
idea; a person thoroughly conversant in the propriety of the Language, will
always be able to observe something that distinguishes them. As they are like
different shades of the same colour, an accurate writer can employ them to
great advantage, by using them, so as to heighten and to finish the picture
which he gives us. He supplies by one, what was wanting in the other, to the
force, or to the lustre of the image which he means to exhibit. But, in order
to this end, he must be extremely attentive to the choice which he makes of
them. For the bulk of writers are very apt to confound them with each other;
and to employ them carelessly, merely for the sake of filling up a period, or
of rounding and diversifying the Language, as if their signification were
exactly the same, while, in truth, it is not. Hence a certain mist, and
indistinctness, is unwarily thrown over Style.
[Page 196]
In the Latin Language,
there are no two words we would more readily take to be synonymous, than amare
and diligere. Cicero, however, has shewn us, that there is a very clear
distinction betwixt them, "Quid ergo," says he, in one of his
epistles, "tibi commendem eum quem tu ipse diligis? Sed tamen ut scires
eum non a me diligi solum, verum etiam amari, ob eam rem tibi hæc scribo
." In the same manner tutus and securus, are words which we would readily
confound; yet their meaning is different. Tutus, signifies out of danger;
securus, free from the dread of it. Seneca has elegantly marked this
distinction; "Tuta scelera esse possunt, secura non possunt ." In our
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 shew the necessity of attending, with care and
strictness, to the exact import of words, if ever we would write with Propriety
or Precision.
Austerity, Severity,
Rigour. Austerity, relates to the manner of living; Severity, of thinking;
Rigour, of punishing. To Austerity, is opposed Effeminacy; to Severity,
Relaxation; to Rigour, Clemency. A Hermit, is austere in his life; a Casuist,
severe in his application of religion or law; a Judge, rigorous in his sentences.
Custom, Habit. Custom,
respects the action; Habit, the actor. By Custom, we mean the frequent
repetition of the same [Page 197] act; by Habit, the effect which that
repetition produces on the mind or body. By the Custom of walking often on the
streets, one acquires a Habit of idleness.
Surprised, astonished,
amazed, confounded. I am surprised with what is new or unexpected; I am
astonished, at what is vast or great; I am amazed, with what is
incomprehensible; I am confounded, by what is shocking or terrible.
Desist, renounce, quit,
leave off. Each of these words imply some pursuit or object relinquished; but
from different motives. We desist, from the difficulty of accomplishing. We
renounce, on account 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 renounces the court, because he has
been affronted by it; he quits ambition for study or retirement; and leaves off
his attendance on the great, as he becomes old and weary of it.
Pride, Vanity. Pride,
makes us esteem ourselves; Vanity, makes us desire the esteem of others. It is
just to say, as Dean Swift has done, that a man is too proud to be vain.
Haughtiness, Disdain.
Haughtiness, is founded on the high opinion we entertain of ourselves; Disdain,
on the low opinion we have of others.
[Page 198]
To distinguish, to
separate. We distinguish, what we want not to confound with another thing; we
separate, what we want to remove from it. Objects are distinguished from one
another, by their qualities. They are separated, by the distance of time or
place.
To weary, to fatigue.
The continuance of the same thing wearies us; labour fatigues us. I am weary
with standing; I am fatigued with 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 also strong
disapprobation. One abhors being in debt; he detests treachery.
To invent, to discover.
We invent things that are new; we discover what was before hidden. Galileo
invented the telescope; Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood.
Only, alone, Only,
imports that there is no other of the same kind; alone, imports being
accompanied by no other. An only child, is one who has neither brother nor
sister; a child alone, is one who is left by itself. There is a difference,
therefore, in precise Language, betwixt these two phrases, "Virtue only
makes us happy;" and, "Virtue alone makes us happy." Virtue only
makes us happy, imports, that nothing else can do it. Virtue alone makes us
happy, imports, that virtue, by itself, or unaccompanied with other advantages,
is sufficient to do it.
[Page 199]
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.
Tranquillity, Peace,
Calm. Tranquillity, respects a situation free from trouble, considered in
itself; Peace, the same situation with respect to any causes that might
interrupt it; Calm, with regard to a disturbed 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;
we surmount the other. Generally, the first, expresses somewhat arising from
the nature and circumstances 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 improperly. A wise man, employs the most proper means for
success; a prudent man, the safest means for not being brought into danger.
Enough, Sufficient.
Enough, relates to the quantity which one wishes to have of any thing.
Sufficient, relates to the use that is to be made of it. Hence, Enough,
generally imports a [Page 200] greater quantity than Sufficient does. The
covetous man never has enough; although he has what is sufficient for nature.
To avow, to
acknowledge, to confess. Each of these words imports the affirmation of a fact,
but in very different circumstances. To avow, supposes the person to glory in
it; to acknowledge, supposes a small degree of faultiness, which the
acknowledgment compensates; to confess, supposes a higher degree of crime. A
patriot avows his opposition to a bad minister, and is applauded; a gentleman
acknowledges his mistake, and is forgiven; a prisoner confesses the crime he is
accused of, and is punished.
To remark, to observe.
We remark, in the way of attention, in order to remember; we observe, in the
way of examination, in order to judge. A traveller remarks the most striking
objects he sees; a general observes all the motions of his enemy.
Equivocal, Ambiguous.
An Equivocal Expression is, one which has one sense open, and designed to be
understood; another sense concealed, and understood only by the person who uses
it. An Ambiguous Expression is, one which has apparently two senses, and leaves
us at a loss which of them to give it. An equivocal expression is used with an
intention to deceive; an ambiguous one, when it is used with design, is, with
an intention not to give full information. An honest man will never employ an
equivocal expression; a confused man may often utter ambiguous ones, without
any design. I shall give only one instance more.
[Page 201]
With, By. Both these
particles express the connection between some instrument, or means of effecting
an end, and the agent who employs it: but with, expresses a more close and
immediate connection; by, a more remote one. We kill a man with a sword; he
dies by violence. The criminal is bound with ropes by the executioner. The
proper distinction in the use of these particles, is elegantly marked in a
passage of Dr. Robertson’s History of Scotland. When one of the old Scottish
kings was making an enquiry into the tenure by which his nobles held their
lands, they started up, and drew their swords: "By these," said they,
"we acquired our lands, and with these, we will defend them."
"By these we acquired our lands;" signifies the more remote means of
acquisition by force and martial deeds; and, "with these we will defend
them;" signifies the immediate direct instrument, the sword, which they
would employ in their defence.
These are instances of
words, in our Language, which by careless writers, are apt to be employed as
perfectly synonymous, and yet are not so. Their significations approach, but
are not precisely the same. The more the distinction in the meaning of such
words is weighted, and attended to, the more clearly and forcibly shall we
speak or write .
[Page 202]
From all that has been
said on this head, it will now appear, that, in order to write or speak with
Precision, two things are especially requisite; one, that an author’s own ideas
be clear and distinct; and the other, that he have an exact and full
comprehension of the force of those words which he employs. Natural genius is
here required; labour and attention still more. Dean Swift is one of the
authors, in our Language, most distinguished for Precision of Style. In his
writings, we seldom or never find vague expressions, and synonymous words,
carelessly thrown together. His meaning is always clear, and strongly marked.
I had occasion to
observe before, that though all subjects of writing or discourse demand
Perspicuity, yet all do not require the same degree of that exact Precision,
which I have endeavoured to explain. It is, indeed, in every sort of writing, a
great beauty to have, at least, some measure of Precision, in distinction from
that loose profusion of words which imprints no clear idea on the reader’s
mind. But we must, at the same time, be on our guard, lest too great a study of
Precision, especially in subjects where it is not strictly requisite, betray us
into a dry and barren Style; lest, from the desire of pruning too closely, we
retrench all copiousness and ornament. Some degree of this failing may,
perhaps, be remarked in Dean Swift’s serious works. Attentive only to exhibit
his ideas clear [Page 203] and exact, resting wholly on his sense and
distinctness, he appears to reject, disdainfully, all embellishment which, on
some occasions, may be thought to render his manner somewhat hard and dry. To
unite together Copiousness and Precision, to be flowing and graceful, and, at
the same time, correct and exact in the choice of every word, is, no doubt, one
of the highest and most difficult attainments in writing. Some kinds of composition
may require more of Copiousness and Ornament; others, more of Precision and
Accuracy; nay, in the same composition, the different parts of it may demand a
proper variation of manner. But we must study never to sacrifice, totally, any
one of these qualities to the other; and, by a proper management, both of them
may be made fully consistent, if our own ideas be precise, and our knowledge
and stock of words be, at the same time, extensive.
[Page 204]
HAVING begun to treat
of Style, in the last Lecture I considered its fundamental quality,
Perspicuity. What I have said of this, relates chiefly to the choice of Words.
From words I proceed to Sentences; and as, in all writing and discourse, the
proper composition and structure of Sentences is of the highest importance, I
shall treat of this fully. Though Perspicuity be the general head under which
I, at present, consider Language, I shall not confine myself to this quality
alone, in Sentences, but shall enquire also, what is requisite for their Grace
and Beauty: that I may bring together, under one view, all that seems necessary
to be attended to in the construction and arrangement of words in a Sentence.
It is not easy to give
an exact definition of a Sentence, or Period, farther, than as it always
implies some one complete proposition or enunciation of thought. Aristotle’s
definition [Page 205] is, in the main, a good one: "
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SPECIAL_IMAGE-ngr.gif-REPLACE_ME :" "A form of Speech which hath a
beginning and an end within itself, and is of such a length as to be easily comprehended
at once." This, however, admits of great latitude. For a Sentence, or
Period, consists always of component parts, which are called its members; and
as these members may be either few or many, and may be connected in several
different ways, the same thought, or mental proposition, may often be either
brought into one Sentence, or split into two or three, without the material
breach of any rule.
The first variety that
occurs in the consideration of Sentences, is, the distinction of long and short
ones. The precise length of Sentences, as to the number of words, or the number
of members, which may enter into them, cannot be ascertained by any definite
measure. Only it is obvious, there may be an extreme on either side. Sentences,
immoderately long, and consisting of too many members, always transgress some
one or other of the rules which I shall mention soon, as necessary to be
observed in every good Sentence. In discourses that are to be spoken, regard
must be had to the easiness of pronunciation, which is not consistent with too
long periods. In compositions where pronunciation has no place, still, however,
by using long periods too frequently, an author overloads the reader’s ear, and
fatigues his attention. For long Periods require, evidently, more attention than
short ones, in order to perceive clearly the connexion of the several parts,
and to take in the whole at one view. At the same time, there may be an excess
in too many short Sentences also; by which [Page 206] the sense is split and
broken, the connexion of thought weakened, and the memory burdened, by
presenting to it a long succession of minute objects.
With regard to the
length and construction of Sentences, the French critics make a very just
distinction of Style, into Style Periodique, and Style Coupé. The Style
Periodique is, where the sentences are composed of several members linked
together, and hanging upon one another, so that the sense of the whole is not
brought out till the close. This is the most pompous, musical, and oratorical
manner of composing; as in the following sentence of Sir William Temple:
"If you look about you, and consider the lives of others as well as your
own; if you think how few are born with honour, and how many die without name
or children; how little beauty we see, and how few friends we hear of; how many
diseases, and how much poverty there is in the world; you will fall down upon
your knees, and, instead of repining at one affiction, will admire so many
blessings which you have received from the hand of God." (Letter to Lady
Effex.) Cicero abounds with Sentences constructed after this manner.
The Style Coupé is,
where the sense is formed into short independent propositions, each complete
within itself; as in the following of Mr. Pope: "I confess, it was want of
consideration that made me an author. I writ, because it amused me. I
corrected, because it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write. I
published, because, I was told, I might please such as it was a credit to
please." (Preface to his works.) [Page 207] This is very much the French
method of writing; and always suits gay and easy subjects. The Style
Periodique, gives an air of gravity and dignity to composition. The Style Coupé,
is more lively and striking. According to the nature of the composition,
therefore, and the general character it ought to bear, the one or other may be
predominant. But, in almost every kind of composition, the great rule is to
intermix them. For the ear tires of either of them when too long continued:
Whereas, by a proper mixture of long and short Periods, the ear is gratified,
and a certain sprightliness is joined with majesty in our style. "Non
semper," says Cicero (describing very expressively, these two different
kinds of Styles, of which I have been speaking,) "non semper utendum est
perpetuitate, & quasi conversione verborum; fed sæpe carpenda membris
minutioribus oratio est ."
This variety is of so
great consequence, that it must be studied, not only in the succession of long
and short Sentences, but in the structure of our Sentences also. A train of
Sentences, constructed in the same manner, and with the same number of members,
whether long or short, should never be allowed to succeed one another. However
musical each of them may be, it has a better effect to introduce even a discord,
than to cloy the ear with the repetition of similar founds: For, nothing is so
tiresome as perpetual uniformity. In this article of the construction and
distribution of his Sentences, Lord Shaftsbury has shown great art. In the last
Lecture, I observed, that he is [Page 208] often guilty of sacrificing
precision of style to pomp of expression; and that there runs through his whole
manner, a stiffness and affectation, which render him very unfit to be
considered as a general model. But, as his ear was fine, and as he was
extremely attentive to every thing that is elegant, he has studied the proper
intermixture of long and short Sentences, with variety and 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 attention to the rules which relate to
this part of style, we acquire the habit of expressing ourselves with
Perspicuity and Elegance; and, if a disorder chance to arise in some of our
Sentences, we immediately see where it lies, and are able to rectify it .
[Page 209]
The properties most
essential to a perfect Sentence, seem to me, the four following: I. Clearness
and Precision. 2. Unity. 3. Strength. 4. Harmony. Each of these I shall
illustrate separately, and at some length.
The first is, Clearness
and Precision. The least failure here, the least degree of ambiguity, which
leaves the mind in any sort of suspence as to the meaning, ought to be avoided
with the greatest care; nor is it so easy a matter to keep always clear of
this, as one might, at first, imagine. 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 collocation of words, where there is no transgression of any
grammatical rule. The relations which the words, or members of a period, bear
to one another, cannot be pointed out in English, as in the Greek or Latin, by
means of termination; it is ascertained only by the position in which they
stand. Hence a capital rule in the arrangement of Sentences is, 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, [Page 210] 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. Addison, 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. "I do not only mean." The question may then be
put, What does he more than mean? Had he placed it after bulk, still it would
have been wrong. "I do not mean the bulk only of any single object."
For we might then ask, What does he mean more than the bulk? Is it the colour?
Or any other property? Its proper place, undoubtedly, is, after the word
object. "By greatness, I do not mean the bulk of any single object
only;" for then, when we put the question, What more does he mean than the
bulk of a single object? The answer comes out exactly as the author intends,
and gives it; "The largeness of a whole view."---"Theism,"
says Lord Shaftsbury, "can only be opposed to polytheism, or
atheism." Does he mean that theism is capable of nothing else, except
being opposed to polytheism or atheism? This is what his words literally
import, through the wrong collocation of only. He should have said, "Theism
can be opposed only to polytheism or atheism."---In like manner, Dean
Swift (Project for the advancement of Religion), "The Romans understood
liberty, at least, as well [Page 211] as we." These words are capable of
two different senses, according as the emphasis, in reading them, is laid upon
liberty, or upon at least. In the first case, they will signify, that whatever
other things we may understand better than the Romans, liberty, at least, was
one thing which they understood as well as we. In the second case, they will
import, that liberty was understood, at least as well by them as by us;
meaning, that by them it was better understood. If this last, as I make no
doubt, was Dean Swift’s own meaning, the ambiguity would have been avoided, and
the sense rendered independent of the manner of pronouncing, by arranging the
words thus: "The Romans understood liberty as well, as least, as we."
The fact is, with respect to such adverbs, as, only, wholly, at least, and the
rest of that tribe, that in common discourse, the tone and emphasis we use in
pronouncing them, generally serves to show their reference, and to make the
meaning clear; and hence, we acquire a habit of throwing them in loosely in the
course of a period. But, in writing, where a man speaks to the eye, and not to
the ear, he ought to be more accurate; and so to connect those adverbs with the
words which they qualify, as to put his meaning out of doubt upon the first
inspection.
Secondly, When a
circumstance is interposed in the middle of a 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, Disser. on Parties,
Dedicat.) Are these designs which any man, who is born a Briton, in any circumstances,
in any situation, ought to be ashamed or afraid to avow?" Here we are left
at a loss, whether these words, "in any circumstances, in any
situation," are connected [Page 212] with, "a man born in Britain, in
any circumstances, or situation," or with that man’s "avowing his
designs, in any circumstances, or situation, into which he may be
brought?" If the latter, as seems most probable, was intended to be the
meaning, the arrangement ought to have been eonducted thus: "Are these
designs, which any man who is born a Briton, ought to be ashamed or afraid, in
any circumstances, in any situation, to avow?" But,
Thirdly, Still more
attention is required to the proper disposition of the relative pronouns, who,
which, what, whose, and of all those particles which express the connection of
the parts of Speech with one another. As all reasoning depends upon this
connection, we cannot be too accurate and precise here. A small error may
overcloud 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 disjointed in the Structure of the
Sentence. Thus, in the Spectator (No. 54). "This kind of wit," says
Mr. Addison, "was very much in vogue among our countrymen, about an age or
two ago, who did not practise it for any oblique reason, but purely for the
sake of being witty." We are at no loss about the meaning here; but the
construction would evidently be mended by disposing of the circumstance,
"about an age or two ago," in such a manner as not to separate 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 oblique reason, but purely for the sake of
being witty." Spectator, No. 412. [Page 213] We no 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 these different
stains of light, that show themselves in clouds of a different situation."
Which is here designed to connect with the word show, as its antecedent; but it
stands so wide from it, that without a careful attention to the sense, we 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 more censurable: "It is folly to pretend to arm
ourselves against the accidents of life, by heaping up treasures, which nothing
can protect us against, but the good providence of our Heavenly Father."
Which, always refers grammatically to the immediately preceding substantive,
which here is, "treasure;" and this would make nonsense of the whole
Period. Every one feels this impropriety. The Sentence ought to have stood
thus: "It is folly to pretend, by heaping up treasures, to arm ourselves
against the accidents of life, which nothing can protect us against but the
good providence of our Heavenly Father."
Of the like nature is
the following inaccuracy of Dean Swift’s. He is recommending to young
clergymen, to write their sermons fully and distinctly. "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, [Page 214] that they had acquired time and paper at
the university, but that they had acquired this habit there; and therefore his
words ought to have run thus: "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 a relative. It is in the conclusion of his letter to a member of
parliament, concerning the Sacramental Test: Thus I have fairly given you, Sir,
my own opinion, as well as that of a great majority of both houses here,
relating to this weighty affair; upon which I am confident yu 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 difficult to make any sense of this,
it is more probable he meant that the majority of both houses might be securely
reckoned upon; though certainly this meaning, as the words are arranged, is obscurely
expressed. The sentence would be amended by arranging 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 consident 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 shall
most clearly mark the relation of the several parts of the sentence to one
another; particularly, that adverbs shall always be made to adhere closely to
the words which they are [Page 215] intended to qualify; that, where a
circumstance is thrown in, it shall never hang loose in the midst of a period,
but be determined by its place to one or other member of it; and that every
relative word which is used, shall instantly present its antecedent to the mind
of the reader, without the least obscurity. I have mentioned these three cases,
because I think they are the most frequent occasions of ambiguity creeping into
sentences.
With regard to
Relatives, I must farther observe, that obscurity often arises from the too
frequent repetition of them, particularly of the pronouns 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. I. serm. 42.): "Men
look with an evil eye upon the good that is in others; and think that their
reputation obscures them, and their commendable qualities stand in their light;
and therefore they do what they can to cast a cloud over them, that the bright
shining of their virtues may not obscure them." This is altogether
careless writing. It renders style often obscure, always embarrassed and
inelegant. When we find these personal pronouns crowding too fast upon us, we
have often no method left, but to throw the whole sentence into some other
form, which may avoid those frequent references to persons who have before been
mentioned.
All languages are
liable to ambiguities. Quinctilian 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 [Page 216] which arose a dispute 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,
"Chremetem 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 scribentem,"
although the meaning be clear, yet Quinctilian insists that the arrangement is
wrong. "Nam," says he, "etiamsi librum ab homine scribi pateat,
non certè hominem a libro, malè tamen composuerat, seceratque ambiguum quantum
in ipso suit." 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 is a
capital property. In every composition, of whatever kind, some degree of unity
is required, in order to render it beautiful. There must be always some
connecting principle among the parts. Some one object must reign and be
predominant. This, as I shall hereafter shew, 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 nature of a sentence implies one
proposition to be expressed. It may consist of parts, indeed; but these parts
must be so closely bound together, as to make the impression upon the mind, of
[Page 217] 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 sence 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 I express 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 connection with
each other, yet, by this manner or representing them, by shifting so often both
the place and the person, we, and they, and I, and who, they appear in such a
disunired view, that the sense of connection is almost lost. The sentence is
restored to its proper unity, by turning it after the following manner:
"Having come to an anchor, I was put on shore, where I was welcomed by all
my friends, and received with the greatest kindness." 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 connection, 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 safest extreme, to err rather by too many
short sentences, than by one that is overloaded and [Page 218] embarrassed.
Examples abound in authors. I shall produce some, to justify what I now say.
"Archbishop Tillotson," says an Author of the History of England,
"died in this year. He was exceedingly beloved both by King William and
Queen Mary, who nominated Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Lincoln, to succeed
him." Who would expect the latter part of this sentence to follow, in
consequence of the former? "He was exceedingly beloved by both King and
Queen," is the proposition of the sentence: we look for some proof of
this, or at least something related to it, to follow; when we are on a sudden
carried off to a new proposition, "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 object in this sentence is,
the death of Tullia, which was the cause of her father’s affliction; the date
of it, as happening soon after her divorce from Dolabella, may enter into the
sentence with propriety; but the subjunction of Dolabella’s character is
foreign to the main object; and breaks the unity and compactness of the
sentence totally, by setting a new picture before the reader. The following
sentence, from a translation of Plutarch, is still worse: "Their
march," says the Author, speaking of the Greeks under Alexander,
"their march was through an uncultivated country, whose savage inhabitants
fared hardly, having no other riches than a breed of lean sheep, whose flesh
was rank and unfavoury, by reason of their continual feeding upon
sea-fish." Here the [Page 219] scene is changed upon us again and again.
The march of the Greeks, the description of the inhabitants through whose
country they travelled, the account of their sheep, and the cause of their
sheep being ill-tasted food, form a jumble of objects, slightly related to each
other, which the reader cannot, without much difficulty, comprehend under one
view.
These examples have
been taken from sentences of no great length, yet over- crowded. Authors who
deal in long sentences, are very apt to be faulty in this article. One need
only open Lord Clarendon’s History, to find examples every where. The long,
involved, and intricate sentences of that Author, are the greatest blemish of
his composition; though, in other respects, as a Historian, he has considerable
merit. In later, and more correct writers than Lord Clarendon, we find a period
sometimes running out so far, and comprehending so many particulars, as to be
more properly a discourse than a sentence. Take, for an instance, the following
from Sir William 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 conversant about them,
calling the operations of the first, Wisdom; and of the other, Wit; which is a
Saxon word, used to express what the Spaniards and Italians call Ingenio, and
the French, Esprit, both from the Latin; though I think Wit more particularly
signifies that of Poetry, as may occur in Remarks on the Runic Language."
When one arrives at the end of such a puzzled sentence, he is surprised to
[Page 220] find himself got to so great a distance from the object with which
he at first set out.
Lord Shaftsbury, often
betrayed into faults by his love of magnificence, 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 snow, sets
longing men at liberty, and affords them means and time to make provision
against the next return 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 force, should make him mindful of his privilege of
Reason, and force him humbly to adore the great Composer of these wondrous
frames, and the Author of his own superior wisdom." Nothing can be more
unhappy or embarrassed than this sentence; the worse too, as it is intended to be
descriptive, where every thing should be clear. It forms no distinct image
whatever. The It, at the beginning, is ambiguous, whether it 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 personages; and lastly, by a very unexpected transition, Man is
brought into view, and receives a long and serious admonition before the
sentence closes. I do not at present insist on the impropriety of such
expressions as, God’s being the Composer of Frames; and the [Page 221]
Sea-monsters having arms that withstand rocks. Shaftsbury’s strength lay in
reasoning and sentiment, more than in description; however much his
descriptions have been sometimes admired.
I shall only give one
instance more on this head, from Dean Swift; in his proposal, too, for
correcting the English Language: where, in place of a sentence, he has given a
loose differtation 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 like to be much improved by those, who at that time made up the court of
King Charles the Second; either such as had followed him in his banishment, or
who had been altogether conversant in the dialect of these fanatic times; or
young men, who had been educated in the same country: so that the Court, which
used to be the standard of correctness and propriety of speech, was then, and I
think has ever since continued, the worst school in England for that
accomplishment; and so will remain, till better care be taken in the education
of our nobility, that they may set out into the world with some foundation of
literature, in order to qualify them for patterns of politeness." How many
different facts, reasonings, and 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 [Page
222] 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
confusion. For commas, colons, and points, do not make the proper divisions of
thought; but only serve to mark those which arise from the tenor of the Author’s
expression: and, therefore, they are proper or not, just according as they
correspond to the natural divisions 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
Parentheses in 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
extremely bad; being a sort of wheels within wheels; sentences in the midst of
sentences; the perplexed method of disposing of some thought, which a writer
wants art to introduce in its proper place. It were needless to give many
instances, as they occur so often among incorrect writers. I shall produce one
from Lord Bolingbroke, the rapidity of whose genius, and manner of writing,
betrays him frequently into inaccuracies of this sort. It is in the
Introduction to his Idea of a Patriot King, where he writes thus: "It
seems to me, that, in order to maintain the system of the world, at a certain
point, far below that of ideal perfection (for we are made capable of
conceiving what we are incapable of attaining), but, however, sufficient, upon
the whole, to constitute a state easy and happy, or at the worst, tolerable; I
say, it seems to me, that the Author of Nature has thought [Page 223] fit to
mingle, from time to time, among the societies of men, a few, and but a few, of
those on whom he is graciously pleased to bestow a larger portion of the
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 I say; which, whenever it occurs, may be always assumed as a sure
mark of clumsy ill- constructed Sentence; excusable in speaking, where the
greatest accuracy is not expected, but in polished writing, unpardonable.
I shall add only one
rule more for the Unity of a Sentence, which is, to bring it always to a full
and perfect close. Every thing that is one, should have a beginning, a middle,
and an end. I need not take notice, that an unfinished Sentence is no Sentence
at all, according 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 elsewhere; but which is left lagging behind, like a tail adjected
to the Sentence; somewhat that, as Mr. Pope describes the Alexandrine line,
"Like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along." [Page 224] All
these adjections to the proper close, disfigure a Sentence extremely. They give
it a lame ungraceful air, and, in particular, they break its Unity. Dean Swift,
for instance, in his Letter to a Young Clergyman, speaking of Cicero’s
writings, expresses himself thus: "With these writings, young divines are
more conversant, than with those of 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 of the Sentence is altogether
foreign to it. Speaking of Burnet’s theory of the Earth, and Fontenelle’s
Plurality of Worlds, The first," says he, "could not end his learned
treatise, without a panegyric of modern learning, in comparison of the antient;
and the other, falls so grossly into the censure of the old poetry, and
preference of the new, that I could not read either of these strains without
some indignation; which no quality among men is so apt to raise in me as self-
sufficiency." The word "indignation," concluded the Sentence;
the last member, "which no quality among men is so apt to raise in me as
self-sufficiency," is a proposition altogether new, added after the proper
close.
[Page 225]
HAVING treated of
Perspicuity and Unity, as necessary to be studied in the Structure of
Sentences, I proceed to the third quality of a correct Sentence, which I termed
Strength. By this, I mean, such a disposition of the several words and members,
as shall bring out the sense to the best advantage; as shall render the
impression, which the Period is designed to make, most full and complete; and
give every word, and every member, its due weight and force. The two former
qualities of Perspicuity and Unity, are, no doubt, absolutely necessary to the
production of this effect; but more is still requisite. For a Sentence may be
clear enough; it may also be compact enough, in all its parts, or have the
requisite unity; and yet, by some unfavourable circumstance in the structure,
it may fail in that strength or liveliness of impression, which a more happy
arrangement would have produced.
[Page 226]
The first rule which I
shall give, for promoting the Strength of a Sentence, is, to prune it of all
redundant words. These may, sometimes, be consistent with a considerable degree
both of Clearness and Unity; but they are always enfeebling. They make the
Sentence move along tardy and encumbered; Est brevitate opus, ut currat
sententia, neu se Impediat verbis, lassas onerantibus . It is a general maxim,
that any words, which do not add some importance to the meaning of a Sentence,
always spoil it. They cannot be superfluous, without being hurtful. "Obstat,"
says Quinctilian, "quicquid non adjuvat." All that can be easily
supplied in the mind, is better left out in the expression. Thus: "Content
with deserving 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 in a first draught. Here a severe eye
should be employed; and we shall always find our Sentences acquire more vigour
and energy when thus retrenched; provided always, that we run not into the
extreme of pruning so very close, as to give a hardness and dryness to style.
For here, as in all other things, there is a due medium. Some regard, though
not the principal, must be had to fullness and swelling of sound. Some leaves
must be left to shelter and surround the fruit.
[Page 227]
As Sentences should be
cleared of redundant words, so also of redundant members. As every word ought
to present a new idea, so every member ought to contain a new thought. Opposed
to this, stands the fault we sometimes meet with, of the last member of a
period, being no other than the echo of the former, or the repetition of it in
somewhat a different form. For example; speaking of Beauty, "The very
first discovery of it," says Mr. Addison, "strikes the mind with
inward joy, and spreads 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.
After removing
superfluities, the second direction I give, for promoting the Strength of a
Sentence, is, to attend particularly to the use of copulatives, relatives, and
all the particles employed for transition and connection. These little words,
but, and, which, whose, where, &c. are frequently the most important words
of any; they are the joints or hinges upon which all Sentences turn, and, of
course, much, both of their gracefulness and strength, must depend upon such
particles. [Page 228] The varieties in using them are, indeed, so infinite,
that no particular system of rules, respecting them, can be given. Attention to
the practice of the most accurate writers, joined with frequent trials of the
different effects, produced by a different usage of those particles, must here
. Some observations, I shall mention, which have occurred to me as useful,
without pretending to exhaust the subject.
What is called
splitting of particles, or separating a preposition from the noun which it
governs, is always to be avoided. As if I should say, "Though virtue
borrows no assistance from, yet it may often be accompanied by, the advantages
of fortune." In such instances, we feel a sort of pain, from the
revulsion, or violent separation of two things, which, by their nature, should
be closely united. We are put to a stand in thought; being obliged to rest for
a little on the preposition by itself, which, at the same time, carries no
significancy, till it is joined to its proper substantive noun.
Some writers needlessly
multiply demonstrative and relative particles, by the frequent use of such
phraseology as this: "There is nothing which disgusts us sooner than the
empty pomp of Language." In introducing a subject, or laying down a
proposition, to which we demand particular attention, this sort of style is
very proper; but, in the ordinary current of discourse, it is better to express
ourselves more simply and [Page 229] shortly: "Nothing disgusts us sooner
than the empty pomp of Language."
Other writers make a
practice of omitting the Relative, in a phrase of a different kind from the
former, where they think the meaning can be understood without it. As,
"The man I love."---"The dominions we possessed, and the
conquests we made." But though this elliptical style be intelligible, and
is allowable in conversation and epistolary writing, yet, in all writings of a
serious or dignified kind, it is ungraceful. There, the 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 occurs so frequently in all kinds of
composition, several observations are to be made. First, It is evident, that
the unnecessary repetition of it enfeebles style. It has the same sort of
effect, as the frequent use of the vulgar phrase, and so, when one is telling 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 into his politics and ministry,
brought this into vogue; and the French wits have, for this last age, been
wholly turned to the refinement of their Style and Language; and, indeed, with
such success, that it can hardly be equalled, and runs equally through their
verse, and their prose." Here are no fewer than eight ands [Page 230] in
one sentence. This agreeable writer too often makes his sentences drag in this
manner, by a careless multiplication of Copulatives. It is strange how a
writer, so accurate as Dean Swift, should have stumbled on so improper an
application of this particle, as he has made in the following sentence; Essay
on the Fates of Clergymen. "There is no talent so useful towards rising in
the world, or which puts men more out of the reach of fortune, than that
quality generally possest by the dullest sort of people, and is, in common
language, called Discretion; a species of lower prudence, by the assistance of
which, &c." By the insertion of, and is, in place of, which is, he has
not only clogged the Sentence, but even made it 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 closer connexion, a quicker succession of objects, than when it is
inserted between them. Longinus makes this remark; which, from many instances,
appears to be just: "Veni, vidi, vici ," expresses, with more spirit,
the rapidity and quick succession of conquest, than if connecting particles had
been used. So, in the following description of a rout in Cæsar’s Commentaries:
"Nostri, emissis pilis, gladiis rem gerunt; repente post tergum equitatus
cernitur; cohortes aliæ appropinquant. Hostes terga vertunt; fugientibus [Page
231] equites occurrunt; fit magna cædes." Bell. Gall. l.7.
Hence, it follows ,
that when , on the other hand , we seek to prevent 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, for a moment, on each object by itself; in this case,
Copulatives may be multiplied with peculiar advantage and grace. As when Lord
Bolingbroke says, "Such a man might fall a victim to power; but truth, and
reason, and liberty, would fall with him." In the same manner, Cæsar
describes an engagement with the Nervii: "His equitibus facile pulsis ac
proturbatis, incredibile celeritate ad flumen decurrerunt; ut pene uno tempore,
et ad silvas, et in flumine, et jam in manibus nostris, hostes
viderentur." . 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 [Page 232] importance to all who study eloquence. For, it is
a remarkable particularity in Language, that the omission of a connecting
particle should sometimes serve to make objects appear more closely connected;
and that the repetition of it should distinguish and separate them, in some
measure, from each other. Hence, the omission of it is used to denote rapidity;
and the repetition of it is designed to retard and to aggravate. The reason
seems to be, that, in the former case, the mind is supposed to be hurried so
fast through a quick succession 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. Whereas, when we
enumerate, with a view to aggravate, the mind is supposed to proceed with a
more slow and solemn pace; it marks fully the relation of each object to that
which succeeds it; and, by joining them together with several Copulatives,
makes you attend, 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
perswaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor
powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any
other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God." Rom.
viii. 38, 39. So much with regard to the use of Copulatives.
I proceed to a third
rule, for promoting the strength of a Sentence, which is, to dispose of the
capital word, or words, [Page 233] in that place of the Sentence, where they
will make the fullest impression. That such capital words there are in every
Sentence, on which the meaning principally rests, every one must see; and that
these words should possess a conspicuous and distinguished place, is equally
plain. Indeed, that place of the Sentence where they will make the best figure,
whether the beginning, or the end, or, sometimes, even 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 to a Sentence, it is of advantage to suspend the meaning
for a little, and then bring it out full at the close: "Thus," says
Mr. Pope, "on whatever side we contemplate Homer, what principally strikes
us, is, his wonderful 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 chuse
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, [Page 234] 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 senators." He has translated so simple a phrase as,
"Nullum eâ tempestate 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 judgment
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," this is a happier arrangement than if he had followed the
natural order, which was, "Virgil has justly contested with him the praise
of judgment, but his invention remains yet unrivalled."
Some writers practise
this degree of inversion, which our Language bears, much more than others; Lord
Shaftsbury, for instance, much more than Mr. Addison; and to this sort of
arrangement is owing, in a great measure, that appearance of strength, dignity,
and varied harmony, which Lord Shaftsbury’s style possesses. This will appear
from the following Sentences of his Enquiry into Virtue; where all the words
are placed, not strictly in the natural order, but with that artificial
construction, which may give the period most emphasis and [Page 235] grace. He
is speaking of the misery of vice: "This, as to the complete immoral
state, is, what of their own accord, men readily remark. Where there is this
absolute degeneracy, this total apostacy from all candor, trust, or equity,
there are few who do not see and acknowledge the misery which is consequent.
Seldom is the case misconstrued, when at worst. The misfortune is, that we look
not on this depravity, nor consider how it stands, in less degrees. As if, to
be absolutely immoral, were, indeed, the greatest 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 maimed 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. All is stately, and arranged with art; which
is the great characteristic of this author’s Style.
We need only open any
page of Mr. Addison, to see quite a different order in the construction of
Sentences. "Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all our
senses. It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with its
objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in action, without
being tired, or satiated with its proper enjoyments. The sense of feeling can,
indeed, give us a 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 procceeds, [Page 236] following the most natural and obvious order of
the Language: and if, by this means, he has less pomp and majesty than
Shaftsbury, 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 disentangled from any other words that would clog them.
Thus, when there are any circumstances of time, place, or other limitations,
which the principal object of our Sentence requires to have connected with it,
we must take especial care to dispose of them, so as not to cloud that
principal object, nor to bury it under a load of circumstances. This will be made
clearer by an example. Observe the arrangement of the following Sentence, in
Lord Shaftsbury’s Advice to an Author. He is speaking of modern poets, as
compared with the antient: "If, whilst they profess only to please, they
secretly advise, and give instruction, they may now, perhaps, as well as
formerly, be esteemed, with justice, the best and most honourable among
authors." This is a well constructed Sentence. It contains a great many
circumstances and adverbs, necessary to qualify the meaning; only, secretly, as
well, perhaps, now, with justice, formerly; yet these are placed with so much
art, as neither to embarrass, nor weaken the Sentence; while that which is the
capital object in it, viz. "Poets being justly esteemed the best and most
honourable among authors," comes out in the conclusion clear and detached,
and possesses its proper place. See, now, what would have been the effect of a
different arrangement. Suppose him to [Page 237] have placed the members 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 intermingled as to clog the capital words, the whole
becomes perplexed, without 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 importance 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 naturally love to ascend to what is more and more beautiful, rather than to
follow the retrograde order. Having had once some considerable object set
before us, it is, with pain, we are pulled back to attend to an inferior
circumstance. "Cavendum est," says Quinctilian, whose authority I always
willingly quote, "ne decrescat oratio, & fortiori subjungatur aliquid
infirmius; sicut, sacrilego, fur; aut latroni petulans. Augeri enim debent
sententiæ & . Of this beauty, in the construction of Sentences, the
orations of Cicero furnish many examples. His pompous manner naturally led him
to study it; and, generally, in order to render the climax perfect, he makes
both the sense [Page 238] 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 tempus ullum dignum fuit,
certè hæc in illâ causâ summa omnia fuerunt. Insidiator erat in Foro
collocatus, atque in Vestibulo ipso Senatûs; ei viro autem mors parabatur,
cujus in vitâ nitebatur salus civitatis; eo porrò reipublicæ tempore, quo si
unus ille occidisset, non hæc solùm civitas, sed gentes omnes
concidissent." The following instance, from Lord Boling-broke, 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 unworthy of princes, and unworthy of men." (Idea of a Patriot
King.)
I must observe,
however, that this sort of full and oratorial climax, 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 something
approaching to a climax, which it is a general rule to study, "ne
decrescat oratio," as Quinctilian speaks, "et ne fortiori subjungatur
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. [Page 239] There is a twofold
reason for this last direction. Periods, thus divided, are pronounced more
easily; and the shortest member being placed first, we carry it more readily in
our memory as we proceed to the second, and see the connection of the two more
clearly. Thus, to say, "when our passions have forsaken us, we flatter
ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken them," is both more
graceful and more clear, than to begin with the longest part of the
proposition: "We flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken
our passions, when they have forsaken us." In general, it is always
agreeable to find a sentence rising upon us, and growing in its importance to
the very last word, when this construction can be managed without affectation,
or unseasonable pomp. "If we rise yet higher," says Mr. Addison, very
beautifully, and consider the fixed stars as so many oceans of flame, that are
each of them attended with a different set of planets; and still discover new
firmaments and new lights, that are sunk farther in those unfathomable depths
of æther; 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 concluding 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,
can be [Page 240] found with this sentence of Bolingbroke’s: "In their
prosperity, my friends shall never hear of me; in their adversity,
always." Where never, and always, being emphatical words, were to be so
placed, as to make a strong impression. But I speak now of those inferior parts
of speech, when introduced as circumstances, or as qualifications of more
important words. In such case, they should always be disposed of in the least
conspicuous parts of the period; and so classed with other words of greater
dignity, as to be kept in their proper secondary station.
Agreeably to this rule,
we should always avoid concluding with any of those particles, which mark the
cases of nouns,---of, to, from, 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 a crime which wise men are often
guilty of." This is a phraseology which all correct writers shun; and with
reason. For, besides the want of dignity which arises from those monosyllables
at the end, the imagination 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 relations 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 up, and many other of [Page 241]
this kind: instead of which, if we can employ a simple verb, it always
terminates the sentence with more strength. Even the pronoun, It, though it has
the import of a substantive noun, and indeed often forces itself upon us
unavoidably, 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 in it." (No. 111.) How much more graceful the
sentence, if it had been so constructed as to close with the word, period!
Besides particles and
pronouns, any phrase, which expresses a circumstance only, always brings up the
rear of a sentence with a bad grace. We may judge of this, by the following
sentence from Lord Bolingbroke (Letter on the State of Parties at the Accession
of King George I.): "Let me therefore conclude by repeating, that division
has caused all the mischief we lament; that union alone can retrieve it; and
that a great advance towards this union, was the coalition of parties, so
happily begun, so successfully carried on, and of late so unaccountably
neglected; to say no worse." This last phrase, to say no worse, occasions
a sad falling off at the end; so much the more unhappy, as the rest of the
period is conducted after the manner of a climax, which we expect to find
growing to the last.
[Page 242]
The proper disposition
of such circumstances in a sentence, is often attended with considerable
trouble, in order to adjust them so, as shall consist equally with the
perspicuity and the grace of the period. Though necessary parts, they are,
however, like unshapely stones in a building, which try the skill of an artist,
where to place them with the least offence. "Jungantur," says
Quinctilian, "quo congruunt maximè; sicut in structurâ saxorum rudium,
etiam ipsa enormitas invenit cui applicari, et in quo possit ."
The close is always an
unsuitable place for them. When the sense admits it, the sooner they are
dispatched, generally speaking, the better; that the more important and
significant words may possess the last place, quite disencumbered. It is a
rule, too, never to crowd too many 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. For instance, when Dean Swist 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 circumstances, sometime ago, and in conversation, 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 conversation." And
in the following sentence of Lord [Page 243] 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 represented, just in the middle point, from
whence a deviation leads, on the one hand, to tyranny, and on the other, to
anarchy." The arrangement would have been happier thus: "A monarchy,
limited like ours, may, 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 one
another; where either a resemblance or an opposition is intended to be
expressed; some resemblance, 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 disappointed when it is otherwise; and
the comparison, or contrast, appears more imperfect. Thus, when Lord
Bolingbroke says, "The laughers will be for those who have most wit; the
serious part of mankind, for those who have most reason on their side;"
(Dissert. on Parties, Pref.) the opposition would have been more complete, if
he had said, "The laughers will be for those who have most wit; the
serious, for those who have most reason on their side." The following
passage from Mr. Pope’s Preface to his Homer, fully exemplifies the rule I am
now giving: "Homer was the greater genius; Virgil, the better artist: in
the one, we most admire the man; in the other, the work. Homer hurries us with
a commanding impetuosity; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. Homer
scatters with a generous profusion; [Page 244] Virgil bestows with a careful
magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches with a sudden
overflow; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with a constant stream.--And when
we look upon their machines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter in his terrors,
shaking Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and firing the heavens; Virgil,
like the same Power, in his benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying
plans for empires, and ordering his whole creation."---Periods thus
constructed, when introduced with propriety, and not returning too often, have
a sensible beauty. But we must beware of carrying our attention to this beauty
too far. It ought only to be occasionally studied, when comparison or
opposition of objects naturally leads to it. If such a construction as this be
aimed at in all our sentences, it betrays into a disagreeable 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.
[Page 245]
For though many of
those attentions, which I have been recommending, may appear minute, yet their
effect, upon writing and style, is much greater than might, at first, be
imagined. A sentiment which is expressed in a period, clearly, neatly, and
happily arranged, makes always a stronger impression on the mind, than one that
is any how feeble or embarrassed. Every one feels this upon a comparison: and
if the effect be sensible in one sentence, how much more in a whole discourse,
or composition, that is made up of such Sentences?
The fundamental rule of
the construction of Sentences, and into which all others might be resolved,
undoubtedly is, to communicate, in the clearest and most natural order, the
ideas which we mean to transfuse into the minds of others. Every arrangement
that does most justice to the sense, and expresses it to most advantage,
strikes us as beautiful. To this point have tended all the rules I have given.
And, indeed, did men always think clearly, and were they, at the same time,
fully masters of the Language in which they write, there would be occasion for
few rules. Their Sentences would then, of course, acquire all those properties
of Precision, Unity, and Strength, which I have recommended. For we may rest
assured, that, whenever we express ourselves ill, there is, besides the
mismanagement of Language, for the most part, some mistake in our manner of
conceiving the subject. Embarrassed, obscure, and feeble Sentences, are
generally, if not always, the result of embarrassed, obscure, and feeble
thought. Thought and Language act and re-act upon each [Page 246] other
mutually. Logic and Rhetoric have here, as in many other cases, a strict
connection; and he that is learning to arrange his sentences with accuracy and
order, is learning, at the same time, to think with accuracy and order; an
observation which alone will justify all the care and attention we have
bestowed on this subject.
[Page 247]
HITHERTO 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 harmony, or agreeableness to the ear; which was the last
quality belonging to them that I proposed to treat of.
Sound is a quality much
inferior to sense; yet such as must not be disregarded. For, as long as sounds
are the vehicle of conveyance for our ideas, there will be always a very
considerable connection between the idea which is conveyed, and the nature of
the sound which conveys it. Pleasing ideas can hardly be transmitted to the
mind, by means of harsh and disagreeable sounds. The imagination revolts as
soon as it hears them uttered. "Nihil," says Quinctilian,
"potest intrare in assectum quod in aure, velut quodam vestibulo [Page
248] ." 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 can, in some
degree, be rendered 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 communicated thought, can add
the new and separate pleasure of melody.
In the Harmony of
Periods, two things may be considered. First, Agreeable sound, or modulation in
general, without any particular expression: Next, The sound so ordered, as to
become expressive of the sense. The first is the more common; the second, the
higher beauty.
First, Let us consider
agreeable sound, in general, as the property of a well-constructed Sentence:
and, as it was of prose Sentences we have hitherto treated, we shall confine
ourselves to them under this head. This beauty of musical construction in
prose, it is plain, will depend upon two things; the choice of words, and the
arrangement of them.
I Begin with the choice
of words; on which head, there is not much to be said, unless I were to descend
into a [Page 249] tedious and frivolous detail concerning the powers of the
several letters, or simple sounds, of which speech is composed. It is evident,
that words are most agreeable to the ear which are composed of smooth and
liquid sounds, 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 monosyllables. They please it by the
composition, or succession of sounds which they present to it; and,
accordingly, the most musical Languages abound most in them. Among words of any
length, those are the most musical, which do not run wholly either upon long or
short syllables, but are composed of an intermixture of them; such as, repent,
produce, velocity, celerity, independent, impetuosity.
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
structure and disposition of periods, no writer whatever, antient or modern,
equals Cicero. He had studied this with care; and was fond, perhaps to excess,
of [Page 250] what he calls, the "Plena ac numerosa oratio." We need
only open his writings, to find instances that will render the effect of musical
Language sensible to every ear. What, for example, can be more full, round, and
swelling, than the following sentence of the 4th Oration against Catiline?
"Cogitate quantis laboribus fundatum imperium, quantâ virtute stabilitam
libertatem, quantâ Deorum benignitate auctas exaggeratasque fortunas, una nox
pene delerit." In English, we may take, for an instance of a musical
Sentence, the following from Milton, in his Treatise on Education: "We
shall conduct you to a hill-side, laborious, indeed, at the first ascent; but
else, so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects, and melodious sounds on
every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming." Every thing
in this sentence conspires to promote the harmony. The words are happily chosen;
full of liquids and soft sounds; laborious, smooth, green, goodly, melodious,
charming: and these words so artfully arranged, that, were we to alter the
collocation of any one of them, we should, presently, be sensible of the melody
suffering. For, let us observe, how finely the members of the period swell one
above another. "So smooth, so green,"-- so full of goodly
prospects,---and melodious sounds on every side;"---till the ear, prepared
by this gradual rise, is conducted to that full close on which it rests with
pleasure;--- "that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming."
The structure of
periods, then, being susceptible of a melody very sensible to the ear, our next
enquiry should be, How this melodious structure is formed, what are the
principles of it, and by what laws is it regulated? And, upon this subject,
were [Page 251] I to follow the antient 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
Language. They hold, that to prose as well as to verse, there belong certain
numbers, less strict, indeed, yet such as can be ascertained by rule. They go
so far as to specify the feet, as they are called, that is, the succession of
long and short syllables, which should enter into the different members of a
Sentence, and to show what the effect of each of these will be. Wherever they
treat of the Structure of Sentences, it is always the music of them that makes
the principal object. Cicero and Quinctilian are full of this. The other
qualities of Precision, Unity, and Strength, which we consider as of chief
importance, they handle slightly; but when they come to the "junctura et
numerus," the modulation and harmony, there they are copious. Dyonysius of
Halicarnassus, one of the most judicious critics of antiquity, has written a
treatise on the Composition of Words in a Sentence, which is altogether
confined to their musical effect. He makes the excellency of a Sentence to
consist in four things; first, in the sweetness of single sounds; secondly, in
the composition 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.
[Page 252]
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 antient 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
antient Languages, I mean the Greek and the Roman, were much more susceptible
than ours, of the graces and the powers of melody. The quantities of their
syllables were more fixed and determined; their words were longer, and more
sonorous; their method of varying the terminations of nouns and verbs, both
introduced a greater variety of liquid sounds, and freed them from that
multiplicity of little auxiliary words which we are obliged to employ; and,
what is of the greatest consequence, the inversions which their Languages
allowed; gave them the power of placing their words in whatever order was most
suited to a musical arrangement. All these were great advantages which they
enjoyed above us, for Harmony of Period.
In the next place, the
Greeks and Romans, the former especially, were, in truth, much more musical
nations than we; their genius was more turned to delight in the melody of
speech. Music is known to have been a more extensive art among them than it is
with us; more universally studied, and applied to a greater variety of objects.
Several learned men, particularly the Abbé du Bos, in his Reflections on Poetry
and [Page 253] Painting, have clearly proved, that the theatrical compositions
of the antients, both their tragedies and comedies, were set to a kind of
music. Whence, the modos fecit, and the Tibiis dextris et sinistris, prefixed
to the editions of Terence’s Plays. All sort of declamation and public
speaking, was 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 particular 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 order to give
him the proper tones with a pipe or flute. Even when pronouncing those terrible
tribunitial harangues, by which he inflamed the one half of the citizens of
Rome against the other, this attention to the music of Speech was, in those
times, it seems, thought necessary to success. Quinctilian, though he condemns
the excess of this sort of pronunciation, yet allows a "cantus
obscurior" to be a beauty in a public speaker. Hence, that variety of
accents, acute, grave, and circumflex, which we find marked upon the Greek
syllables, to express, not the quantity of them, but the tone in which they
were to be spoken: the application of which is now wholly unknown to us. And
though the Romans did not mark those accents in their writing, yet it appears,
from Quinctilian, 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 [Page 254] 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
inflexions of voice, than we use; this is one clear reason of their paying a
greater attention to that construction of Sentences, which might best suit this
musical pronunciation.
It is farther known,
that, in consequence of the genius of their Languages, and of their manner of
pronouncing them, the musical arrangement of Sentences, did, in fact, produce a
greater effect in publick speaking among them, than it could possibly do in any
modern oration; another reason why it deserved to be more studied. Cicero, in
his treatise, intitled, Orator, tells us, "Conciones sæpe exclamare vidi,
cum verba aptè cecidissent. Id enim expectant aures ." And he gives a
remarkable instance of the effect of a 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 filii comprobavit." By means of
the sound of which, alone, he tells us, "Tantus clamor concionis excitatus
est, ut prorsus admirabile esset." He makes us remark the feet of which
these words consist, to which he ascribes the power of the melody; and shows
how, by altering the collocation, the whole effect would be lost; as thus:
"Patris dictum sapiens comprobravit temeritas filii." Now, though it
be true that Carbo’s Sentence is extremely musical, and would be agreeable, at
this day, to any audience, yet I cannot believe that an English [Page 255]
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, accompanie d
with less melody than it was among the Greeks and Romans.
For these reasons, I am
of opinion, that it is in vain to think of bestowing the same attention upon
the harmonious structure of our Sentences, that was bestowed by these antient
nations. The doctrine of the Greek and Roman critics, on this head, has misled
some to imagine, that it might be equally applied to our Tongue; and that our
prose writing might be regulated by Spondees and Trochees, and Iambus’s and
Poeons, and other metrical feet. But, first, our words cannot be measured, or,
at least, can be measured very imperfectly by any feet of this kind. For, the
quantity, the length and shortness of our syllables, is not, by any means, so
fixed and subjected to rule, as in the Greek and Roman Tongues; but very often
left arbitrary, and determined by the emphasis, and the sense. Next, though our
prose could admit of such metrical regulation, yet, from our plainer method of
pronouncing all [Page 256] sort of discourse, the effect would not be at all so
sensible to the ear, nor be relished with so much pleasure, as among the Greeks
and Romans: And, lastly, This whole doctrine about the measures and numbers of
prose, even as it is delivered by the antient 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 reduce it to any rules which could be of real use
in practice. If we consult Cicero’s Orator, where this point is discussed with
the most minuteness, we will see how much these antient 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 tenor of a discourse varies, the modulation of Sentences
must vary infinitely.
But, although I
apprehend, that this musical arrangement cannot be reduced into a system, I am
far from thinking, that it is a quality to be neglected in composition. On the
contrary, I hold its effect to be very considerable; and that every one who
studies to write with grace, much more, who seeks to pronounce in public, with
success, will be obliged to attend to it not a little. But it is his ear,
cultivated by attention and practice, that must chiefly direct him. For any
rules that can be given, on this subject, are very general. Some [Page 257]
rules, however, there are, which may be of use to form the ear to the proper
harmony of discourse. I proceed to mention such as appear to me most material.
There are two things on
which the music of a Sentence chiefly depends. These are, the proper
distribution of the several members of it; and, the close or cadence of the
whole.
First, I say, the
distribution of the several members is to be carefully attended to. It is of
importance to observe, that, whatever is easy and agreeable to the organs of
Speech, always sounds grateful to the ear. While a period is going on, the
termination of each of its members forms a pause, or rest, in pronouncing: and
these rests should be so distributed, as to make the course of the breathing
easy, and, at the same time, should fall at such distances, as to bear a
certain musical proportion to each other. This will be best illustrated by
examples. The following Sentence is from Archbishop Tillotson: "This
discourse concerning the easiness of God’s commands does, all along, suppose
and acknowledge the difficulties of the first entrance upon a religious course;
except, only in those persons who have had the happiness to be trained up to
religion by the easy and insensible degrees of a pious and virtuous
education." Here there is no harmony; nay, there is some degree of
harshness and unpleasantness; owing principally to this, that there is, properly,
no more than one pause or rest in the Sentence, falling betwixt the two members
into which it is divided; each of which is so long as to occasion a
considerable stretch of the breath in pronouncing it.
[Page 258]
Observe, now, on the
other hand, the ease with which the following Sentence, from Sir William
Temple, glides along, and the graceful intervals at which the pauses are
placed. He is speaking sarcastically of man: "But God be thanked, his
pride is greater than his ignorance, and what he wants in knowledge, he
supplies by sufficiency. When he has looked about him, as far as he can, he
concludes, there is no more to be seen; when he is at the end of his line, he
is at the bottom of the ocean; when he has shot his best, he is sure none ever
did, or ever can, shoot better, or beyond it. His own reason he holds to be the
certain measure of truth; and his own knowledge, of what is possible in nature
." Here every thing is, at once, easy to the breath, and grateful to the
ear; and, it is this sort of flowing measure, this regular and proportional
division of the members of his Sentences, which renders Sir William Temple’s
style always agreeable. I must observe, at the same time, that a Sentence, with
too many rests, and these placed at intervals too apparently measured and
regular, is apt to favour of affectation.
[Page 259]
The next thing to be
attended to, is, the close or cadence of the whole Sentence, which, as it is
always the part most sensible to the ear, demands the greatest care. So
Quinctilian: "Non igitur durum sit, neque abruptum, quo animi, velut
respirant ac resiciuntur. Hæc est sedes orationis; hoc auditor expectat; hic
laus omnis declamat ." The only important rule that can be given here, is,
that when we aim at dignity or elevation, the sound should be made to grow to
the last; the longest members of the period, and the fullest and most sonorous
words, should be reserved to the conclusion. As an example of this, the
following sentence of Mr. Addison’s may be given: "It fills the mind
(speaking of sight) with the largest variety of ideas; converses with its
objects at the greatest distance; and continues the longest in action, without
being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments." Every reader must be
sensible of a beauty here, both in the proper division of the members and
pauses, and the manner in which the Sentence is rounded, and conducted to a
full and harmonious close.
The same holds in
melody, that I observed to take place with respect to significancy; that a
falling off at the end, always hurts greatly. For this reason, particles,
pronouns, and little words, are as ungracious to the ear, at the conclusion, as
I formerly shewed they were inconsistent with strength of expression. It is
more than probable, that the sense and the [Page 260] sound have here a mutual
influence on each other. That which hurts the ear, seems to mar the strength of
the meaning; and that which really degrades the sense, in consequence of this
primary effect, appears also to have a bad sound. How disagreeable is the
following sentence of an Author, speaking of the Trinity! "It is a mystery
which we firmly believe the truth of, and humbly adore the depth of." And
how easily could it have been mended by this transposition! "It is a
mystery, the truth of which we firmly believe, and the depth of which we humbly
adore." In general it seems to hold, that a musical close, in our
language, requires either the last syllable, or the penult, that is, the last
but one, to be a long syllable. Words which consist mostly of short syllables,
as, contrary, particular, retrospect, seldom conclude a sentence harmoniously,
unless a run of long syllables, before, has rendered them agreeable to the ear.
It is necessary,
however, to observe, that Sentences, so constructed as to make the sound always
swell and grow towards the end, and to rest either on a long or a penult long
syllable, give a discourse the tone of declamation. The ear soon becomes
acquainted with the melody, and is apt to be cloyed with it. If we would keep
up the attention of the reader or hearer, if we would preserve vivacity and
strength in our composition, we must be very attentive to vary our measures.
This regards the distribution of the members, as well as the cadence of the
period. Sentences constructed in a similar manner, with the pauses falling at
equal intervals, should never follow one another. Short Sentences should be
intermixed with long and swelling ones, to render discourse sprightly, as well
as magnificent. [Page 261] Even discords, properly introduced, abrupt sounds,
departures from regular cadence, have sometimes a good effect. Monotony is the
great fault into which writers are apt to fall, who are fond of harmonious
arrangement: and to have only one tune, or measure, is not much better than
having none at all. A very vulgar ear will enable a writer to catch some one
melody, and to form the run of his Sentences according to it; which soon proves
disgusting. But a just and correct ear is requisite for varying and
diversifying the melody: and hence we so seldom meet with authors, who are
remarkably happy in this respect.
Though attention to the
music of Sentences must not be neglected, yet it must also be kept within
proper bounds: for all appearances of an author’s affecting harmony, are
disagreeable; especially when the love of it betrays him so far, as to
sacrifice, in any instance, perspicuity, precision, or strength of sentiment,
to sound. All unmeaning words, introduced merely to round the period, or fill
up the melody, complementa numerorum, as Cicero calls them, are great blemishes
in writing. They are childish and puerile ornaments, by which a Sentence always
loses more in point of weight, than it can gain by such additions to the beauty
of its sound. Sense has its own harmony, as well as sound; and, where the sense
of a period is expressed with clearness, force, and dignity, it will seldom
happen but the words will strike the ear agreeably; at least, a very moderate
attention is all that is requisite for making the cadence of such a period pleasing:
and the effect of greater attention is often no other, than to render
composition languid and enervated. After all the labour which Quinctilian [Page
262] bestows on regulating the measures of prose, he comes at last, with his
usual good sense, to this conclusion: "In universum, si sit necesse, duram
potiùs atque asperam compositionem malim esse, quam effeminatam ac enervem,
qualis apud multos. Ideòque, vincta quædam de industria sunt solvenda, ne
laborata videantur; neque ullum idoneum aut aptum verbum prætermittamus, gratiâ
lenitatis ." (Lib. ix. c. 4)
Cicero, as I before
observed, is one of the most remarkable patterns of a harmonious style. His
love of it, however, is too visible; and the pomp of his numbers sometimes
detracts from his strength. That noted close of his, esse videatur, which, in
the Oration Pro Lege Manilia, occurs eleven times, exposed him to censure among
his cotemporaries. We must observe, however, in defence of this great Orator,
that there is a remarkable union in his style, of harmony with ease, which is
always a great beauty; and if his harmony be sometimes thought studied, that
study appears to have cost him little trouble.
Among our English
classics, not many are distinguished for musical arrangement. Milton, in some
of his prose works, has very finely turned periods; but the writers of his age
indulged [Page 263] a liberty of inversion, which now would be reckoned
contrary to purity of style: and though this allowed their Sentences to be more
stately and sonorous, yet it gave them as much of a Latinized construction and
order. Of later writers, Shaftsbury is, upon the whole, the most correct in his
numbers. As his ear was delicate, he has attended to music in all his
Sentences; and he is peculiarly happy in this respect, that he has avoided the
monotony into which writers, who study the grace of sound, are very apt to
fall: having diversified his periods with great variety. Mr. Addison has also
much harmony in his style; more easy and smooth, but less varied, than Lord
Shaftsbury. Sir William Temple is, in general, very flowing and agreeable.
Archbishop Tillotson is too often careless and languid; and is much outdone by
Bishop Atterbury in the music of his periods. Dean Swift despised musical
arrangement altogether.
Hitherto I have
discoursed of agreeable sound, or modulation, in general. It yet remains to
treat of a higher beauty of this kind; the sound adapted to the sense. The
former was no more than a simple accompaniment, to please the ear; the latter
supposes a peculiar expression given to the music. We may remark two degrees of
it: First, the current of sound, adapted to the tenor of a discourse; next, a
particular resemblance effected between some object, and the sounds that are
employed in describing it.
First, I say, the
current of sound may be adapted to the tenor of a discourse. So we have, in
many respects, a correspondence with our ideas partly natural, partly the
effect [Page 264] of artificial associations. Hence it happens, that any one
modulation of sound continued, imprints on our Style a certain character and
expression. Sentences constructed with the Ciceronian fulness and swell,
produce the impression of what is important, magnificent, sedate. For this is
the natural tone which such a course of sentiment assumes. But they suit no
violent passion, no eager reasoning, no familiar address. These always require
measures brisker, easier, and often more abrupt. And, therefore, to swell, or
to let down the periods, as the subject demands, is a very important rule in
oratory. No one tenor whatever, supposing it to produce no bad effect from
satiety, will answer to all different compositions; nor even to all the parts
of the same composition. It were as absurd to write a panegyric, and an
invective, in a Style of the same cadence, as to set the words of a tender
love-song to the air of a warlike march.
Observe how finely the
following sentence of Cicero is adapted, to represent the tranquillity and ease
of a satisfied state: "Etsi homini nihil est magis optandum quam prospera,
æquabilis, perpetuaque fortuna, secundo vitæ sine ulla offensione cursu; tamen,
si mihi tranquilla et placata omnia fuissent, incredibili quâdam et pene divinâ,
quâ nunc vestro beneficio fruor, lætitiæ voluptate caruissem ". Nothing
was ever more perfect in its kind: it paints, if we may so speak, to the ear.
But, who would not have laughed, if Cicero had employed such periods, or such a
cadence as this, in inveighing against Mark Antony, or Catiline? What is
requisite, therefore, is, that we previously fix, in our mind, a just idea of
the [Page 265] general tone of sound which suits our subject; that is, which
the sentiments we are to express, most naturally assume, and in which they most
commonly vent themselves; whether round and smooth, or stately and solemn, or
brisk and quick, or interrupted and abrupt. This general idea must direct the
run of our composition; to speak in the style of music, must give us the key
note, must form the ground of the melody; varied and diversified in parts,
according as either our sentiments are diversified, or as is requisite for
producing a suitable variety to gratify the ear.
It may be proper to
remark, that our translators of the Bible have often been happy in suiting
their numbers to the subject. Grave, solemn, and majestic subjects undoubtedly
require such an arrangement of words as runs much on long syllables; and,
particularly, they require the close to rest upon such. The very first verses
of the Bible, are remarkable for this melody: "In the beginning, God created
the heavens and the earth; and the earth was without form, and void; and
darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God moved on the face
of the waters." Several other passages, particularly some of the Psalms,
afford striking examples of this sort of grave, melodious construction. Any
composition that rises considerably above the ordinary tone of prose, such as
monumental inscriptions, and panegyrical characters, naturally runs into
numbers of this kind.
But, in the next place,
besides the general correspondence of the current of sound with the current of
thought, there [Page 266] may be a more particular expression attempted, of
certain objects, by means of resembling sounds. This can be, sometimes,
accomplished in prose composition; but there only in a more faint degree; nor
is it so much expected there. In poetry, chiefly, it is looked for; where
attention to sound is more demanded, and where the inversions and liberties of
poetical style give us a greater command of sound; assisted, too, by the
versification, and that cantus obscurior, to which we are naturally led in
reading poetry. This requires a little more illustration.
The sounds of words may
be employed for representing, chiefly, three classes of objects; first, other
sounds; secondly, motion; and, thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind.
First, I say, by a
proper choice of words, we may produce a resemblance of other sounds which we
mean to describe, such as, the noise of waters, the roaring of winds, or the
murmuring of streams. This is the simplest instance of this sort of beauty. For
the medium through which we imitate, here, is a natural one; sounds represented
by other sounds; and between ideas of the same sense, it is easy to form a
connection. No very great art is required in a poet, when he is describing
sweet and soft sounds, to make use of such-words as have most liquids and
vowels, and glide the softest; or, when he is describing harsh sounds, to throw
together a number of harsh syllables which are of difficult pronunciation. Here
the common structure of Language assists him; for, it will be found, that, in
most Languages, the names of many particular sounds [Page 267] are so formed,
as to carry some affinity to the sound which they signify; as with us, the whistling
of winds, the buz and hum of insects, the hiss of serpents, the crash of
falling timber; and many other instances, where the word has been plainly
framed upon the sound it represents. I shall produce a remarkable example of
this beauty from Milton, taken from two passages in Paradise Lost, describing
the sound made, in the one, by the opening of the gates of Hell; in the other,
by the opening of those of Heaven. The contrast between the two, displays, to
great advantage, the poet’s art. The first is the opening of Hell’s gates:
------On a sudden, open fly, With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound, Th’
infernal doors; and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.------
B. I.
Observe, now, the
smoothness of the other: ------Heaven opened wide Her ever-during gates,
harmonious sound, On golden hinges turning.------
B. II.
The following beautiful
passage from Tasso’s Gierusalemme, has been often admired, on account of the
imitation effected by sound of the thing represented: Chiama gli habitator de l’ombre
eterne Il rauco suon de la Tartarea tromba: Treman le spaciose atre caverne, Et
l’aer cieco a quel rumor rimbomba; [Page 268] Ni stridendo cosi da le superne
Regioni dele cielo, il folgor piomba; Ne si scossa giammai la terra, Quand i
vapori in sen gravida serra.
Cant. IV. Stanz. 4.
The second class of
objects, which the sound of words is often employed to imitate, is, Motion; as
it is swift or slow, violent or gentle, equable or interrupted, easy or
accompanied with effort. Though there be no natural affinity between sound, of
any kind, and motion, yet, in the imagination, there is a strong one; as
appears from the connection between music and dancing. And, therefore, here it
is in the poet’s power to give us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would
describe, by means of sounds which correspond, in our imagination, with that
motion. Long syllables naturally give the impression of slow motion; as in this
line of Virgil: Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. A succession of short
syllables presents quick motion to the mind; as, Quadrupedante putrem sonitu
quatit ungula campum.
Both Homer and Virgil
are great masters of this beauty; and their works abound with instances of it;
most of them, indeed, so often quoted, and so well known, that it is needless
to produce them. I shall give one instance, in English, which seems happy. It
is the description of a sudden calm on the seas, in a Poem, entitled, The
Fleece. [Page 269] ------With easy course The vessels glide; unless their speed
be stopp’d By dead calms, that oft lie on these smooth seas When ev’ry zephyr
sleeps; then the shrouds drop; The downy feather, on the cordage hung, Moves
not; the flat sea shines like yellow gold Fus’d in the fire, or like the marble
floor Of some old temple wide.------
The third set of
objects, which I mentioned the sound of words as capable of representing,
consists of the passions and emotions of the mind. Sound may, at first view,
appear foreign to these; but, that here, also, there is some sort of
connection, is sufficiently proved by the power which music has to awaken, or
to assist certain passions, and, according as its strain is varied, to
introduce one train of ideas, rather than another. This, indeed, logically
speaking, cannot be called a resemblance between the sense and the sound,
seeing long or short syllables have no natural resemblance to any thought or
passion. But if the arrangement of syllables, by their sound alone, recal one
set of ideas more readily than another, and dispose the mind for entering into
that affection which the poet means to raise, such arrangement may, justly
enough, be said to resemble the sense, or be similar and correspondent to it. I
admit, that, in many instances, which are supposed to display this beauty of
accommodation of sound to the sense, there is much room for imagination to
work; and, according as a reader is struck by a passage, he will often fancy a
resemblance between the sound and the sense, which others cannot discover. He
modulates the numbers to his own disposition of mind; and, in effect, makes the
music which he imagines himself to [Page 270] hear. However, that there are
real instances of this kind, and that poetry is capable of some such
expression, cannot be doubted. Dryden’s Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day, affords a
very beautiful exemplification of it, in the English Language. Without much
study or reflection, a poet describing pleasure, joy, and agreeable objects,
from the feeling of his subject, naturally runs into smooth, liquid, and
flowing numbers. ------Namque ipsa decoram Cæsariem nato genetrix, lumenque
juventæ Purpureum, et lætos oculis afflarat honores.
æn. I.
Or, Devenêre locos lætos
& amæna vireta, Fortunatorum nemorum, sedesque beatas; Largior hic campos æther,
& lumine vestit Purpureo, solemque suum, sua sidera norant.
æn. VI.
Brisk and lively
sensations, exact quicker and more animated numbers. ------Juvenum manus emicat
ardens Littus in Hesperium.
æn. VII.
Melancholy and gloomy
subjects, naturally express themselves in slow measures, and long words: In
those deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heavenly pensive contemplation
dwells. Et caligantem nigrâ formidine lucum.
[Page 271]
I have now given
sufficient openings into this subject: a moderate acquaintance with the good
poets, either antient or modern, will suggest many instances of the same kind.
And with this, I finish the discussion of the Structure of Sentences; having
fully considered them under all the heads I mentioned; of Perspicuity, Unity,
Strength, and Musical Arrangement.
[Page 272]
HAVING now finished
what related to the construction of Sentences, I proceed to other rules
concerning Style. My general division of the qualities of Style, was into
Perspicuity and Ornament. Perspicuity, both in single words and in sentences, I
have considered. Ornament, as far as it arises from a graceful , strong , or
melodious construction of words , has also been treated of . Another , and a
great branch of the ornament of Style , is , Figurative Language; which is now
to be the subject of our consideration , and will require a full discussion.
Our first enquiry must
be , What is meant by Figures of Speech?
[Page 273]?
In general, they always
imply some departure from simplicity of expression; the idea which we intend to
convey , not only enunciated to others , but enunciated , in a particular
manner , and with some circumstance , added , which is designed to render the
impression more strong and vivid. When I say, for instance, "That a good
man enjoys comfort in the midst of adversity;" I just express my thought
in the simplest manner possible. But when I say, "To the upright there
ariseth light in darkness;" the same sentiment is expressed in a
figurative Style; a new circumstance is introduced; light is put in the place
of comfort, and darkness is used to suggest the idea of adversity. In the same
manner, to say, "It is impossible, by any search we can make, to explore
the divinenature fully," is, to make a simple proposition. But when we
say, "Canst thou, by searching, find out God? Canst thou find out the
Almighty to perfection? It is high as Heaven, what canst thou do? deeper than
Hell, what canst thou know?" This introduces a figure into Style; the
proposition being not only expressed, but admiration and astonishment being
expressed together with it.
But, though Figures
imply a deviation from what may be reckoned the most simple form of Speech, we
are not thence to conclude, that they imply any thing uncommon, or unnatural.
[Page 274] This is so far from being the case, that, on very many occasions,
they are both the most natural, and the most common method of uttering our
sentiments. It is impossible to compose any discourse without using them often;
nay, there are few Sentences of any length, in which some expression or other,
that may be termed a Figure, does not occur. From what causes this happens,
shall be afterwards explained. The fact, in the mean time, shows, that they are
to be accounted part of that Language which nature dictates to men. They are
not the invention of the schools, nor the mere product of study: on the
contrary, the most illiterate speak in figures, as often as the most learned.
Whenever the imaginations of the vulgar are much awakened, or their passions
inflamed against one another, they will pour forth a torrent of Figurative
Language, as forcible as could be employed by the most artificial declaimer.
What then is it, which
has drawn the attention of critics and rhetoricians so much to these forms of
Speech? It is this: They remarked, that in them consists much of the beauty and
the force of Language; and found them always to bear some characters, or
distinguishing marks, by the help of which they could reduce them under
separate classes and heads. To this, perhaps, they owe their name of Figures. As
the figure, or shape of one body, distinguishes it from another, so these forms
of Speech have, each of them, a cast or turn peculiar to itself, which both
distinguishes it from the rest, and distinguishes it from Simple Expression.
Simple Expression just makes our idea known to others; but Figurative Language,
over and above, bestows a particular dress upon that idea; a dress, [Page 275]
which both makes it be remarked, and adorns it. Hence, this sort of Language
became early a capital object of attention to those who studied the powers of
Speech.
Figures, in general,
may be described to be that Language, which is prompted either by the
imagination, or by the passions. The justness of this description will appear,
from the more particular account I am afterwards to give of them. Rhetoricians
commonly divide them into two great classes; Figures of Words, and Figures of
Thought. The former, Figures of Words, are commonly called Tropes, and consist
in a word’s being employed to signify something that is different from its
original and primitive meaning; so that if you alter the word, you destroy the
Figure. Thus, in the instance I gave before; "Light ariseth to the
upright, in darkness." The Trope consists, in "light and
darkness" being not meant literally, but substituted for comfort and
adversity, on account of some resemblance or analogy, which they are supposed
to bear to these conditions of life. The other class, termed Figures of
Thought, supposes the words to be used in their proper and literal meaning, and
the figure to consist in the turn of the thought; as is the case in
exclamations, interrogations, apostrophes, and comparisons; where, though you
vary the words that are used, or translate them from one Language into another,
you may, nevertheless, still preserve the same Figure in the thought. This
distinction, however, is of no great use; as nothing can be built upon it in
practice; neither is it always very clear. It is of little importance, whether
we give to some particular mode of expression the name of a Trope, or of a
Figure; provided we remember, that Figurative Language always imports some
[Page 276] colouring of the imagination, or some emotion of passion, expressed
in our Style: And, perhaps, figures of imagination, and figures of passion, might
be a more useful distribution of the subject. But without insisting on any
artificial divisions, it will be more useful, that I enquire into the Origin
and the Nature of Figures. Only, before proceeding to this, there are two
general observations which it may be proper to premise.
The first is,
concerning the use of rules with respect to Figurative Language. I admit, that
persons may both speak and write with propriety, who know not the names of any
of the Figures of Speech, nor ever studied any rules relating to them. Nature,
as was before observed, dictates the use of Figures; and, like Mons. Jourdain,
in Moliere, who had spoken for forty years in prose, without ever knowing it,
many a one uses metaphorical expressions to good purpose, without any idea of
what a metaphor is. It will not, however, follow thence, that rules are of no
service. All science arises from observations on practice. Practice has always
gone before method and rule; but method and rule have afterwards improved and
perfected practice, in every art. We, every day, meet with persons who sing
agreeably, without knowing one note of the gamut. Yet, it has been found of
importance to reduce these notes to a scale, and to form an art of music; and
it would be ridiculous to pretend, that the art is of no advantage, because the
practice is founded in nature. Propriety and beauty of Speech, are certainly as
improveable as the ear or the voice; and to know the principles of this beauty,
or the reasons which render one Figure, or one manner of Speech preferable to
another, cannot fail to assist and direct a proper choice.
[Page 277]
But I must observe, in
the next place, that, although this part of style merit attention, and be a
very proper object of science and rule; although much of the beauty of
composition depends on figurative language; yet we must beware of imagining
that it depends solely, or even chiefly, upon such language. It is not so. The
great place which the doctrine of tropes and figures has occupied in systems of
rhetoric; the over-anxious care which has been shewn in giving names to a vast
variety of them, and in ranging them under different classes, has often led
persons to imagine, that, if their composition was well bespangled with a
number of these ornaments of speech, it wanted no other beauty; whence has
arisen much stiffness and affectation. For it is, in truth, the sentiment or
passion, which lies under the figured expression, that gives it any merit. The
figure is only the dress; the sentiment is the body and the substance. No
figures will render a cold or an empty composition interesting; whereas, if a
sentiment be sublime or pathetic, it can support itself perfectly well, without
any borrowed assistance. Hence several of the most affecting and admired
passages of the best authors, are expressed in the simplest language. The
following sentiment from Virgil, for instance, makes its way at once to the
heart, without the help of any figure whatever. He is describing an Argive, who
falls in battle, in Italy, at a great distance from his native country:
Sternitur, infelix, alieno vulnere, coelumque Aspicit, et dulces moriens
reminiscitur . [Page 278] A single stroke of this kind, drawn as by the very
pencil of Nature, is worth a thousand figures. In the same manner, the simple
style of Scripture: "He spoke, and it was done; he commanded, and it stood
fast."---"God said, let there be light; and there was light,"
imparts a lofty conception to much greater advantage, than if it had been
decorated by the most pompous metaphors. The fact is, that the strong pathetic,
and the pure sublime, not only have little dependance on [Page 279] figures of
speech, but, generally, reject them. The proper region of these ornaments is,
where a moderate degree of elevation and passion is predominant; and there they
contribute to the embellishment of discourse, only, when there is a basis of
solid thought and natural sentiment; when they are inserted in their proper
place; and when they rise, of themselves, from the subject, without being
sought after.
Having premised these
observations, I proceed to give an account of the origin and nature of Figures;
principally of such as have their dependance 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 increased, 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 separate idea. Men
naturally sought to abridge this labour of multiplying words in infinitum; and,
in order to lay less burden on their memories, made one word, which they had
already appropriated to a certain idea or object, stand also for some other
idea or object; between which and the primary one, they found, or fancied, some
relation. Thus, the preposition, in, was originally invented to express the
circumstance of place: "The man was killed in the wood." In progress
of time, words were wanted to express men’s being connected with certain
conditions of fortune, or certain situations [Page 280] 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 in health or in sickness, in prosperity or in adversity, in joy or in
grief, in doubt, or in danger, or in safety. Here we see this preposition, in,
plainly assuming a tropical signification, or carried off from its original
meaning, to signify something else, which relates to, or resembles it.
Tropes of this kind
abound in all languages; and are plainly owing to the want of proper words. The
operations of the mind and affections, in particular, are, in most languages,
described by words taken from 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 objects, of which men had more
obscure conceptions, and to which they found it more difficult to assign
distinct names. They borrowed, therefore, the name of some sensible idea, where
their imagination found some affinity. Thus, we speak of, a piercing judgment,
and a clear head; a soft or a hard heart; a rough or a smooth behaviour. We
say, inflamed by anger, warmed by love, swelled with pride, melted into grief;
and these are almost the only significant words which we have for such ideas.
But, although the
barrenness of language, and the want of words, be doubtless one cause of the
invention of tropes; yet it is not the only, nor, perhaps, even the principal
source of this form of speech. Tropes have arisen more frequently, and spread
themselves wider, from the influence which Imagination [Page 281] 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, isolé, as the French express it; that is, independent on,
and separated from, every other thing; but always occurs as some-how related to
other objects; going before them, or following after them; their effect or
their cause; resembling them, or opposed to them; distinguished by certain
qualities, or surrounded with certain circumstances. By this means, every idea
or object carries in its train some other ideas, which may be considered as its
accessories. These accessories often strike the imagination more than the
principal idea itself. They are, perhaps, more agreeable ideas; or they are
more familiar to our conceptions; or they recal to our memory a greater variety
of important circumstances. The imagination is more disposed to rest upon some
of them; and therefore, instead of using the proper name of the principal idea
which it means to express, it employs, in its place, the name of the accessory
or correspondent idea; although the principal have a proper and well-known name
of its own. Hence a vast variety of tropical or figurative words obtain
currency in all languages, through choice, not necessity; and men of lively
imaginations are every day adding to their number.
Thus, when we design to
intimate the period, at which a state enjoyed most reputation or glory, it were
easy to employ the proper words for expressing this; but as this is readily
connectes, [Page 282] 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 party." The word,
Voice, was originally invented to signify the articulate sound, formed by the
organs of the mouth; but, as by means of it men signify their ideas and their
intentions to each other, Voice soon assumed a great many other meanings, all
derived from this primary effect. "To give our Voice" for any thing,
signified, to give our sentiment in favour of it. Not only so; but Voice was
transferred to 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 Voice of Conscience, the Voice of
Nature, the Voice of God. This usage takes place, not so much from barrenness
of language, or want of a proper word, as from an allusion which we choose to
make to Voice, in its primary sense, in order to convey our idea, connected
with a circumstance which appears to the fancy to give it more sprightliness
and force.
The account which I
have now given, and which seems to be a full and fair one, of the introduction of
Tropes into all Languages, coincides with what Cicero shortly hints, in his
third book De Oratore. "Modus transferendi verba laté "patet; quam
necessitas primum genuit, coacta inopia et angustias; post autem delectatio,
jucunditasque celebravit. Namut [Page 283] vestis, frigoris depellendi causâ
reperta primo, post adhiberi cæpta est ad ornatum etiam corporis et dignitatem,
sic verbi translatio instituta est inopiæ causâ, frequentata, ."
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 causes to which I ascribed the origin of Figures, concur
in producing this effect at the beginnings of society. Language is then most
barren; 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 and astonishment.
Every new object surprises, terrifies, and makes a strong impression on their
mind; they are governed by imagination and passion, more than by reason; and,
of course, their speech must be deeply tinctured by their genius. In fact, we
find, that this is the character of the American and Indian Languages; bold,
picturesque, and metaphorical; full of strong allusions to sensible [Page 284]
qualities, and to such objects as struck them most in their wild and solitary
life. An Indian chief makes a harangue to his tribe, in a style full of
stronger metaphors than a European would use in an epic poem.
As Language makes
gradual progress towards refinement, almost every object comes to have a proper
name given to it, and Perspicuity and 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 evey Language, too,
there are a multitude of words, which, though they were Figurative in their
first application to certain objects, yet, by long use, lose that figurative
power wholly, and come to be considered as simple and literal expressions. In
this case, are the terms which I remarked before, as transferred from sensible
qualities to the operations or qualities of the mind, a piercing judgment, a
clear head, a hard heart, and the like. There are other words which remain in a
sort of middle state; which have neither lost wholly their figurative
application, nor yet retain so much of it, as to imprint any remarkable
character of figured Language on our style; such as these phrases,
"apprehend one’s meaning;" "enter on a subject;" "follow
out an argument;" "stir up strife;" and a great many more, of
which our Language is full. In the use of such phrases, correct writers will
always preserve a regard 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 of a great man;" but it
were wrong to say, sheltered under the masque of dissimulation," as a
masque [Page 285] conceals, but does not shelter. An object, in description,
may be "clothed," if you will, "with epithets;" but it is
not so proper to speak of its being "clothed with circumstances;" as
the word "circumstances," alludes to standing round, not to clothing.
Such attentions as these are requisite in the common run of Style.
What has been said on
this subject, tends to throw light on the nature 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
possibly do by proper words alone, without assistance from Tropes.
Secondly, They bestow
dignity upon Style. The familiarity of common words, to which our ears are much
accustomed, tends to degrade Style. When we want to adapt our Language to the
tone of an elevated subject, we would 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 [Page
286] poetry. 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 vulgar idea;
but it rises and fills the imagination, when painted thus by Horace: Pallida
mors æquo pulsat pede, pauperum tabernas Regumque turres. Or,
Omnes eodem cogimur; omnium, Versatur urna, serius, ocyus,
Sors exitura, & nos in eternum Exilium
impositura cymbæ
In the third place,
Figures give us the pleasure of enjoying two objects presented together to our
view, without confusion; the principal idea, which is the subject of the
discourse, along with its accessory, which gives it the figurative dress. We
see one [Page 287] 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 contemplates two similar objects, in one view, without
embarrassment or confusion. Not only so, but,
In the fourth place,
Figures are attended with this farther advantage, of giving us frequently a
much clearer and more striking view of the principal object, than we could have
if it were 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 light upon it. For they
exhibit the object, on which they are employed, in a picturesque form; they can
render an abstract conception, in some degree, an object of sense; they
surround it with such circumstances, as enable the mind to lay hold of it
steadily, and to contemplate it fully. "Those persons," says one,
"who gain the hearts of most people, who are chosen as the companions of
their softer hours, and their reliefs from anxiety and care, are seldom persons
of shining qualities, or strong virtues: it is rather the soft green of the
soul, on which we rest our eyes, that are fatigued with beholding [Page 288]
more glaring objects." Here, by a happy allusion to a colour, the whole
conception is conveyed clear and strong to the mind in one word. By a well
chosen Figure, even conviction is assisted, and the impression of a truth upon
the mind, made more lively and forcible than it would otherwise be. As in the
following illustration of Dr. Young’s: "When we dip too deep in pleasure,
we always stir a sediment that renders it impure and noxious;" or in this,
"A heart boiling with violent passions, will always send up infatuating
fumes to the head." An image that presents so much congruity between a
moral and a sensible idea, serves like an argument from analogy, to enforce
what the author asserts, and to induce belief.
Besides, whether we are
endeavouring to raise sentiments of pleasure or aversion, we can always
heighten the emotion by the figures which we introduce; leading the imagination
to a train, either of agreeable or disagreeable, of exalting or debasing ideas,
correspondent to the 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, naturally, throw a lustre
over our object; we enliven the reader’s mind; and dispose him to go along with
us, in the gay and pleasing impressions which we give him of the subject. This
effect of Figures is happily touched in the following lines of Dr. Akenside,
and illustrated by a very sublime figure: ------Then the inexpressive strain,
Diffuses its enchantment. Fancy dreams Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves,
[Page 289] And vales of bliss. The intellectual power Bends from his awful
throne a wond’ring ear, And smiles.------
Pleas. of Imaginat. I.
124.
What I have now
explained, concerning the use and effects of Figures, naturally leads us to
reflect on the wonderful power of Language; and, indeed, we cannot reflect on
it without the highest admiration. What a fine vehicle is it now become for all
the conceptions of the human mind; even for the most subtile and delicate
workings of the imagination! What a pliant and flexible instrument in the hand
of one who can employ it skilfully; prepared to take every form which he chuses
to give it! Not content with a simple communication of ideas and thoughts, it
paints those ideas to the eye; it gives colouring and relievo, even to the most
abstract conceptions. In the figures which it uses, it sets mirrors before us,
where we may behold objects, a second time, in their likeness. In entertains
us, as with a succession of the most splendid pictures; disposes, in the most
artificial manner, of the light and shade, for viewing every thing to the best
advantage; in fine, from being a rude and imperfect interpreter of men’s wants
and necessities, it has now passed into an instrument of the most delicate and
refined luxury.
To make these effects
of Figurative Language sensible, there are few authors in the English Language,
whom I can refer to with more advantage than Mr. Addison, whose imagination is
at once, remarkably rich, and remarkably correct and chaste. When he is
treating, for instance, of the effect which light and colours have to entertain
[Page 290] the fancy, considered in Mr. Locke’s view of them as secondary
qualities, which have no real existence in matter, but are only ideas in the
mind, with what beautiful painting has he adorned this philosophic speculation?
"Things," says he, "would make but a poor appearance to the eye,
if we saw them only in their proper figures and motions. Now, we are every
where entertained with pleasing shows and apparitions; we discover imaginary
glories in the heavens, and in the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty
poured out upon the whole creation. But what a rough unsightly sketch of nature
should we be entertained with, did all her colouring disappear, and the several
distinctions of light and shade vanish? In short, our souls are, at present,
delightfully lost, and bewildered in a pleasing delusion; and we walk about,
like the enchanted hero of a 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
solitary desert. It is not improbable, that something like this may be the
state of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the images it will
receive from matter." No. 413. Spec.
Having thus explained,
at sufficient length, the Origin, the Nature, and the Effects of Tropes, I
should proceed next to the several kinds and divisions of them. But, in
treating of these, were I to follow the 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 [Page 291] been, with a most patient and
frivolous industry, to branch them out under a vast number of divisions,
according to all the several modes in 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, or graceful use of Language. 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 increased. These relations, some more, some less intimate, may all
give rise to Tropes. One of the first and most obvious relations is, that
between a cause and its effect. Hence, in Figurative Language, the cause is,
sometimes, put for the effect. Thus, Mr. Addison, writing of Italy: Blossoms,
and fruits, and flowers, together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion
lies. [Page 292] Where the "whole year" is plainly intended, to
signify the effects or productions of all the seasons of the year. At other
times, again, the effect is put for the cause; as, "grey hairs" frequently
for old age, which causes grey hairs; and "shade," for trees that
produce the shade. The relation between the container and the thing contained,
is also so intimate and obvious, as naturally to give rise to Tropes:
------Ille impiger hausit Spumantem pateram & pleno se proluit auro. Where
every one sees, that the cup and the gold are put for the liquor that was
contained in the golden cup. In the same manner, the name of any country, is
often used to denote the inhabitants of that country; and Heaven, very commonly
employed to signify God, because he is conceived as dwelling in Heaven. To
implore the assistance of Heaven, is the same as to implore the assistance of
God. The relation betwixt any established sign and the thing signified, is a
further source of Tropes. Hence, Cedant arma togæ concedat laurea linguæ. The
"toga," being the badge of the civil professions, and the
"laurel," of military honours, the badge of each is put for the civil
and military characters themselves. To "assume the sceptre," is a
common phrase for entering on royal authority. To Tropes, founded on these
several relations, of cause and effect, container and contained, sign and thing
signified, is given the name of Metonymy.
When the Trope is
founded on the relation between an antecedent and a consequent, or what goes
before, and immediately [Page 293] follows after, it is then called a
Metalepsis; as in the Roman phrase of "Suit," or "Vixit,"
to express that one was dead. "Suit 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 genus for a species, or a species for a
genus; the singular for the plural, or the plural for the singular number; in
general, when any thing less, or any thing more, is put for the precise object
meant; the figure is then called a Synecoche. 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 sometimes 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 objects, by means of which, the mind is
assisted to pass easily from one to another; and, by the name of the one,
understands the other to be meant. It is always some accessory idea, which
recals the principal to the imagination; and commonly recals it with more
force, than if the principal idea had been expressed.
The relation which, of
all others, is by far the most fruitful of Tropes, I have not yet mentioned;
that is, the relation of Similitude and Resemblance. On this is founded what is
called the Metaphor: when, in place of using the proper name of any [Page 294]
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 particular
consideration; and shall be the subject of the next Lecture.
[Page 295]
AFTER 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 particular attention: and I begin with Metaphor. This is a figure
founded entirely on the resemblance which one object bears to another. Hence,
it is much allied to Simile, or Comparison; and is indeed 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 denote comparison. The
comparison is only insinuated, not expressed: the one object is supposed to be
so like the other, that, without formally drawing the comparison, the name of
[Page 296] the one may be put in the place of the name of the other. "The
minister is the Pillar of the state." This, therefore, is a more lively
and animated manner of expressing the resemblances which imagination traces
among objects. There is nothing which delights the fancy more, than this act of
comparing things together, discovering resemblances between them, and
describing them by their likeness. The mind thus employed, is exercised without
being fatigued; and is gratified with the 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 in the mind. The very words which I have
casually employed in describing this, are a proof of what I say; tinctured,
insinuates, rises up, are all of them metaphorical expressions, borrowed from
some resemblance which fancy forms between sensible objects, and the internal
operations of the mind; and yet the terms are no less clear, and, perhaps, more
expressive, than if words had been used, which were to be taken in the strict
and literal sense.
Though all Metaphor
imports comparison, and, therefore, is, in that respect, a figure of thought;
yet, as the words in a Metaphor are not taken literally, but changed from their
proper to a Figurative sense, the Metaphor is commonly ranked among Tropes or
Figures of words. But, provided the nature of it be well understood, it
signifies very little whether we call it a Figure or a Trope. I have confined
it to the expression of resemblance between two objects. I must remark,
however, that the word Metaphor is sometimes used in a looser and more [Page
297] extended sense; for the application of a term in any figurative
signification, whether the figure be founded on resemblance, or on some other
relation, which two objects bear to one another. For instance; when grey hairs
are put for old age, as, "to bring one’s grey 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; "grey 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 description; to make intellectual ideas, in some
sort, visible to the eye, by giving them colour, and substance, and sensible
qualities. In order to produce this effect, however, a delicate hand is required;
for, by a very little inaccuracy, we are in hazard of introducing confusion, in
place of promoting Perspicuity. Several rules, therefore, are necessary to be
given for the proper management of Metaphors. But, before entering on these, I
shall give one instance of a very beautiful Metaphor, [Page 298] 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 conclusion of his
work, he is speaking of the behaviour of Charles I. 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
temper of the nation already full, that is, provoked to the highest by former
oppressions and wrongs; this last drop, stands for the provocation recently
received by the abrupt dissolution of the parliament; 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 remarks is, the advantage which a Metaphor frequently
has above a formal comparison. How much would the sentiment here have been
enfeebled, if it had been expressed in the style of a regular simile, thus:
"Well might he repent; for the state of the nation, loaded with grievances
and provocations, [Page 299] resembled a vessel that was now full, and this
superadded provocation, like the last drop infused, made their rage and
resentment, as waters of bitterness, overflow." It has infinitely more
spirit and force as it now stands, in the form of a Metaphor. "Well might
he repent; for the vessel was now full; and this last drop made the waters of
bitterness overflow."
Having mentioned, with
applause, this instance from Lord Bolingbroke, 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
Language, which, for the matter contained in them, can be read with less profit
or fruit, than Lord Bolingbroke’s works. His political writings have the merit
of a very lively and eloquent style; but they have no other; being, as to the
substance, the mere temporary productions of faction and party; no better,
indeed, than pamphlets written for the day. His Posthumous, or, as they are
called, his Philosophical Works, wherein he attacks religion, have still less
merit; for they are as loose in the style as they are flimsy in the reasoning.
An unhappy instance, this author is, of parts and genius so miserably perverted
by faction and passion, that, as his memory will descend to posterity with
little honour, so his productions will soon pass, and are, indeed, already
passing into neglect and oblivion.
[Page 300]
Returning from this
digression to the subject before us, I proceed to lay down the rules to be
observed in the conduct of Metaphors; and which are much the same for Tropes of
every kind.
The first which I shall
mention, is, that they be suited to the nature of 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. This is a direction which belongs to all Figurative
Language, and should be ever kept in view. Some Metaphors are allowable, nay
beautiful, in poetry, which it would 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 congruity 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
dignity 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, detract as much from an
author, as they do from a man. Figures and Metaphors, therefore, should, on no
occasion, be stuck on too profusely; and never should be such as refuse [Page
301] to accord with the strain of our sentiment. Nothing can be more unnatural,
than for a writer to carry on a train of reasoning, in the same sort of
Figurative Language, which he would use in description. When he reasons, we
look only for perspicuity; when he describes, we expect embellishment; when he
divides, or relates, we desire plainness and simplicity. 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
tranquillè, nihil leniter, nihil definitè, distinctè, potest dicere, is, cum
non præparatis auribus inflammare rem cæpit, furere apud sanos, et quasi inter
sobrios bacchari temulentus videtur ," This admonition should be
particularly 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 .
[Page 302]
The second rule, which
I give, respects the choice of objects, from whence Metaphors, and other
Figures, are to be drawn. The field for Figurative Language is very wide. All
nature, to speak in the style of 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, and even the gloomy and dismal, can, on different occasions, be
introduced into figures with propriety. But we must beware of ever using such
allusions as raise in the mind disagreeable, mean, vulgar, or dirty ideas.
Even, when Metaphors are chosen in order to vilify and degrade any object, an
author should study never to be nauseous in his allusions. Cicero blames an
orator of his time, for terming his enemy "Stercus Curiæ;"
"quamvis sit smile," says he, "tamen est deformis cogitatio
similitudinis." But, in subjects of dignity, it is an unpardonable fault
to introduce mean and vulgar Metaphors. In the treatise on the Art of Sinking,
in Dean Swift’s works, there is a full and humourous collection of instances of
this kind, wherein authors, instead of exalting, have contrived to degrade,
their subjects by the figures they employed. Authors of greater note than those
which are there quoted, have, at times, fallen into this error. Archbishop
Tillotson, for instance, is sometimes negligent in his choice of Metaphors;
[Page 303] as, when speaking of the day of judgment, he describes the world, as
"cracking about the sinners ears." Shakespeare, 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
mentioned a dunghill, he presently raises a Metaphor from the steam of it; and
on a subject too, that naturally led to much nobler ideas: And those that leave
their valiant bones in France, Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills
They shall be fam’d; for there the sun shall greet them, And draw their 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 clear and 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
illustrating the thought, render it perplexed and intricate. With Metaphors of
this kind, Cowley abounds. He, and some of the writers of his age, 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 æanigma; and is the very
reverse of Cicero’s rule on this head: [Page 304] "Verecunda debet esse
translatio; ut deducta esse in alienum locum non irruisse, atque ut voluntario
non vi 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 Granada, shot into a magazine. Then shall love keep
the ashes and torn parts, Of both our broken hearts. Shall
out of both one new one make; From her’s th’ alloy, from mine the metal take;
For of 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 sould dost overshade,
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? [Page 305] Tears that bewinter all my year;
The fate of Egypt I sustain, And never feel
the dew of rain, From clouds which in the head appear: But all my too much
moisture owe To overflowings of the heart below . s 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. "recherché:" whereas Metaphor, like every other
ornament, loses its whole grace, when it does not seem natural and easy.
It is but a bad and
ungraceful softening, which writers sometimes use for a harsh metaphor, when
they palliate it with the expression, as it were. This is but an awkward
parenthesis; and Metaphors, which need this apology of an as it were, had
generally, be better omitted. Metaphors, too, borrowed from any of the
sciences, especially such of them as belong to particular professions, are
almost always faulty by their obscurity.
In the fourth place, it
must be carefully attended to, in the conduct of Metaphors, never to jumble
metaphorical and plain language together; never to construct a period so, that
part of [Page 306] it must be understood metaphorically, part literally: which
always produces a most disagreeable confusion. Instances, which are but too
frequent, even in good authors, will make this rule, and the reason of it, be
clearly understood. In Mr. Pope’s translation of the Odyssey, Penelope,
bewailing the abrupt departure of her son Telemachus, is made to speak thus:
Long to my joys my dearest Lord is lost, His country’s buckler, and the Grecian
boast; Now from my fond embrace by tempests torn, Our other column of the state
is borne, Nor took a kind adieu, nor sought . Here, in one line, her son is
figured as a column; and in the next, he returns to be a person, to whom it
belongs to take adieu, and to ask consent. This is inconsistent. The Poet
should either have kept himself to the idea of a Man, in the literal sense; or,
if he figured him by a Column, he should have ascribed nothing to him but what
belonged to it. He was not at liberty to ascribe to that Column the actions and
properties of a Man. Such unnatural mixtures render the image indistinct;
leaving it to waver, in our conception, between the figurative and the literal
sense. Horace’s rule, which he [Page 307] 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 fame 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 Metaphors; such as that on a Hero: "In
peace, thou art the "ate of Spring; in war, the Mountain Storm." Or
this, on a Woman: "She was covered with the Light of Beauty; but her heart
was the House of Pride." They afford, however, one instance of the fault
we are now censuring: "Trothal went forth with the Stream of his people,
but they met a [Page 308] Rock: for singal stood unmoved; broken they rolled
back from his side. Nor did they roll in safety; the spear of the King pursued
their flight." At the beginning, the Metaphor is very beautiful. The
Stream, the unmoved Rock, the Waves rolling back broken, are expressions
employed in the proper and 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 one and the same time, presented to use as waves that roll, and
men that may be pursued and wounded with a spear. If it be faulty to jumble
together, in this manner, metaphorical and plain language, it is still more so.
Inthe 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
Shakepeare’s expression, "to take arms against a sea of troubles."
This makes a most unnatural medley, and confounds the imagination entirely.
Quinctilian has sufficiently guarded us against it. "Id imprimis est
custodiendum, ut quo genere coeperis translationis, hoc finias. Multi autem cùm
initium a tempestate sumserunt, incendio aut ruina siniunt; quæ est
inconsequentia rerum foedissima ." Observe, for instance, what an
inconsistent groupe of objects is brought together by Shakespeare, in the
following passage of the Tempest; speaking [Page 309] 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 Stealing
upon the darkness, and at the same time melting it; the senses of men chasing
fumes, ignorant fumes, and fumes that mantle. So again in Romeo and Juliet:
---as glorious, As is a winged messenger from heaven, Unto
the white upturned wondering eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air. Here,
the Angel is represented, as, at one moment, bestriding the clouds, and sailing
upon the air; and upon the bosom of the air too; which forms such a confused
picture, that it is impossible for any imagination to comprehend it.
More correct writers than
Shakespeare, sometimes fall into this error of mixing Metaphors. It is
surprising how the following inaccuracy should have escaped Mr. Addison, in his
Letter from Italy: [Page 310] I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, That
longs to launch into a bolder . The muse, figured as a horse, may be bridled;
but when we speak of launching, we make it a ship; and, by no force of
imagination, can it be supposed both a horse and a ship at one moment; bridled,
to hinder it from launching. The same Author, in one of his numbers in the
Spectator, says, "There is not a single view of human nature, which is not
sufficient to extinguish the seeds of pride." Observe the incoherence of
the things here joined together, making "a view extinguish, and 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! quantâ laboras in Charybdi, Digne puer, meliore
flammâ! Where a whirlpool of water, Charybdis, is said to be a flame, not good
enough for this young man; meaning, that he was unfortunate in the object of
his passion. Flame is, indeed, [Page 311] become almost 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 a king in the breast; A void may,
metaphorically, be said to crave; but can a void be said to ake?
A good rule has been
given for examining the propriety of Metaphors, when we doubt whether or not
they be of the mixed kind; namely, that we should try to form a picture upon
them, and consider how the parts would agree, and what sort of figure the whole
would present, when delineated with a pencil. By this means, we should become
sensible, whether inconsistent circumstances were mixed, and a monstrous image
thereby produced, as in all those faulty instances, I have now been giving; or
whether the object was, all along, presented in one natural and consistent point
of view.
As Metaphors ought
never to be mixed, so, in the sixth place, we should avoid crowding them
together on the same object. Supposing each of the Metaphors to be preserved
distinct, yet, if they be heaped on one another, they produce a confusion somewhat
of the same kind with the mixed Metaphor. We may judge of this by the following
passage from Horace: [Page 312] Motum ex Metello consule civicum, Bellique
causas, et vitia, et modos, Ludumque fortunæ, gravesque
Principum amicitias, & arma Nondum expiatis uncta
cruoribus, Periculosæ plenum opus aleæ, Tractas, et incedis
per ignes Suppositos cineri . This passage, though very
poetical, is, however, harsh and obscure; owing to no other cause but this,
that three distinct Metaphors are crowded together, to describe the difficulty
of Pollio’s writing a history of the civil wars. First, "Tractas arma
uncta cruoribus nondum expiatis;" next, "Opus plenum periculosæ aleæ;"
and then; "Incedis per ignes suppositos doloso cineri." The mind has
difficulty in passing readily through so many different views given it, in
quick succession, of the same object.
The only other rule
concerning Metaphors which I shall add, in the seventh place, is, that they be
not too far pursued. [Page 313] If the resemblance, on which the figure is
founded, be long dwelt upon, and carried into all its minute circumstances, we
make an allegory instead of a metaphor; we tire the reader, who soon wearies 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 harshness, in his figurative
Language, which I before remarked. Lord Shaftsbury, is sometimes guilty of
pursuing his Metaphors too far. Fond, to a high degree, of every decoration of
style, when once he had hit upon a figure that pleased him, he was extremely
loth to part with it. Thus, in his advice to an author, having taken up
soliloquy, or meditation, under the Metaphor of a proper method of evacuation
for an author, he pursues this Metaphor through several pages, under all the
forms "of discharging crudities, throwing off froth and scum bodily
operation, taking physic, curing indigestion, giving vent to choler, bile,
flatulencies, and tumours;" till at last, the idea becomes nauseous. Dr.
Young also often trespasses in the same way. The merit, however, of this
writer, in figurative Language, is great, and deserves to be remarked. No
writer, antient or modern, had a stronger imagination than Dr. Young, or one
more fertile in figures of every kind. His Metaphors are often new, and often
natural and beautiful. But, his imagination was strong and rich, rather than
delicate and correct he sometimes gives it too loose reins. Hence, in his Night
Thoughts, there prevails an obscurity, and a hardness in his style. The
Metaphors are frequently too bold, and frequently too far pursued; the reader
is dazzled rather than enlightened; and kept constantly on the stretch to
comprehend, and keep pace with, [Page 314] the author. We may observe, for
instance, how the following Metaphor is spun out: Thy thoughts are vagabonds;
all outward bound, Midst sands and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure,
If gained, dear bought; and better miss’d than gain’d. Fancy and sense, from an
infected shore, Thy cargo brings; and pestilence the prize; Then such the
thirst, insatiable thirst, By fond indulgence but inflam’d the more, Fancy
still cruizes, when poor sense is tired. Speaking of old age, he says, it should
Walk thoughtful on the silent solemn shore Of that vast ocean, it must sail so
soon; And put good works on board; and wait the wind That shortly blows us into
worlds unknown.
The two first lines are
uncommonly beautiful; "walk thoughtful on the silent, &c." but
when he continues the Metaphor, "to putting good works on board, and
waiting the wind," it plainly becomes strained, and sinks in dignity. Of
all the English authors, I know none so happy in his Metaphors as Mr. Addison.
His imagination was neither so rich nor so strong as Dr. Young’s; but far more
chaste and delicate. Perspicuity, natural grace and ease, always distinguish
his figures. They are neither harsh nor strained; they never appear to have
been studied or sought after; but seem to rise of their own accord from the
subject, and constantly embellish it.
[Page 315]
I have now treated
fully of the Metaphor, and the rules that should govern it, a part of the
doctrine of style so important, that it required particular illustration. I
have only to add a few words concerning Allegory.
An Allegory may be
regarded as a continued Metaphor; as it is the representation of some one thing
by another that resembles it, and that is made to stand for it. Thus, in Prior’s
Henry and Emma, Emma in the following allegorical manner describes her
constancy 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 represented under the image of a vine, and the figure
is supported throughout with great correctness and beauty: "Thou hast
brought a vine out of Egypt, thou hast cast out the heathen, and planted it.
Thou 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 boughts
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 [Page 316] devour it. Return, we
beseech thee, O God of Hosts, look down from Heaven, and behold, and visit this
vine!" Here there is no circumstance (except perhaps one phrase at the
beginning, "thou hast cast out the heathen,") that does not strictly
agree to a vine, whilst, at the same time, the whole quadrates happily with the
Jewish state represented by this figure. This is the first and principal
requisite in the conduct of an Allegory, that the figurative and the literal
meaning be not mixed inconsistently together. For instance, instead of
describing the vine, as wasted by the boar from the wood, and devoured by the
wild beast of the field, had the Psalmist said, it was afficted by heathens, or
overcome by enemies (which is the real meaning), this would have ruined the
Allegory, and produced the same confusion, of which I gave examples in
Metaphors, when the figurative and literal sense are mixed and jumbled
together. Indeed, the same rules that were given for Metaphors, may also be
applied to Allegories, on account of the affinity they bear to each other. The
only material difference between them, besides the one being short, and the
other being prolonged, is, that a Metaphor always explains itself by the words
that are connected with it in their proper and natural meaning; as when I say,
"Achilles was a Lion;" an "able Minister is the Pillar of the
State." My Lion and my Pillar are sufficiently interpreted by the mention
of Achilles and the Minister, which I join to them; but an Allegory is, or may
be, allowed to stand more disconnected with the literal meaning; the
interpretation not so directly pointed out, but left to our own reflection.
[Page 317]
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 inanimate objects, the dispositions of men are figured;
and what we call the moral, is the unfigured sense or meaning of the Allegory.
An Ænigma or Riddle is also a species of Allegory; one thing represented or
imaged by another; but purposely wrapt up under so many circumstances, as to be
rendered obscure. Where a riddle is not intended, it is always a fault in
Allegory to be too dark. The meaning should be easily seen through the figure
employed to shadow it. However the proper mixture of light and shade in such
compositions, the exact adjustment of all the figurative circumstances with the
literal sense, so as neither to lay the meaning too bare and open, nor to cover
and wrap it up too much, has ever been found an affair of great nicety; and
there are few species of composition in which it is more difficult to write so
as to please and command attention, than in Allegories. In some of the visions
of the Spectator, we have examples of Allegories very happily executed.
[Page 318]
THE next figure
concerning which I am to treat, is called Hyperbole, or Exaggeration. It
consists in magnifying an object beyond its natural bounds. It may be
considered sometimes as a trope, and sometimes as a figure of thought: and here
indeed the distinction between these two classes begins not to be clear, nor is
it of any importance that we should have recourse to metaphysical subtilties,
in order to keep them distinct. Whether we call it trope or figure, it is plain
that it is a mode of speech which hath some foundation in nature. For in all
languages, even in common conversation, hyperbolical expressions very
frequently occur; as swift as the wind; as white as the snow, and the like; and
our common forms of compliment are almost all of them extravagent Hyperboles.
If any thing be remarkably good or great in its kind, we are instantly ready to
add to it some exaggerating epithet; and to make it the greatest or best we
ever faw. The imagination has always a [Page 319] tendency to gratify itself,
by magnifying its present object, and carrying it to excess. More or less of
this hyperbolical turn will prevail in language, according to the liveliness of
imagination among the people who speak it. Hence young people deal always much
in Hyperboles. Hence the language of the Orientals was far more hyperbolical
than that of the Europeans, who are of more phlegmatic, or, if you please, of
more correct imagination. Hence, among all writers in early times, and in the
rude periods of society, we may expect this figure to abound. Greater
experience, and more cultivated society, abate the warmth of imagination, and
chasten the manner of expression.
The exaggerated
expressions to which our ears are accutomed 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 observe, that unless the
reader’s imagination be in such a state as disposes it to rise and swell along
with the hyperbolical expression, he is always hurt and offended by it. For a
sort of disagreeable force is put upon him; he is required to strain and exert
his fancy, when he feels no inclination to make any such effort. Hence the
Hyperbole is a figure of difficult management; and ought neither to be
frequently used, nor long dwelt upon. On some occasions, it is undoubtedly
proper; being, as was before observed, the natural style of a sprightly and
heated imagination, but when Hyperboles are unseasonable, or too frequent, they
render a compositions [Page 320] frigid and unaffecting. They are the resource
of an author of feeble imagination; 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 description, or such as are suggested by the
warmth of passion. The best by far, are those which are the effect of passion:
for if the imagination has a tendency to magnify its objects beyond their
natural proportion, passion possesses this tendency in a vastly stronger
degree; and therefore not only excuses the most daring figures, but very often
renders them natural and just. All passions, without exception, love, terror,
amazement, indignation, anger, and even grief, throw the mind into confusion,
aggravate their objects, and of course prompt a hyperbolical style. Hence the
following sentiments of Satan in Milton, as strongly as they are described,
contain nothing but what is natural and proper; exhibiting the picture of a
mind agitated with rage and despair: Me miserable! which way shall I flie
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? Which way I flie is Hell, myself am Hell;
And in the lowest depth, a lower deep Still threat’ning to devour me, opens
wide, To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
In simple description,
though Hyperboles are not excluded, yet they must be used with more caution,
and require more [Page 320] preparation, in order to make the mind relish them.
Either the object described must be of that kind, which of itself seizes the
fancy strongly, and disposes it to run beyond bounds; something vast,
surprising, and new; or the writer’s art must be exerted in heating the fancy
gradually, and preparing it to think highly of the object which he intends to
exaggerate. When a Poet is describing an earthquake or a storm, or when he has
brought us into the midst of a battle, we can bear strong Hyperboles without
displeasure. But when he is describing only a woman in grief, it is impossible
not to be disgusted with such wild 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
utter 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 [Page 322] proper measure and boundary of this figure, cannot,
as far as I know, be ascertained by any precise rule. Good sense and just taste
must determine the point, beyond which, if we pass, we become extravagant.
Lucan may be pointed out as an author apt to be excessive in his Hyperboles.
Among the compliments paid by the Roman Poets to their Emperors, it had become
fashionable to ask them, what part of the heavens they would chuse 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, & Coeli justa plus parte relinquit ."
Geor. 1.
But this did not
suffice Lucan. Resolved to outdo all his predecessors, in a like address to
Nero, he very gravely beseeches him not to 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 other, his weight should overset the universe: Sed neque
in Arctoo sedem tibi legeris orbe Nec polus adversi calidus qua mergitur
austri; Ætheris immensi partem si presseris unam Sentiet axis onus. Librati
pondera Coeli .------
Phars. I.
[Page 323]
Such thoughts as these,
are what the French call outrés, and always proceed from a false fire of
genius. The Spanish and African writers, as Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustin, are
remarked for being fond of them. As in that epitaph on Charles V. by a Spanish
writer: Pro tumulo ponas 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 respect; resting the
whole merit of their epigrams on some extravagant hyperbolical turn; such as
the following of Dr. Pitcairn’s, upon Holland’s being gained from the ocean:
Tellurem fecere Dii; sua littora Belgæ; Immensæque molis opus
utrumque fuit; Dii vacuo sparsas glomerarunt æthere terras,
Nil ibi quod operi possit obesse fuit. At Belgis, maria &
coeli naturaque rerum Obstitit; obstantes hi domuêre Deos.
[Page 324] So much for the Hyperbole. We proceed now to those figures which lie
altogether in the thought; where the words are taken in their common and
literal sense.
Among these, the first
place is unquestionably due to Personification, or that figure by which we
attribute life and action to inanimate objects. The technical term for this is
Prosopopoia; 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 foundation laid deep in human nature. At
first view, and when considered abstractly, it would appear to be a figure of
the utmost boldness, and to border on the extravagant and ridiculous. For what
can seem more remote from the tract of reasonable thought, than to speak of
stones and trees, and fields and rivers, as if they were living creatures, and
to attribute to them thought and sensation, affections and actions? One might
imagine this to be no more than childish conceit, which no person of taste
could relish. In fact, however, the case is very different. No such ridiculous
effect is produced by Personification, when properly employed; on the contrary,
it is found to be natural and agreeable; nor is any very uncommon degree of
passion required, in order to make us relish it. All poetry, even in its most
gentle and humble forms, abounds with it. From prose, it is far from being
excluded; nay, in common conversation, very frequent approaches are made to it.
When we say, the ground thirsts for rain, or the earth smiles with plenty; when
we speak of ambitions being restless, or a disease being deceitful, such
expressions show the facility with which [Page 325] the mind can accommodate
the properties of living creatures to things that are inanimate, or to abstract
conceptions of its own forming.
Indeed, it is very
remarkable, that there is a wonderful proneness in human nature to animate all
objects. Whether this arises from a sort of assimilating principle, from a
propension to spread a resemblance of 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 a man, by an unwary step, sprain his ankle, or hurt his foot upon a stone,
and, in the ruffled discomposed moment, he will, sometimes, feel himself
disposed to break the stone in pieces, or to utter passionate expressions
against it, as if it had done him an injury. If one has been long accustomed to
a certain set of objects, which have made a strong impression on his
imagination; as to a house, where he has passed many agreeable years; or to
fields, and trees, and mountains, among which he has often walked with the
greatest delight; when he is obliged to part with them, especially if he has no
prospect of ever seeing them again, he can scarce avoid having somewhat of the
same feeling as when he is leaving old friends. They seem endowed with life.
They become objects of his affection; and, in the moment of his parting, it
scarce seems absurd to him, to give vent to his feeling in words, and to take a
formal adieu.
So strong is that
impression of life which is made upon us, by the more magnificent and striking
objects of nature especially, that I doubt not, in the least, of this having
been one [Page 326] cause of the multiplication of divinities in the Heathen
world. Dryads and Naiads, the Genius of the wood, and the God of the river,
were, in men of lively imaginations, in the early ages of the world, easily
grafted upon this turn of mind. When their favourite rural objects had often
been animated in their fancy, it was an easy transition to attribute to them
some real divinity, some unseen power or genius which inhabited them, or in
some peculiar manner belonged to them. Imagination was highly gratified, by
thus gaining somewhat to rest upon with more stability; and when belief
coincided so much with imagination, very slight causes would be sufficient to
establish it.
From this deduction,
may be easily seen how it comes to pass, that personification makes so great a
figure in all compositions, where imagination or passion have any concern. On
innumerable occasions, it is the very Language of imagination and passion, and,
therefore, deserves to be attended to, and examined with peculiar care. There
are three different degrees of this figure; which it is necessary to remark and
distinguish, in order to determine the propriety of its use. The first is, when
some of the properties or qualities of living creatures are ascribed to
inanimate objects; the second, when those inanimate objects are introduced as
acting like such as have life; and the third, when they are represented, either
as speaking to us, or as listening to what we say to them.
The first, and lowest
degree of this figure, consists in ascribing to inanimate objects some of the
qualities of living creatures. Where this is done, as is most commonly the
case, in a [Page 327] 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, indeed, is such an obscure degree of
Personification, that one may doubt whether it deserves the name, and might not
be classed with simple Metaphors, which escape in a manner unnoticed. Happily
employed, however, it sometimes adds beauty and sprightliness to an expression;
as in this line of Virgil: Aut conjurato descendens Dacus ab Istro.
Geor. II. 474.
Where the personal
epithet, conjurato, applied to the river Istro, is infinitely more poetical
than if it had been applied to the person, thus: Aut conjuratus descendens
Dacus ab Istro. A very little taste will make any one feel the difference
between these two lines.
The next degree of this
figure is, when we introduce inanimate objects acting like those that have
life. Here we rise a step higher, and the Personification becomes sensible.
According to the nature of the action, which we attribute to those inanimate
objects, and the particularity with which we describe it, such is the strength
of the figure. When pursued to any length, it belongs only to studied
harangues, to highly figured and eloquent discourse; when slightly touched, it
may be admitted into subjects of less elevation. Cicero, for instance, speaking
of the cases where killing another is lawful in self- defence, [Page 328] uses
the following words: "Aliquando nobis gladius ad occidendum hominem ab
ipsis porrigitur legibus." (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 frequent returns of
them, they have a good effect on style, and render it both strong and lively.
The genius of our
Language gives us an advantage in the use of this figure. As, with us, no substantive
nouns have gender, or are masculine and feminine, except the proper names of
male and female creatures; by giving a gender to any inanimate object, or
abstract idea, that is, in place of the pronoun it, using the personal
pronouns, he or she, we presently raise the style, and begin personification.
In solemn discourse, this can often be done to good purpose, when speaking of
religion, or virtue, or our country, or any such object of dignity. I shall
give a remarkably fine example, from a sermon of Bishop Sherlock’s, where we
shall see natural religion beautifully personified, and be able to judge from
it, of the spirit and grace which this figure, when well conducted, bestows on
a discourse. I must take notice, at the same time, that it is an instance of
this figure, carried as far as prose, even in its highest elevation, will
admit, and, therefore, suited only to compositions where the great efforts of
eloquence are allowed. The Author is comparing together our Saviour and
Mahomet: "Go," says he, "to your natural Religion; lay before
her Mahomet, and his disciples, arrayed in armour and blood, [Page 329] riding
in triumph over the spoils of thousands who fell by his victorious sword. Shew
her the cities which he set in flames, the countries which he ravaged and
destroyed, and the miserable distress of all the inhabitants of the earth. When
she has viewed him in this scene, carry her into his retirement; shew her the
Prophet’s chamber; his concubines and his wives; and let her hear him allege
revelation, and a divine commission, to justify his adultery and lust. When she
is tired with this prospect, then shew her the blessed Jesus, humble and meek,
doing good to all the sons of men. Let her see him in his most retired
privacies; let her follow him to the mount, and hear his devotions and
supplications to God. Carry her to his table, to view his poor fare; and hear
his heavenly discourse. Let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider the
patience with which he endured the scoffs and reproaches of his enemies. Lead
her to his cross; let her view him in the agony of death, and hear his last
prayer for his persecutors; Father, forgive them, for they know not what they
do!---When Natural Religion has thus viewed both, ask her, Which is the Prophet
of God? But her answer we have already had, when she saw part of this scene,
through the eyes of the Centurion, who attended at the cross. By him she spoke,
and said, Truly, this Man was the Son of God ." This is more than elegant;
it is truly sublime. The whole passage is animated; and the figure rises at the
conclusion, when Natural Religion, who, before, was only a spectator, is
introduced as speaking by the Centurion’s voice. It has the better effect too,
[Page 330] that it occurs at the conclusion of a discourse, where we naturally
look for most warmth and dignity. Did Bishop Sherlock’s sermons, or, indeed,
any English sermons whatever, afford us many passages equal to this, we should
oftner have recourse to them for instances of the beauty of Composition.
Hitherto we have spoken
of prose; in poetry, Personifications of this kind are extremely frequent, and
are, indeed, the life and soul of it. We expect to find every thing animated in
the descriptions of a poet who has a lively fancy. Accordingly Homer, the father
and prince of poets, is remarkable for the use of this figure. War, peace,
darts, spears, towns, rivers, every thing, in short, is alive in his writings.
The same is the case with Milton and Shakespeare. No Personification, in any
author, is more striking, or introduced on a more proper occasion, than the
following of Milton’s, on occasion of Eve’s eating the forbidden fruit: So
saying, her rash hand, in evil hour Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck’d,
she eat; Earth felt the wound; and nature, from her seat Sighing, through all
her works, gave signs of woe, 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, contentment, are capable of being
personified in poetry, with great propriety. Of this, we meet with frequent
examples in Milton’s Allegro and Penseroso, Parnell’s Hymn to Contentment,
Thomson’s Seasons, and all the good poets: nor, indeed, is it easy to set any
bounds to Personifications of this kind, in poetry.
[Page 331]
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 connection between them and us, through
that sensibility which it ascribes to them. This is exemplified in the
following 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 interesting: But yonder comes the powerful king
of day Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, The kindling azure, and the
mountain’s brim Tipt with æthereal gold, his near approach Betoken glad.------
------By thee refined, 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 desart 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, I led her blushing like the morn. All heaven [Page 332] And happy
constellations, on that hour, Shed their selectest influence. The earth Gave
signs of gratulation, and each hill. Joyous the birds; fresh gales, and gentle
airs 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 mentioned, when inanimate objects are
introduced, not only as feeling and acting, but as speaking to us, or hearing
and listening when we address ourselves to them. This, though on several
occasions far from being unnatural, is, however, more difficult in the execution,
than the other kinds of Personification. For this is plainly the boldest of all
rhetorical figures; it is the style of strong passion only; and, therefore,
never to be 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 ordinary train. But it must be in a state of
violent emotion, and have departed considerably from its common tract of
thought, before it can so far realise the Personification of an insensible
object, as to conceive it listening to what we say, or making any return to us.
All strong passions, however, have a tendency to use this figure; not only
love, anger, and indignation, but even those which are seemingly more
dispiriting, such as, grief, remorse, and melancholy. For all passions struggle
for vent, and if they can find no other object, will, rather than be silent,
pour themselves forth to woods, and rocks, and the most insensible things;
especially, if these be [Page 333] any how connected with the causes and
objects that have thrown the mind into this agitation. Hence, in poetry, where
the greatest liberty is allowed to the Language of passion, it is easy to
produce many beautiful examples of this figure. Milton affords us an extremely
fine one, in that moving and tender address which Eve makes to Paradise, just
before she is compelled to leave it. Oh! unexpected stroke, worse than of
death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise! thus leave Thee, native soil, these
happy walks, and shades, Fit haunt of Gods! where I had hope to spend Quiet,
though sad, the respite of that day, Which must be mortal to us both. O
flowers! That never will in other climate grow, My early visitation, and my
last At ev’n, which I bred up with tender hand, From your first op’ning buds,
and gave you names! Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and
water from th’ ambrosial fount?
Book II. 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 Sophocles, pours out to the rocks and caves of Lemnos, amidst
the excess of his grief and despair, are remarkably fine examples of it . And
there are frequent examples, not in [Page 334] poetry only, but in real life,
of persons, when just about to suffer death, taking a passionate farewel of the
sun, moon, and stars, or other sensible objects around them.
There are two great
rules for the management of this sort of Personification. 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
the clothes which he wore, introduces mean and degrading ideas. So also,
addressing the several parts of one’s body, as if they were animated, is not
congruous to the dignity of passion. For this reason, I must condemn the
following passage, in a very beautiful Poem of Mr. Pope’s, Eloisa to Abelard.
[Page 335] Dear fatal name’! rest ever unreveal’d, Nor pass these lips in holy
silence sealed. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where, mixed with
Gods, 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 personified; and each of them are addressed or spoken to; let
us consider with what propriety. The first is, the name of Abelard: "Dear
fatal name! rest ever," &c. To this, no reasonable objection can be
made. For, as the name of a person often stands for the person himself, and
suggests the same ideas, it can bear this Personification with sufficient
dignity. Next, Eloisa speaks to herself; and personifies her heart for this
purpose: "Hide it, my heart, within that close," &c. As the heart
is a dignified part of the human frame, and is often put for the mind, or
affections, this also may pass without blame. But, when from her heart she
passes to her hand, and tells her hand not to write his name, this is forced
and unnatural; a personified hand is low, and not in the style of true passion:
and the figure becomes still worse, when, in the last place, she exhorts her
tears to blot out what her hand had written: "Oh! write it not,"
&c. There is, in these two lines, an air of epigrammatic conceit, which
native passion never suggests; and which is altogether unsuitable to the tenderness
which breathes through the rest of that excellent Poem.
In prose compositions,
this figure requires to be used with still greater moderation and delicacy. The
same liberty is not [Page 336] 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 occasions very properly
address religion or virtue; or his native country, or some city or province,
which has suffered perhaps great calamities, or been the scene of some
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, especially 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 the French writers, particularly
Bossuet and Flechier, in their sermons and funeral orations, have attempted and
executed this figure, not without warmth and dignity. Their works are
exceedingly worthy of being consulted, for instances of this, and of several
other ornaments of style. Indeed the vivacity and ardour of the French genius
is more suited to this, animated kind of oratory, than the more correct but
more phlegmatic genius of the British, who in their prose works [Page 337] very
rarely attempt any of the high figures of . So much for Personifications or
Prosopopoeia, in all its different forms.
[Page 338]
Apostrophe is a figure
so much of the same kind, that it will not require many words. It is an address
to a real person; but one who is either absent or dead, as if he were present,
and listening to us. It is so much allied to an address to inanimate objects
personified, that both these figures are sometimes called apostrophes. However,
the proper Apostrophe is in boldness one degree lower than the address to
personified objects; for it certainly requires a less effort of imagination to
suppose persons present who are dead or absent, than to animate insensible
beings, and direct our discourse to them. Both figures are subject to the same
rule of being prompted by passion, in order to render them natural; for both
are the language of passion or strong emotions only. Among the poets Apostrophe
is frequent; as in Virgil: ------Pereunt Hypanisque Dymasque Confixi a sociis;
nec te, tua plurima, Pantheu Labentem pietas, nec Apollinis infula texit !
The poems of Offian are
full of the most beautiful instances of this figure: "Weep on the rocks of
roaring winds, O maid of Inistore! bend thy fair head over the waves, thou
fairer than the ghost 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! " Quinctilian affords us a very fine example in prose; when in
the beginning of his sixth book, deploring the untimely death of his son, [Page
339] which had happened during the course of the work, he makes a very moving
and tender Apostrophe to him. "Nam quo ille animo, qua medicorum
admiratione, mensium octo valetudinem tulit? ut me in supremis consolatus est?
quam etiam jam deficiens, jamque non noster, ipsum illum alienatæ mentis
errorem circa solas literas habuit? Tuosne ergo, O meæ spes inanes! labentes
oculos, tuum fugientem spiritum vidi? Tuum corpus frigidum, exangue complexus,
animam recipere, auramque communem haurire amplius potui? Tene, consulari nuper
adoptione ad omnium spes honorum patris admotum, te, avunculo prætori generum
destinatum; te, omnium spe Atticæ eloquentiæ candidatum, parens superstes
tantum ad poenas !" In this passage, Quinctilian shews the true genius of
an orator, as much as he does elsewhere that of the critic.
For such bold figures
of discourse as strong Personifications, addresses to personified objects, and
Apostrophes, the glowing imagination of the ancient Oriental nations was
particularly fitted. Hence, in the sacred scriptures, we find some very
remarkable instances: "O thou sword of the Lord! how long will it be ere
thou be quiet? put thyself up 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 seashore?" [Page 340] there hath he 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 the fourteenth chapter of Isaiah,
where the prophet thus describes the fall of the Assyrian empire: "Thou
shalt take up this proverb against the king of Babylon, and say, how hath the
oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased! The Lord hath broken the staff of the
wicked, and the sceptre of the rulers. He who smote the people in wrath with a
continual stroke: he that ruled the nations in anger, is persecuted, and none
hindereth. The whole earth is at rest, and is quiet: they break forth into
singing. Yea, the fir-trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Lebanon, saying,
since thou art laid down, no feller is come up against us. Hell from beneath is
moved for thee to meet thee at thy coming: it stirreth up the dead for thee,
even all the chief ones of the earth: it hath raised up from their thrones all
the kings of the nations. All they shall speak, and say unto thee, art thou
also become weak as we? art thou become like unto us? Thy pomp is brought down
to the grave, and the noise of thy viols: the worm is spread under thee, and
the worms cover thee. How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the
morning! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!
For thou [Page 341] hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into Heaven, I will
exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the
congregation, in the sides of the north. I will ascend above the heights of the
clouds, I will be like the Most High. Yet thou shalt be brought down to Hell, to
the sides of the pit. They that see thee shall narrowly look upon thee, and
consider thee, saying, Is this the man that made the earth to tremble, that did
shake kingdoms? That made the world as a wilderness, and destroyed the cities
thereof? that opened not the house of his prisoners? All the Kings of the
nations, even all of them lie in glory, every one in his own house. But thou
art cast out of thy grave, like an abominable branch: and as the raiment of
those that are slain, thrust through with a sword, that go down to the stones
of the pit, as a carcase 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 Babylon himself, and those who look upon his body, all
speaking in their order, and acting their different parts without confusion.
[Page 342]
WE are still engaged in
the consideration of figures of speech; which, as they add much to the beauty
of style when properly employed, and are at the same time liable to be greatly
abused, require a careful discussion. As it would be tedious to dwell on all
the variety of figurative expressions which rhetoricians have enumerated, I
chose to select the capital figures, such as occur most frequently, and to make
my remarks on these; the principles and rules laid down concerning them, will
sufficiently direct as to the use of the rest, either in prose or poetry. Of
Metaphor, which is the most common of them all, I treated fully; and in the
last Lecture I discoursed of Hyperbole, Personification, and Apostrophe. This
Lecture will nearly finish what remains on the head of Figures.
[Page 343]
Comparison, or simile,
is what I am to treat of first: a Figure frequently employed both by Poets and
Prose writers, for the ornament of Composition. In a former Lecture, I
explained fully the difference betwixt this and Metaphor. A Metaphor is a
comparison implied, but not expressed as such; as when I say, "Achilles is
a Lion," meaning, that he resembles one in courage or strength. A
Comparison is, when the resemblance between two objects is expressed in form,
and generally pursued more fully than the nature of a Metaphor admits; as when
I say, "The actions of princes are like those great rivers, the course of
which every one beholds, but their springs have been seen by few." This
slight instance will show, that a happy Comparison is a kind of sparkling
ornament, which adds not a little lustre and beauty to discourse; and hence
such figures are termed by Cicero, "Orationis lumina."
The pleasure we take in
comparisons is just and natural. We may remark three different sources whence
it arises. First, from the pleasure which nature has annexed to that act of the
mind by which we compare any two objects together, trace resemblances among
those that are different, and differences among those that resemble each other;
a pleasure, the final cause of which is, to prompt us to remark and observe,
and thereby to make us advance is useful knowledge. 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; [Page 344] or
the more strong impression of it which it stamps upon the mind: and, thirdly,
It arises from the introduction of a new, and commonly a splendid object,
associated to the principal one of which we treat; and from the agreeable picture
which that object presents to the fancy; new scenes being thereby brought into
view, which, without the assistance of this figure, we could not have enjoyed.
All Comparisons
whatever may be reduced under two heads, Explaining and Embellishing Comparisons.
For when a writer likens the object of which he treats to any other thing, it
always is, or at least always should be, with a view either to make us
understand that object more distinctly, or to dress it up, and adorn it. All
manner of subjects admit of Explaining Comparisons. Let an author be reasoning
ever so strictly, or treating the most abstruse point in philosophy, he may
very properly introduce a Comparison, merely with a view to make his subject be
better understood. Of this nature, is the following in Mr. Harris’s Hermes,
employed to explain a very abstract point, the distinction between the powers
of sense and imagination in the human mind. "As wax," says he,
"would not be adequate to the purpose of signature, if it had not the
power to retain as well as to receive the impression, the same holds of the
soul with respect to sense and imagination. Sense is its receptive power;
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, [Page 345] 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 occur. Resemblance, as I before mentioned, is the foundation of this
Figure. We must not, however, take Resemblance, in too strict a sense, for
actual similitude or likeness of appearance. Two objects may sometimes be very
happily compared to one another, though they resemble each other, strictly
speaking, in nothing; only, because they agree in the effects which they
produce upon the mind; because they raise a train of similar, or, what may be
called, concordant ideas; so that the remembrance of the one, when recalled,
serves to strengthen the impression made by the other. For example, to describe
the nature of soft and melancholy music, Ossian says, "The music of Carryl
was, like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the
soul." This is happy and delicate. Yet, surely, no kind of music has any
resemblance to a feeling of the mind, such as the memory of past joys. Had it
been compared to the voice of the nightingale, or the murmur of the stream, as
it would have been by some ordinary poet, the likeness would have been more
strict; but, by founding his simile upon the effect which Carryl’s music
produced, the Poet, while he conveys a very tender image, gives us, at the same
time, a much stronger impression of the nature and strain [Page 346] of that
music: "Like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to
the soul."
In general, whether
Comparisons be founded on the similitude of the two objects compared, or on
some analogy and agreement in their effects, the fundamental requisite of a
comparison is, that it shall serve to illustrate the object, for the sake of
which it is introduced, and to give us a stronger conception of it. Some little
excursions of Fancy may be permitted, in pursuing the simile; but they must
never deviate far from the principal object. If it be a great and noble one,
every circumstance in the comparison must tend to aggrandise it; if it be a
beautiful one, to render it more amiable; if terrible, to fill us with more
awe. But to be a little more particular: The rules to be given concerning
Comparisons, respect chiefly two articles; the propriety of their introduction,
and the nature of the objects whence they are taken.
First, the propriety of
their introduction. From what has been already said of Comparisons, it appears,
that they are not; like the Figures of which I treated in the last Lecture, the
language of strong passion. No; they are the language of imagination rather
than of passion; of an imagination sprightly, indeed, and warmed; but
undisturbed by any violent or agitating emotion. Strong passion is too severe
to admit this play of Fancy. It has no leisure to cast about for resembling
objects; it dwells on that object which has seized and taken possession of the
soul. It is too much occupied and filled by it, to turn its view aside, or to
fix its attention on any other thing. An author, therefore, can scarcely commit
a greater fault, than, in the [Page 347] midst of passion, to introduce a
Simile. Metaphorical expression may be allowable in such a situation; though
even this may be carried too far: but the pomp and solemnity of a formal
Comparison is altogether a stranger to passion. It changes the key in a moment;
relaxes and brings down the mind; and shews us a writer perfectly at his ease,
while he is personating some other, who is supposed to be under the torment of
agitation. Our writers of tragedies are very apt to err here. In some of Mr.
Rowe’s plays, these flowers of similes have been strewed unseasonably. Mr.
Addison’s Cato, too, is justly censurable in this respect; as, when Portius,
just after Lucia had bid him farewel for ever, and when he should naturally
have been represented as in the most violent anguish, makes his reply in a
studied and affected comparison: Thus o’er the dying lamp th’ unsteady flame
Hangs quiv’ring on a point, leaps off by fits, And falls again, as loth to quit
its hold. Thou must not go; my soul still hovers o’er thee, And can’t get
loose. Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote from the language
of Nature on such occasions.
However, as Comparison
is not the style of strong passion, so neither, when employed for
embellishment, is it the language of a mind wholly unmoved. It is a figure of
dignity, and always requires some elevation in the subject, in order to make it
proper: for it supposes the imagination to be uncommonly enlivened, though the
heart be not agitated by passion. In a word, the proper place of comparisons
lies in the middle [Page 348] 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 was before
said, it is a sparkling ornament; and all things that sparkle, dazzle and
fatigue, if they recur too often. Similies should, even in poetry, be used with
moderation; but, in prose writings, much more: otherwise, the style will become
disgustingly luscious, and the ornament lose its virtue and effect.
I proceed, next, to the
rules that relate to objects, whence Comparisons should be drawn; supposing
them introduced in their proper place.
In the first place,
they must not be drawn from things, which have too near and obvious a
resemblance to the object with which we compare them. The great pleasure of the
act of comparing lies, in discovering likenesses among things of different
species, where we would not, at the first glance, expect a resemblance. There
is little art of ingenuity in pointing out the resemblance of two objects, that
are so much a-kin, or lie so near to one another in nature, that every one sees
they must be like. When Milton compares Satan’s appearance, after his fall, to
that of the Sun suffering an eclipse, and affrighting the nations with
portentous darkness, we are struck with the happiness and the dignity of the
similitude. But, when he compares Eve’s bower in Paradise, to the arbour of
Pomona; or Eve herself, to a Dryad, or Wood-nymph, we receive little
entertainment: as every one sees, that one arbour must, of [Page 349] course,
in several respects, resemble another arbour, and one beautiful woman another
beautiful woman.
Among Similies faulty
through too great obviousness of the likeness, we must likewise rank those
which are taken from objects become trite and familiar in poetical Language.
Such are the Similies 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 every writer of verses to another, as by hereditary right. These
comparisons were, at first, perhaps, very proper for the purposes to which they
are applied. In the antient original poets, who took them directly from nature,
not from their predecessors, they had beauty. But they are now beaten; our ears
are so accustomed to them, that they give no amusement to the fancy. There is,
indeed, no mark by which we can more readily distinguish a poet of true genius,
from one of a barren imagination, than by the strain of their comparisons. All
who call themselves poets affect them: but, whereas a mere versifier copies no
new image from nature, which appears, to his uninventive genius, exhausted by
those who have gone before him, and, therefore, contents himself with humbly
following their tract; to an author of real fancy, nature seems to unlock,
spontaneously, her hidden stores; and the eye "quick glancing from earth
to heaven," discovers new shapes and forms, new likenesses between objects
unobserved before, which render his Similies original, expressive, and lively.
[Page 350]
But, in the second
place, as Comparisons ought not to be founded on likenesses too obvious, still
less ought they to be founded on those which are too faint and remote. For these,
in place of assisting, strain the fancy to comprehend them, and throw no light
upon the subject. It is also to be observed, that a Comparison which, in the
principal 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 in
minute points, merely to show 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 illustration
of the principal object. We need only open his works, his odes especially, to
find instances every where.
In the third place, the
object from which a Comparison is drawn, should never be an unknown object, or
one of which few people can form clear ideas: "Ad inferendam rebus
lucem," says Quinctilian, "repertæ sunt similitudines. Præcipuè,
igitur, est custodiendum ne id quod similitudinis gratiâ ascivimus, aut
obscurum sit, aut ignotum. Debet enim id quod illustrandæ alterius rei gratiâ
assumitur, ipsum esse clarius eo quod illuminatur ." Comparisons,
therefore, [Page 351] 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 modern poets are
very apt to be guilty. The antients took their similies 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 Similies amongst them; and these having become a sort of
consecrated, classical images, are very commonly adopted by the moderns;
injudiciously however, 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 Similies taken from men, than to
describe men by lions. Now-a-days, we can much easier form the conception of a
fierce combat between two men, than between a bull and a tyger. Every country
has a scenery peculiar to itself; and the imagery of every good poet will
exhibit it. The introduction of unknown objects, or of a foreign scenery,
betrays a poet copying, not after nature, but from other writers. I have only
to observe further.
In the fourth place,
that, in compositions of a serious or elevated kind, Similies should never be
taken from low or mean objects. These are degrading; whereas, Similies are commonly
intended to embellish, and to dignify: and, therefore, unless in burlesque
writings, or where Similies are introduced [Page 352] purposely to vilify and
diminish an object, mean ideas should never be presented to us. Some of Homer’s
Comparisons have been taxed without reason, on this account. For it is to be
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 Similies,
therefore, drawn from the incidents of rural life, which appear low to us, had
abundance of dignity in those simpler ages of antiquity.
I have now considered
such of the figures of Speech as seemed most to merit a full and particular
discussion: Metaphor, Hyperbole, Personification, Apostrophe, and Comparison. A
few more yet remain 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.
Antithesis, therefore, may, on many occasions, be employed to advantage, in
order to strengthen the impression which we intend that any object should make.
Thus Cicero, in his oration for Milo, representing the improbability of Milo’s
forming a design to take away the life of Clodius, at a time when all
circumstances were unfavourable to such a design, and after he had let other
opportunities slip when he could have executed the same design, if he had
formed it, with much more ease and safety, heightens our conviction [Page 353]
of this improbability by a skilful use of this figure: "Quem igitur cum
omnium gratiâ interficere noluit, hunc voluit cum aliquorum querelâ? Quem jure,
quem loco, quem tempore, quem impune, non est ausus, hunc injuriâ, iniquo loco,
alieno tempore, periculo capitis, non dubitavit ?" In order to render an
Antithesis more complete, it is always of advantage, that the words and members
of the sentence, expressing the contrasted objects, be, as in this instance of
Cicero’s, similarly constructed, and made to correspond to each other. This
leads us to remark the contrast more, by setting the things which we oppose
more clearly over against each other; in the same manner as when we contrast a
black and a white object, in order to perceive the full difference of their
colour, we would chuse to have both objects of the same bulk, and placed in the
same light. Their resemblance to each other, in certain circumstances, make
their disagreement in others more palpable.
At the same time, I
must observe, that the frequent use of Antithesis, especially where the
opposition in the words is nice and quaint, is apt to render style disagreeable.
Such a sentence as the following, from Seneca, does very well, where it stands
alone: "Si quem volueris esse divitem, non est quod augeas [Page 354]
divitias, sed minuas cupiditates ." Or this: "Si ad naturam vives,
nunquam eris pauper; si ad opinionem, nunquam ." A maxim, or moral saying,
properly enough receives this form; both because it is supposed to be the fruit
of meditation, and because it is designed to be engraven on the memory, which
recalls it more easily by the help of such contrasted expressions. But where a
string of such sentences succeed each other; where this becomes an author’s
favourite and prevailing manner of expressing himself, his style is faulty; and
it is upon this account Seneca has been often, and justly, censured. Such a
style appears too studied and laboured; it gives us the impression 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
Antitheses. In his Estimate of Human Life, we find whole pages that run in such
a strain as this: "The peasant complains aloud; the courtier in secret
repines. In want, what distress? in affluence, what satiety? The great are
under as much difficulty to expend with pleasure, as the mean to labour with
success. The ignorant, through illgrounded hope, are disappointed; the knowing,
through knowledge, despond. Ignorance, occasions mistake; mistake,
disappointment; and disappointment is misery. Knowledge, on the other hand,
gives true judgment; and true judgment of human things, gives a demonstration
of their [Page 355] insufficiency to our peace." There is too much glitter
in such a style as this to please long. We are fatigued by attending to such
quaint and artificial sentences often repeated.
There is another sort
of Antithesis, the beauty of which consists, in surprising us by the unexpected
contrasts of things which it brings together. Much wit may be shewn in this;
but it belongs wholly to pieces of professed wit and humour, and can find no
place in grave compositions. Mr. Pope, who is remarkably fond of Antithesis, is
often happy in this use of the figure. So, in his Rape of the Lock: Whether the
nymph shall break Diana’s law, Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; Or stain
her honour, or her new brocade; Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; Or
lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball, Or whether heaven has doomed that Shock
must fall. What is called the point of an epigram, consists, for most part, in
some Antithesis of this kind; surprising us with the smart and unexpected turn,
which it gives to 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; the productions of imagination, not of
passion. Interrogations and Exclamations, of which I am next to speak, are
passionate figures. They are, indeed, on so many occasions, the native language
of passion, that their use is extremely frequent; and, in ordinary
conversation, when men are heated, they prevail as much as in the most sublime
oratory. The unfigured, literal use of Interrogation, is, to ask a question;
but when men are [Page 356] prompted by passion, whatever they would affirm, or
deny, with great vehemence, they naturally put in the form of a question;
expressing thereby the strongest confidence of the truth of their own
sentiment, and appealing to their hearers for the impossibility of the
contrary. Thus, in Scripture: "God is not a man that he should lie,
neither the son of man that he should repent. Hath he said it? And shall he not
do it? Hath he spoken it? and shall he not make it ?" So Demosthenes,
addressing himself to the Athenians: "Tell me, will you still go about and
ask one another, what news? What can be more astonishing news than this, that
the man of Macedon makes war upon the Athenians, and disposes of the affairs of
Greece?---Is Philip dead? No, but he is sick. What signifies it to you whether
he be dead or alive? For, if any thing happens to this Philip, you will immediately
raise up another." All this delivered without interrogation, had been
faint and ineffectual; but the warmth and eagerness which this questioning
method expresses, awakens the hearers, and strikes them with much greater
force.
Interrogations may often
be employed with propriety, in the course of no higher emotions than naturally
arise in pursuing some close and earnest reasoning. But Exclamations belong
only to stronger emotions of the mind; to surprise, admiration, anger, joy,
grief, and the like: Heu pietas! heu prisca fides! invictaque bello Dextera!
[Page 357] Both Interrogation and Exclamation, and, indeed, all passionate
figures of speech, operate upon us by means of sympathy. Sympathy is a very
powerful and extensive principle in our nature, disposing us to enter into
every feeling and passion, which we behold expressed by others. Hence, a single
person coming into company with strong marks, either of melancholy or joy, upon
his countenance, will diffuse that passion, in a moment, through the whole
circle. Hence, in a great crowd, passions are so easily caught, and so fast
spread, by that powerful contagion which the animated looks, cries, and
gestures of a multitude never fail to carry. Now, Interrogations and
Exclamations, being natural signs of a moved and agitated mind, always, when
they are properly used, dispose us to sympathise with the dispositions of those
who use them, and to feel as they feel.
From this it follow,
that the great rule with regard to the conduct 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 not feel.
With Interrogations he may use a good deal of freedom; these, as above
observed, falling in so much with the ordinary course of language and
reasoning, even when no great 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
[Page 358] it frigid to excess. When an author is always calling upon us to
enter into transports which he has said nothing to inspire, we are both
disgusted and enraged at him. He raises no sympathy, for he gives us no passion
of his own, in which we can take part. He gives us words, and not passion; and
of course, can raise no passion, unless that of indignation. Hence, I incline
to think, he was not much mistaken, who said, that when, on looking into a
book, he found the pages thick bespangled with the point which is called,
"Punctum admirationis," he judged this to be a sufficient reason for
his laying it aside. And, indeed, were it not for the help of this
"punctum admirationis," with which many writers of the rapturous kind
so much abound, one would be often at a loss to discover, whether or not it was
Exclamation which they aimed at. For, it has now become a fashion, among these
writers, to subjoin points of admiration to sentences, which contain nothing
but simple affirmations, or propositions; as if, by an affected method of
pointing, they could transform them in the reader’s mind into high figures of
eloquence. Much a-kin to this, is another contrivance practised by some
writers, of separating, almost all the members of their sentences from each
other, by blank lines; as if, by setting them thus asunder, they bestowed some
special importance upon them; and required us, in going along, to make a pause
at every other word, and weigh it well. This, I think, may be called a
Typographical Figure of Speech. Neither, indeed, since we have been led to
mention the arts of writers for 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 significant words, in every sentence,
by Italick characters. On [Page 359] some occasions, it is 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 Italicks; 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 in the type,
especially when occurring so frequently, will give small aid. And, accordingly,
the most masterly writers, of late, have, with good reason, laid aside all
those feeble props of significancy, and trusted wholly to the weight of their
sentiments for commanding attention. But to return from this digression:
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 hanc
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 oculos aspectus Cethegi, et furor, in
." This manner of description supposes a sort of enthusiasm, which carries
the person who describes in some measure out of himself; and, when well
executed, [Page 360] must needs impress the reader or hearer strongly, by the
force of that sympathy which I have before explained. But, in order to a
successful execution, it requires an uncommonly warm imagination, and such a
happy selection of cirucumstances, as shall make us think we see before our
eyes the scene that is described. Otherwise, it shares the same fate with all
feeble attempts towards passionate figures; that of throwing ridicule upon the
author, and leaving the reader more cool and uninterested than he was before.
The same observations are to be applied to Repetition, Suspension, Correction,
and many more of those figurative forms of Speech, which rhetoricians have
enumerated among the Beauties of Eloquence. They are beautiful, or not, exactly
in proportion as they are native expressions of the sentiment or passion
intended to be heightened by them. Let nature and passion always speak their
own language, and they will suggest figures in abundance. But when we seek to
counterfeit a warmth which we do not feel no figures will either supply the
defect, or conceal the imposture.
There is one Figure
(and I shall mention no more) of frequent use among all public speakers,
particularly at the bar, which Quinctilian insists upon considerably, and calls
Amplification. 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 enumeration of
particulars, or by throwing together, as into one mass, a crowd of
circumstances; by suggesting comparisons also with [Page 361] things of a like
nature. But the principal instrument by which it works, is by a Climax, or a
gradual rise of one circumstance above another, till our idea be raised to the
utmost. I spoke formerly of a Climax in sound; a Climax in sense, when well
carried on, is a figure which never fails to amplify strongly. The common
example of this, is that noted passage in Cicero which every schoolboy knows:
"Facinus est 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, if one man had any how slain another, if an adversary had
killed his opposer, or a woman occasioned the death of her enemy, even these
criminals would have been capitally punished by the Cornelian law: but, if this
guiltless infant, who could make no enemy, had been murdered by its own nurse,
What punishments would not then the mother have demanded? With what cries and exclamations
would she have stunned your ears? 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 compassion, whose near relation claimed affection, and whose
innocence deserved the highest favour?" I must take notice, however, that
such regular Climaxes as these, [Page 362] 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 be so sucessful, as an arrangement of circumstances in a less
artificial order. For, when much art appears, we are always put on our guard
against the deceits of eloquence; but when a speaker has reasoned strongly,
and, by force of argument, has made good his main point, he may then, taking
advantage of the favourable bent of our minds, make use of such artificial
figures to confirm our belief, and to warm our minds.
[Page 363]
HAVING treated, at
considerable length, of the Figures of Speech, of their origin, of their
nature, and of the management of such of them as are important enough to
require a particular discussion, before finally dismissing this subject, I
think it incumbent on me, to make some observations concerning the proper use
of Figurative Language in general. These, indeed, I have, in part, already
anticipated. But, as great errors are often committed in this part of Style,
especially by young writers, it 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, [Page 364] depend upon Tropes and Figures. Some
of the most sublime and most pathetic passages of the most admired authors, both
in prose and poetry, are expressed in the most simple Style, without any figure
at all; instances of which I have before given. On the other hand, a
composition may abound with these studied ornaments; the language 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, if the style be stiff and affected, if
it be deficient in perspicuity or precision, or in ease and neatness, all the
Figures that can be employed will never render it agreeable: they may dazzle a
vulgar, but will never please a judicious, eye.
In the second place,
Figures, in order to be beautiful, must always rise naturally from the subject.
I have shown that all of them are the 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. If they be sought after coolly, and fastened on as designed
ornaments, they will have a 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, [Page 365] Purpureus late qui splendeat unus aut alter .---
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 are wrought into the substance
of it. They flow in the same stream with the current of thought. A writer of
genius conceives his subject strongly; his imagination is filled and impressed
with it; and pours itself forth in that Figurative Language which Imagination
naturally speaks. He puts on no emotion which his subject does not raise in
him; he speaks as he feels; but his style will be beautiful, because his
feelings are lively. On occasions, when fancy is languid, or finds nothing to
rouse it, we should never attempt to hunt for figures. We then work, as it is
said, "invitâ Minervâ;" supposing figures invented, they will have
the appearance of being forced; and in this case, they had much better be
wanted.
In the third place,
even when Imagination prompts, and the subject naturally gives rise to Figures,
they must, however, not be employed too frequently. In all beauty,
"simplex munditiis;" is a capital quality. Nothing derogates more
from the weight and dignity of any composition, than too great attention to
ornament. When the ornaments cost labour, that labour always appears; though
they should cost us none, still the reader or hearer may be surfeited with
them; and when they come too thick, they give the impression of a light and
frothy genius, [Page 366] that evaporates in shew, 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. L. iii. "fastidium finitimum est in rebus omnibus;
quo hoc minus in oratione miremur. In qua vel ex poëtis, vel oratoribus
possumus judicare, concinnam, ornatam, festivam sine intermissione, quamvis
claris sit coloribus picta, vel poësis, vel oratio, non posse in delectatione
esse diuturnâ. Quare, bene et præclare, quamvis nobis sæpe dicatur, belle et
festive nimium sæpe nolo ." To the same purpose, are the excellent
directions with which Quinctilian concludes his discourse concerning Figures,
L. ix. C. 3. Ego illud de iis figuris. quæ vere fiunt, adjiciam breviter, sicut
ornant orationem opportunæ positæ, ita ineptissimas esse cum immodice petuntur.
Sunt, qui neglecto rerum pondere et viribus sententiarum, si vel inania verba
in hos modos depravarunt, summos se judicat artifices; ideoque non desinunt eas
nectere; quas sine sententia sectare, tam est ridiculum quam quærere habitum
gestumque sine corpore. Ne hæ quidem quæ rectæ fiunt, densandæ sunt nimis.
Sciendum imprimis quid quisque postulet locus, quid persona, quid tempus. Major
enim pars harum figurarum posita est in delectatione. Ubi verò, atrocitate,
invidiâ, miseratione pugnandum est; quis ferat verbis contrapositis, et
consimilibus, [Page 367] & pariter cadentibus, irascentem, flentem,
rogantem? Cum in his rebus, cura verborum deroget affectibus fidem; et
ubicunque ars ostentatur, veritas abesse videatur ." After these judicious
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 faculty itself we cannot create; and all efforts towards a
metaphorical ornamented style, if we are destitute of the proper genius for it,
will prove awkward and disgusting. Let us satisfy ourselves, however, by
considering, that without this talent, or at least with a very small measure of
it, [Page 368] we may both write and speak to advantage. Good 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 writing. 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
excell in the liberal arts.
When I entered on the
consideration of Style, I observed that words being the copies of our ideas,
there must always be a very intimate connection between the manner in which
every writer employs words, and his manner of thinking; and that, from the
peculiarity of thought and expression which belongs to him, there is a certain
character imprinted on his Style, which may be denominated his manner; commonly
expressed by such general terms, as strong, weak, dry, simple, affected, or the
like. These distinctions carry, in general, some reference to an author’s
manner of thinking, but refer chiefly to his mode of expression. They arise
from the whole tenour of his language; and comprehend the effect produced by
all those parts of Style which we have already considred; the choice which he
makes of single words; his arrangement of these in sentences; 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.
[Page 369]
That different subjects
require to be treated of in different sorts of Style, is a position so obvious,
that I shall not stay to illustrate it. Every one sees that Treatises of
Philosophy, for instance, ought not to be composed in the same style with
orations. Every one sees also, that different parts of the same composition
require a variation in the style and manner. In a sermon, for instance, or any
harangue, the application or percration admits more ornament, and requires more
warmth, than the didactic part. But what I mean at present to remark is, that
amidst this variety, we still expect to find, in the compositions of any one
man, some degree of uniformity or consistency with himself in manner; we expect
to find some predominant character of Style impressed on all his writings,
which shall be suited to, and shall mark, his particular genius, and turn of
mind. The orations in Livy differ much in Style, as they ought to do, from the
rest of his history. The same is the case with those in Tacitus. Yet both in
Livy’s orations, and in those of Tacitus, we are able clearly to trace the
distinguishing manner of each historian; the magnificent fullness of the one,
and the sententious conciseness of the other. The "Lettres Persanes,"
and "L’Esprit de Loix," are the works of the same author. They
required very different composition surely, and accordingly they differ widely;
yet still we see the same hand. Wherever there is real and native genius, it
gives a determination to one kind of Style rather than another. Where nothing
of this appears; where there is no marked nor peculiar character in the
compositions of any author, we are apt to infer, not without reason, that he is
a vulgar and trivial author, who writes from imitation, and not from the
impulse of original genius. As the most celebrated painters are known by [Page
370] their hand, so the best and most original writers are known and
distinguished, throughout all their works, by their Style and peculiar manner.
This will be found to hold almost without exception.
The ancient Critics
attended to these general characters of Style which we are now to consider.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus divides them into three kinds; and calls them the
Austere, the Florid, and the Middle. By the Austere, he means a Style
distinguished for strength and firmness, with a neglect of smoothness and
ornament; for examples of which, he gives Pindar and Æschylus among the Poets,
and Thucydides among the Prose writers. By the Florid, he means, as the name
indicates, a Style ornamented, flowing, and sweet; resting more upon numbers
and grace, than strength; he instances Hesiod, Sappho, Anacreon, Euripides, and
principally Isocrates. The Middle kind is the just mean between these, and
comprehends the beauties of both; in which class he places Homer and Sophocles
among the Poets; in Prose, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Plato, and (what seems
strange) Aristotle. This must be a very wide class indeed, which comprehends
Plato and Aristotle under one . Cicero and Quinctilian 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 Subtile; the Grave or Vehemens; and the Medium, or, temperatum genus
dicendi. But these divisions, and the illustrations they give of them, are so
loose and general, that they cannot advance us much in our [Page 371] ideas of
Style. I shall endeavour to be a little more particular in what I have to say
on this subject.
One of the first and
most obvious distinctions of the different kinds of Style, is what arises from
an author’s spreading out his thoughts more or less. This distinction forms,
what are called the Diffuse and the Concise Styles. A concise writer compresses
his thought 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 in any 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 thought fully. He places it in a variety of lights, and gives the
reader every possible assistance for understanding it completely. He is not
very 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 ornament of every kind, they admit it freely.
[Page 372]
Each of these manners
has its peculiar advantages; and each becomes faulty when carried to the
extreme. The extreme of conciseness becomes abrupt and obscure; it is apt also
to lead into a Style too pointed, and bordering on the epigrammatic. The
extreme of diffuseness becomes weak and languid, and tires the reader. However,
to one or other of these two manners, a writer may lean according as his genius
prompts him: and under the general character of a concise, or of a more open
and diffuse Style, may possess much beauty in his composition.
For illustrations of
these general characters, I can only refer to the writers who are examples of
them. It is not so much from detached passages, such as I was wont formerly to
quote for instances, as from the current of an author’s Style, that we are to
collect the idea of a formed manner of writing. The two most remarkable
examples that I know, of conciseness carried as far as propriety will allow,
perhaps in some cases farther, are Tacitus the Historian, and the President
Montesquieu in "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. Of a beautiful and magnificent diffuseness,
Cicero is, beyond doubt, the most illustrious instance that can be given.
Addison also, and Sir William Temple, come in some degree under this class.
In judging when it is
proper to lean to the concise, and when to the diffuse manner, we must be
directed by the nature of the Composition. Discourses that are to be spoken,
require [Page 373] a more copious Style, than books that are to be read. When
the whole meaning must be catched from the mouth of the speaker, without the
advantage which books afford of pausing at pleasure, and reviewing what appears
obscure, great conciseness is always to be avoided. We should never presume too
much on the quickness of our hearer’s understanding; but our Style ought to be
such, that the bulk of men can go along with us easily, and without effort. A
flowing copious Style, therefore, is required in all public speakers; guarding,
at the same time, against such a degree of diffusion, as renders them languid
and tiresome; which will always prove the case, when they inculcate too much,
and present the same thought under too many different views.
In written
Compositions, a certain degree of conciseness possesses great advantages. It is
more lively; keeps up attention; makes a brisker and stronger impression; and
gratifies the mind by supplying more exercise to a reader’s own thought. A
sentiment, which, expressed diffusely, will barely be admitted to be just,
expressed concisely, will be admired as spirited. Description, when we want to
have it vivid and animated, should be in a concise strain. This is different
from the 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 rendered more rich and expressive. I
apprehend, on the contrary, that a diffuse manner generally weakens it. Any
redundant words or circumstances encumber the fancy, and make the object we present
to it, appear confused and indistinct. Accordingly, the most masterly
describers, Homer, Tacitus, Milton, are almost always concise [Page 374] in
their descriptions. They shew 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 the diffuse manner.
In these, it is dangerous to be diffuse, because it is very difficult to
support proper warmth for any length of time. When we become prolix, we are
always in hazard of cooling the reader. The heart, too, and the fancy run fast;
and if once we can put them in motion, they supply many particulars to greater
advantage than an author can display them. The case is different, when we
address ourselves to the understanding; as in all matters of reasoning,
explication, and instruction. There I would prefer a more free and diffuse
manner. When you are to strike, the fancy, or to move the heart, be concise;
when you are to inform the understanding, which moves more slowly, and requires
the assistance of a guide, it is 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.
I Observed that a
diffuse style inclines most to long periods; and a concise writer, it is
certain, will often employ short sentences. It is not, however, to be inferred
from this, that long or short sentences are fully characteristical of the one
or the other manner. It is very possible for one to compose always in short
sentences, and to be withal extremely diffuse, if a small measure [Page 375] of
sentiment be spread through many of these sentences. Seneca is a remarkable
example. By the shortness and quaintness of his sentences, he may appear at
first view very concise; yet he is far from being so. He transfigures the same
thought into many different forms. He makes it pass for a new one, only by
giving it a new turn. So also, most of the French writers compose in short
sentences; though their style, in general, is not concise; commonly less so
than the bulk of English writers, whose sentences are much longer. A French
author breaks down into two or three sentences, that portion of thought which
an English author crowds into one. The direct effect of short sentences, is to
render the Style brisk and lively, but not always concise. By the quick
successive impulses which they make on the mind, they keep it awake; and give
to Composition more of a spirited character; Long periods, like Lord Clarendon’s,
are grave ad stately; but, like all grave things, they are in hazard of
becoming dull. An intermixture of both long and short ones is requisite, when
we would support solemnity, together with vivacity; leaning more to the one or
the other, according as propriety requires, that the solemn or the sprightly
should be predominant in our composition. But of long and short sentences, I
had occasion, formerly, to treat under the head of the construction of periods.
The Nervous and the
Feeble, are generally held to be characters of Style, of the same import with
the Concise and the Diffuse. They do indeed very often coincide. Diffuse
writers have for the most part some degree of feebleness; and nervous writers
will generally be inclined to a concise expression. This, however, does not
always hold; and there are instances of [Page 376] writers, who, in the midst
of a full and ample Style, have maintained a great degree of strength. Livy is
an example; and in the English language, Dr. Barrow. Barrow’s Style has many
faults. It is unequal, incorrect and redundant; but withal, for force and
expressiveness uncommonly distinguished. On every subject, he multiplies words
with an overflowing copiousness; but it is always a torrent of strong ideas and
significant expressions which he pours forth. Indeed, the foundations of a
nervous or a weak Style are laid in an author’s manner of thinking. If he
conceives an object strongly, he will express it with energy: but, if he has
only an indistinct view of his subject; if his ideas be loose and wavering; if
his genius be such, or, at the time of his writing, so carelessly exerted, that
he has no firm hold of the conception which he would communicate to us; the
marks of all this will clearly appear in his Style. Several unmeaning words and
loose epithets will be found; his expressions will be vague and general; his
arrangement indistinct and feeble; we shall conceive somewhat of his meaning,
but our conception will be faint. Whereas a nervous writer, whether he employs
an extended or a concise Style, gives us always a strong impression of his
meaning; his mind is full of his subject, and his words are all expressive;
every phrase and every figure which he uses, tends to render the picture, which
he would set before us, more lively and complete.
I Observed, under the
head of Diffuse and Concise Style, that an author might lean either to the one
or to the other, and yet be beautiful. This is not the case with respect to the
nervous and the feeble. Every author, in every composition, ought to study to
express himself with some strength, and, in [Page 377] proportion, as he
approaches to the feeble, he becomes a bad writer. In all kinds of writing,
however, the same degree of strength is not demanded. But the more grave and
weighty any composition is, the more should a character of strength predominate
in the Style. Hence in history, philosophy, and solemn discourses, it is
expected most. One of the most complete models of a nervous Style, is
Demosthenes in his orations.
As every good quality
in Style has an extreme, when pursued to which it becomes faulty, this holds 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 too much neglect of smoothness and ease.
This is reckoned the fault of some of our earliest classics in the English
language; such as Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, Hooker, Chillingworth,
Milton in his prose works, Harrington, Cudworth, and 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 Style. But the language in their hands was exceedingly
different from what it is now, and was indeed entirely formed upon the idiom
and construction of the Latin in the arrangement of Sentences. Hooker, for
instance, begins the Preface to his celebrated work of Ecclesiastical Polity,
with the following Sentence: "Though for no other cause, yet for this,
that posterity may know we have not loosely, through silence, permitted things
to pass away as in dream, there [Page 378] shall be, for men’s information,
extant this much, concerning the present state 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 advantages
certainly attended this sort of Style; and whether we have gained, or lost,
upon the whole, by departing from it, may bear a question. By the freedom of
arrangement, which it permitted, it rendered the Language susceptible of more
strength, of more variety of collocation, and more harmony of period. But
however this be, such a style is now obsolete; and no modern writer could adopt
it without the censure of harshness and affection. 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 æra of the formation of our present style. Lord
Clarendon was one of the first who laid aside those frequent inversions which
prevailed among writers of the former age. After him, Sir William Temple,
polished the Language still more. But the author, who, by the number and
reputation of his works, formed it more than any one, into its present state,
is Dryden. Dryden began to write at the Restoration, and continued long an
author both in poetry and prose. He had made the language his study; and though
he wrote hastily, and often incorrectly, and his style is not free from faults,
yet there is a richness in his diction, a copiousness, ease, and variety in his
[Page 379] expression, which has not been surpassed by any who have . 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 proceed 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 raise, in the following gradation: a Dry, a Plain, a
Neat, an Elegant, a Flowery manner. Of each of these in their order.
First, a Dry manner.
This excludes all ornament of every kind. Content with being understood, it has
not the least aim to please, either the fancy or the ear. This is tolerable
only in pure didactic writing; and even there, to make us bear it, [Page 380]
great weight and solidity of matter is requisite; and entire perspicuity of
Language. Aristotle is the thorough example of a Dry Style. Never, perhaps, was
there any author who adhered so rigidly to the strictness of a didactic manner,
throughout all his writings, and conveyed so much instruction without the least
approach to ornament. With the most profound genius, and extensive views, he
writes like a pure intelligence, who addresses himself solely to the
understanding, without making any use of the channel of the imagination. But
this is a manner which deserves not to be imitated. For, although the goodness
of the matter may compensate the dryness or harshness of the Style, yet is that
dryness a considerable defect; as it fatigues attention, and conveys our
sentiments, with disadvantage, to the reader or hearer.
A Plain Style rises one
degree above a Dry one. A writer of this character, employs very little ornament
of any kind, and rests, almost, entirely upon his sense. But, if he is at no
pains to engage us by the employment of figures, musical arrangement, or any
other art of writing, he studies, however, to avoid disgusting us like a dry
and a harsh writer. Besides Perspicuity, he pursues Propriety, Purity, and
Precision, in his Language; which form one degree, and no inconsiderable one,
of beauty. Liveliness too, and force, may be consistent with a very Plain
Style: and, therefore, such an author, if his sentiments be good, may be
abundantly agreeable. The difference between a dry and plain writer, is, that
the former is incapable of ornament, and seems not to know what it is; the
latter seeks not after it. He gives us his meaning, in good language, distinct and
pure; any further ornament he gives himself no [Page 381] trouble about;
either, because he thinks it unnecessary to his subject; or, because his genius
does not lead him to delight in it; or, because it leads him to despise it .
This last was the case
with Dean Swift, who may be placed at the head of those that have employed the
Plain Style. Few writers have 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
embellishment of this kind as beneath his dignity. He delivers his sentiments
in a plain, downright, positive manner, like one who is sure he is in the
right; and is very indifferent whether you be pleased or not. His sentences are
commonly negligently arranged; distinctly enough as to the sense; but, without
any regard to smoothness of sound; often without much regard to compactness, or
elegance. If a metaphor, or any other figure, chanced to render his fatire more
poignant, he would, perhaps, vouchsafe to adopt it, when it came in his way;
but if it tended only to embelish and illustrate, he would rather throw it
aside. Hence, in his serious pieces, his style often borders upon the [Page
382] dry and unpleasing; in his humourous ones, the plainness of his manner
gives his wit a singular edge, and sete it off to the highest advantage. There
is no froth, nor affectation in it; it flows without any studied preparation;
and while he hardly appears to smile himself, he makes his reader laugh
heartily. To a writer of such a genius as Dean Swift, the Plain Style was most
admirably fitted. Among our philosophical writers, Mr. Locke comes under this
class; perspicuous 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 remember, that when this is the
character which a writer affects, throughout his whole composition, great
weight of matter, and great force of sentiment, are required, in order to keep
up the reader’s attention, and prevent him from tiring of the author.
What is called a Neat
Style comes next in order; and here we are got into the region of ornament; but
that ornament not of the highest or most sparkling kind. A writer of this
character shows, that he does not despise the beauty of Language. It is an
object of his attention. But his attention is shown in the choice of his words,
and in a graceful collocation of them; rather than in any high efforts of
imagination, or eloquence. His sentences are always clean, and free from the
incumbrance of superfluous words; of a moderate length; rather inclining to
brevity, than a swelling structure; closing with propriety; without any tails,
or adjections dragging after the proper close. His cadence is varied; but not
of the studied musical kind. His figures, if he uses any, are short and
correct; rather than bold [Page 383] and glowing. Such a Style as this, may be
attained by a writer who has no great powers of fancy or genius; by industry
merely, and careful attention to the rules of writing; and it is a Style always
agreeable. It imprints a character of moderate elevation on our composition,
and carries a decent degree of ornament, which is not unsuitable to any subject
whatever. A familiar letter, or a law paper, on the driest subject, may be
written with neatness; and a sermon, or a philosophical treatise, in a Neat
Style, will be read with pleasure.
An Elegant Style is a
character, expressing a higher degree of ornament than a neat one; and, indeed,
is the term usually applied to Style, when possessing all the virtues of
ornament, without any of its excesses or defects. From what has been formerly
delivered, it will easily be understood, that complete Elegance implies great
perspicuity and propriety; purity in the choice of words, and care and
dexterity in their harmonious and happy arrangement. It implies, farther, the
grace and beauty of Imagination spread over Style, as far as the subject admits
it; and all the illustration which Figurative Language adds, when properly
employed. In a word, an elegant writer is one who pleases the fancy and the
ear, while he informs the understanding; and who gives us his ideas clothed
with all the beauty of expression, but not overcharged with any of its
misplaced finery. In this class, therefore, we place only the first rate
writers in the Language; such as, Addison, Dryden, Pope, Temple, Bolingbroke,
Atterbury, and a few more: writers who differ widely from one another in many
of the attributes of Style, but whom we now class together, under the [Page
384] denomination of Elegant, as in the scale of Ornament, possessing nearly
the same place.
When the ornaments,
applied to Style, are too rich and gaudy in proportion to the subject; when
they return upon us too fast, and strike us either with a dazzling lustre, or a
false brilliancy, this forms what is called a Florid Style; a term commonly
used to signify the excess of ornament. In a young composer this is very pardonable.
Perhaps, it is even a promising symptom in young people, that their Style
should incline to the Florid and Luxuriant: "Volo se efferat in
adoloscente fæcunditas," says Quinctilian, "multum inde decoquent
anni, multum ratio limabit, aliquid velut usu ipso deteretur; sit modo unde
excidi possit quid et exculpi.---Audeat hæc ætas plura, et inveniat et inventis
gaudeat; sint licet illa non satis interim sicca et severa. Facile remedium est
ubertatis: sterilia." But, although the Florid Style may be allowed to
youth, in their first essays, it must not receive the same indulgence from
writers of maturer years. It is to be expected, that judgment, as it ripens,
should chasten imagination, and reject, as juvenile, all such ornaments as are
redundant, unsuitable to the subject, or not conducive to illustrate it.
Nothing can be more contemptible than that tinsel splendor of Language, which
some writers perpetually affect. It were [Page 385] 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 having no strength of
genius for attaining it, they endeavour to supply the defect by poetical words,
by cold exclamations, by common place figures, and every thing that has the
appearance of pomp and magnificence. It has escaped these writers, that
sobriety in ornament, is one great secret for rendering it pleasing; and that,
without a foundation of good sense and solid thought, the most Florid Style is
but a childish imposition on the 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 religious turn, and good dispositions of
the present age, than on the public taste, that Mr. Harvey’s Meditations have
had so great a currency. The pious and benevolent heart, which is always
displayed in them, and the lively fancy which, on some occasions, appears,
justly merited applause: but the perpetual glitter of expression, the swoln
imagery, and strained description which abound in them, are ornaments of a
false kind. I would, therefore, advise students of oratory to imitate Mr.
Harvey’s piety, rather than his Style; and, in all compositions of a serious
kind, to turn their attention, as Mr. Pope says, "from sounds to things,
from fancy to the heart." Admonitions [Page 386] of this kind, I have
already had occasion to give, and may hereafter repeat them; as I conceive
nothing more incumbent on me in this course of Lectures, than to take every
opportunity of cautioning my Readers against the affected and frivolous use of
ornament; and, instead of that slight and superficial taste in writing, which I
apprehend to be at present too fashionable, to introduce, as far as my
endeavours can avail, a taste for more solid thought, and more manly Simplicity
in Style.
[Page 387]
HAVING entered in the
last Lecture on the consideration of the general Characters of Style, I treated
of the concise and diffuse, the nervous and feeble manner. I 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.
I Am next to treat of
Style under another character, one of great importance in writing, and which
requires to be accurately examined, that of Simplicity, or a Natural Style, as
distinguished from Affectation. Simplicity, applied to writing, is a term very
frequently used; but, like many other critical terms often used loosely, and
without precision. This has been owing chiefly [Page 388] to the different
meanings given to the word Simplicity, which, therefore, it will be necessary
here to distinguish; and to shew in what sense it is a proper attribute 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 Æneid, in opposition to the
digressions of Lucan, and the scattered takes of Ariosto; the Simplicity of
Grecian architecture, in opposition to the irregular variety of the Gothic. In
this sense, Simplicity is the same with Unity.
The second sense is,
Simplicity of Thought, as opposed to Refinement. Simple thoughts are what arise
naturally; what the occasion, or the 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 beautiful; 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 Simplicity, in his turn of thought, than Mr. Cowley: Cicero’s
thoughts on moral [Page 389] subjects are natural; Seneca’s too refined and
laboured. In these two senses of Simplicity, when it is opposed, either to
variety of parts, or to refinement of thought, it has no proper relation to
Style.
There is a third sense
of Simplicity, in which it has respect to Style; and stands opposed to too much
ornament, or pomp of Language; as when we say, Mr. Locke is a simple, Mr.
Harvey a florid, writer; and it is in this sense, that the "simplex,"
the "tenue," or "subtile genus dicendi," is understood by
Cicero and Quinctilian. The Simple Style, in this sense, coincides with the
Plain or the Neat Style, which I before mentioned; and, therefore, requires no
farther illustration.
But there is a fourth
sense of Simplicity, also respecting Style; but not respecting the degree of
ornament employed, so much as the easy and natural manner in which our Language
expresses our thoughts. This is quite different from the former sense of the
word just now 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 perfection; and yet no
writer has more Ornament and Beauty. This Simplicity, which is what we are now
to consider, stands opposed, not to Ornament, but to Affectation of Ornament,
or appearance of labour about our Style; and it is a distinguishing excellency
in writing.
[Page 390]
A writer of Simplicity
expresses himself in such a manner, that every one thinks he could have written
in the same way; Horace describes it, --- ---ut sibi quivis Speret idem, sudet
multum, frustraque laboret Ausus idem .
There are no marks of
art in his expression; it seems the very language of nature; you see in the
Style, not the writer and his labour, but the man, in his own natural
character. He may be rich in his expression; he may be full of figures, and of
fancy; but these flow from him without effort; and he appears to write in this
manner, not because he has studied it, but because it is the manner of
expression most natural to him. A certain degree of negligence, also, is not
inconsistent with this character of Style, and even not ungraceful in it; for
too minute an attention to words is foreign to it: "Habeat ille,"
says Cicero, (Orat. No. 77.) "molle quiddam, et quod indicet non ingratam
negligentiam hominis, de re magis quàm de verbo ." This is the great
advantage of Simplicity of Style, that, like simplicity of manners, it shows us
a man’s sentiments and turn of mind laid open without disguise. More studied
and artificial manners of writing, however beautiful, [Page 391] have always
this disadvantage, that they exhibit an author in form, like a man at court,
where the splendour of dress, and the ceremonial of behaviour, conceal those
peculiarities which distinguish one man from another. But reading an author of
Simplicity, is like conversing with a person of distinction at home, and with
ease, where we find natural manners, and a marked character.
The highest degree of
this Simplicity, is expressed by a French term, to which we have none that
fully answers in our Language, naïveté. It is not easy to give a precise idea
of the import of this word. It always expresses a discovery of character. I
believe the best account of it is given by a French critic, M. Marmontel, who
explains it thus: That sort of amiable ingenuity, or undisguised openness,
which seems to give us some degree of superiority over the person who shows it;
a certain infantine Simplicity, which we love in our hearts, but which displays
some features of the character that we think we could have art enough to hide;
and which, therefore, always leads us to smile at the person who discovers this
character. La Fontaine, in his Fables, is given as the great example of such naïveté.
This, however, is to be understood, as descriptive of a particular species only
of Simplicity.
With respect to
Simplicity, in general, we may remark, that the antient original writers are
always the most eminent for it. This happens from a plain reason, that they
wrote from the dictates of natural genius, and were not formed upon the labours
and writings of others, which is always in hazard of [Page 392] producing
Affectation. Hence, among the Greek writers, we have more models of a beautiful
Simplicity than among the Roman. Homer, Hesiod, Anacreon, Theocritus,
Herodotus, and Xenophon, are all distinguished for it. Among the Romans also,
we have some writers of this character, particularly Terence, Lucretius,
Phoedrus, and Julius Cæsar. 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 hæc soror Quam dixi, ad flammam accessit imprudentius Satis cum
periculo. Ibi tum examimatus Pamphilus, Bene dissimulatum amorem, & celatum
indicat; Occurrit præceps, mulierem ab igne retrahit, Mea Glycerium, inquit,
quid agts? Cur te is perditum? Tum illa, ut consuetum facile amorem cetneres,.
Act. I. Sc. 1.
[Page 393]
All the words here are
remarkably happy and elegant; and convey a most lively picture of the scene
described: while, at the same time, the Style appears wholly artless and
unlaboured. Let us, next, consider some English writers who come under this
class.
Simplicity is the great
beauty of Archishop 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, indeed, 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 towards strength or sublimity. But, notwithstanding these
defects, such a constant vein of good sense and piety runs through his works,
such an earnest and serious manner, and so much useful instruction conveyed in
a Style so pure, natural, and unaffected, as will justly recommend him to high
regard, as long as the English Language remains; not, indeed, as a model of the
highest eloquence, but as a simple and amiable writer, whose manner is strongly
expressive of great goodness and worth. I observed before, that Simplicity of
manner [Page 394] may be consistent with some degree of negligence in Style;
and it is only the beauty of that Simplicity which makes the negligence of such
writers seem graceful. But, as appears in the Archbishop, negligence may
sometimes be carried so far as to impair the beauty of Simplicity, and make it
border on a flat and languid 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
harmonious; smoothness, and what may be called amænity, are the distinguishing
characters of his manner; relaxing, sometimes, as such a manner will naturally
do, into a prolix and remiss Style. No writer whatever has stamped upon his
Style a more lively impression of his own character. In reading his works, we
seem engaged in conversation with him; we become thoroughly acquainted with
him, not merely as an author, but as a man; and contract a friendship for him.
He may be classed as standing in the middle, between a negligent Simplicity,
and the highest degree of Ornament, which this character of Style admits.
Of the latter of these,
the highest, most correct, and ornamented degree of the simple manner, Mr.
Addison, is, beyond doubt, in the English Language, the most perfect example:
and, therefore, though not without some faults, he is, on the whole, the safest
model for imitation, and the freest from considerable defects, which the
Language affords. Perspicuous and pure he is in the highest degree; his
precision, indeed, not [Page 395] very great; yet nearly as great as the
subjects which he treats of require: the construction of his sentences easy,
agreeable, and commonly very musical; carrying a character of smoothness, more
than of strength. In Figurative Language, he is rich; particularly, in similies
and metaphors; which are so employed, as to render his Style splendid without
being gaudy. There is not the least Affectation in his manner; we see no marks
of labour; nothing forced or constrained; but great elegance joined with great
ease and simplicity. He is, in particular, distinguished by a character of
modesty, and of politeness, which appears in all his writings. No author has a
more popular and insinuating manner; and the great regard which he every where
shews for virtue and religion, recommends him highly. If he fails in any thing,
it is in want of strength and precision, which renders his manner, though
perfectly suited to such essays as he writes in the Spectator, not altogether a
proper model for any of the higher and more elaborate kinds of composition.
Though the public have ever done much justice to his merit, yet the nature of
his merit has not always been seen in its true light: for, though his poetry be
elegant, he certainly bears a higher rank among the prose writers, than he is
intitled 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
Coverley discovers more genius than the critique on Milton.
Such authors as those,
whose characters I have been giving, one never tires of reading. There is
nothing in their manner that strains or fatigues our thoughts: we are pleased,
without being dazzled by their lustre. So powerful is the charm of [Page 396]
Simplicity in an author of real genius, that it atones for many defects, and
reconciles us to many a careless expression. Hence, in all the most excellent
authors, both in prose and verse, the simple and natural manner may be always
remarked; although other beauties being predominant, this form not their
peculiar and distinguishing character. Thus Milton is simple in the midst of
all his grandeur; and Demosthenes in the midst of all his vehemence. To grave
and solemn writings, Simplicity of manner adds the more venerable air.
Accordingly, this has often been remarked as 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 rendered their Style much less
beautiful by want of Simplicity, I cannot give a more remarkable example than
Lord Shaftsbury. This is an author on whom I have made observations several
times before, and shall now take leave of him, with giving his general
character under this head. Considerable merit, doubtless, he has. His works
might be read with profit for the moral philosophy which they contain, had he
not filled them with so many oblique and invidious insinuations against the
Christian Religion thrown out, too, with so much spleen and satire, as do no
honour to his memory, either as an author or a man. His language has many
beauties. It is firm, and supported in an uncommon degree: it is rich and
musical. No English author, as I formerly shewed, has attended so much to the
regular construction of his sentences, both with respect to propriety, and with
respect to cadence. All this gives so much elegance and pomp to his language,
that there is no wonder it should [Page 397] have been sometimes highly
admired. It is greatly hurt, however, by perpetual stiffness and affectation.
This is its capital fault. His lordship can express nothing with Simplicity. He
seems to have considered it as vulgar, and beneath the dignity of a man of
quality, to speak like other men. Hence he is ever in buskins; full of
circumlocutions and artificial 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 ornament of every kind, he is
exceedingly fond; sometimes happy in them; but his fondness for them is too
visible; and having once laid hold of some metaphor or allusion that pleased
him, he knows not how to part with it. What is most wonderful, he was a
professed admirer of Simplicity; is always extolling it in the ancients, and
censuring the moderns for the want of it; though he departs from it himself as
far as any one modern whatever. Lord Shaftsbury possessed delicacy and
refinement of taste, to a degree that we may call excessive and sickly; but he
had little warmth of passion; few strong or vigorous feelings: and the coldness
of his character led him to that artificial and stately manner which appears in
his writings. He was fonder of nothing than of wit and raillery; but he is far
from being happy in it. He attempts it often, but always awkwardly; he is
stiff, even in his pleasantry; and laughs in form , like an author , and not
like a man.
From the account which
I have given of Lord Shaftsbury’s manner, it may easily be imagined, that he
would mislead many who blindly admired him. Nothing is more dangerous to the
tribe of imitators, than an author, who, with many imposing beauties, has also
some very considerable blemishes. This is fully exemplified in Mr. Blackwall of
Aberdeen, the author of the Life of Homer, the Letters on Mythology, and the
Court of Augustus; a writer of considerable learning, and of ingenuity also;
but infected with an extravagant love of an artificial Style, and of that
parade of language which distinguishes the Shaftsburean manner.
Having now said so much
to recommend Simplicity, or the easy and natural manner of writing, and having
pointed outthe defects of an opposite manner; in order to prevent mistakes on
this subject, it is necessary for me to observe, that it is very possible for
an author to write simply, and yet not beautifully. One may be free from
affectation, and not have merit.The beautiful Simplicity supposes an author to
possess real genius; to write with solidity, purity, and liveliness of
imagination.In this case, the simplicity or unaffectedness of his manner, is
the crowning ornament; it heightens every other beauty;it is the dress of
nature, without which, all beauties are imperfect. But if mere unaffectedness
were sufficient to constitute the beauty of Style, weak, trifling, and dull
writers might often lay claim to this beauty. And, accordingly, we frequently
meet with pretended critics, who extol the dullest writers on account [Page
399] 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 accompanies true genius, and which is perfectly compatible
with every proper ornament of Style, and that which is no other than a
carelessand slovenly manner. Indeed, the distinction is easily made from the
effect produced. The one never fails to interest the Reader; the other is
insipid and tiresome.
I Proceed to mention
one other manner or character of Style, different from any that I have yet
spoken of; which maybe distinguished by the name of the Vehement. This always
implies strength; and is not, by any means, inconsistent with Simplicity: but
in its predominant character is distinguishable from either the strong or the
simple manner. It has a peculiar ardour; it is a glowing Style; the language of
a man, whose imagination and passions are heated, and strongly affected by what
he writes; who is therefore negligent of lesser graces, but pours himself forth
with the rapidity and fulness of a torrent. It belongs to the higher kinds of
oratory; and indeed is rather expected from a man who is speaking, than from
one who is writing in his closet. The orations of Demosthenes furnish the full
and perfect example of this species of Style.
Among English writers,
the one who has most of this character, though mixed, indeed, with several
defects, is Lord Bolingbroke. Bolingbroke was formed by nature to be a factious
leader; the demagogue of a popular assembly. Accordingly, the Style that runs
through all his political writings, is that of [Page 400] one declaiming with
heat, rather than writing with deliberation. He abounds in Rhetorical Figures;
and pours himself forth with great impetuosity. He is copious to a fault;
places the same thought before us in many different views; but generally with
life and ardour. He is bold, rather than correct; a torrent that flows strong,
but often muddy. His sentences are varied as to length and shortness;
inclining, however, most to long periods, sometimes including parentheses, and frequently
crowding and heaping a multitude of things upon one another, 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 Shaftsbury; but greatly superior to him in life and ease. Upon the
whole, his merit, as a writer, would have been very considerable, if his matter
had equalled his Style. But whilst we find many things to commend in the
latter, in the former, as I before remarked, we can hardly find any thing to
commend. In his reasonings, for most part, he is flimsy and false; in his
political writings, factious; in what he calls his philosophical ones,
irreligious and sophistical in the highest degree.
I shall insist no
longer on the different manners of Writers, or the general Characters of Style.
Some other, besides those which I have mentioned, might be pointed out; but I
am sensible, that it is very difficult to separate such general considerations
of the Style of authors 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 difficult to say, whether
this can [Page 401] be classed among the attributes of Style, or rather is to
be ascribed entirely to the thought. In whatever class we rank it, all
appearances of it ought to be avoided with care, as a most disgusting blemish in
writing. Under these general heads, which I have considered, I have taken an
opportunity of giving the character of many of the eminent classics in the
English language.
From what I have said
on this subject, it may be inferred, that to determine among all these
different manners of writing, what is precisely the best, is neither easy, nor
necessary. Style is a field that admits of great latitude. Its qualities in
different authors may be very different; and yet in them all beautiful. Room
must be left here for genius; for that particular determination which every one
receives from nature to one manner of expression more than another. Some
general qualities, indeed, there are of such importance, as should always, in
every kind of composition, be kept in view; and some defects we should always
study to avoid. An oftentatious, a feeble, a harsh, or an obscure Style, for
instance, are always faults; and Perspicuity, Strength, Neatness, and
Simplicity, are beauties to be always aimed at. But as to the mixture of all,
or the degree of predominancy of any one of these good qualities, for forming
our peculiar distinguishing manner, no precise rules can be given; nor will I
venture to point out any one model as absolutely perfect.
It will be more to the
purpose, that I conclude these differtations upon Style, with a few directions
concerning the proper method of attaining a good Style in general; leaving the
particular [Page 402] character of that Style to be either formed by the
subject on which we write, or prompted by the bent of genius.
The first direction
which I give for this purpose, is, to study clear ideas on the subject
concerning which we are to write or speak. This is a direction which may at
first appear to have small relation to Style. Its relation to it, however, is
extremely close. The foundation of all good Style, is good sense accompanied
with a lively imagination. The Style and thoughts of a writer are so intimately
connected, that, as I have 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 will 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 we 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 enquiry after them. This is Quinctilian’s observation,
Lib. viii. c. I. "Plerumque optima verba rebus cohærent, et cernuntur suo
lumine. At nos quærimus illa, tanquam lateant seque subducant. Ita nunquam
putamus verba esse circa id de quo dicendum est; sed ex aliis locis petimus, et
inventis vim afferimus ".
[Page 403]
In the second place, in
order to form a good Style, the frequent practice of composing is indispensibl
y necessary. Many rules concerning Style I have delivered; but no rules will
answer the end without exercise and habit. At the same time, it is not every
sort of composing that will improve Style. This is so far from being the case,
that by frequent, careless, and hasty composition, we shall acquire certainly a
very bad Style; we shall have more trouble afterwards 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.
"Moram et solicitudinem," says Quinctilian with the greatest reason,
L. x. c. 3, initiis impero. Nam primum hoc constituendum ac obtinendum est, ut
quam optime scribamus: celeritatem dabit consuetudo. Paulatin res facilius se
oftendent, verba respondebunt, compositio prosequetur. Cuncta denique ut in
familiâ bene institutâ in officio erunt. Summa hæc est rei; cito scribendo non
fit ut bene scribatur; bene scribendo, fit ut cito."
[Page 404]
We must observe,
however, that there may be an extreme, in too great and anxious a care about
words. We must not retard the course of thought, nor cool the heat of
imagination, by pausing too long on every word we employ. There is, on certain
occasions, a glow of composition which should be kept up, if we hope to express
ourselves happily, though at the expence of allowing some inadvertencies to
pass. A more severe examination of these must be left to be the work of
correction. For, if the practice of composition be useful, the laborious work
of correcting is no less so; is indeed absolutely necessary to our reaping any
benefit from the habit of composition. What we have written, should be laid by
for some little time, till the ardour of composition be past, till the fondness
for the expressions we have used be worn off, and the expressions themselves be
forgotten; and then reviewing our work with a cool and critical eye, as if it
were the performance of another, we shall discern many imperfections which at
first escaped us. Then is the season for pruning redundancies; for weighing the
arrangement of sentences; for attending to the juncture and connecting
particles; and bringing Style into a regular, correct, and supported form. This
"Limoe Labor," must be submitted to by all who would communicate
their thoughts with proper advantage to others; and some practice in it will
soon sharpen their eye to the most necessary objects of attention, and render
it a much more easy and practicable work than might at first be imagined.
In the third place,
with respect to the assistance that is to be gained from the writings of
others, it is obvious, that we ought to render ourselves well acquainted with
the Style of the best [Page 405] authors. This is requisite, both in order to
form a just taste in Style, and to supply us with a full stock of words on
every subject. In reading authors, with a view to Style, attention should be
given to the peculiarities of their different manners; and in this, and former
Lectures, I have endeavoured to suggest several things that may be useful in
this view. I know no exercise that will be found more useful for acquiring a
proper Style, than to translate some passage from an eminent English author,
into our own words. What I mean is, to take, for instance, some page of one of
Mr. Addison’s 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 from memory, in the best way we can;
and having done so, next to open the book, and compare what we have written,
with the Style of the author. Such an exercise will, by comparison, shew us
where the defects of our Style lie; will lead us to the proper attentions for
rectifying them; and, among the different ways in which the same thought may be
expressed, will make us perceive that which is the most beautiful. But,
In the fourth place, I
must caution, at the same time, against a servile imitation of any one author
whatever. This is always dangerous. It hampers genius; it is likely to produce
a stiff manner; and those who are given to close imitation, generally imitate
an author’s faults as well as his beauties. No man will ever become a good
writer, or speaker, who has not some degree of confidence to follow his own
genius. We ought to beware, in particular, of adopting any author’s noted
phrases, or transcribing passages from him. Such a habit will prove fatal to
[Page 406] all genuine composition. Infinitely better it is to have something
that is our own, though of moderate beauty, than to affect to shine in borrowed
ornaments, which will, at last, betray the utter poverty of our genius. On
these heads of composing, correcting, reading, and imitating, I advise every
student of oratory to consult what Quinctilian has delivered in the Xth book of
his Institutions, where he will find a variety of excellent observations and
directions, that well deserve attention.
In the fifth place, it
is an obvious, but material rule, with respect to Style, that we always study
to adapt it to the subject, and also to the capacity of our hearers, if we are
to speak in public. Nothing merits the name of eloquent or beautiful, which is
not suited to the occasion, and to the persons to whom it is addressed. It is
to the last degree awkward and absurd, to attempt a poetical florid Style, on
occasions, when it should be our business only to argue and reason; or to speak
with elaborate pomp of expression, before persons who comprehend nothing of it,
and who can only stare at our unseasonable magnificence. These are defects not
so much in point of Style, as, what is much worse, in point of common sense.
When we begin to write or speak, we ought previously to fix in our minds a
clear conception of the end to be aimed at; to keep this steadily in our view,
and to suit our Style to it. If we do not sacrifice to this great object, every
ill-timed ornament that may occur to our fancy, we are unpardonable; and though
children and fools may admire, men of sense will laugh at us and our Style.
[Page 407]
In the last place, I
cannot conclude the subject without this admonition, that, in any case, and on
any occasion, attention to Style must not engross us so much, as to detract
from a higher degree of attention to the thoughts: "Curam verborum,"
says the great Roman Critic, "rerum volo esse solicitudinem ". A
direction the more necessary, since 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 common sentiments with some beauty of expression, than to afford a
fund of vigorous, ingenious, and useful thoughts. The latter, requires true
genius; the former, may be attained by industry, with the help of very
superficial parts. Hence, we find so many writers frivolously rich in Style,
but wretchedly poor in Sentiment. The public ear is now so much accustomed to a
correct and ornamented Style, that no writer can, with safety, neglect the
study of it. But he is a contemptible one who does not look to something beyond
it; who does not lay the chief stress upon his matter, and employ such ornaments
of Style to recommend it, as are manly, not soppish: "Majore animo,"
says the writer whom I have so often quoted, "aggredienda est eloquentia;
quæ si toto corpore valet, ungues polire et capillum componere, non existimabit
ad curam suam pertinere. Ornatus et virilis et fortis, et sanctus sit; nec
effeminatam levitatem, et fuco ementitum colorem amet; sanguine et viribus
niteat ".
[Page 408]
I HAVE insisted fully
on the subject of Language and Style, both because it is, in itself, of great
importance, and because it is more capable of being ascertained by precise
rule, than several other parts of composition. A critical analysis of the Style
of some good author will tend further to illustrate the subject; as it will
suggest observations which I have not had occasion to make, and will show, in
the most 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 [Page 409] 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 dissuses over writing. At the same time,
though one of the most beautiful writers in the Language, he is not the most
correct; a circumstance which renders his composition the more proper to be the
subject of our present criticism. The free and flowing manner of this amiable
writer sometimes led him into inaccuracies, which the more studied
circumspection and care of far inferior writers have taught them to avoid.
Remarking his beauties, therefore, which I shall have frequent occasion to do
as I proceed, I must also point out his negligences and defects. Without a
free, imparcial discussion of both the faults and beauties which occur in his
composition, it is evident, this piece of criticism would be of no service:
and, from the freedom which I use in criticising Mr. Addison’s Style, none can
imagine, that I mean to depreciate his writings, after having repeatedly
declared the high opinion which I entertain of them. The beauties of this
author are so many, and the general character of his Style is so elegant and
estimable, that the minute imperfections I shall have occasion to point out,
are but like those spots in the sun, which may be discovered by the assistance
of art, but which have no effect in obscuring its lustre. It is, indeed, my
judgment, that what Quinctilian applies to Cicero, "Ille se profecisse
sciat, cui Cicero valde placebit," may, with justice, be applied to Mr.
Addison; that to be highly pleased with his manner of writing, is the 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 [Page 410] Essays on
the Pleasures of the Imagination, in the Sixth Volume of the Spectator. It
begins thus: Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all our
senses.
This is an excellent
introductory sentence. It is clear, precise, and simple. The author lays down,
in a few plain words, the proposition which he is going to illustrate
throughout the rest of the paragraph. In this manner we should always set out.
A first sentence should seldom be a long, and never an intricate one.
He might have said, Our
sight is the most perfect, and the most delightful.---But he has judged better,
in omitting to repeat the article, the. For the repetition of it is proper,
chiefly when we intend to point out the objects of which we speak, as
distinguished from, or contrasted with, each other; and when we want that the
reader’s attention should rest on that distinction. For instance; had Mr.
Addision intended to say, That our sight is at once the most delightful, and
the most useful, of all our senses, the article might then have been repeated
with propriety, as a clear and strong distinction would have been conveyed. But
as between perfect and delightful, there is less contrast, there was no
occasion for such repetition. It would have had no other effect, but to add a
word unnecessarily to the sentence. He proceeds: It fills the mind with the
largest variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance,
and continues the longest [Page 411] in action, without being tired or satiated
with its proper enjoyments.
This sentence deserves
attention, as remarkably harmonious, and well constructed. It possesses,
indeed, almost all the properties of a perfect sentence. It is entirely
perspicuous. It is loaded with no superfluous or unnecessary words. For, tired
or satiated, towards the end of the sentence, are not used for synonymous
terms. They convey distinct ideas, and refer to different members of the
period; that this sense continues the longest in action without being tired,
that is, without being fatigued with its action; and also, without being
satiated with its proper enjoyments. That quality of a good sentence which I termed
its unity, is here 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 nominative. 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 members, each of which, agreeably to a rule
I formerly mentioned, grows, and rises above the other in sound, till the
sentence is conducted, at last, to one of the most melodious closes which our
Language admits; without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments.
Enjoyments, is a word of length and dignity, exceedingly proper for a close
which is designed to be a musical one. The harmony is the more happy, that this
disposition of the members of the period which suits the sound [Page 412] so
well, is no less just and proper with respect to the sense. It follows the
order of nature. First, we have the variety of objects mentioned, which sight
furnishes to the mind; next, we have the action of sight on those objects; and
lastly, we have the time and continuance of its action. No order could be more
natural or happy.
This sentence has still
another beauty. It is figurative, without being too much so for the subject. A
metaphor runs through it. The sense of sight is, in some degree, personified.
We are told of its conversing with its objects; and of its not being tired or
satiated with its enjoyments; all which expressions are plain allusions to the
actions and feelings of men. This is that slight sort of Personification,
which, without any appearance of boldness, and without elevating 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 number. 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; [Page 413] but, at the same time, it is very
much straitened and confined in its operations, to the number, bulk, and
distance of its particular objects.
This sentence is by no
means so happy as the former. It is, indeed, neither clear nor elegant.
Extension and shape can, with no propriety, be called ideas; they are
properties of matter. Neither is it accurate, even according to Mr. Locke’s
philosophy (with which our Author seems here to have puzzled himself), to speak
of any sense giving us a 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 colours."
The latter part of the
sentence is still more embarrassed. For what meaning can we make of the sense
of feeling being confined, in its operations, 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 their own objects. The turn of expression is so inaccurate
here, that one would be apt to suspect two words to have been omitted in the
printing, which were originally in Mr. Addison’s manuscript; because the
insertion of them would render the sense much more intelligible and clear.
These two words are, with regard:--it is very much straitened, and confined, in
its operations, with regard to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular
objects. [Page 414] The meaning then would be, that feeling is more limited
than sight in this respect; that it is confined to a narrower circle, to a
smaller number of objects.
The epithet particular,
applied to objects, in the conclusion of the sentence, is redundant, and
conveys no meaning whatever. Mr. Addison seems to have used it in place of
peculiar, as indeed he does often in other passages of his writings. But
particular and peculiar, though they are too often confounded, are words of
different import from each other. Particular stands opposed to general;
peculiar stands opposed, to what is possessed in common with others. Particular
expresses what in the logical Style is called Species; peculiar, what is called
differentia.--- Its peculiar objects would have signified in this place, the
objects of the sense of feeling, as distinguihsed from the objects of any other
sense; and would have had more meaning than its particular objects. Though, in
truth, neither the one nor the other epithet was requisite. It was sufficient
to have said simply, its objects.
Our sight seems
designed to supply all these defects, and may be considered as a more delicate
and diffusive kind of touch, that spreads itself over an infinite multitude of
bodies, comprehends the largest figures, and brings into our reach some of the
most remote parts of the universe.
Here again the author’s
Style returns upon us in all its beauty. This is a sentence distinct, graceful,
well arranged, and highly musical. In the latter part of it, it is constructed
with three members, which are formed much in the same manner [Page 415] with
those of the second sentence, on which I bestowed so much praise. The
construction is so similar, that if it had followed immediately after it, we
should have been sensible of a faulty monotony. But the interposition of
another sentence between them, prevents this effect.
It is this sense which
furnishes the imagination with its ideas; so that by the pleasures of the
Imagination or Fancy (which I shall use promiscuously), I here mean such as
arise from visible objects, either when we have them actually in our view; or
when we call up their ideas into our minds by paintings, statues, descriptions,
or any the like occasion.
In place of, It is this
sense which furnishes---the author might have said more shortly, This sense
furnishes. But the mode of expression which he has used, is here more proper.
This sort of full and ample assertion, it is this which, is fit to be used when
a proposition of importance is laid down, to which we seek to call reader’s
attention. It is like pointing with the hand at the object of which we speak.
The parenthesis in the middle of the sentence, which I shall use promiscuously,
is not clear. He ought to have said, terms which I shall use promiscuously; as
the verb use relates not to the pleasures of the imagination, but to the terms
of fancy and imagination, which he was to employ as synonymous. Any the like
occasion--- to call a painting or a statue an occasion is not a happy
expression, nor is it very proper to speak of calling up ideas by occasions.
The common phrase, any such means, would have been more natural.
[Page 416]
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 those images which we have
once received, into all the varieties of picture and vision. But we can with no
propriety say, retaining them into all the varieties; and yet, according to the
manner in which the words are ranged, this construction is unavoidable. For
retaining, altering, and compounding, are participles, each of which equally
refers to, and governs the subsequent noun, those images; and that noun again
is necessarily connected with the following preposition, into. This instance
shows the importance of carefully attending to the rules of Grammar and Syntax;
when so pure a writer as Mr. Addison could, through inadvertence, be guilty of
such an error. The construction might easily have been rectified, by disjoining
the participle retaining from the other two participles in this way: "We
have the power of retaining those images which we have once received; and of
altering and compounding them into all the varieties of picture and
vision;" or better perhaps thus: "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 [Page 417] and
vision."---The latter part of the sentence is clear and elegant.
There are few words in
the English Language, which are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed
sense than those of the Fancy and the Imagination.
There are few
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 it is proper only when
some assertion of consequence is advanced, and which can bear an emphasis; such
as that in the first sentence of the former paragraph. On other occasions,
these little words it is, and there are, ought to be avoided as redundant and
enfeebling--- those of the Fancy and the Imagination. The article ought to have
been omitted here. As he does not mean the powers of the Fancy and the
Imagination, but the words only, the article certainly had no proper place;
neither, indeed, was there any occasion for other two words, those of. Better,
if the sentence had run thus: "Few words in the English language are employed
in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense, than Fancy and Imagination."
I therefore thought it
necessary to fix and determine the notion of these two words, as I intend to
make use of them in the thread of my following speculations, that the reader
may conceive rightly what is the subject which I proceed upon.
[Page 418]
Though fix and
determine may appear synonymous words, yet a difference between them may be
remarked, and they may be viewed, as applied here, with peculiar delicacy. The
author had just said, that the words of which he is speaking were loose and
uncircumscribed. Fix relates to the first of these, determine to the last. We
fix what is loose; that is, we confine the word to its proper place, that it
may not fluctuate in our imagination, and pass from one idea to another; and we
determine what is uncircumscribed, that is, we ascertain its termini or limits,
we draw the circle round it, that we may see its boundaries. For we cannot
conceive the meaning of a word, nor indeed of any other thing clearly, till we
see its limits, and know how far it extends. These two words, therefore, have
grace and beauty as they are here applied; though a writer, more frugal of
words than Mr. Addison, would have preferred the single word ascertain, which
conveys, without any metaphor, the import of them both.
The notion of these
words is somewhat of a harsh phrase, at least not so commonly used, as the
meaning of these words--- as I intend to make use of them in the thread of my
speculations; this is plainly faulty. A sort of metaphor is improperly mixed
with words in the literal sense. He might very well have said, as I intend to
make use of them in my following speculations.--This was plain language; but if
he chose to borrow an allusion from thread, that allusion ought to have been
supported; for there is no consistency in making use of them in the thread of
speculations; and, indeed, in expressing any thing so simple and familiar as
this is, plain language is always to be preferred to metaphorical---the subject
which I proceed [Page 419] upon, is an ungraceful close of a sentence; better,
the subject upon which I proceed.
I must therefore desire
him to remember, that by the pleasures of the Imagination, I mean only such
pleasures as arise originally from sight, and that I divide these pleasures
into two kinds.
As the last sentence
began with---I therefore thought it necessary to fix, it is careless to begin
this sentence in a manner so very similar, I must therefore desire him to
remember; especially, as the small variation of using, on this account, or, for
this reason, in place of therefore, would have amended the Style.--- When he
says---I 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 verb mean, but
such pleasures; and therefore should have been placed in as close connection as
possible with the word which it limits or qualifies. The Style becomes more
clear and neat, when the words are arranged thus: "by the pleasures of the
Imagination, I mean such pleasures only as arise from sight."
My design being, first
of all, to discourse of those primary pleasures of the imagination, which entirely
proceed from such objects as are before our eyes; and, in the next place, to
speak of those secondary pleasures of the Imagination, which flow from the
ideas of visible objects, when the objects are not actually before the eye, but
are called up into our memories, or formed into agreeable visions of things,
that are either absent or fictitious.
[Page 420]
It is a great rule in
laying down the division of a subject, to study neatness and brevity as much as
possible. The divisions are then more distinctly apprehended, and more easily
remembered. This sentence is not perfectly happy in that respect. It is
somewhat clogged by a tedious phraseology. My design being first of all to
discourse---in the next place to speak of---such objects as are before our
eyes---things that are either absent or fictitions. Several words might have
been spared here; and the Style made more neat and compact.
The pleasures of the
Imagination, taken in their full extent, are not so gross as those of sense,
nor so refined as those of the understanding.
This sentence is
distinct and elegant.
The last are indeed
more preferable, because they are founded on some new knowledge or improvement
in the mind of man: Yet it must be confessed, that those of the Imagination are
as great and as 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 comparative degree, and is the same with more eligible,
or more excellent.
I must observe farther,
that the proposition contained in the last member of this sentence, is neither
clear nor neatly [Page 421] expressed---it must be confessed, that those of the
imagination are as great, and as transporting as the other.--- In the former
sentence, he had compared three things together; the pleasures of the
Imagination, those of sense, and those of the understanding. In the beginning
of this sentence, he had called the pleasures of the understanding the last:
and he ends the sentence, with observing, that those of the Imagination are as
great and transporting as the other. Now, besides that the other makes not a
proper contrast with the last, he leaves it ambiguous, whether, by the other,
he meant the pleasures of the Understanding, or the pleasures of Sense; for it
may refer to either by the construction; though, undoubtedly, he intended that
it should refer to the pleasures of the Understanding only. The proposition
reduced to perspicuous language, runs thus: "Yet it must be confessed,
that the pleasures of the "Imagination, when compared with those of the
Understanding, are no less great and transporting.
A beautiful prospect
delights the soul as much as a demonstration; and a description in Homer has
charmed more readers than a chapter in Aristotle.
This is a good
illustration of what he had been asserting, and is 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 acquired.
[Page 422]
This is also an
unexceptionable sentence.
It is but opening the
eye, and the scene enters.
This sentence is lively
and picturesque. By the gaiety and briskness which it gives the Style, it shows
the advantage of intermixing such a short sentence as this amidst a run of
longer ones, which never fails to have a happy effect. I must remark, however,
a small inaccuracy. A scene cannot be said to enter; an actor enters; but a
scene appears, or presents itself.
The colours paint
themselves on the fancy, with very little attention of thought or application
of mind in the beholder.
This is still beautiful
illustration; carried on with that agreeable floweriness of fancy and style,
which is so well suited to those pleasures of the Imagination, of which the
author is treating.
We are struck, we know
not how, with the symmetry of any thing we see, and immediately assent to the
beauty of an object, without enquiring into the particular causes and occasions
of it.
There is a falling off
here from the elegance of the former sentences. We assent to the truth of a
proposition; but cannot so well be said to assent to the beauty of an object. Acknowledge
would have expressed the sense with more propriety. The close of the sentence
too is heavy and ungraceful---the particular causes and occasions of it---both
particular, and occasions, are words quite superfluous; and the pronoun it is
in some measure ambiguous, [Page 423] whether it refers to beauty or to object.
It would have been some amendment to the Style to have run thus: "we
immediately acknowledge the beauty of an object, without enquiring into the
cause of that beauty."
A man of a polite
imagination is let into a great many pleasures, that the vulgar are not capable
of receiving.
Polite is a term more
commonly applied to manners or behaviour, than to the mind or imagination.
There is nothing farther to be observed on this sentence, unless the use of
that for a relative pronoun, instead of which; an usage which is too frequent
with Mr. Addison. Which is a much more definite word than that, being never
employed in any other way than as a relative; whereas that is a word of many
senses; sometimes a demonstrative pronoun, often a conjunction. In some cases
we are indeed obliged to use that for a relative, in order to avoid the
ungraceful repetition of which in the same sentence. But when we are laid under
no necessity of this kind, which is always the preferable word, and certainly
was so in this sentence--Pleasures which the vulgar are not capable of
receiving, is much better than pleasures that the vulgar, &c.
He can converse with a
picture, and find an agreeable companion in a statue. He meets with a secret
refreshment in a description; and often feels a greater satisfaction in the
prospect of fields and meadows, than another does in the possession. It gives
him, indeed, a kind of property in every thing he sees; and makes the most rude
uncultivated parts of nature administer to his pleasures: so that he looks upon
the world, as it were, in another light, and [Page 424] discovers in it a
multitude of charms that conceal themselves from the generality of mankind.
All this is very
beautiful. The illustration is happy; and the Style runs with the greatest ease
and harmony. We see no labour, no stiffness, or affectation; but an author
writing from the native flow of a gay and pleasing imagination. This
predominant character of Mr. Addison’s manner, far more than compensates all
those little negligences which we are now remarking. Two of these occur in this
paragraph. The first, in the sentence which begins with, It gives him indeed a
kind of property---To this it, there is no proper antecedent in the whole
paragraph. In order to gather the meaning, we must look back as far as to the
third sentence before, the first of the paragraph, which begins with, A man of
a polite imagination. This phrase, polite imagination, is the only antecedent
to which this it can refer; and even that is an improper antecedent, as it
stands in the genitive case, as the qualification only of a man.
The other instance of
negligence, is towards the end of the paragraph---So that he looks upon the
world, as it were, in another light.---By another light, Mr. Addison means, a
light different from that in which other men view the world. But though this
expression clearly conveyed this meaning to himself when writing, it conveys it
very indictinctly to others; and is an instance of that sort of inaccuracy,
into which, in the warmth of composition, every writer of a lively imagination
is apt to fall; and which can only be remedied by a cool, subsequent
review.--As it were---is upon most occasions no more than an ungraceful palliative,
and here there was not the least occasion [Page 425] for it, as he was not
about to say any thing which required a softening of this kind. To say the
truth, this last sentence, so that he looks upon the world, and what follows,
had better been wanting altogether. It is no more than an unnecessary
recapitulation of what had gone before; a feeble 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
uncultivated parts of nature administer to his pleasures.
There are, indeed, but
very few who know how to be idle and innocent, or have a relish of any
pleasures that are not criminal; every diversion they take, is at the expence
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 sentence. It is neat, clear, and
musical. We could hardly alter one word, or disarrange one member, without
spoiling it. Few sentences are to be found more finished, or more happy.
A man should endeavour,
therefore, to make the sphere of his 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 remark.
[Page 426]
Of this nature are
those of the imagination, which do not require such a bent of thought as is
necessary to our more serious employments, nor, at the same time, suffer the
mind to sink into that indolence and remissness, which are apt to accompany our
more sensual delights; but, like a gentle exercise to the faculties, awaken
them from sloth and idleness, without putting them upon any labour or
difficulty.
The beginning of this
sentence is not correct, and affords an instance of a period too loosely connected
with the preceding one. Of this nature, says he, are those of the imagination.
We might ask of what nature? For it had not been the scope of the preceding
sentence to describe the nature of any set of pleasures. He had said, that it
was every man’s duty to make the sphere of his innocent pleasures as wide as
possible, in order that, within that sphere, he might find a safe retreat, and
a laudable satisfaction. The transition is loosely made, by beginning the next
sentence with saying, Of this nature are those of the imagination. It had been
better, if, keeping in view the governing object of the preceding sentence, he
had said, "This advantage we gain," or, "This satisfaction we
enjoy, by means of the pleasures of imagination." The rest of the sentence
is abundantly correct.
We might here add, that
the pleasures of the fancy are more conducive 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 [Page 427] borders too much on vulgar and colloquial
language, to be proper for being employed in a polished composition.
Delightful scenes,
whether in nature, painting, or poetry, have a kindly influence on the body, as
well as the mind, and not only serve to clear and brighten the imagination, but
are able to disperse grief and melancholy, and to set the animal spiritis in
pleasing and agreeable motions. For this reason Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay
upon Health, has not thought it improper to prescribe to his reader a poem, or
a prospect, where he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtile
disquisitions, and advises him to pursue studies that fill the mind with
splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and contemplations of
nature.
In the latter of these
two sentences, a member of the period is altogether out of its place; which
gives the whole sentence a harsh and disjointed cast, and serves to illustrate
the rules I formerly gave concerning arrangement. The wrong-placed member which
I point at, is this; where he particularly dissuades him from knotty and
subtile disquistions;---these words should, undoubtedly, have been placed not
where they stand, but thus: Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, where
he particularly dissuades the reader from knotty and subtile speculations, has
not thought it improper to prescribe to him, &c. This arrangement reduces
every thing into proper order.
I have, in this Paper,
by way of introduction, settled the notion of those pleasures of the
imagination, which are the subject of my present undertaking, and endeavoured,
by several considerations, to recommend to my readers the pursuit of those
pleasures; I shall, [Page 428] in my next Paper examine the several sources
from whence these pleasures are derived.
These two concluding
sentences afford examples of the proper collocation of circumstances in a
period. 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 circumstnaces necessarily come in---By way of introduction-- by
several considerations---in this Paper---in the next Paper. All which are, with
great propriety, managed by our author. It will be found, upon trial, that
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 considerations," we must be sensible, that the sentence, thus
clogged with circumstances in the wrong place, would neither have been so neat
nor so clear, as it is by the present construction
[Page 429]
THE 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 beauties, 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, inaccuracy of any kind.
As the subject therefore is of importance, I have thought it might be useful to
carry on this criticism throughout two or three subsequent Papers of the
Spectator. At the 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
acquainted with the powers of language. To them my remarks may prove
unedifying; to some they may [Page 430] seem tedious and minute: but to such as
have not yet made all the proficiency which they desire in elegance of Style,
strict attention to the composition and structure of sentences cannot fail to
prove of considerable benefit: and though my remarks on Mr. Addison should, in
any instance, be thought ill-founded, they will, at least, serve the purpose of
leading them into the train of making proper remarks for . I proceed,
therefore, to the examination of the subsequent paper No412.
I shall first consider those
pleasure of the imagination, which arise from the actual view and survey of
outward objects: and these, I think, all proceed from the sight of what is
great, uncommon, or beautiful.
This sentence gives
occasion for no material remark. It is simple and distinct. The two words which
he here uses, view and survey, are not altogether synonymous: as the former may
be supposed to import mere inspection; the latter more deliberate [Page 431]
examination. Yet they lie so near to one another in meaning, that, in the
present case, any one of them, perhaps, would have been sufficient. The epithet
actual, is introduced, in order to mark more strongly the distinction between
what our author calls the primary pleasures of imagination, which arise from
immediate view, and the secondary, which arise from remembrance or description.
There may, indeed, be
something so terrible or offensive, that the horror, or loathsomeness of an
object, may overbear the pleasure which results from its novelty, greatness, or
beauty; but still there will be such a mixture of delight in the very disgust
it gives us, as any of these three qualifications are most conspicuous and
prevailing.
This sentence must be
acknowledged to be an unfortunate one. The sense is obscure and embarrassed, and
the expression loose and irregular. The beginning of it is perplexed by the
wrong position of the words something and object. The natural arrangement would
have been, There may, indeed, be something in an object so terrible or
offensive, that the horror or loathsomeness of it may overbear.---These two
epithets, horror or loathsomeness, are awkwardly joined together. Loathsomeness
is, indeed, a quality which may be ascribed to an object; but horror is not; it
is a feeling excited in the mind. The Language would have been much more
correct, had our Author said, There may, indeed, be something in an object so
terrible or offensive, that the horror or disgust which it excites may
overbear.---The first two epithets, terrible or offensive, would then have expressed
the qualities of an object; the latter, horror or disgust, the corresponding
[Page 432] sentiments which these qualities produce in us. Loathsomeness was
the most unhappy word he could have chosen: for to be loathsome, is to be
odious, and seems totally to exclude any mixture of delight, which he
afterwards supposes may be found in the object.
In the latter part of
the sentence there are several inaccuracies. When he says, there will be such a
mixture of delight in the very disgust it gives us, as any of these three
qualifications are most conspicuous. The construction is defective, and seems
hardly grammatical. He meant assuredly to say, such a mixture of delight as is
proportioned to the degree in which any of these three qualifications are most
conspicuous.- --We know, that there may be a mixture of pleasant and of
disagreeable feelings excited by the same object; yet it appears inaccurate to
say, that there is any delight in the very disgust.---The plural verb are, is
improperly joined to any of these three qualifications; for as any is here used
distributively, and means any one of these three qualifications, the
corresponding 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, because they prevail.
By greatness, I do not
only mean the bulk of any single object, but the largeness of a whole view,
considered as one entire piece.
In a former Lecture,
when treating of the Structure of Sentences, I quoted this sentence as an
instance of the careless manner in which adverbs are sometimes interjected in
the midst of a period. Only, as it is here placed, appears to be a limitation
[Page 433] of the following verb, mean. The question might be put, What more
does he than only mean? as the author, undoubtedly, intended it to refer to the
bulk of a single object, it would have been placed, with more propriety, after
these words:---I do not mean the bulk of any single object only, but the
largeness of a whole view.---As the following phrase, considered as one are
entire piece, seems to be somewhat deficient, both in dignity and propriety,
perhaps this adjection might have been altogether omitted, 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 uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of
mountains, high rocks and precipices, or a wide expanse of waters, where we are
not struck with the novelty, or beauty of the sight, but with that rude kind of
magnificence which appears in many of these stupendous works of nature.
This sentence, in the
main, is beautiful. The objects presented are all of them noble, selected with
judgment, arranged with propriety, and accompanied with proper epithets. We
must, however, observe, that the sentence is too loosely, and not very
grammatically, connected with the preceding one. He says,---such are the
prospects;---such, signifies, of that nature or quality; which necessarily presupposes
some adjective, or word descriptive of a quality going before, to which it
refers. But, in the foregoing sentence, there is no such adjective. He had
spoken of greatness in the abstract only; and, therefore, such has no distinct
antecedent to which we can refer it. The sentence would have been introduced
with more grammatical [Page 434] 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 the printing; as, either all the particulars here enumerated should
have had this mark of the genitive, or it should have been prefixed to none but
the first.---When, in the close of the sentence, the Author speaks of that rude
magnificence, which appears in many of these stupendous works of nature, he had
better have omitted the word many, which seems to except some of them. Whereas,
in his general proposition, he undoubtedly meant to include all the stupendous
works he had enumerated; and there is no question that, in all of them, a rude
magnificence appears.
Our imagination loves
to be filled with an object, or to grasp at any thing that is too big for its
capacity. We are flung into a pleasing astonishment at such unbounded views;
and feel a delightful stillness and amazement in the soul, at the apprehension
of them.
The Language here is
elegant, and several of the expressions remarkably happy. There is nothing
which requires any animadversion except the close, at the apprehension of them.
Not only is this a languid enfeebling, conclusion of a sentence, otherwise
beautiful, but the 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 stillness and amazement in
the soul, it would have been a great improvement. Nothing is frequently more
[Page 435] hurtful to the grace or vivacity of a period, than superfluons
dragging words at the conclusion.
The mind of man
naturally hates every thing that looks like a restraint upon it, and is apt to
fancy itself under a sort of confinement, when the sight is pent up in a narrow
compass, and shortened on every side by the neighbourhood of walls or mountains.
On the contrary, a 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 prospects are as pleasing to the fancy,
as the speculations of eternity, or infinitude, are to the understanding.
Our Author’s Style
appears, here, in all that native beauty which cannot be too much praised. The
numbers flow smoothly, and with a 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, accommodated to
the rise of the thought. The eye first ranges abroad; then expatiates at large
on the immensity of its views; and, at last, loses itself amidst the variety of
objects that offer themselves to its observation. The fancy is elegantly
contrasted with the understanding, prospects with speculations, and wide and
undetermined prospects, with speculations of eternity and infinitude.
But if there be a
beauty or uncommonness joined with this grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a
heaven adorned with stars and meteors, or a spacious landscape cut out into
rivers, woods, rocks, [Page 436] and meadows, the pleasure still grows upon us,
as it arises from more than a single principle.
The article prefixed to
beauty, in the beginning of this sentence, 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 unseasonably to imply an artificial formation, and had
better have been 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 refreshment, and takes off from that satiety we are apt
to complain of in our usual and ordinary entertainments.
The Style in these
Sentences flows in an easy and agreeable manner. A severe critic might point
out some expressions that would bear being retrenched. But this would alter the
genius and character of Mr. Addison’s Style. We must always remember, that good
composition admits of being carried on under many different forms. Style must
not be reduced to one precise standard. One writer may be as 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, [Page 437] to
observe, that, in the beginning of those Sentences which we have at present
before us, the phrase, raises 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.
It is this which
bestows charms on a monster, and makes even the imperfections of nature please
us. It is this that recommends variety where the mind is every instant called
off to something new, and the attention not suffered to dwell too long, and
waste itself, on any particular object. It is this likewise, that improves what
is great or beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a double entertainment.
Still the Style
proceeds with perspicuity, grace, and harmony. The full and ample assertion,
with which each of these Sentences is introduced, frequent, on many occasions,
with our Author, is here proper and seasonable; as it was his intention to
magnify, as much as possible, the effects of novelty and variety, and to draw
our attention to them. His frequent use of that, instead of which, is another
peculiarity of his Style; but, on this occasion in particular, cannot be much
commended, as, it is this which, seems, in every view, to be better than, it is
this that, three times repeated. I must, likewise, [Page 438] take notice, that
the antecedent to, it is this, when critically considered, is not altogether
proper. It refers, as we discover by the sense, to whatever is new or uncommon.
But as it is not good language to say, whatever is new bestows charms on a
monster, one cannot avoid thinking that our Author had done better to have
begun the first of these three Sentences, with saying, It is novelty which
bestows charms on a monster, &c.
Groves, fields, and
meadows, are at any season of the year pleasant to look upon; but never so much
as in the opening of the Spring, when they are all new and fresh, with their
first gloss upon them, and not yet too much accustomed and familiar to the eye.
In this expression,
never so much as in the opening of the Spring, there appears to be a small
error in grammar; for when the construction is filled up, it must be read,
never so much pleasant. Had he, to avoid this, said, never so much so, the
grammatical error would have been prevented, but the language would have been
awkward. Better to have said, but never so agreeable as in the opening of the
Spring. We readily say, the eye is accustomed to objects, but to say, as our
Author has done at the close of the Sentence, that objects are accustomed to
the eye, can scarcely be allowed in a prose composition.
For this reason, there
is nothing that more enlivens a prospect than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of
water, where the scene is perpetually shifting and entertaining the sight,
every moment, with something that is new. We are quickly tired with looking at
hills and vallies, where every thing continues fixed and settled in the same
[Page 439] place and posture, but find our thoughts a little agitated and
relieved at the sight of such objects as are ever in motion, and sliding away
from beneath the eye of the beholder.
The first of these
sentences is connected in too loose a manner with that which immediately
preceded it. When he says, For this reason, there is nothing that more
enlivens, &c. we are entitled to look for the reason in what he had just
before said. But there we find no reason for what he is now going to assert,
except that groves and meadows are most pleasant in the Spring. We know that he
has been speaking of the pleasure produced by Novelty and Variety, and our
minds naturally recur to this, as the reason here alluded to; but his language
does not properly express it. It is, indeed, one of the defects of this amiable
writer, that his sentences are often too negligently connected with one
another. His meaning, upon the whole, we gather with ease from the tenour of
his discourse. Yet this negligence prevents his sense from striking us with
that force and evidence, which a more accurate juncture of parts would have
produced. Bating this inaccuracy, these two sentences, especially the latter,
are remarkably elegant and beautiful. The close, in particular, is uncommonly
fine, and carries as much expressive harmony as the language can admit. It
seems to paint, what he is describing, at once to the eye and the ear.---Such
objects as are ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the eye of the
beholder. ---Indeed, notwithstanding those small errors, which the strictness
of critical examination obliges me to point out, it may be safely pronounced,
that the two paragraphs which we have now considered in this paper, the one
concerning greatness, and the other concerning novelty, are extremely worthy of
Mr. Addison, [Page 440] 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 complacency through the imagination, and
gives a finishing to any thing that is great or uncommon. The very first
discovery of it strikes the mind with an inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness
and delight through all its faculties.
Some degree of
verbosity may be here discovered, and phrases repeated, which are little more
than the echo of one another; such as---diffusing satisfaction and complacency
through the imagination---striking the mind with inward joy--- spreading
creerfulness and delight through all its faculties. At the same mine, I readily
admit that this full and flowing Style, even though it carry some redundancy,
is not unsuitable to the gaiety 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 shewn itself agreeable; but we find, by experience, that there are several
modifications of matter, which the mind, without any previous consideration,
pronounces at first sight beautiful or deformed.
In this sentence there
is nothing 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
[Page 441] the preposition in is wanting before another. The phrase ought to
have stood thus---Beauty or deformity in one piece of matter, more than in
another.
Thus we see, that every
different species of sensible creatures has its different notions of Beauty,
and that each of them is most affected with the beauties of its own kind. This
is nowhere more remarkable, than in birds of the same shape and proportion,
when we often see the male determined in his courtship by the single grain or
tincture of a feather, and never discovering any charms but in the colour of
its species.
Neither is there here
any particular elegance or felicity of language.---Different sense of Beauty
would have been a more proper expression to have been applied to irrational
creatures, than as it stands, different notions of Beauty. In the close of the
second Sentence, when the Author says, colour of its species, he is guilty of a
considerable inaccuracy in changing the gender, as he had said in the same
Sentence, that the male was determined in his courtship.
There is a second kind
of Beauty, that we find in the several products of art and nature, which does
not work in the imagination with that warmth and violence, as the beauty that
appears in our proper species, but is apt, however, to raise in us a secret
delight, and a kind of foundness for the places or objects in which we discover
it.
Still, I am sorry to
say, we find little to praise. As in his enunciation of the subject, when
beginning the former paragraph, he appeared to have been treating of Beauty in
general, [Page 442] in distinction from greatness or novelty; this second kind
of Beauty of which he here speaks, comes upon us in a sort of surprize, and it
is only by degrees we learn, that formerly he had no more in view than the
Beauty which the different species of sensible creatures find in one another.
This second kind of Beauty, he says, we find in the several products of art and
nature. He undoubtedly means, not in all, but in several of the products of art
and nature; and ought so to have expressed himself; and in the place of
products, to have used also the more proper word, productions. When he adds,
that this kind of Beauty does not work in the imagination with that warmth and
violence as the beauty that appears in our proper species; the language would
certainly have been more pure and elegant, if he had said, that it does not
work upon the imagination with such warmth and violence, as the beauty that
appears in our own species.
This consists either in
the gaiety or variety of colours, in the symmetry and proportion of parts, in
the arrangement and disposition of bodies, or in a just mixture and concurrence
of all together. Among these several kinds of Beauty, the eye takes most
delight in colours.
To the language here, I
see no objection that can be made.
We no where meet with a
more glorious or pleasing show in nature, than what appears in the heavens at
the rising and setting of the Sun, which is wholly made up of those different
stains of light, that show themselves in clouds of a different situation.
The chief ground of
criticism on this Sentence, is the disjointed situation of the relative which.
Grammatically, it refers [Page 443] to the rising and setting of the Sun. But
the Author meant, that it should refer to the show which appears in the heavens
at that time. It is too common among Authors, when they are writing without
much care, to make such particles as this, and which, refer not to any
particular antecedent word, but to the tenour of some phrase, or perhaps the
scope of some whole Sentence, which has gone before. This practice saves them trouble
in marshaling their words, and arranging a period: but, though it may leave
their meaning intelligible, yet it renders that meaning much less perspicuous,
determined, and precise, than it might otherwise have been. The error I have
pointed out, might have been avoided by a small alteration in the construction
of the Sentence, after some such manner as this: We no where meet with a more
glorious and pleasing show in nature, than what is formed in the heavens at the
rising and setting of the Sun, by the different stains of light which show
themselves in clouds of different situations. Our Author writes, in clouds of a
different situation, by which he means, clouds that differ in situation from
each other. But, as this is neither the obvious nor grammatical meaning of his
words, it was necessary to change the expression, as I have done, into the
plural number.
For this reason, we
find the poets, who are always addressing 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
connection with the Sentence which precedes. For, though he begins with saying,
For this reason, the foregoing Sentence, which was employed about the [Page
444] 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 stil more pleased,
the more it finds of these perfections in the same object, so it is capable of
receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of another sense.
Another sense here,
means grammatically, another sense than Fancy. For there is no other thing in
the period to which this expression, 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 arises a fragrancy of smells or
perfumes, they heighten the pleasures of the imagination, and make even the
colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of
both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together, than when they
enter the mind separately; as the different colours of a picture, when they are
well-disposed, set off one another, and receive an additional beauty from the
advantage of their situation.
[Page 445]
Whether Mr. Addison’s
theory here be just or not, may be questioned. A continued sound, such as that
of a fall of water, is so far from awakening, every moment, the mind of the
beholder, that nothing is more likely to lull him asleep. It may, indeed,
please the imagination, and heighten the beauties of the scene; but it produces
this effect, by a soothing, not by an awakening influence. With regard to the
Style, nothing appears exceptionable. The flow, both of language and of ideas,
is very 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 comparing together different degrees of Beauty.
[Page 446]
THOUGH in yesterday’s
Paper we considered how every thing that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to
affect the imagination with pleasure, we must own, that it is impossible for us
to assign the necessary 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, what is pleasing or displeasing to the
mind, without being able to trace out the several necessary and efficient
causes from whence the pleasure or displeasure arises.
This Sentence,
considered as an introductory one, must be acknowledged to be very faulty. An
introductory Sentence [Page 447] should never contain any thing that can in any
degree fatigue or puzzle the reader. When an Author is entering on a new branch
of his subject, informing us of what he has done, and what he purposes farther
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 excellency, as a writer, lay in describing and painting. There he is
great; but in methodising and reasoning, he is not so eminent. As, besides the
general fault of prolixity and indistinctness, this Sentence contains several
inaccuracies, I will be obliged to enter into a minute discussion of its
structure and parts; a discussion, which to many readers will appear tedious,
and which therefore they will naturally pass over; but which, to those who are
studying composition, I hope may prove of some benefit.
Though in yesterday’s
Paper we considered---The import of though is, notwithstanding that. When it
appears in the beginning of a Sentence, its relative generally is yet: and it
is employed to warn us, after we have been informed of some truth, that we are
not to infer from it some other thing which we might perhaps have expected to
follow: as, "Though virtue be the only road to happiness, yet it does not
permit the unlimited gratification of our desires." Now it is plain, that
there was no such opposition between the subject of yesterday’s Paper, and what
the Author is now going to say, between his asserting a fact, and his not being
able to assign the cause of that fact, as rendered the use of this adversative
particle though, either necessary [Page 448] or proper in the
introduction.---We considered how every thing that is great, new, or beautiful,
is apt to affect the imagination with pleasure.---The adverb how signifies,
either the means by which, or the manner in which, something is done. But, in
truth, neither one nor other of these had been considered by our Author. He had
illustrated the fact alone, that they do affect the imagination with pleasure;
and, with respect to the quomodo, or the how, he is so far from having
considered it, that he is just now going to show that it cannot be explained,
and that we must rest contented with the knowledge of the fact alone, and of
its purpose or final cause.---We must own, that it is impossible for us to
assign the necessary cause (he means, what is more commonly called the
efficient cause) of this pleasure, because we know neither the nature of an
idea, nor the substance of a human soul.---The substance of a human soul is
certainly a very uncouth expression, and there appears no reason why he should
have varied from the word nature, which would have been equally applied to idea
and to soul.
Which might help us,
our Author proceeds, to discover the conformity or disagreeableness of the one
to the other.---The which, at the beginning of this member of the period, is
surely ungrammatical, as it is a relative, without any antecedent in all the
Sentence. It refers, by the construction, to the nature of an idea, or the
substance of a human soul; but this is by no means the reference which the
Author intended. His meaning is, that our knowing the nature of an idea, and
the substance of a human soul, might help us to discover the conformity or disagreeableness
of the one to the other: and therefore the syntax absolutely required the word
knowledge to have been inserted as the antecedent [Page 449] 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 relatives as which, not
refer to any precise expression, but carry a loose and vague relation to the
general strain of what had gone before. When our sentences run into this form,
we may be assured there is something in the construction of them that requires
alteration. The phrase of discovering the conformity or disagreeableness of the
one to the other is likewise exceptionable; for disagreeableness neither forms
a proper contrast to the other word, conformity, nor expresses what the author
meant here (as far as any meaning can be gathered from his words), that is, a
certain unsuitableness or want of conformity to the nature of the soul. To say
the truth, this member of the sentence had much better have been omitted
altogether. The conformity or disagreeableness of an idea to the substance of a
human soul, is a phrase which conveys to the mind no distinct nor intelligible
conception whatever. The author had before given a sufficient reason for his
not assigning the efficient cause of those pleasures of the imagination,
because we neither know the nature of our own ideas nor of the soul: and this
farther discussion about the conformity or disagreeableness of the nature of
the one, to the substance of the other, affords no clear nor useful
illustration.
And therefore, the
sentence goes on, for want of such a light, all that we can do in speculations
of this kind, is to reflect on those operations of the soul that are most
agreeable, and to range under their proper heads what is pleasing or
displeasing to the mind.--The two expressions in the beginning of this member,
therefore, and for want of such a light, evidently refer to the same thing,
[Page 450] and are quite synonymous. One or other of them, therefore, had better
have been omitted. Instead of to range under their proper heads, the language
would have been smoother, if their had been 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 as a vicious mode of speech;
seeing whence alone, has all the power of from whence, which therefore appears
an unnecessary reduplication. I am inclined to think, that the whole of this
last member of the sentence had better have been dropped. The period might have
closed with full propriety, at the words, pleasing or displeasing to the mind.
All that follows, suggests no idea that had not been fully conveyed in the
preceding part of the sentence. It is a mere expletive adjection which might be
omitted, not only without injury to the meaning, but to the great relief of a
sentence already labouring under the multitude of words.
Having now finished the
analysis of this long sentence, I am inclined to be of opinion, that if, on any
occasion, we can adventure to alter Mr. Addison’s Style, it may be done to
advantage here, by breaking down this period in the following manner: "In
yesterday’s paper, we have shown that every thing which is great, new, or
beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with pleasure. We must own, that it
is impossible for us to assign the efficient cause of this pleasure, because we
know not the 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 [Page 451] range under proper heads,
what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind."---We proceed now to the
examination of the following sentences.
Final causes lie more
bare and open to our observation, as there are often a great variety that
belong to the same effect; and these, though they are not altogether so
satisfactory, are generally more useful than the other, as they give us greater
occasion of admiring the goodness and wisdom of the first contriver.
Though some difference
might be traced between the sense of bare and open, yet as they are here
employed, they are so nearly synonymous, that one of them was sufficient. It
would have been enough to have said, Final causes lie more open to observation.
---One can scarcely help observing here, that the obviousness of final causes
does not proceed, as Mr. Addison supposes, from a variety of them concurring in
the same effect, which is often not the case; but from our being able to
ascertain more clearly, from our own experience, the congruity of a final cause
with the circumstances of our condition; whereas the constituent parts of
subjects, whence efficient causes proceed, lie for most part beyond the reach
of our faculties. But as this remark respects the thought more than the style,
it is sufficient for us to observe, that when he says, a great variety that
belong to the same effect, the expression, strictly considered, is not
altogether proper. The accessory is properly said to belong to the principal;
not the principal to the accessory. Now an effect is considered as the
accessory or consequence of its cause; and therefore, though we might well say
a variety of effects belong [Page 452] 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 a contemplation, he has made them naturally
delight in the apprehension of what is great or unlimited.
The concurrence of two
conjuctions, because, therefore, forms rather a harsh and unpleasing beginning
of the last of these Sentences; 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.
Our admiration, which
is a very pleasing motion of the mind, immediately rises at the consideration
of any object that takes up a good deal of room in the fancy, and, by
consequence, will improve into the highest pitch of astonishment and devotion,
when we contemplate his nature, that is neither circumscribed by time nor
place, nor to be comprehended by the largest capacity of a created being.
Here, our Author’s
Style rises beautifully along with the thought. However inaccurate he may
sometimes be when coolly philosophising, yet, whenever his fancy is awakened by
[Page 453] description, or his mind, as here, warmed with some glowing
sentiment, he presently becomes great, and discovers, in his language, the hand
of a master. Every one must observe, with what felicity this period is
constructed. The words are long and majestic. The members rise one above
another, and conduct the sentence, at last, to that full and harmonious close,
which leaves upon the mind such an impression, as the author intended to leave,
of something uncommonly great, awful, and magnificent.
He has annexed a secret
pleasure to the idea of any thing that is new or uncommon, that he might
encourage us in the pursuit of knowledge, and engage us to search into the
wonders of creation; for every new idea brings such a pleasure along with it,
as rewards the pains we have taken in its acquisition, and, consequently,
serves as a motive to put us upon fresh discoveries.
The Language, in this
Sentence, is clear and precise: only, we cannot but observe, in this, and the
two following Sentences, which are constructed in the same manner, a strong
proof of Mr. Addison’s unreasonable partiality to the particle that, in
preference to which---annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of any thing that
is new or uncommon, that he might encourage us.---Here the first that, stands
for a relative pronoun, and the next that, at the distance only of four words,
is a conjunction. This confusion of sounds serves to embarrass Style. Much
better, sure, to have said, the idea of any thing which is new or uncommon,
that he might encourage.---The expression with which the sentence concludes---a
motive to put us upon fresh discoveries---is flat, and, in some degree,
improper. He should [Page 454] 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, generation would be at an end,
and the earth unpeopled.
Here we must, however
reluctantly, return to the employment of censure: for this is among the worst
Sentences our Author ever wrote; and contains a variety of blemishes. Taken as
a whole, it is extremely deficient in unity. Instead of a complete proposition,
it contains a sort of chain of reasoning, the links of which are so ill put
together, that it is with difficulty we can trace the connection; and, unless
we take the trouble of perusing it several times, it will leave nothing on the
mind but an indistinct and obscure impression.
Besides this general
fault, respecting the meaning, it contains some great inaccuracies in Language.
First, God’s having made every thing which is beautiful in our own species
(that is in the human species) pleasant, is certainly no motive for all
creatures, for beasts, and birds, and fishes, to multiply their kind. What the
Author meant to say, though he has expressed himself in so erroneous a manner,
undoubtedly was, "In all [Page 455] 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. For, 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 assertion, intimated by the casual particle for,
is far from being obvious. The connection of thought is not readily apparent,
and would have required an intermediate step, to render it distinct. But, what
does he mean, by nature being crost in the production of a monster? One might
understand him to mean, "disappointed in its intention of producing a
monster," as when we say, one is crost in his pursuits, we mean, that he
is disappointed in accomplishing the end which he intended. Had he said, crost
by the production of a monster, the sense would have been more intelligible.
But the proper rectification of the expression would be to insert the adverb
as, before the preposition in, after this manner---wherever nature is crost, as
in the production of a monster,---the insertion of this particle as, throws so
much light on the 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 typographical error, which,
having crept into the first edition of the Spectator, ran through all the
subsequent ones.
In the last place, he
has made every thing that is beautiful, in all other objects, pleasant, or
rather has made so many objects appear beautiful, that he might render the
whole creation more gay and delightful. He has given, almost, every thing about
us the [Page 456] power of raising an agreeable idea in the imagination; so
that it is impossible for us to behold his works with coldness or indifference,
and to survey so many beauties without a secret satisfaction and complacency.
The idea, here, is so
just, and the Language so clear, flowing, and agreeable, that, to remark any
diffuseness which may be attributed to these sentences, would be justly
esteemed hypercritical.
Things would make but a
poor appearance to the eye, if we saw them only in their proper figures and
motions: and what reason can we assign for their exciting, in us, many of those
ideas which are different from any thing that exists in the objects themselves
(for such are light and colours), were it not to add supernumerary ornaments to
the universe, and make it more agreeable to the imagination?
Our Author is now
entering on a theory, which he is about to illustrate, 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 exciting in us
many of those ideas which are different from any thing that exists in the
objects? No one, sure, ever imagined, that our ideas exist in the objects.
Ideas, it is agreed on all hands, can exist no where but in the mind. What Mr.
Locke’s philosophy teaches, and what our Author should have said, is, exciting
in us many ideas of qualities which are different from any thing that exists in
the objects. The ungraceful parenthesis [Page 457] 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 apparitions. We discover imaginary glories
in the heavens, and in the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured
out upon the whole creation; but what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should
we be entertained with, did all her colouring disappear, and the several
distinctions of light and shade vanish? In short, our souls are delightfully
lost and bewildered in a pleasing delusion; and we walk about like the
enchanted hero of a romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows;
and, at the same time, hears the warbling of birds, and the purling 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 solitary
desert.
After having been
obliged to point out several inaccuracies. I return with much more pleasure to
the display of beauties, for which we have now full scope; for these two
Sentences are such as do the highest honour to Mr. Addison’s talents as a
writer. Warmed with the idea he had laid hold of, his delicate sensibility to
the beauty of nature, is finely displayed in the illustration of it. The Style
is flowing and full, without being too diffuse. It is flowery, but not gaudy;
elevated, but not ostentatious.
[Page 458]
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, what a 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 employed 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 presented.--- 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.
Bating 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
enchanted hero, the beautiful castles, the fantastic scene, the secret spell,
the disconsolate knight, are terms chosen with the utmost felicity, and
strongly recal 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.
[Page 459]
It is not improbable,
that something like this may be the state of the soul after its first
separation, in respect of the images it will receive from matter; though,
indeed, the ideas of colours are so pleasing and beautiful in the imagination,
that it is possible the soul will not be deprived of them, but, perhaps, find
them excited by some other occasional cause, as they are, at present, by the
different impressions of the subtile matter on the organ of 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 of from the beauty of what went
before. It is broken, 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 remarked, always renders Style
clumsy and inelegant, if not obscure---the state of the soul after its first
separation, appears to be an incomplete phrase, and first, seems an useless,
and even an improper 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, it is possible.
I have here supposed,
that my reader is acquainted with that great modern discovery, which is, at
present, universally acknowledged by all the enquirers 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 incontestibly by [Page 460] many modern
philosophers, and is, indeed, one of the finest speculations in that science,
if the English Reader would see the notion explained at large, he may find it
in the eighth chapter of the second book of Mr. Locke’s Essay on the Human
Understanding.
In these two concluding
Sentences, the Author, hastening to finish, appears to write rather carelessly.
In the first of them, a manifest tautology occurs, when he speaks of what is
universally acknowledged by all enquirers. In the second, when he calls a truth
which has been incontestibly proved; first, a speculation, and afterwards, a
notion, the Language surely is not very accurate. When he adds, one of the
finest speculations in that science, it does not, at first, appear what science
he means. One would imagine, he meant to refer to modern philosophers; for
natural philosophy (to which, doubtless, he refers) stands at much too great a
distance to be the proper or obvious antecedent to the pronoun that. The
circumstance towards the close, if 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 wrong arranged; and is rectified thus: the
English Reader, is 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.
[Page 461]
IF we consider the
works of Nature and Art, as they are qualified to entertain the imagination, we
shall find the last very defective in comparison of the former; for though they
may sometimes appear as beautiful or strange, they can have nothing in them of
that vastness 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 than is necessary for opening the subject. This
sentence leads to a repetition of this observation, as it contains both an
assertion and the proof of that assertion; two things which, for the most part,
but especially at first setting out, are with more advantage kept separate. It
would certainly have been better, if this Sentence had contained only the
assertion, ending with the word former; and if a new one had then begun, [Page
462] 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.
If we consider the
works---Perhaps it might have been preferable, if our Author had begun, with
saying, When we consider the works.---Discourse ought always to begin, when it
is possible, with a clear proposition. The if, which is here employed, converts
the Sentence into a supposition, which is always in some degree entangling, and
proper to be used only when the course of reasoning renders it necessary. As
this observation however may, perhaps, be considered 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 inaccuracy in what immediately follows---the works of Nature and Art. It
is the scope of the Author throughout this whole Paper, to compare Nature and
Art together, and to oppose them in several views to each other. Certainly
therefore, in the beginning, he ought to have kept them as distinct as possible,
by interposing the preposition, and saying the works of Nature, and of Art. As
the words stand at 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 forming
one whole. When I speak of Body and Soul as united in the Human Nature, I would
interpose neither article nor preposition between them; "Man is compounded
of Soul and Body." But the case is altered, if I mean to distinguish them
from each other; then I represent them as [Page 463] separate; and say, "I
am to treat of the interests of the Soul, and of the Body."
Though they may
sometimes appear as beautiful or strange---I cannot help considering this as a
loose member of the period. It does not clearly appear at first what the
antecedent is to they. In reading onwards, we see the works of Art to be meant;
but from the structure of the Sentence, they might be understood to refer to
the former, as well as to the last. In what follows, there is a greater
ambiguity---may sometimes appear as beautiful or strange. It is very doubtful
in what sense we are to understand as, in this passage. For, according as it is
accented in reading, it may signify, that they appear equally beautiful or
strange, to wit, with the works of Nature; and then it has the force of the
Latin tam: or it may signify no more than that they appear in the light of
beautiful and strange; and then it has the force of the Latin tanquam, without
importing any comparison. An expression so ambiguous, is always faulty; and it
is doubly so here; because, if the Author intended the former sense, and meant
(as seems most probable) to employ as for a mark of comparison, it was
necessary to have mentioned both the compared objects; whereas only one member
of the comparison is here mentioned, viz. the works of Art; and if he intended
the latter sense, as was in that case superfluous and encumbering, and he had
better have said simply, appear beautiful or strange.---The epithet strange,
which Mr. Addison applies to the works of Art, cannot be praised. Strange
works, appears not by any means a happy expression to signify what he here
intends, which is new or uncommon.
[Page 464]
The sentence concludes
with much harmony and dignity---they can have nothing in them of that vastness
and immensity which afford so great an entertainment to the mind of the
beholder. There is here a fulness and grandeur of expression well suited to the
subject; though, perhaps, entertainment is not quite the proper word for
expressing the effect which vastness and immensity have upon the mind.
Reviewing the observations that have been made on this period, it might, I
think, with advantage, be resolved into two Sentences somewhat after this
manner: "When we consider the works of Nature and of Art, as they are
qualified to entertain the imagination, we shall find the latter very defective
in comparison of the former. The works of Art may sometimes appear no less
beautiful or uncommon than those of Nature; but they can have nothing of that
vastness and immensity which so highly transport the mind of the
beholder."
The one, proceeds our
Author in the next Sentence, may be as polite and delicate as the other; but
can never shew herself so august and magnificent in the design.
The one and the other,
in the first part of this Sentence, must unquestionably refer to the works of
Nature and of Art. For of these he had been speaking immediately before; and
with reference to the plural word, works, had employed the plural pronoun they.
But in the course of the Sentence, he drops this construction; and passes very
incongruously to the personification of Art---can never shew herself.---To
render his style consistent, Art, and not the works of Art, should have been
made the nominative in this Sentence.---Art may be as polite [Page 465] and
delicate as Nature, but can never shew herself---Polite is a term oftener
applied to persons and to manners, than to things; and is employed to signify
their being highly civilized. Polished, or refined, was the idea which the Author
had in view. Though the general turn of this Sentence be elegant, yet, in order
to render it perfect, I must observe, that the concluding words, in the design,
should either have been altogether omitted, or something should have been
properly opposed to them in the preceding member of the period, thus: "Art
may, in the execution, be as polished and delicate as Nature; but, in the
design, can never shew herself so august and magnificent."
There is something more
bold and masterly in the rough, careless strokes of Nature, than in the nice
touches and embellishments of Art.
This Sentence is
perfectly happy and elegant; and carries, in all the expressions, that curiosa
felicitas, for which Mr. Addison is so 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 diminutive
exactness of art; while both are introduced before us as different performers,
and their respective merits in execution very justly contrasted with each
other.
The beauties of the
most stately garden or palace lie in a narrow compass, the imagination
immediately runs them over, and requires something else to gratify her; but in
the wide fields of Nature, the [Page 466] sight wanders up and down with
confinement, and is fed with an infinite variety of images, without any certain
stint or number.
This Sentence is not
altogether so correct and elegant as the former. It carries, however, in the
main, the character of our Author’s style; not strictly accurate, but
agreeable, easy, and unaffected; enlivened too with a slight personification of
the imagination, which gives a gaiety to the period. Perhaps it had been
better, if this personification of the imagination, with which the Sentence is
introduced, had been continued throughout, and not changed unnecessarily, and
even improperly, into sight, in the second member, which is contrary both to unity
and elegance. It might have stood thus---the imagination immediately runs them
over, and requires something else to gratify her; but in the wide fields of
Nature, she wanders up and down without confinement.---The epithet stately,
which the author uses in the beginning of the sentence, applies 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 better 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 a country [Page 467] life, on which the remark here made
should rest. A country life may be productive of simplicity of manners, and of
other virtues; but it is to the country itself, that the properties here
mentioned belong, of displaying the beauties of Nature, and furnishing those
scenes which delight the imagination.
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
agreeableness of the objects to the eye, and from their similitude to other
objects: we are pleased, as well with comparing their beauties, as with
surveying them, and can represent them to our minds either as copies or as
originals. Hence it is, that we take delight in a prospect which is well laid
out, and diversified with fields and meadows, woods and rivers; in those
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, in a
word, in any thing that hath such a degree of variety and regularity 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 tire of what he
may consider as petty remarks, I shall pass over any which these Sentences
suggest; the rather too, as the idea which they present to us, of Nature’s
resembling Art, of Art’s being considered as an original, and Nature as a copy,
seems not very distinct nor well brought out, nor indeed very material to our
Author’s purpose.
[Page 468]
If the products of
Nature rise in value, according as they more or less resemble those of Art, we
may be sure that artificial works receive a greater advantage from the
resemblance of such as are natural; because here the similitude is not only
pleasant, but the pattern more perfect.
It is necessary to our
present design, to point out two considerable inaccuracies which occur in this
Sentence. If the products (he had better have said the productions) of Nature
rise in value, according as they more or less resemble those of Art.--- Does he
mean, that these productions rise in value, both according as they more resemble,
and as they less resemble, those of Art? His meaning undoubtedly is, that they
rise in value only, according as they more resemble them: and therefore, either
these words, or less, must be struck out, or the Sentence must run
thus---productions of Nature rise of sink in value, according as they more or
less resemble.---The present construction of the Sentence has plainly been
owing to hasty and careless writing.
The other inaccuracy is
toward the end of the Sentence, and serves to illustrate a rule which I
formerly gave, concerning the position of adverbs. The Author says,---because
here, the similitude is not only pleasant, but the pattern more perfect. Here,
by the position of the adverb only, we are led to imagine that he is going to
give some other property of the similitude, that it is not 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 similitude
itself, and not to this property of its being pleasant; and therefore, the
right collocation, beyond doubt, was, because here, not only the similitude
[Page 469] is pleasant, but the pattern more perfect: the contrast lying, not
between pleasant and more perfect, but between similitude and pattern.---Much
of the clearness and neatness of Style depends on such attentions as these.
The prettiest landscape
I ever saw, was one drawn on the walls of a dark room, which stood opposite on
one side to a navigable river, and, on the other, to a park. The experiment is
very common in optics.
In the description of
the landscape which follows, Mr. Addison is abundantly happy; but in this
introduction to it, he is obscure and indistinct. One who had not seen the
experiment of the Camera Obscura, could comprehend nothing of what he meant.
And even, after 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 two Camera Obscuras on opposite
walls. The scene, which I am inclined to think Mr. Addison here refers to, is
Greenwich Park, with the prospect of the Thames, as seen by a Camera Obscura,
which is placed in a small room in the upper story of the Observatory; where I
remember to have seen, many year ago, the whole scene here described,
corresponding so much to Mr. Addison’s account of it in this passage, that, at
the time, it recalled it to my memory. As the Observatory stands in the middle
of the Park, it overlooks, from one side, both the river and the park; and the
objects afterwards mentioned, the ships, the trees, and the deer, are presented
in one view, without needing any assistance from opposite walls. Put into
plainer language, the Sentence might run thus: "The [Page 470]
"prettiest landscape 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, and sailing by degrees through the whole
piece. On another, there appeared the green shadows of trees, waving to and fro
with the wind, and herds of deer among them in miniature, leaping about upon
the wall.
Bating one or two small
inaccuracies, this is beautiful and lively painting. The principal inaccuracy
lies in the connection of the two Sentences, Here, and On another. I suppose
the Author meant, on one side, and on another side. As it stands, another is
ungrammatical, having nothing to which it refers. But the fluctuations of the
water, the ship entering and sailing on by degrees, the trees waving in the
wind, and the herds of deer among them leaping about, is all very elegant, and
gives a 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 pictures, give the colour and figure, but the
motions of the things it represents.
In this Sentence there
is nothing remarkable, either to be praised or blamed. In the conclusion,
instead of the things it represents, the regularity of correct Style requires
the things which it represents. In the beginning, as one occasion and the [Page
471] chief reason are opposed to one another, I should think it better to have
repeated the same word---one reason of its pleasantness to the imagination, but
certainly the chief reason is, &c.
We have before
observed, that there is generally, in Nature, something more grand and august
than what we meet with in the curiosities of Art. When, therefore, we see this
imitated in any measure, it gives us a nobler and more exalted kind of
pleasure, than what we receive from the nicer and more accurate productions of
Art.
It would have been
better to have avoided terminating these two 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 in France and Italy,
where we see a large extent of ground covered over with an agreeable mixture of
garden and forest, which represent 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 must have
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 natural rudeness, that is, is designed to imitate it; but it
in reality is, and presents, artificial rudeness.
[Page 472]
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 into a kind of garden by frequent
plantations, that may turn as much to the profit as the pleasure of the owner?
A marsh overgrown with willows, or a mountain shaded with oaks, are not only
more 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 between them, and the natural embroidery of the meadows were
helped and improved by some small additions of art, and the several rows of
hedges were set off by trees and flowers that the soil was capable of
receiving, a man might make a pretty landscape of his own possessions.
The ideas here are
just, and the Style is easy and perspicuous, though in some places bordering on
the careless. In that passage, for instance, if the walks were a little taken
care of that lie between them---one member is clearly out of its place, and the
turn of the phrase, a little taken care of, is vulgar and colloquial. Much
better, if it had run thus---if a little care were bestowed on the walks that
lie between them.
Writers who have given
us an account of China, tell us, the inhabitants 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 chuse rather to show a genius in works of this nature, and therefore
always conceal the art by which they direct themselves. [Page 473] 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 that has so agreeable an effect.
These Sentences furnish
occasion for no remark, except that in the last of them, particular is
improperly used instead of peculiar---the peculiar beauty of a plantation that
thus strikes the imagination, was the phrase to have conveyed the idea which
the Author meant; namely, the beauty which distinguishes it from plantations of
another kind.
Our British gardeners,
on the contrary, instead of humouring nature, love to deviate from it as much
as possible. Our trees rise in cones, globes, and pyramids. We see the marks of
the scissars on every plant and bush.
These Sentences are
lively and elegant. They make an agreeable diversity from the strain of those
which went before; and are marked with the hand of Mr. Addison. I have to
remark only, that, in the phrase, instead of humouring nature, love to deviate
from it---humouring and deviating, are terms not properly opposed to each other;
a sort of personification of nature is begun in the first of them, which is not
supported in the second.---To humouring, was to have been opposed,
thwarting---or if deviating was kept, following, or going along with nature,
was to have been used.
I do not know whether I
am singular in my opinion, but, for my own part, I would rather look upon a
tree, in all its luxuriancy [Page 474] and diffusion of boughs and branches,
than when it is thus cut and trimmed into a mathematical figure; and cannot but
fancy that an orchard, in flower, looks infinitely more delightful, than all
the little labyrinths of the most finished parterre.
This Sentence is
extremely harmonious, and every way beautiful. It carries all the
characteristics of our Author’s natural, graceful, and flowing Language.---A
tree, in all its luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs and branches, is a
remarkably happy expression. The Author seems to become luxuriant in describing
an object which is so, and thereby renders the sound a perfect echo to the sense.
But as our great
modellers of gardens have their magazines of plants to dispose of, it is very
natural in them, to tear up all the beautiful 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 should always
study to conclude, when it is in his power, with grace and dignity. It is
somewhat unfortunate, that this Paper did not end, as it might very well have
done, with the former beautiful period. The impression left on the mind by the
beauties of nature, with which he had been entertaining us, would then have
been more agreeable. But in this Sentence there is a great falling off; and we
return with pain from those pleasing objects, to the insignificant contents of
a nursery-man’s shop.
[Page 475]
MY design, in the four
preceding Lectures, was not merely to appretiate 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 gain 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, they may be of advantage; as the proper
application of rules respecting Style, will always be best learned by means of
the illustration which examples afford. I conceived 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 familiarising
those who study composition with the Style of a writer, [Page 476] from whom
they may, upon the whole, derive great benefit. With the same view, I shall, in
this Lecture, give one critical exercise more of the same kind, upon the Style
of an Author of a 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. He is esteemed one of our most correct
writers. His Style is of the plain and simple kind; free of all affectation,
and all superfluity; perspicuous, manly, and pure. These are its advantages.
But we are not to look for much ornament and . On the contrary, Dean Swift
seems to have slighted and despised the ornaments of Language, rather than to
have studied them. His arrangement is often loose and negligent. In elegant,
musical, and figurative Language, he is much inferior to Mr. Addison. His
manner of writing carries in it the character of one who rests altogether upon
his sense, and aims at no more than giving his meaning in a clear and concise
manner.
[Page 477]
That part of his
writings, which I shall now examine, is the beginning of his treatise,
entitled, "A Proposal for correcting, "improving, and ascertaining
the English Tongue," in a Letter addressed to the Earl of Oxford, then
Lord High Treasurer. I was led, by the nature of the subject, to choose this
treatise: but, in justice to the Dean, I must 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 assume the form of
an Epistle or not, we are always 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, sometime 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 judicious persons with whom I consulted.
The disposition of
circumstances in a Sentence, such as serve to limit or to qualify some
assertion, or to denote time and place, I formerly showed to be a matter of
nicety; and I observed, that it ought to be always held a rule, not to crowd
such circumstances together, but rather to intermix them with more [Page 478]
capital words, in such different parts of the Sentence as can admit them
naturally. Here are two circumstances of this kind placed together, which had
better have been separated, Some time ago, in conversation---better
thus:---What I had the honour, sometime ago, of mentioning to your Lordship in
conversation---was not a new thought, proceeds our Author, started by accident
or occasion: the different meaning of these two words may not, at first, occur.
They have, however, a distinct meaning, and are properly used: for it is one
very laudable property of our Author’s Style, that it is seldom incumbered with
superfluous, synonymous words. Started by accident, is, fortuitously, or at
random; started by occasion, 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 proceeds:They all agreed, that nothing would be of greater use
towards the improvement of knowledge and politeness, than some effectual
method, for correcting, enlarging, and ascertaining our Language; and they think
it a work very possible to be compassed under the protection of a prince, the
countenance and encouragement of a ministry, and the care of proper persons
chosen for such an undertaking.
This is an excellent
Sentence; clear, and elegant. The words are all simple, well chosen, and
expressive; and arranged in the most proper order. It is a harmonious period
too, which is a beauty not frequent in our Author. The last part of it [Page
479] consists of three members, which gradually rise and swell above one another,
without any affected or unsuitable pomp;---under the protection of a prince,
the countenance and encouragement of a ministry, and the care of proper persons
chosen for such an undertaking. We may remark, in the beginning of the
Sentence, the proper use of the preposition towards---greater use towards the
improvement 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 for, 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 introduction is to unfold, clearly and
directly, the subject that is to be treated of. In the first Sentence, our
Author had told us, of a thought he mentioned to his Lordship, in conversation,
which had been the result of long reflection, and concerning which he had
consulted judicious persons. But what that thought was, we are never told
directly. We gather it indeed from the second sentence, wherein he informs us,
in what these judicious persons agreed; namely, that some method for improving
the language was both useful and practicable. But this indirect method of
opening the subject, would have been very faulty in a regular treatise; though
the ease of the epistolary form, which our Author here assumes in 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 [Page 480] some years past; "That all such
thoughts must be deferred to a time of peace;" a topic which some have
carried so far, that they would not have us, by any means, think of preserving
our civil and religious constitution, because we are engaged in a war abroad.
This Sentence also is
clear and elegant; only there is one inaccuracy, when he speaks of his Lordship’s
answer being in so different a style from what had formerly been used. His
answer to what? or to whom? For from any thing going before, it does not appear
that any application or address had been made to his Lordship by those persons,
whose opinion was mentioned in the preceding Sentence; and to whom the answer,
here spoken of, naturally refers. There is a little indistinctness, as I before
observed, in our Author’s manner of introducing his subject here.---We may
observe too, that the phrase ---glad to find your answer in so different a
style--- though abundantly suited to the language of conversation, or of a
familiar letter, yet, in regular composition, requires an additional word---
glad to find your answer run in so different a style.
It will be among the
distinguishing marks of your ministry, my Lord, that you have a genius above
all such regards, and that no reasonable proposal, for the honour, the
advantage, or ornament of your country, however foreign to your immediate
office, was ever neglected by you.
The phrase---a genius
above all such regards, both seems somewhat harsh, and does not clearly express
what the Author means, namely, the confined views of those who neglected every
thing that belonged to the arts of peace in the time of war.---Bating this
expression, there is nothing that can be subject to [Page 481] the least
reprehension in this Sentence, nor in all that follows, to the end of the
paragraph.
I confess, the merit of
this candor and condescension is very much lessened, because your Lordship
hardly leaves us room to offer our good wishes; removing all our difficulties,
and supplying our wants, faster than the most visionary projector can adjust
his schemes. And therefore, my Lord, the design of this paper is not so much to
offer you ways and means, as to complain of a grievance, the redressing of
which is to be your own work, as much as that of paying the nation’s debts, or
opening a trade into the South Sea; and, though not of such immediate benefit
as either of these, or any other of your glorious actions, yet, perhaps, in
future ages not less to your honour.
The compliments which
the Dean here pays to his patron, are very high and strained; and show, that,
with 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 distinctless, which particularly characterise it. It is very
remarkable, how few Latinised words Dean Swift employs. No writer, in our Language,
is so purely English as he is, or borrows so little assistance from words of
foreign derivation. From none can we take a better model of the choice and
proper significancy of words. It is [Page 482] remarkable, in the Sentences we
have now before us, how plain all the expressions are, and yet, at the same
time, how significant; and, in the midst of that high strain of compliment into
which he rises, how little there is of pomp, or glare of expression. How very
few writers can preserve this manly temperance of Style; or would think a
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 of all the learned and polite persons of the nation, complain to your
Lordship, as First Minister, that our Language is extremely imperfect; that its
daily improvements are by no means in proportion to its daily corruptions; that
the pretenders to polish and refine it, have chiefly multiplied abuses and
absurdities; and that, in many instances, it offends against every part of
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 imperfection, however, there is in this Sentence, which, luckily
for our purpose, serves to illustrate a rule before given, concerning the
position of adverbs, so as to avoid ambiguity. It is in the middle of the
Sentence;---that the pretenders to polish and refine it, have chiefly
multiplied abuses and absurdities.---Now, concerning the import of this adverb,
chiefly, I ask, whether it signifies that these pretenders to polish the
Language, have been the chief persons who have multiplied [Page 483] 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 refine it? These two meanings are really different; and yet,
by the position which the word chiefly has in the Sentence, we are left at a
loss in which to understand it. The construction would lead us rather to the
latter sense; that the chief thing which these pretenders have done, is to
multiply the abuses of our Language. But it is more than probable, that the
former sense was what the Dean intended, as it carries more of his usual
satirical edge; "that the pretended refiners of our Language were, in
fact, its chief corruptors;" on which supposition, his words ought to have
run thus: that the pretenders to polish and refine it, have been the chief
persons to multiply its abuses and absurdities; which would have rendered the
sense perfectly clear.
Perhaps, too, there
might be ground for observing farther upon this Sentence, that as Language is
the object with which it sets out; that our Language is extremely imperfect;
and then follows an enumeration concerning Language, in three particulars, it
had been better if Language had been kept the ruling word, or the nominative to
every verb, without changing the seens; by making pretenders the ruling word,
as is done in the second member of the enumeration, and then, in the third,
returning again to the former word, Language--- That the pretenders to
polish---and that, in many instances, it offend.---I am persuaded, that the
structure of the Sentence would have been more neat and happy, and its unity
more complete, if the members of it had been arranged thus: "That our
Language [Page 484] 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 how it 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 paragraph:
I believe your Lordship
will agree with me, in the reason why our Language is less refined than those
of Italy, Spain, or France.
I am sorry to say, that
now we shall have less to commend in our 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
is less refined than those of Italy, Spain, and France; putting the pronoun
those in the plural, when the antecedent substantive to which it refers is in
the singular, our Language. Instances of this kind may sometimes be found in
English authors; but they sound harsh to the ear, and are certainly contrary to
the purity of grammar. By a very little attention, this inaccuracy could have
been remedied; and the Sentence have been made to run much better in this way;
"why [Page 485] our Language is less refined than the Italian, Spanish, or
French."
It is plain, that the
Latin Tongue, in its purity, was never in this island; towards the conquest of
which, few or no attempts were made till the time of Claudius; neither was that
Language ever so vulgar in Britain, as it is known to have been in 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,
Neither was that Language ever so vulgar in Britain.---Vulgar was one of the worst
words he could have chosen for expressing what he means here; namely, that the
Latin Tongue was at no time so general, or so much in common use, in Britain,
as it is known to have been in Gaul and Spain.---Vulgar, when applied to
Language, commonly signifies impure, or debased Language, such as is spoken by
the low people, which is quite opposite to the Author’s sense here; for, in
place of meaning to say, that [Page 486] the Latin spoken in Britain was not so
debased, as what was spoken in Gaul and Spain; he means just the contrary, and
had been telling us, that we never were acquainted with the Latin at all, till
its purity began to be corrupted.
Further, we find that
the Roman legions here were at length all recalled to help their country
against the Goths, and other barbarous invaders.
The chief scope of this
Sentence is, to give a reason why the Latin Tongue did not strike any deep root
in this island, on account of the short continuance of the Romans in it. He
goes on: Meantime the Britons, left to shift for themselves, and daily harassed
by cruel inroads from the Picts, were forced to call in the Saxons for their
defence; who, consequently, reduced the greatest part of the island to their
own power, drove the Britons into the most remote and 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 familiar Style to be proper in a grave
treatise. Next, as the Sentence advances---forced to call in the Saxons for
their defence, who, consequently, reduced the greatest part of the island to
their own power.---What is the meaning of consequently here? if it means
"afterwards," or "in progress of time," this, certainly, is
not a sense in which consequently is often taken; and therefore the expression
is chargeable with obscurity. The adverb, consequently, in its most common
acceptation, denotes one [Page 487] thing following from another, as an effect
from a cause. If he uses it in this sense, and means that the Britons being
subdued by the Saxons, was a necessary consequence of their having called in
these Saxons to their assistance, this consequence is drawn too abruptly, and
needed more explanation. For though it has often happened, that nations have
been subdued by their own auxiliaries, yet this is not a consequence of such a
nature that it can be assumed, as 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 another to
subjection---But when dominion or power is used, we always, as far as I know,
say, reduce under their power. Reduce to their power, is so harsh and uncommon
an expression, that, though Dean Swift’s authority in language be very great,
yet, in the use of this phrase, I am of opinion, that it would not be safe to
follow his example.
Besides these
particular inaccuracies, this Sentence is chargeable with want of unity in the
composition of the whole. The persons and the scene are too often changed upon
us---First, the Britons are mentioned, who are harassed by inroads from the
Picts; next, the Saxons appear, who subdue the greatest part of the island, and
drive the Britons into the mountains; and, lastly, the rest of the country is
introduced, and a description given of the change made upon it. All this forms
a groupe of various objects, presented in such quick succession, that the mind
finds it difficult to comprehend them under one view. Accordingly, it is quoted
in the Elements of Criticism, as an instance of a sentence rendered faulty by
the breach of unity.
[Page 488]
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
connection 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 good reason for our present language being Saxon
rather than British. This is the inference which we would naturally expect him
to draw from the premises just before laid down: But when he tells us, that
this is the reason why there are more Latin words remaining in the British
tongue than in the old Saxon, we are presently at a stand. No reason for this
inference appears. If it can be gathered at all from the foregoing deduction,
it is gathered only imperfectly. For, as he had told us, that the Britons had
some connection with the Romans, he should have also told us, in order to make
out his inference, that the Saxons never had any. The truth is, the whole of
this paragraph concerning the influence of the Latin tongue upon ours, is
careless, perplexed, and obscure. His argument required to have been more fully
unfolded, in order to make it be distinctly apprehended, and to give it its due
force. In the next paragraph, he proceeds to discourse concerning the influence
of the French tongue upon our language. The Style becomes more clear, though
not remarkable for great beauty or elegance.
[Page 489]
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 for a fashion, as it is now with us. William
the Conqueror proceeded much further, bringing over with him vast numbers of
that nation, scattering them in every monastery, giving them great quantities
of land, directing all pleadings to be in that language, and endeavouring to
make it universal in the kingdom.
On these two Sentences,
I have nothing of moment to observe. The sense is brought out clearly, and in
simple, unaffected language.
This, at least, is the
opinion generally received; but your Lordship hath fully convinced me, that the
French tongue made yet a greater progress here under Harry the Second, who had
large territories on that continent both from his father and his wife; made
frequent journeys and expeditions thither; and was always attended with a
number of his countrymen, retainers at court.
In the beginning of
this Sentence, our Author states an opposition between an opinion generally
received, and that of his Lordship; and, in compliment to his patron, he tells
us, that his Lordship had convinced him of somewhat that differed from the
general opinion. Thus one must naturally understand his words: This, at least,
is the opinion generally received; but your Lordship hath fully convinced me--
-Now here there must be an inaccuracy of expression. For, on examining what
went before, there appears no sort of opposition betwixt the generally received
opinion, and that of the Author’s patron. The general [Page 490] 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 one
another, as any can be; and therefore the opposition here affected to be stated
between them, by the adversative particle but, was improper and groundless.
For some centuries
after, there was a constant intercourse between France and England by the
dominions we possessed there, and the 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.
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 pops out upon us, and fatigues our attention in joining
all the parts together. Such a structure of a Sentence is always the mark of
careless writing. In the first member of the Sentence, a constant intercourse
between France and England, by the dominions we possessed there, and the
conquests we made, the construction is not sufficiently [Page 491] filled up.
In place of intercourse by the dominions we possessed, it should have been---by
reason of the dominions we possessed---or---occasioned by the dominions we
possessed---and in place of ---the dominions we possessed there, and the
conquests we made, the regular Style is---the dominions which we possessed
there, and the conquests which we made. The relative pronoun which, is indeed
in phrases of this kind sometimes omitted: But, when it is omitted, the Style
becomes elliptic; and though in conversation, or in the very light and easy
kinds of writing, such elliptic Style may not be improper, yet in grave and
regular writing, it is better to fill up the construction, and insert the
relative pronoun.---After having said---I could produce several instances of
both kinds, if it were of any use or entertainment---our Author begins the next
paragraph thus:
To examine into the
several circumstances by which the language of a country may be altered, would
force me to enter into a wide field.
There is nothing
remarkable in this Sentence, unless that here occurs the first instance of a
metaphor since the beginning of this treatise; entering into a wide field,
being put for beginning an extensive 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.
I shall only observe,
that the Latin, the French, and the English, seem to have undergone the same fortune.
The first from the [Page 492] days of Romulus, to those of Julius Cæsar,
suffered perpetual changes; and by what we meet in those Authors who
occasionally speak on that subject, as well as from certain fragments of old
laws, it is manifest that the Latin, three hundred years before Tully, was as
unintelligible in his time, as the French and English of the same period are
now; and these two have changed as much since William the Conqueror (which is
but little less than 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 requires a very distinct head to comprehend the whole
meaning of the period at first reading. In one part of it we find extreme
carelessness of expression. He says, it is manifest that the Latin, 300 year’s
before Tully, was as unintelligible in his time, as the English and French of
the same period are now. By the English and French of the same period, must
naturally be understood, the English and French that were spoken three hundred
years before Tully. This is the only grammatical meaning his words will bear;
and yet assuredly what he means, and what it would have been easy for him to
have expressed with more precision, is, the English and French that were spoken
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 [Page 493] than it is worth. There were many reasons
for the corruptions of the last; as the change of their government to a
tyranny, which ruined the study of eloquence, there being no further use or
encouragement for popular orators; their giving not only the freedom of the
city, but capacity for employments, to several towns in Gaul, Spain, and
Germany, and other distant parts, as far Asia, which brought a greater number
of foreign pretenders to Rome; the slavish disposition of the Senate and
people, by which the wit and eloqunece of the age were 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 invasion from the
Goths and Vandals, which are too obvious to insist on.
In the enumeration here
made of the causes contributing towards the corruption of the Roman Language,
there are many inaccuracies---The change of their government to a tyranny---of
whose government? He had indeed been speaking of the Roman language, and
therefore we guess at his meaning; but the Style is ungrammatical; for he had
not mentioned the Romans themselves; and therefore, when he says their
government, there is no antecedent in the Sentence to which the pronoun, their,
can refer with any propriety---Giving the capacity for employments to several
towns in Gaul, is a questionable expression. For though towns are sometimes put
for the people who inhabit them, yet to give a town the capacity for
employments, sounds harsh and uncouth.---The wit and eloquence of the age
wholly turned into panegyric, is a phrase which does not well express the
meaning. Neither wit not eloquence can be turned into panegyric; [Page 494] but
they may be turned towards panegyric, or, employed in panegyric, which was the
sense the Author had in view.
The conclusion of the
enumeration is visibly incorrect--The great corruption of manners, and
introduction of foreign luxury, with foreign terms to express it, with several
others that might be assigned---He means, with several other reasons. The word
reasons, had indeed been mentioned before; but as it stands at the distance of
thirteen lines backward, the repetition of it here became indispensiable, in
order to avoid ambiguity. Not to mention, he adds, the invasions from the Goths
and Vandals, which are too obvious to insist on. One would imagine him to mean,
that the invasions from the Goths and Vandals, are historical facts too well
known and obvious to be insisted on. But he means quite a different thing,
though he has not taken the proper method of 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 too obvious to
be insisted on.
I shall not pursue this
criticism any further. I have been obliged to point out many inaccuracies in
the passage which we have considered. But, in order that my observations may
not be constructed as meant to depreciate the Style or the Writings of Dean
Swift below their just value, there are two remarks, which I judge it necessary
to make before concluding this Lecture. One is, That it were unfair to estimate
an Author’s Style on the whole, by some passage in his writings, which chances
to be composed in a careless manner. This is the case with respect to this
treatise, which has much the appearance of a hasty production; [Page 495]
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,
which applies equally to Dean Swift and Mr. Addison, is, that there may be
writers much freer of such inaccuracies, as I have had occasion to point out in
these two, whose Style, however, upon the whole, may not have half their merit.
Refinement in Language has, of late years, begun to be much attended to. In
several modern productions of very small value, I should find it difficult to
point out many errors in Language. The words might, probably, be all proper
words, correctly and clearly arranged; and the turn of the sentence sonorous
and musical; whilst yet the Style, upon the whole, might deserve no praise. The
fault often lies in what may be called the general cast, or complexion of the
Style; which a person of a good taste discerns to be vicious; to be feeble, for
instance, and diffuse; flimsy or affected; petulant or ostentatious; though the
faults cannot be so easily pointed out and particularised, as when they lie in
some erroneous, or negligent construction of a sentence. Whereas, such writers
as Addison and Swift, carry always those general characters of good Style,
which, in the midst of their occasional negligences, every person of good taste
must discern and approve. We see their faults overbalanced by higher beauties.
We see a writer of sense and refletion expressing his sentiments without
affectation, attentive to thoughts as well as to words; and, in the main
current of his Language, elegant and beautiful; and, therefore, the only proper
use to be made of the blemishes [Page 496] which occur in the writings of such
authors, is to point out to those who apply themselves to the study of
composition, some of the rules which they ought to observe for avoiding such
errors; and to render them sensible of the necessity of strict attention to
Language and to Style. Let them imitate the ease and simplicity of those great
authors; let them study to be always natural, and, as far as they can, always
correct in their expressions; let them endeavour to be, at some times, lively
and striking; but carefully avoid being at any time ostentatious and affected.
END OF THE FIRST
VOLUME. [Page 1]
HAVING finished that
part of the Course which relates to Language and Style, we are now to ascend a
step higher, and to examine the subjects upon which Style is employed. I begin
with what is properly called Eloquence, or Public Speaking. In treating of
this, I am to consider the different kinds and subjects of Public Speaking; the
manner suited to each; the proper distribution and management of all the parts
of a discourse; and the proper pronunciation or delivery of it. But before
entering on any of these heads, it may be proper to take a view of the nature
of Eloquence in general, and of the state in which it has 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 [Page 2]
idea of the perfection of the art, of the end at which it aims, and of the
progress which it has made among mankind.
Of Eloquence, in
particular, it is the more necessary to ascertain the proper notion, because
there is not any thing concerning which false notions have been more prevalent.
Hence, it has been so often, and is still at this day, in disrepute with many.
When you speak to a plain man 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, of
Eloquence were what he conceives it to be. It would be then a very contemptible
art indeed, below the study of any wise or good man. But nothing can be more
remote from truth. To be truly eloquent, is to speak to the purpose. For the
best definition which, I think, can be given of Eloquence, is, the Art of
Speaking in such a manner as to attain the end for which we speak. Whenever a
man speaks or writes, he is supposed, as a rational being, to have some end in
view; either to inform, or to amuse, or to persuade, or, in some way or other,
to act upon his fellow- creatures. He who speaks, or writes, in such a manner
as to adapt all his words most effectually to that end, is the most eloquent
man. Whatever then the subject be, there is room for Eloquence; in history, or
even in philosophy, as well as in orations. The definition which I have given
of Eloquence, comprehends all the different kinds of it; whether calculated to
instruct, to persuade, or to please. But, as the most important subject of
discourse is Action, or Conduct, the [Page 3] power of Eloquence chiefly
appears when it is employed to influence Conduct, and persuade to Action. As it
is principally, with reference to this end, that it becomes the object of Art,
Eloquence may, under this view of it, be defined, The Art of Persuasion.
This being once
established, certain consequences immediately follow, which point out the
fundamental maxims of the Art. It follows clearly, that, in order to persuade,
the most essential requisites are, solid argument, clear method, a character of
probity appearing in the Speaker, joined with such graces of Style and
utterance, as shall draw our attention to what he says. Good sense is the
foundation of all. No man can be truly eloquent without it; for fools can
persaude none but fools. In order to persuade a man of sense, you must first
convince him; which is only to be done, by satisfying his understanding of the
reasonableness of what you propose to him.
This leads me to
observe, that convincing and persuading, though they are sometimes confounded,
import, notwithstanding, different things, which it is necessary for us, at
present, to distinguish from each other. Conviction affects the understanding
only; persuasion, the will and the practice. It is the business of the
philosopher to convince me of truth; it is the business of the orator to
persuade me to act agreeably to it, by engaging my affections on its side.
Conviction, and persuasion, do not always go together. They ought, indeed, to
go together; and would do so, if our inclination regularly followed the
dictates of our understanding. But as our nature is constituted, I may be
convinced, that virtue, justice, or public [Page 4] spirit, are laudable,
while, at the same time, I am not persuaded 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
inclination, or heart; and it is that which an Orator must first bend his
strength to gain: for no persuasion is likely to be stable, which is not
founded on conviction. But, in order to persuade, the Orator must go farther
than merely producing conviction; he must consider man as a creature moved by
many different springs, and must act upon them all. He must address himself to
the passions; he must paint to the fancy, and touch the heart; and, hence,
besides solid argument, and clear method, all the conciliating and interesting
arts, both of Composition and Pronunciation, enter into the idea of Eloquence.
An objection may,
perhaps, hence be formed against Eloquence; as an Art which may be employed for
persuading to ill, as well as to good. There is no doubt that it may; and so
reasoning may also be, and too often is employed, for leading men into error.
But who would think of forming an argument from this against the cultivation of
our reasoning powers? Reason, Eloquence, and every Art which ever has been
studied among mankind, may be abused, and may prove dangerous in the hands of
bad men; but it were perfectly childish to contend, that, upon this account,
they ought to be abrogated. 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 [Page 5] critical situation; let him have
some great interest at stake, and you will see him lay hold of the most
effectual means of persuasion. The Art of Oratory proposes nothing more than to
follow out that track which Nature has first pointed out to mean. 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 Eloquence and the tricks
of Sophistry.
We may distinguish
three kinds, or degrees of Eloquence. The first, and lowest, is that which aims
only at pleasing the hearers. Such, generally, is the Eloquence of panegyricks,
inaugural orations, addresses to great men, and other harangues of this sort.
This ornamental sort of composition is not altogether to be rejected. It may
innocently amuse and entertain the mind; and it may be mixed, at the same time,
with very useful sentiments. But it must be confessed, that where the Speaker
has no farther aim than merely to shine and to please, there is great danger of
Art being strained into ostentation, and of the composition becoming tiresome
and languid.
A second and a higher
degree of Eloquence is, when the Speaker aims not merely to please, but also to
inform, to instruct, to convince: when his Art is exerted, in removing
prejudices against himself and his cause, in chusing the most proper arguments,
stating them with the greatest force, arranging them in the best order,
expressing and delivering them with propriety and beauty; and thereby disposing
us to pass that judgment, or embrace that side of the cause, to which he seeks
[Page 6] to bring us. Within this compass, chiefly, is employed the Eloquence
of the bar.
But there is a third,
and still higher degree of Eloquence, wherein a greater power is exerted over
the human mind; by which we are not only convinced, but are interested,
agitated, and carried along with the Speaker; our passions are made to rise
together with his; we enter into all his emotions; we love, we detest, we
resent, according as he inspires us; and are prompted to resolve, or to act,
with vigour and warmth. Debate, in popular assemblies, opens the most
illustrious field to this species of Eloquence; and the pulpit, also, admits
it.
I am here to observe,
and the observation is of consequence, that the high Eloqunce which I have last
mentioned, is always the offspring of passion. By passion, I mean that state of
the mind in which it is agitated, and fired, by some object it has in view. A
man may convince, and even persuade others to act, by mere reason and argument.
But that degree of Eloquence which gains the admiration of mankind, and
properly denominates one an Orator, is never found without warmth, or passion.
Passion, when in such a degree as to rouse and kindle the mind, without
throwing it out of the possession of itself, is universally found to exalt all
the human powers. It renders the mind infinitely more enlightened, more
penetrating, more vigorous and masterly, than it is in its calm moments. A man,
actuated by a strong passion, becomes much greater than he is at other times.
He is conscious of more strength and force; he utters greater sentiments,
conceives higher designs, and executes them with a boldness and a felicity, of
which, on [Page 7] other occasions, he could not think himself capable. But
chiefly, with respect to persuasion, is the power of passion felt. Almost every
man, in passion, is eloquent. Then, he is at no loss for words and arguments.
He transmits to others, by a sort of contagious sympathy, the warm sentiments
which he feels; his looks and gestures are all persuasive; and Nature here
shows herself infinitely more powerful than all 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 attended to; and the mention of which will serve to
confirm the principle itself. For hence, the universally acknowledged effect of
enthusiasm, or warmth of any kind, in public Speakers, for affecting their
audience. Hence all laboured declamation, and affected ornaments of Style,
which shew 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 call a man cold, is the same thing as to say, that he
is not eloquent. Hence a sceptical man, who is always in suspense, and feels
nothing strongly; or a cunning mercenary man, who is suspected rather to assume
the appearance of passion than to feel it; have so little power over men in
Public Speaking. Hence, in fine, the necessity of being, and being belived to
be, disinterested, and in earnest, in order to persuade.
[Page 8]
These are some of the
capital ideas which have occured to me, concerning Eloquence in general; and
with whcih I have thought proper to begin, as the foundation of much of what I
am afterwards to suggest. From what I have already said, it is evident that Eloquence
is a high talent, and of great importance in society; and that it requires both
natural genius, and much improvement from Art. Viwed as the Art of Persuasion,
it requires, in its lowest state, soundness of understanding, and considerable
acquaintance with human nature; and, in its higher degrees, it requires,
moreover, strong sensibility of mind, a warm and lively imagination, joined
with correctness of judgment, and an extensive command of the power of
Language; to which must also be added, the graces of Pronunciation and
Delivery.---Let us next proceed, to consider in what state Eloquence has
subsisted in different ages and nations.
It is an observation
made by several writers, that Eloquence is to be looked for only in free
states. Longinus, in particular, at the end of his treatise on the Sublime,
when assigning the reason why so little sublimity of genius appeared in the age
wherein he lived, illustrates this observation with a great deal of beauty.
Liberty, he remarks, is the nurse of true genius; it animates the spirit, and
invigorates the hopes of men; excites honourable emulation, and a desire of
excelling in every Art. All other qualifications, he says, you may find among
those who are deprived of liberty; but never did a slave become an orator; he
can only be a pompous flatterer. Now, though this reasoning be, in the main,
true; it must, however, be understood with some limitations. For, under
arbitrary governments, if they be of the civilised kind, and give encouragement
[Page 9] to the arts, ornamental Eloquence may flourish remarkably. Witness
France at this day, where, ever since the reign of Louis XIV., more of what may
justly be called Eloquence, within a certain sphere, is to be found, than,
perhaps, in any other nation of Europe; though freedom be enjoyed by some of
them in a much greater degree. Their sermons, and orations pronounced on public
occasions, are not only polite and elegant harangues, but several of them are
uncommonly spirited, animated with bold figures, and rise to a degree of the
Sublime. Their Eloquence, however, in general, must be confessed to be of the
flowery, rather than the vigorous kind; calculated more to please and soothe,
than to convince and persuade. High, manly, and forcible Eloquence is, indeed,
to be looked for only, or chiefly, in the regions of freedom. Under arbitrary
governments, besides the general turn of softness and effeminacy which such
governments may be justly supposed to give to the spirit of a nation, the art
of speaking cannot be such an instrument of ambition, business, and power, as
it is in more democratical states. It is confined within a narrower range; it
can be exerted only in the pulpit, or at the bar; but is excluded from those
great scenes of public business, where the spirits of men have the freest play;
where important affairs are transacted, and persuasion, of course, is more
seriously studied. Wherever man can acquire most power over man by means of
reason and discourse, which certainly is under a free state of government, there
we may naturally expect that true Eloquence will be best understood, and
carried to the greatest height.
[Page 10]
Hence, in tracing the
rise of Oratory, we need not attempt to go far back into the early ages of the
world, or search for it among the monuments of Eastern or Egyptian antiquity.
In those ages, there was, indeed, an Eloquence of a certain kind; but it
approached nearer to Poetry, than to what we properly call Oratory. There is
reason to 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 enthusiasm, the parents of Poetry, had
an ample field. But while the intercourse of men was as yet unfrequent, and
force and strength were the chief means employed in deciding controversies, the
arts of Orator and Persuasion, of Reasoning and Debate, could be but little
known. The first empires that arose, the Assyrian and Egyptian, were of the
despotic kind. The whole power was in the hands of one, or at most of a few.
The multitude were accustomed to a blind reverence: they were led, not
persuaded; and none of those refinements of society; which make public speaking
an object of importance, were as yet introduced.
It is not till the rise
of the Grecian Republics, that we find any remarkable appearances of Eloquence
as the art of persuasion; and these gave it such a field as it never had
before, and, perhaps, has never had again since that time. And, therefore, as
the Grecian Eloquence has ever been the object of admiration [Page 11] to those
who have studied the powers of Speech, it is necessary, that we fix our
attention, for a little, on this period.
Greece was divided into
a multitude of petty states. These were governed, at first, by kings who were
called Tyrants, and who being, in succession, expelled from all these states,
there sprung up a great number of democratical governments, founded nearly on
the same plan, animated by the same high spirit of freedom, mutually jealous,
and rivals of each other. We may compute the flourishing period of those
Grecian states, to have lasted from the battle of Marathon, till the time of
Alexander the Great, who subdued the liberties of Greece; a period which
comprehends about 150 years, and within which are to be found most of their
celebrated poets and philosophers, but chiefly their Orators: for though poetry
and philosophy were not extinct among them after that period, yet Eloquence
hardly made any figure.
Of these Grecian
Republics, the most noted, by far, for Eloquence, and, indeed, for arts of
every kind, was that of Athens. The Athenians were an ingenious, quick,
sprightly people; practised in business, and sharpened by frequent and sudden
revolutions, which happened in their government. The genius of their government
was entirely 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, altogether, by reasoning, speaking, and a skilful application
to the passions and interests of a popular assembly. There, laws were made,
peace and war decreed, [Page 12] and thence the magistrates were chosen. For
the highest honours of the state were alike open to all; nor was the meanest
tradesman excluded from a seat in their supreme courts. In such a state,
Eloquence, it is obvious, would be much studied, as the surest means of rising
to influence and power; and what sort of Eloquence? Not that which was
brilliant merely, and showy, but that which was found, upon trial, to be most
effectual for convincing, interesting, and persuading the hearers. For there,
public speaking was not a mere competition for empty applause, but a serious
contention for that public leading, which was the great object both of the men
of ambition, and the men of virtue.
Among a nation so
enlightened and acute, and where the highest attention was paid to every thing
elegant in the arts, we may naturally expect to find the public taste refined and
judicious. Accordingly, it was improved to such a degree, that the Attic taste
and Attic manner have passed into a proverb. It is true, that ambitious
demagogues, and corrupt orators, did sometimes dazzle and mislead the people,
by a showy but false Eloquence; for the Athenians, with all their acuteness,
were factious and giddy, and great admirers of every novelty. But when some
important interest drew their attention, when any great danger roused them, and
put their judgment to a serious trial, they commonly distinguished, very
justly, between genuine and spurious Eloquence: and hence Demosthenes triumphed
over all his opponents; because he spoke always to the purpose, affected no
insignificant parade of words, used weighty arguments, and showed them clearly
where their interest lay. In critical conjunctures of the state, when [Page 13]
the public was alarmed with some pressing danger, when the people were
assembled, and proclamation was made by the crier, for any one to rise and
deliver his opinion upon the present situation of affairs, empty declamation
and sophistical reasoning would not only have been hissed, but resented and
punished by an assembly so intelligent and accustomed to business. Their
greatest Orators trembled on such occasions, when they rose to address the
people, as they knew they were to be held answerable for the issue of the
counsel which they gave. The most liberal endowments of the greatest princes
never could found such a school for true oratory, as was formed by the nature
of the Athenian Republic. Eloquence there sprung, native and vigorous, from
amidst the contentions of faction and freedom, of public business, and of
active life; and not from that retirement and speculation, which we are apt
sometimes to fancy more favourable to Eloquence than they are found to be.
Pysistratus, who was
cotemporay with Solon, and subverted his plan of government, is mentioned by
Plutarch, as the first who distinguished himself among the Athenians by
application to the Arts of Speech. His ability in these arts, he employed for
raising himself to the sovereign power; which, however, when he had attained,
he exercised with moderation. Of the Orators 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 [Page 14] General; expert in business, and of consummate
address. For forty years, he governed Athens with absolute sway; and historians
ascribe his influence, not more to his political talents than to his Eloquence,
which was of that forcible and vehement kind, that bore every thing before it,
and triumphed over the passions and affections of the people. Hence he had the
surname of Olympias given him: and it was said, that, like Jupiter, he
thundered when he spoke. Though his ambition be liable to censure, yet great
virtues certainly he had; and it was the confidence which the people reposed in
his integrity, that gave such power to his Eloquence; a circumstance, without
which the influence of public speaking in a popular state can seldom go far. He
appears to have been generous, magnanimous, and public spirited: he raised no
fortune to himself; 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 citizens of Athens, who were all distinguished for their
Eloquence. They were not Orators by profession; they were not formed by
schools, but by a much more powerful education, that of business and debate;
where man sharpened man, and civil affairs carried on by public speaking,
called forth every exertion of the mind. The manner of style of Oratory which
[Page 15] 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 degree of obscurity. "Grandes erant verbis,"
says Cicero, "crebri sententiis, compressione rerum breves, et, ob eam
ipsam causam, interdum ." A manner very different from what in modern
times we would conceive to be the Style of popular Oratory; and which tends to
give a high idea of the acuteness of those audiences to which they spoke.
The power of Eloquence
having, after the days of Pericles, become an object of greater consequence
than ever, this gave birth to a set of men till then unknown, called
Rhetoricians, and sometimes Sophists, who arose in multitudes during the
Peloponnesian war; such as 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 Sceptics. 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, l. 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 Grecian subtilty had already carried the study of [Page 16]
language. These Rhetoricians did not content themselves with delivering general
instructions concerning Eloquence to their pupils, and endeavouring to form
their taste; but they professed the art of giving them receipts for making all
sorts of Orations; and of teaching them how to speak for, and against, every
cause whatever. Upon this plan, they were the first who treated of common
places, and the artificial invention of arguments and topics for every subject.
In the hands of such men, we may easily believe that Oratory would degenerate
from the masculine strain it had hitherto held, and become a trifling and
sophistical art: and we may justly deem them the first corrupters of true
Eloquence. To them, the great Socrates opposed himself. By a profound, but
simple reasoning peculiar to himself, he exploded their sophistry; and
endeavoured to recal men’s attention 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 extant. He was a professed Rhetorician, and by
teaching Eloquence, he acquired both a great fortune, and higher fame than any
of his rivals in that profession. No contemptible Orator he was. 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: "Pompæ,"
Cicero allows, "magis quam pugnæ aptior; ad voluptatem aurium accommodatus
potius quam ad judiciorum [Page 17] ."The Style of Gorgias of Leontium was
formed into short sentences, composed generally of two members balanced against
each other. The Style of Isocrates, on the contrary, is swelling and full; and
he is said to be the first who introduced the method of composing in regular
periods, which had a studied music and harmonious cadence; a manner which he
has carried to a vicious excess. What shall we think of an orator, who employed
ten years in composing one discourse, still extant, entitled the Panegyric? How
much frivolous care must have been bestowed on all the minute elegance of words
and sentences? Dionysius of Halicarnassus has given us upon the orations of
Isocrates, as also upon those of some other Greek orators, a full and regular
treatise, which is, in my opinion, one of the most judicious pieces of ancient
criticism extant, and very worthy of being consulted. He commends the splendor
of Isocrates’s Style, and the morality of his sentiments; but severely censures
his affectation, and the uniform regular cadence 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 Treatises (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 [Page 18] 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 Isocrates prompted
Aristotle, who was nearly his cotemporary, or lived but a little after him, to
write his institutions of Rhetoric; which are indeed formed upon a plan of
Eloquence very different from that of Isocrates, and the Rhetoricians of that
time. He seems to have had it in view to direct the attention of orators much
more towards convincing and affecting their hearers, than towards the musical
cadence of periods.
Is æus and Lysias, some
of whose orations are preserved, belong also to this period. Lysias was
somewhat earlier than Isocrates, and is the model of that manner which the
ancients call the "Tenuis vel Subtilis." He has none of Isocrates’s
pomp. He is every where pure and attic in the highest degree; simple and
unaffected; but wants force, and is sometimes frigid in his . Isæus is chiefly
remarkable for being the master [Page 19] of the great Demosthenes, in whom, it
must be acknowledged, Eloquence shone forth with higher splendor, than perhaps
in any that ever bore the name of an orator, and whose manner and character,
therefore, must deserve our particular attention.
I shall not spend any
time upon the circumstances of Demosthenes’s life; they are well known. The
strong ambition which he discovered to excel in the art of speaking; the
unsuccessfulness of his first attempts; his unwearied perseverance in [Page 20]
surmounting all the disadvantages that arose from his person and address; his
shutting himself up in a cave, that he might study with less distraction; his
declaiming by the sea- shore, that he might accustom himself to the noise of a
tumultuous assembly, and with pebbles in his mouth, that he might correct a
defect in his speech; his practising at home with a naked sword hanging over
his shoulder, that he might check an ungraceful motion, to which he was
subject; all those circumstances which, we learn from Plutarch, are very
encouraging to such as study Eloquence, as they show how far art and
application may avail, for acquiring an excellence which nature seemed
unwilling to grant us.
Despising the affected
and florid manner which the Rhetoricians of that age followed, Demosthenes
returned to the forcible and manly Eloquence of Pericles; and strength and
vehemence form the principal characteristics of his Style. Never had orator a
finer field than Demosthenes in his Olynthiacs and Philippics, which are his
capital Orations; and, no doubt, to the nobleness of the subject, and to that
integrity and public spirit which eminently breathe in them, they are indebted
for much of their merit. The subject, is to rouze 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 endeavoured to lay them asleep to danger. In the prosecution of this
end, we see him taking every proper method to animate a people, renowned for
justice, 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; [Page 21] while, at the same time, with all
the art of an Orator, he recals the glory of their ancestors to their thoughts,
shows them that they are still a flourishing and a powerful people, the natural
protectors of the liberty of Greece, and who wanted only the inclination to
exert themselves, in order to make Philip tremble. With his cotemporary orators,
who were in Philip’s interest, and who persuaded the people to peace, he keeps
no measures, but plainly reproaches them as the betrayers of their country. He
not only prompts to vigorous conduct, but he lays down the plan of that
conduct; he enteres 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 demonstrations, founded
on sound reason. The figures which he uses, are never sought after; but always
rise from the subject. He employs them sparingly indeed; for splendor 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 ostentation; no methods of insinuation; no laboured
introductions; but is like a man full of his subject, who, after preparing his
audience by a sentence or two for hearing plain truths, enters directly on
business.
Demosthenes appears to
great advantage, when contrasted with Æschines in the celebrated oration
"pro Corona." Æschines [Page 22] was his rival in business, and
personal enemy; and one of the most distinguished Orators of that age. But when
we read the two orations, Æschines 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 magnanimity and high honour: the Orator speaks with that strength and
conscious dignity which great actions and public spirit alone inspire. Both
Orators use great liberties with one another; and, in general, that
unrestrained licence which ancient manners permitted, even to the length of
abusive names and downright scurrility, as appears both here and in Cicero’s
Philippics, hurts and offends a modern ear. What those ancient Orators gained
by such a manner in point of freedom and boldness, is more than compensated by
want of dignity; which seems to give an advantage, in this respect, to the
greater decency of modern speaking.
The Style of
Demosthenes is strong and concise, though sometimes, it must not be dissembled,
harsh and abrupt. His words are very expressive; his arrangement is firm and
manly; and, though far from being unmusical, yet it seems difficult to find in
him that studied, but concealed number and Rythmus, which some of the ancient
critics are fond of attributing to him. Negligent of those lesser graces, one
would rather conceive [Page 23] him to have aimed at that Sublime which lies in
sentiment. His action and pronunciation are recorded to have been uncommonly
vehement and ardent; which, from the manner of his composition, we are naturally
led to believe. The character which one forms of him, from reading his works,
is of the austere, rather than the gentle kind. He is, on every occasion,
grave, serious, passionate; takes every thing on a high tone; never lets
himself down, nor attempts any thing like pleasantry. If any fault can be found
to his admirable Eloquence, it is, that he sometimes borders on the hard and
dry. He may be thought to want smoothness and grace; which Dionysius of
Halicarnassus attributes to his imitating too closely the manner of Thucydides,
who was his great model for Style, and whose history he is said to have written
eight times over with his own hand. But these defects are far more than
compensated, by that admirable and masterly force of masculine Eloquence, which,
as it overpowered all who heard it, cannot, at this day, be read without
emotion.
After the days of
Demosthenes, Greece lost her liberty, Eloquence of course languished, and
relapsed again into the feeble manner introduced by the Rhetoricians and Sophists.
Demetrius Phalerius, who lived in the next age of Demosthenes, attained indeed
some character, but he is represented to us as a flowery, rather than a
persuasive speaker, who aimed at grace rather than substance. "Delectabat
Athenienses," says Cicero, "magis quam inflammabat." "He
amused the Athenians, rather than warmed them." And after his time, we
hear of no more Grecian Orators of any note.
[Page 24]
HAVING treated of the
rise of Eloquence, and of its state among the Greeks, we now proceed to
consider its progress among the Romans, where we shall find one model, at
least, of Eloquence, in its most splendid and illustrious form. The Romans were
long a martial 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 acknowledged the Grecians as their
masters in every part of learning. Græcia capta ferum victorem cepit, &
artes .---
Hor. Epist. ad Aug.
[Page 25]
As the Romans derived
their Eloquence, Poetry, and Learning from the Greeks, so they must be
confessed to be far inferior to them in genius for all these accomplishments.
They were a more grave and magnificent, but a less acute and sprightly people.
They had neither the vivacity nor the sensibility of the Greeks; their passions
were not so easily moved, nor their conceptions so lively; in comparison of
them, they were a phlegmatic nation. Their language resembled their character;
it was regular, firm, and stately; but wanted that simple and expressive naïveté,
and, in particular, that flexibility to suit every different mode and species
of composition, for which the Greek tongue is distinguished above that of every
other country. Graiis ingenium, graiis dedit ore rotundo
Ars. Poet.
And hence, when we
compare together the various rival productions of Greece and Rome, we shall
always find this distinction obtain, that in the Greek productions there is
more native genius; in the Roman, more regularity and art. What the Greeks
invented, the Romans 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 popular kind, there is no doubt but
that, in the hands of the [Page 26] leading men, public speaking became early
an engine of government, and was employed for gaining distinction and power.
But in the rude unpolished times of the State, their speaking was hardly of
that sort that could be called Eloquence. Though Cicero, in his Treatise
"de Claris Oratoribus," endeavours to give some reputation to the
elder Cato, and those who were his cotemporaries, yet he acknowledges it to have
been "Asperum et horridum genus dicendi," a rude and harsh strain of
speech. It was not till a short time preceding Cicero’s age, that the Roman
Orators rose into any note. Crassus and Antonius, two of the Speakers in the
dialogue De Oratore, appear to have been the most eminent, whose different
manners Cicero describes with great beauty in that dialogue, and in his other
rhetorical works. But as none of their productions are extant, nor any of
Hortensius’s who was Cicero’s cotemporary and rival at the bar, it is needless
to transcribe from Cicero’s writings the account which he gives of those great
men, and of the character of their Eloquence.
The object in this
period, most worthy to draw our attention, is Cicero himself; whose name alone
suggests every thing that is splendid in Oratory. With the history of his life,
and with his character, as a man and a politician, we have not at present any direct
concern. We consider him only as an eloquent Speaker; and, in this view, it is
our business to remark [Page 27] both his virtues, and his defects, if he has
any. His virtues are, beyond controversy, eminently great. In all his Orations
there is high art. He begins, generally, with a regular exordium; and with much
preparation and insinuation prepossessesthe hearers, and studies to gain their
affections. His method is clear, and his arguments are arranged with great
propriety. His method is indeed more clear than that of Demosthenes;and this is
one advantage which he has over him. We find every thing in its proper place;
he never attempts to move, till he has endeavoured to convince; and in moving,
especially the softer passions, he is very successful. No man that ever wrote,
knew the power and force of words better than Cicero. He rolls them along with
the greatest beauty and pomp; and, in the structure of his sentences, is
curious and exact to the highest degree. He is always full and flowing, never abrupt.
He is a great amplifier of every subject; magnificent, and in his sentiments
highly moral. His manner is on the whole diffuse, yet it is often happily
varied, and suited to the subject. In his four orations, for instance, against
Catiline, the tone and style of each of them, particularly the first and last,
is very different, and 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 inclines at
other times, and becomes exceedingly cogent and vehement. This is the case in
his Orations against Anthony, and in those too against Verres and Catiline.
[Page 28]
Together with those
high qualities which Cicero possesses, he is not exempt from certain defects,
of which it is necessary to take notice. For the Ciceronian Eloquence is a
pattern so dazzling by its beauties, that, if not examined with accuracy and
judgment, it is apt to betray the unwary into a faulty imitation; and I am of
opinion, that it has sometimes produced this effect. In most of his Orations,
especially those composed in the earlier part of his life, there is too much
art; even carried the length of ostentation. There is too visible a parade of
Eloquence. He seems often to aim at obtaining admiration, rather than at
operating conviction, by what he says. Hence, on some occasions, he is showy
rather than solid; and diffuse, where he ought to have been pressing. His
sentences are, at all times, round and sonorous; they cannot be accused of
monotony, for they possess variety of cadence; but, from too great a study of
magnificence, he is sometimes deficient in strength. On all occasions, where there
is the least room for it, he is full of himself. His great actions, and the
real services which he had performed to his country, apologize for this in
part; ancient manners, too, imposed 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 Eloquence, were not unobserved by his own
cotemporaries. This we learn from Quinctilian, and from the author of the
dialogue, "de Causis Corruptæ Eloquentiæ." Brutus, we are informed,
called him, "fractum et elumbem," broken and [Page 29] enervated.
"Suorum temporum homines," says Quinctilian, "incessere audebant
eum ut tumidiorem & Asianum, et redundantem, et in repititionibus nimium,
et in salibus aliquando frigidum, & in compositione fractum et exsultantem,
& penè viro molliorem ." These censures were undoubtedly carried too
far; and favour of malignity and personal enmity. They saw his defects, but
they aggravated them; and the source of these aggravations can be traced to the
difference which prevailed in Rome, in Cicero’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 Cicero as having departed, and as leaning to
the florid Asiatic manner. In several of his rhetorical works, particularly in
his "Orator ad Brutum," Cicero, in his turn, endeavours to expose
this sect, as substituting a frigid and jejune manner, in place of the true
Attic Eloquence; and contends, that his own composition was formed upon the
real Attic Style. In the 10th Chapter of the last Book of Quinctilian’s
Institutions, a full account is given of the disputes between these two
parties; and of the Rhodian, or middle manner between the Attics and the
Asiatics. Quinctilian 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 observation: "Plures sunt
eloquentiæ facies; fed stultissimum est quærere, [Page 30] ad quam recturus se
sit orator; cum omnis species, quæ modo recta est, habeat usum.---Utetur enim,
ut res exiget, omnibus; nec pro causa modo, sed pro partibus ."
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 concise 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. [Page 31]
Almost all the public business of Athens was transacted in popular Assemblies.
The common people were his hearers, and his judges. Whereas Cicero generally
addressed himself to the "Patres Conscripti," or in criminal trials
to the Prætor, and the Select Judges; and it cannot be imagined, that the
persons of highest rank, and best education in Rome, required a more diffuse
manner of pleading than the common citizens of Athens, in order to make them
understand the cause, or relish the Speaker. Perhaps we shall come nearer the
truth, by observing, that to unite together all the qualities, without the
least exception, that form a perfect Orator, and to excel equally in each of
those qualities, is not to be expected from the limited powers of human genius.
The highest degree of strength is, I suspect, never found united with the
highest degree of smoothness and ornament; equal attentions to both are
incompatible; and the genius that carries ornament to its utmost length, is not
of such a kind, as can excel as much in vigour. For there plainly lies the
characteristical difference between these two celebrated Orators.
It is a disadvantage to
Demosthenes, that, besides his conciseness, which sometimes produces obscurity,
the language, in which he writes, is less familiar to most of us than the
Latin, and that we are less acquainted with the Greek antiquities than we are
with the 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 notwithstanding this advantage, I am
of opinion, that were the state in danger, or some great public interest at
stake, which drew the serious attention of men, an Oration in the spirit and
[Page 32] strain of Demosthenes, would have more weight, and produce greater
effects than one in the Ciceronian manner. Were Demosthenes’s Philippics spoken
in a British Assembly, in a similar conjuncture of affairs, they would convince
and persuade at this day. The rapid Style, the vehement reasoning, the disdain,
anger, boldness, freedom, which perpetually 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 however well
suited to the Roman taste, yet borders oftener on declamation, and is more
remote from the manner in which we now expect to hear real business and causes
of importance .
In comparing Demosthenes
and Cicero, most of the French Critics incline to give the preference to the
latter. P. Rapin the Jesuit, in the Parallels which he has drawn between some
of the most eminent Greek and Roman writer, uniformly decides in favour of the
Roman. For the preference which he gives to Cicero, he assigns, and lays stress
on one reason of a pretty extraordinary nature; viz. that 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 Aristotle’s treatise
of Rhetoric, wherein, says our Critic, he has fully laid open that mystery:
and, to support this weighty argument, he enters into a controversy with A.
Gellius, in order to prove that Aristotle’s Rhetoric was not [Page 33]
published till after Demosthenes had spoken, at least, his most considerable
orations. Nothing can be more childish. Such Orators as Cicero and Demosthenes,
derived their knowledge of the human passions, and their power of moving them, from
higher sources than any Treatise of Rhetoric. One French Critic has indeed
departed from the common tract; and, after bestowing on Cicero those just
praises to which the consent of so many ages shows him to be entitled,
concludes, however, with giving the palm to Demosthenes. This is Fenelon, the
famous Archbishop of Cambray, and Author of Telemachus; himself surely no enemy
to all the graces and flowers of composition. It is in his Reflections on
Rhetoric and Poetry, that he gives this judgment; a small tract, commonly
published along with his Dialogues . These dialogues and reflections are
particularly worthy of perusal, as containing, I think, the justest [Page 34]
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, an 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
liberty, continued, for a while, to prevail; but for that masculine Eloquence,
which had exercised itself in the senate, and in the public affairs, there was
no longer any place. The change which was produced on Eloquence, by the nature
of the government, and the state of the public manners, is beautifully
described in the Dialogue de Causis corruptæ Eloquentiæ, which is attributed,
by some, to Tacitus, by others, to Quinctilian. Luxury, effeminacy, and
flattery, overwhelmed all. The Forum, where so many great affairs had been
transacted, was now become a desert. Private causes were still pleaded; but the
Public was no longer interested; nor any general attention drawn to what passed
there: "Unus inter hæc, et alter, dicenti assistit; et res velut in
solitudine agitur. Oratori autem clamore plausuque opus eft, et velut quodam
theatro, qualia quotidie antiquis oratoribus contingebant; cum tot ac tam nobiles
forum coarctarent; cum clientelæ, & tribus, & municipiorum legationes,
[Page 35] periclitantibus assisterent; cum in plerisque judiciis crederet
populus Romanus sua interesse quid ."
In the schools of the
declaimers, the corruption of Eloquence was completed. Imaginary and fantastic
subjects, such as had no reference to real life, or business, were made the
themes of declamation; and all manner of false and affected ornaments were
brought into vogue: "Pace vestra liceat "dixisse," says
Petronius Arbiter, to the declaimers of his time, primi omnem eloquentiam
perdidistis. Levibus enim ac inanibus sonis ludibria quædam excitando,
effecistis ut corpus orationis enervaretur atque caderet. Et ideo ego existimo
adolescentulos in scholis stultissimos fieri, quia nihil ex iis, quæ in usu
habemus, aut audiunt, aut vident; fed piratas cum catenis in littore stantes;
et tyrannos edicta scribentes quibus imperent filiis ut patrum fuorum capita præcidant;
fed responsa, in pestilentia data, ut virgines tres aut plures immolentur; fed
mellitos verborum globulos, & omnia quasi papavere, & sesamo spara. Qui
inter hæc nutriuntur, non magis sapere possunt, quam bene olere qui in culina
habitant ." In the hands of the Greek rhetoricians, the manly [Page 36]
and sensible Eloquence of their first noted speakers, degenerated, as I
formerly showed, into subtility and sophistry; in the hands of the Roman
declaimers, it passed into the quaint and affected; into point and antithesis.
This corrupt manner begins to appear in the writings of Seneca; and shows
itself, also, in the famous panegyric of Pliny the Younger on Trajan, which may
be considered as the last effort of Roman oratory. Though the author was a man
of genius, yet it is deficient in nature and ease. We see, throughout the
whole, a perpetual attempt to depart from the ordinary way of thinking, and to
support a forced elevation.
In the decline of the
Roman Empire, the introduction of Christianity gave rise to a new species of
Eloquence, in the apologies, sermons, and pastoral writings of the Fathers of
the Church. Among the Latin Fathers, Lactantius and Minutius Felix, are the
most remarkable for purity of Style; and, in a later age, the famous St.
Augustine possesses a considerable share of sprightliness and strength. But
none of the Fathers afford any just models of Eloquence. Their Language, as
[Page 37] soon as we descend to the third or fourth century, becomes harsh; and
they are, in general, infected with the taste of that age, a love of swoln and
strained thoughts, and of the play of words. Among the Greek Fathers, the most
distinguished, by far, for his oratorial merit, is St. Chrysostome. His
Language is pure; his Style highly figured. He is copious, smooth, and
sometimes pathetic. But he retains, at the same time, much of that character
which has been always attributed to the Asiatic Eloquence, 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 of
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, Public Speaking has been considered as so great an
object, or been cultivated with so much care, as in Greece or Rome. Its
reputation has never been so high; its effects have never been so considerable;
nor has that high and sublime kind of it, which prevailed in those antient
states, been so much as aimed at: notwithstanding, too, that a new profession
has been established, which gives peculiar advantages to Oratory, and affords
it the noblest field; I mean, that of the Church. The genius of the world
seems, in this respect, to have undergone some alteration. The two countries
where we might expect to find most of the spirit of Eloquence, are France and
Great Britain: France, on account of the distinguished turn of the nation
towards all the liberal arts, and of the encouragement which, for this century
past, those arts [Page 38] have received from the Public; Great Britain, on
account both of the public capacity and genius, and of the free government
which it enjoys. Yet, so it is, that, in neither of those countries, has the
talent of Public Speaking risen near to the degree of its antient splendor.
While, in other productions of genius, both in prose and in poetry, they have
contended for the prize with Greece and Rome; nay, in some compositions, may be
thought to have surpassed them: the names of Demosthenes and Cicero, stand, at
this day, unrivalled in fame; and it would be held presumptuous and absurd, to
pretend to place any modern whatever on the fame, or even on a nearly equal,
rank.
It seems particularly
surprising, that Great Britain should not have made a more conspicuous figure
in Eloquence than it has hitherto attained; when we consider the enlightened,
and, at the same time, the free and bold genius of the country, which seems not
a little to favour Oratory; and when we consider that, of all the polite
nations, it alone possesses a popular government, or admits into the
legislature, such numerous assemblies as can be supposed to lie under the
dominion of Eloquence . Notwithstanding this advantage, it must be confessed,
that, in most parts of Eloquence, we are undoubtedly inferior, not only to the
Greeks and Romans by many degrees, but also to the French. We have
Philosophers, eminent [Page 39] and conspicuous, perhaps, beyond any nation, in
all the parts of science. We have both taste and erudition, in a high degree.
We have Historians, we have Poets of the greatest name; but of Orators, or
Public Speakers, how little have we to boast? And where are the monuments of
their genius to be found? in every period we have had some who made a figure,
by managing the debates in Parliament; but that figure was commonly owing to
their wisdom, or their experience in business, more than to their talents for
Oratory; and unless, in some few instances, wherein the power of Oratory has
appeared, indeed, with much lustre, the art of Parliamentary Speaking rather
obtained to several a temporary applause, than conferred upon any a lasting
renown. At the bar, though, questionless, we have many able pleaders, yet few
or none of their pleadings have been thought worthy to be transmitted to
posterity; nor have commanded attention, any longer than the cause which was
the subject of them interested the Public; while, in France, the pleadings of
Patru, in the former age, and those of Cochin and D’Aguesseau, in later times,
are read with pleasure, and are often quoted as examples of Eloquence by the
French critics. In the same manner, in the pulpit, the British divines have
distinguished themselves by the most accurate and rational compositions which,
perhaps, any nation can boast of. Many printed sermons we have, full of good
sense, and of sound divinity and morality; but the Eloquence to be found in
them, the power of persuasion, of interesting and engaging the heart, which is,
or ought to be, the great object of the pulpit, is far from bearing a suitable
proportion to the excellence of the matter. There are few arts, in my opinion,
farther from perfection, than that of preaching is among us; the reasons of
which, I shall afterwards [Page 40] have occasion to discuss; in proof of the
fact, it is sufficient to observe, that an English sermon, instead of being a
persuasive animated Oration, seldom rises beyond the strain of correct and dry
reasoning. Whereas, in the sermons 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
execution, as was naturally to be expected, have been more correct. In France,
the style of their Orators is ornamented with bolder figures; and their
discourse carried on with more amplification, more warmth and elevation. The
composition is often very beautiful; but sometimes, also, too diffuse, and
deficient in that strength and cogency which renders Eloquence powerful: a
defect owing, perhaps, in part, to the genius of the people, which leads them
to attend fully as much to ornament as to substance; and, in part, to the nature
of their government, which, by excluding Public Speaking from having much
influence on the conduct of Public Affairs, deprives Eloquence of its best
opportunity for acquiring nerves and strength. Hence the pulpit is the
principal field which is left for their Eloquence. The members, too, of the
French academy give harangues at their admission, in which genius often
appears; but labouring under the misfortune of [Page 41] having no subject to
discourse upon, they run commonly into flattery and panegyric, the most barren
and insipid of all topics.
I observed before, that
the Greeks and Romans aspired to a more sublime species of Eloquence, than is
aimed at by the Moderns. Theirs was of the vehement and passionate kind, by
which they endeavoured to inflame the minds of their hearers, and hurry their
imaginations away: and, suitable to this vehemence of thought, was their
vehemence of gesture and action; the "supplosio pedis ," the
"percussio frontis & ," were, as we learn from Cicero’s writings,
usual gestures among them at the bar; though now they would be reckoned
extravagant any where, except upon the stage. Modern Eloquence is much more
cool and temperate; and in Great Britain especially, has confined itself almost
wholly to the argumentative and rational. It is much of that species which the
antient critics called the "Tenuis," or "Subtilis;" which
aims at convincing and instructing, rather than affecting the passions, and
assumes a tone not much higher than common argument and discourse.
Several reasons may be
given, why modern Eloquence has been so limited, and humble in its efforts. In
the first place, I am of opinion, that this change must, in part, be ascribed
to that correct turn of thinking, which has been so much studied in modern
times. It can hardly be doubted, that, in many efforts of mere genius, the
antient Greeks and Romans excelled [Page 42] us; but, on the other hand, that,
in accuracy and closeness of reasoning on many subjects, we have some advantage
over them, ought, I think, to be admitted also. In proportion as the world has
advanced, philosophy has made greater progress. A certain strictness of good
sense has, in this island particularly, been cultivated, and introduced into
every subject. Hence we are more on our guard against the flowers of Elocution;
we are on the watch; we are jealous of being deceived by Oratory. Our Public
Speakers are obliged to be more reserved than the antients, in their attempts
to elevate the imagination, and warm the passions; and, by the influence of prevailing
taste, their own genius is sobered and chastened, perhaps, in too great a
degree. It is likely too, I confess, that what we fondly ascribe to our
correctness and good sense, is owing, in a great measure, to our phlegm and
natural coldness. For the vivacity and sensibility of the Greeks and Romans,
more especially of the former, seem to have been much greater than ours, and to
have given them a higher relish of all the beauties of Oratory.
Besides these national
considerations, we must, in the next place, attend to peculiar circumstances in
the three great scenes of Public Speaking, which have proved disadvantageous to
the growth of Eloquence among us. Though the Parliament of Great Britain be the
noblest field which Europe, at this day, affords to a Public Speaker, yet
Eloquence has never been so powerful an instrument there, as it was in the
popular assemblies of Greece and Rome. Under some former reigns, the [Page 43]
high hand of arbitrary power bore a violent sway; and in later times, ministerial
influence has generally prevailed. The power of Speaking, though always
considerable, yet has been often found too feeble to counterbalance either of
these; and, of course, has not been studied with so much zeal and fervour, as
where its effect on business was irresistible and certain.
At the Bar, our
disadvantage, in comparison of the antients, is great. Among them, the judges
were generally numerous; the laws were few and simple; the decision of causes
was left, in a great measure, to equity and the sense of mankind. Here was an
ample field for what they termed Judicial Eloquence. But among the moderns, the
case is quite altered. The system of law is become much more complicated. The
knowledge of it is thereby rendered so laborious an attainment, as to be the
chief object of a lawyer’s education, and, in a manner, the study of his life.
The Art of Speaking is but a secondary accomplishment, to which he can afford
to devote much less of his time and labour. The bounds of Eloquence besides,
are now much circumscribed at the Bar; and except, in a few cases, reduced to
arguing from strict law, statute, or precedent; by which means knowledge, much
more than Oratory, is become the principal requisite.
With regard to the
Pulpit, it has certainly been a great disadvantage, that the practice of
reading Sermons, instead of repeating them from memory, has prevailed so
universally in England. This may, indeed, have introduced accuracy; but it has
done great prejudice to Eloquence; for a Discourse read, [Page 44] is far
inferior to an Oration spoken. It leads to a different sort of composition, as
well as of delivery; and can never have an equal effect upon any audience.
Another circumstance, too, has been unfortunate. The sectaries and fanatics,
before the Restoration, adopted a warm, zealous, and popular manner of
preaching; and those who adhered to them, in after-times, continued to
distinguish themselves by somewhat of the same manner. The odium of these sects
drove the established church from that warmth which they were judged to have
carried too far, into the opposite extreme of a studied coolness, and composure
of manner. Hence, from the art of persuasion, which preaching ought always to
be, it has passed, in England, into mere reasoning and instruction; which not only
has brought down the Eloquence of the Pulpit to a lower tone than it might
justly assume; but has produced this farther effect, that, by accustoming the
Public ear to such cool and dispassionate Discourses, it has tended to fashion
other kinds of Public Speaking upon the same model.
Thus I have given some
view of the state of Eloquence in modern times, and endeavoured to account for
it. It has, as we have seen, fallen below that splendor which it maintained in
antient ages; and from being sublime and vehement, has come down to be
temperate and cool. Yet, still in that region which it occupies, it admits
great scope; and, to the defect of zeal and application, more than to the want
of capacity and genius, we may ascribe its not having hitherto risen higher. It
is a field where there is much honour yet to be reaped: it is an instrument
which may be employed for [Page 45] purposes of the highest importance. The
antient models may still, with much advantage, be set before us for imitation;
though, in that imitation, we must, doubtless, have some regard to what modern
taste and modern manners will bear; of which I shall afterwards have occasion
to say more.
[Page 46]
AFTER the preliminary
views which have been given of the nature of Eloquence in general, and of the
state in which it has subsisted in different ages and countries, I am now to
enter on considering the different kinds of Public Speaking, the distinguishing
characters of each, and the rules which relate to them. The ancients divided
all Orations into three kinds; the Demonstrative, the Deliberative, and the
Judicial. The scope of the Demonstrative was to praise or to blame; that of the
Deliberative to advise or to dissuade; that of the Judicial, to accuse or to
defend. The chief subjects of Demonstrative Eloquence, were Panegyrics,
Invectives, Gratulatory and Funeral Orations. The Deliberative was employed in
matters of public concern, agitated in the Senate, or before the Assemblies of
the People. The Judicial is the same with the Eloquence [Page 47] of the Bar,
employed in addressing Judges, who have power to absolve or to condemn. This
division runs through all the ancient Treatises on Rhetoric; and is followed by
the moderns, who copy them. It is a division not inartificial; and comprehends
most, or all of the matters which can be the subject of Public Discourse. It
will, however, suit our purpose better, and be found, I imagine, more useful,
to follow that division which the train of Modern Speaking naturally points out
to us, taken from the three great scenes of Eloquence, Popular Assemblies, the
Bar, and the Pulpit; each of which has a distinct character that particularly
suits it. This division coincides in part with the ancient one. The Eloquence
of the Bar is precisely the same with what the ancients called the Judicial.
The Eloquence of Popular Assemblies, though mostly of what they term the
Deliberative Species, yet admits also of the Demonstrative. The Eloquence of
the Pulpit is altogether of a distinct nature, and cannot be properly reduced
under any of the heads of the ancient Rhetoricians.
To all the three,
Pulpit, Bar, and Popular Assemblies, belong, in common, the rules concerning
the conduct of a discourse in all its parts. Of those rules I purpose
afterwards to treat at large. But before proceeding to them, I intend to show,
first, what is peculiar to each of these three kinds of Oratory, in their
spirit, character, or manner. For every species of Public Speaking has a manner
or character peculiarly suited to it; of which it is highly material to have a
just idea, in order to direct the application of general rules. The Eloquence
of a Lawyer is fundamentally different from that of a Divine, or a Speaker in
Parliament: and to have a precise and proper idea of the distinguishing [Page
48] character which any kind of Public Speaking requires, is the foundation of
what is called a just taste in that kind of Speaking.
Laying aside any
question concerning the pre-eminence in point of rank, which is due to any one
of the three kinds before mentioned, I shall begin with that which tends to
throw most light upon the rest, viz. the Eloquence of Popular Assemblies. The
most august Theatre for this kind of Eloquence, to be found in any nation of
Europe, is, beyond doubt, the Parliament of Great Britain. In meetings too, of
less dignity, it may display itself. Wherever there is a popular court, or
wherever any number of men are assembled for debate or consultation, there, in
different forms, this species of Eloquence may take place.
Its object is, or ought
always to be, Persuasion. There must be some end proposed; some point, most
commonly of public utility or good, in favour of which we seek to determine the
hearers. Now, in all attempts to persuade men, we must proceed upon this
principle, that it is necessary to convince their understanding. Nothing can be
more erroneous, than to imagine, that, because Speeches to Popular Assemblies admit
more of a declamatory Style than some other discourses, they therefore stand
less in need of being supported by sound reasoning. When modelled upon this
false idea, they may have the show, but never can produce the effect, of real
Eloquence. Even the show of Eloquence which they make, will please only the
trifling and superficial. For, with all tolerable judges, indeed almost with
all men, mere declamation soon becomes insipid. Of [Page 49] whatever rank the
hearers be, a Speaker is never to presume, that by a frothy and ostentatious
harangue, without solid sense and argument, he can either make impression on
them, or acquire same to himself. It is, at least, a dangerous experiment; for,
where such an artifice succeeds once, it will fail ten times. Even the common
people are better judges of argument and good sense, than we sometimes think
them; and upon any question of business, a plain man, who speaks to the point
without art, will generally prevail over the most artful Speaker who deals in
flowers and ornament, rather than in reasoning. Much more, when Public Speakers
address themselves to any Assembly where there are persons of education and
improved understanding, they ought to be careful not to trifle with their
hearers.
Let it be ever kept in
view, that the foundation of all that can be called Eloquence, is good sense,
and solid thought. As popular as the Orations of Demosthenes were, spoken to
all the citizens of Athens, every one who looks into them, must see how fraught
they are with argument; and how important it appeared to him, to convince the
understanding, in order to persuade, or to work on the principles of action.
Hence their influence in his own time; hence their fame at this day. Such a
pattern as this, Public Speakers ought to set before them for imitation, rather
than follow the tract of those loose and frothy Declaimers, who have brought
discredit on Eloquence. Let it be their first study, in addressing any Popular
Assembly, to be previously masters of the business on which they are to speak;
to be well provided with matter and argument; and to rest upon these the chief
stress. This will always give to their [Page 50] discourse an air of manliness
and strength, which is a powerful instrument of persuasion. Ornament, if they
have genius for it, will follow of course; at any rate it demands only their
secondary study: "Cura sit verborum; solicitudo rerum."--- "To
your expression be attentive, but about your matter be solicitous," is an
advice of Quinctilian, which cannot be too often recollected by all who study
Oratory.
In the next place, in
order to be persuasive Speakers in a Popular Assembly, it is, in my opinion, a
capital rule, that we be ourselves persuaded of whatever we recommend to
others. Never, when it can be avoided, ought we to espouse any side of the
argument, but what we believe to be the true and the right one. Seldom or never
will a man be eloquent, but when he is in earnest, and uttering his own
sentiments. They are only the "veræ voces ab imo pectore," the
unassumed language of the heart or head, that carry the force of conviction. In
a former Lecture, when entering on this subject, I observed, that all high
Eloquence must be the offspring of passion, or warm emotion. It is this which
makes every man persuasive; and gives a force to his genius, which it possesses
at no other time. Under what disadvantage then is he placed, who, not feeling
what he utters, must counterfeit a warmth to which he is a stranger?
I know, that young
people, on purpose to train themselves to the Art of Speaking, imagine it
useful to adopt that side of the question under debate, which, to themselves,
appears the weakest, and to try what figure they can make upon it. But, I am
afraid, this is not the most improving education for Public [Page 51] Speaking;
and that it tends to form them to a habit of flimsy and trivial discourse. Such
a liberty they should, at no time, allow themselves unless in meetings where no
real business is carried on, but where declamation and improvement in Speech is
the sole aim. Nor even in such meetings, would I recommend it as the most
useful exercise. They will improve themselves to more advantage, and acquit
themselves with more honour, by choosing always that side of the debate to
which, in their own judgment, they are most inclined, and supporting it by what
seems to themselves most solid and persuasive. They will acquire the habit of
reasoning colsely, and expressing themselves with warmth and force, much more
when they are adhering to their own sentiments, than when they are speaking in
contradiction to them. In assemblies where any real business is carried on,
whether that business be of much importance or not, it is always of dangerous
consequence for young practitioners to make trial of this sort of play of
Speech. It may fix an imputation on their characters before they are aware; and
what they intended merely as amusement, may be turned to the discredit, either
of their principles or their understanding.
Debate, in Popular
Courts, seldom allows the Speaker that full and accurate preparation before hand,
which the Pulpit always, and the Bar sometimes, admits. The arguments must be
suited to the course which the Debate takes; and as no man can exactly foresee
this, one who trusts to a set Speech, composed in his closet, will, on many
occasions, be thrown out of the ground which he had taken. He will find it
pre-occupied by others, or his reasonings superseded by some new turn of the
business; and, if he ventures to use his prepared Speech, [Page 52] it will be
frequently at the hazard of making an awkward figure. There is a general
prejudice with us, and not wholly an unjust one, against set Speeches in Public
Meetings. The only occasion, when they have any propriety, is, at the opening
of a debate, when the Speaker has it in his power to choose his field. But as
the Debate advances, and parties warm, discourses of this kind become more
unsuitable. They want the native air; the appearance of being suggested by the
business that is going on; study and ostentation are apt to be visible; and, of
course, though applauded as elegant, they are seldom so persuasive as more free
and unconstrained discourses.
This, however, does not
by any means conclude against premeditation of what we are to say; the neglect
of which, and the trusting wholly to extemporaneous efforts, will unavoidably
produce the habit of speaking in a loose and undigested manner. But the
premeditation which is of most advantage, in the case which we now consider, is
of the subject or argument in general, rather than of nice composition on any particular
branch of it. With regard to the matter, we cannot be too accurate in our
preparation, so as to be fully masters of the business under consideration;
but, with regard to words and expression, it is very possible so far to overdo,
as to render our Speech stiff and precise. Indeed, till once persons acquire
that firmness, that presence of mind, and command of expression, in a Public
Meeting, which nothing but habit and practice can bestow, it may be proper for
a young Speaker to commit to memory the whole of what he is to say. But, after
some performances of this kind have given him boldness, he will find it the
better method not to confine himself so strictly; [Page 53] but only to write,
beforehand, some Sentences with which he intends to set out, in order to put
himself fairly in the train; and, for the rest, to set down short notes of the
topics, or principal thoughts upon which he is to insist, in their order,
leaving the words to be suggested by the warmth of discourse. Such short notes
of the substance of the discourse, will be found of considerable service, to
those, especially, who are beginning to speak in public. They will accustom
them to some degree of accuracy, which, if they speak frequently, they are in
danger too soon of losing. They will even accustom them to think more closely
on the subject in question; and will assist them greatly in arranging their
thoughts with method and order.
This leads me next to
observe, that in all kinds of Public Speaking, nothing is of greater
consequence than a proper and clear method. I mean not that formal method of
laying down heads and subdivisions, which is commonly practised in the Pulpit;
and which, in Popular Assemblies, unless the Speaker be a man of great
authority and character, and the subject of great importance, and the
preparation too very accurate, is rather in hazard of disgusting the hearers:
such an introduction presenting always the melancholy prospect of a long
discourse. But though the method be not laid down in form, no discourse, of any
length, should be without method; that is, every thing should be found in its
proper place. Every one who speaks, will find it of the greatest advantage to
himself to have previously arranged his thoughts, and classed under proper
heads, in his own mind, what he is to deliver. This will assist his memory, and
carry him through his discourse, without that confusion to [Page 54] which one
is every moment subject, who has fixed no distinct plan of what he is to say.
And with respect to the hearers, order in discourse is absolutely necessary for
making any proper impression. It adds both force and light to what is said. It
makes them accompany the Speaker easily and readily, as he goes along; and
makes them feel the full effect of every argument which he employs. Few things,
therefore, deserve more to be attended to than distinct arrangement: for
Eloquence, however great, can never produce entire conviction without it. Of
the rules of method, and the proper distribution of the several parts of a
discourse, I am hereafter to treat.
Let us now consider of
the Style and Expression suited to the Eloquence of Popular Assemblies. Beyond
doubt, these give scope for the most animated manner of Public Speaking. The
very aspect of a large Assembly, engaged in some debate of moment, and
attentive to the discourse of one man, is sufficient to inspire that man with
such elevation and warmth, as both gives rise to strong expressions, and gives
them propriety. Passion easily rises in a great Assembly, where the movements are
communicated by mutual sympathy between the Orator and the Audience. Those bold
figures, of which I treated formerly as the native Language of passion, then
have their proper place. That ardour of Speech, that vehemence and glow of
Sentiment, which arise from a mind animated and inspired by some great and
public object, form the peculiar characteristics of Popular Eloquence, in its
highest degree of perfection.
The liberty, however,
which we are now giving of the strong and passionate manner to this kind of
Oratory, must be [Page 55] always understood with certain limitations and
restraints, which, it will be necessary to point out distinctly, in order to
guard against dangerous mistakes on this subject.
As first, The warmth
which we express must be suited to the occasion and the subject: for nothing
can be more preposterous, than an attempt to introduce great vehemence into a
subject, which is either of slight importance, or which, by its nature,
requires to be treated of calmly. A temperate tone of Speech, is that for which
there is most frequent occasion; and he who is, on every subject, passionate
and vehement, will be considered as a blusterer, and meet with little regard.
In the second place, We
must take care never to counterfeit warmth without feeling it. This always
betrays persons into an unnatural manner, which exposes them to ridicule. For,
as I have often suggested, to support the appearance, without the real feeling
of passion, is one of the most difficult things in nature. The disguise can almost
never be so perfect, but it is discovered. The heart can only answer to the
heart. The great rule here, as indeed in every other case, is, to follow
nature; never to attempt a strain of Eloquence which is not seconded by our own
genius. One may be a Speaker, both of much reputation and much influence, in
the calm argumentative manner. To attain the pathetic, and the sublime of
Oratory, requires those strong sensibilities of mind, and that high power of
expression, which are given to few.
In the third place,
Even when the subject justifies the vehement manner, and when genius prompts
it; when warmth is [Page 56] felt, not counterfeited; we must, however, set a
guard on ourselves, not to allow impetuosity to transport us too far. Without
emotion in the speaker, Eloquence, as was before observed, will never produce
its highest effects; but, at the same time, if the Speaker lose command of
himself, he will soon lose command of his audience too. He must never kindle
too soon: he must begin with moderation; and study to carry his hearers along
with him, as he warms in the progress of his discourse. For, if he runs before
in the course of passion, and leaves them behind; if they are not tuned, if we
may speak so, unison to him, the discord will presently be felt, and be very
grating. Let a Speaker have never so good reason to be animated and fired by
his subject, it is always expected of him, that the awe and regard due to his
Audience should lay a decent restraint upon his warmth, and prevent it from
carrying him beyond certain bounds. If, when most heated by the subject, he can
be so far master of himself as to preserve close attention to argument, and
even to some degree of correct expression, this self-command, this exertion of
reason, in the midst of passion, has a wonderful effect both to please, and to
persuade. It is indeed the master-piece, the highest attainment of Eloquence;
uniting the strength of reason, with the vehemence of passion; affording all
the advantages of passion for the purpose of persuasion, without the confusion
and disorder which are apt to accompany it.
In the fourth place, in
the highest and most animated strain of popular speaking, we must always
preserve regard to what the public ear will bear. This direction I give, in
order to guard against an injudicious imitation of ancient Orators, who, both
in their pronunciation and gesture, and in their figures of [Page 57]
expression, used a bolder manner than what the greater coolness of modern taste
will readily suffer. This may perhaps, as I formerly observed, be a
disadvantage to Modern Eloquence. It is no reason why we should be too severe
in checking the impulse of genius, and continue always creeping on the ground;
but it is a reason, however, why we should avoid carrying the tone of declamation
to a height that would now be reckoned extravagant. Demosthenes, to justify the
unsuccessful action of Cheronæa, calls up the manes of those heroes who fell in
the battle of Marathon and Platæa, and swears by them, that their fellow
citizens had done well, in their endeavours to support the same cause. Cicero,
in his oration for Milo, implores and attests the Alban hills and groves, and
makes a long address to them: and both passages, in these Orators, have a . But
how few modern Orators could venture on such apostrophes? and what a power of
genius would it require to give [Page 58] such figures now their proper grace,
or make them produce a due effect upon the hearers?
In the fifth and last
place, in all kinds of Public Speaking, but especially in Popular Assemblies,
it is a capital rule to attend to all the decorums of time, place, and
character. No warmth of Eloquence can atone for the neglect of these. That
vehemence, which is becoming in a person of character and authority, may be
unsuitable to the modesty expected from a young Speaker. That sportive and
witty manner which may suit one subject and one Assembly, is altogether out of
place in a grave cause, and a solemn meeting. "Caput artis est," says
Quinctilian, "decere." "The first principle of art, is, to
observe decorum." No one should ever rise to speak in public, without
forming to himself a just and strict idea of what suits his own age and
character; what suits the subject, the hearers, the place, the occasion; and
adjusting the whole train and manner of his speaking on this idea. All the
ancients insist much on this. Consult the first chapter of the eleventh book of
Quinctilian, which is employed wholly on this point, and is full of good sense.
Cicero’s admonitions in his Orator ad Brutum, I shall give in his own words,
which should never be forgotten by any who speak in public. "Est Eloquentiæ,
sicut reliquarum rerum, fundamentum, sapientia; ut enim in vita, sic in
oratione nihil est difficilius quam quod deceat videre; hujus ignoratione sæpissime
peccatur; non enim omnis fortuna, non omnis auctoritas, non omnis ætas, nec
vero locus, aut tempus, aut auditor omnis, eodem aut verborum genere tractandus
est, aut sententiarum. Semperque in omni parte orationis, ut vitæ, [Page 59]
quid deceat considerandum; quod et in re de qua agitur positum est, et in
personis et eorum qui dicunt, et eorum qui ."---So much for the
considerations that require to be attended to, with respect to the vehemence
and warmth which is allowed in Popular Eloquence.
The current of Style
should in general be full, free, and natural. Quaint and artificial expressions
are out of place here; and always derogate from persuasion. It is a strong and
manly Style which should chiefly be studied; and metaphorical Language, when
properly introduced, produces often a happy effect. When the metaphors are
warm, glowing, and descriptive, some inaccuracy in them will be overlooked,
which, in a written composition, would be remarked and censured. Amidst the
torrent of declamation, the strength of the figure makes impression; the
inaccuracy of it escapes.
With regard to the
degree of conciseness or diffuseness, suited to Popular Eloquence, it is not
easy to fix any exact bounds. I know that it is common to recommend a diffuse
manner as the most proper. I am inclined, however, to think, [Page 60] that
there is danger of erring in this respect; and that by indulging too much in
the diffuse Style, public Speakers often lose more in point of strength, than
they gain by the fullness of their illustration. There is no doubt, that in
speaking to a multitude, we must not speak in sentences and apothegms; care
must be taken to explain and to inculcate; but this care may be, and frequently
is, carried too far. We ought always to remember, that how much soever we may
be pleased with hearing ourselves speak, every Audience is very ready to tire;
and the moment they begin to tire, all our Eloquence goes for nothing. A loose
and verbose manner never fails to create disgust; and, on most occasions, we had
better run the risque of saying too little, than too much. Better place our
thought in one strong point of view, and rest it there, than by turning it into
every light, and, pouring forth a profusion of words upon it, exhaust the
attention of our hearers, and leave them flat and languid.
Of Pronunciation and
Delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. It is sufficient now to observe, that
in speaking to mixt Assemblies, the best manner of delivery is the firm and the
determined. An arrogant and overbearing manner is indeed always disagreeable;
and the least appearance of it ought to be shunned: but there is a certain
decisive tone, which may be assumed even by a modest man, who is thoroughly
persuaded of the sentiments he utters; and which is the best calculated for
making a general impression. A feeble and hesitating manner bespeaks always
some distrust of a man’s own opinion; which is, by no means, a favourable
circumstance for his inducing others to embrace it.
[Page 61]
These are the chief
thoughts which have occurred to me from reflection and observation, concerning
the peculiar distinguishing Characters of the Eloquence proper for Popular
Assemblies. The sum of what has been said, is this: The end of Popular Speaking
is persuasion; and this must be founded on conviction. Argument and reasoning
must be the basis, if we would be Speakers of business, and not mere
Declaimers. We should be engaged in earnest on the side which we espouse; and
utter, as much as possible, our own, and not counterfeited Sentiments. The
premeditation should be of things, rather than of words. Clear order and method
should be studied: The manner and expression warm and animated; though still,
in the midst of that vehemence, which may at times be suitable, carried on
under the proper restraints which regard to the audience, and to the decorum of
character, ought to lay on every Public Speaker: the Style free and easy;
strong and descriptive, rather than diffuse; and the delivery determined and
firm. To conclude this head, let every Orator remember, that the impression
made by fine and artful speaking is momentary; that made by argument and good
sense, is solid and lasting.
I shall now, that I may
afford an exemplification of that species of Oratory of which I have been
treating, insert some extracts from Demosthenes. Even under the great
disadvantage of an English translation, they will exhibit a small specimen of
that vigorous and spirited eloquence which I have so often praifed. I shall
take my extracts mostly from the Philippics and Olynthiacs, which were entirely
popular Orations spoken to the general convention of the citizens of Athens:
and, as the subject of both the Philippics, and the Olynthiacs, is the same, I
shall not [Page 62] confine myself to one Oration, but shall join together
passages taken from two or three of them; such as may show his general strain
of speaking, on some of the chief branches of the subject. The subject in
general is, to rouze the Athenians to guard against Philip of Macedon, whose
growing power and crasty policy had by that time endangered, and soon after
overwhelmed the liberties of Greece. The Athenians began to be alarmed; but
their deliberations were slow, and their measures feeble; several of their
favourite Orators having been gained by Philip’s bribes to favour his cause. In
this critical conjuncture of affairs Demosthenes arose. In the following manner
he begins his first Philippic; which, like the exordiums of all his Orations,
is simple and artless.
Had we been convened,
Athenians! on some new subject of debate, I had waited till most of your usual
counsellors had declared their opinions. If I had approved of what was proposed
by them, I should have continued silent; if not, I should then have attempted
to speak my sentiments. But since those very points on which these Speakers
have oftentimes been heard already, are at this time to be considered; though I
have arisen first, I presume I may expect your pardon; for if they on former
occasions had advised the proper measures, you would not have found it needful
to consult at present.
"First then,
Athenians! however wretched the situation of our affairs at present seems, it
must not by any means be [Page 63] thought desperate. What I am now going to
advance may possibly appear a paradox; yet it is a certain truth, that our past
misfortunes afford a circumstance the most favourable of all others to our
future hopes . And what is that? even that our present difficulties are owing
entirely to our total indolence, and utter disregard of our own interest. For
were we thus situated, in spite of every effort which our duty demanded, then
indeed we might regard our fortunes as absolutely desperate. But now, Philip
hath only conquered your supineness and inactivity; the state he hath not
conquered. You cannot be said to be defeated; your force hath never been
exerted.
If there is a man in
this assembly who thinks that we must find a formidable enemy in Philip, while
he views on one hand the numerous armies which surround him, and on the other,
the weakness of our state, despoiled of so much of its dominions, I cannot deny
that he thinks justly. Yet let him reflect on this; there was a time,
Athenians! when we possessed Pydna, Potidoea, and Melthone, and all that
country round; when many of the states, now subjected to him, were free and
independent, and more inclined to our alliance than to his. If Philip, at that
time weak in himself and without allies, had desponded of success against you,
he would never have engaged in those enterprises which are now crowned with
success, nor could have raised himself to that pitch of grandeur at which you
now behold him. But he knew well that the strongest [Page 64] places are only
prizes laid between the combatants, and ready for the conqueror. He knew that
the dominions of the absent, devolve naturally to those who are in the field;
the possessions of the supine, to the active and intrepid. Animated by these
sentiments he overturns whole nations. He either rules universally as a
conqueror, or governs as a protector. For mankind naturally seek confederacy
with such, as they see resolved and preparing not to be wanting to themselves.
[Page 64]
Ifyou, my countrymen!
will now at length be persuaded to entertain the like sentiments; if each of
you will be disposed to approve himself an useful citizen, to the utmost that
his station and abilities enable him; if the rich will be ready to contribute,
and the young to take the field; in one word, if you will be yourselves, and
banish these vain hopes which every single person entertains, that the active
part of public business may lie upon others and he remain at his case; you may
then, by the assistance of the Gods, recal those opportunities which your
supineness hath neglected, regain your dominions, and chastise the insolence of
this man.
But when, O my
countrymen! will you begin to exert your vigour? Do you wait till roused by
some dire event? till forced by some necessity? What then are we to think of
our present condition? To free men, the disgrace attending on misconduct is, in
my opinion, the most urgent necessity. Or say, is it your sole ambition to
wander through the public places, each enquiring of the other, "What new
advices?" "Can any thing be more new, than that a man of Macedon
should conquer the Athenians, and give law to Greece?" "Is [Page 65]
Philip dead?"---"No---but he is sick." Pray, what is it to you
whether Philip is sick or not? Supposing he should die, you would raise up
another Philip, if you continue thus regardless of your interest.
"Many, I know,
delight more in nothing than in circulating all the rumours they hear as
articles of intelligence. Some cry, Philip hath joined with the Lacedæmonians,
and they are concerting the destruction of Thebes. Others assure us, he hath
sent an embassy to the King of Persia; others, that he is fortifying places in
Illyria. Thus we all go about framing our several tales. I do believe indeed,
Athenians! that he is intoxicated with his greatness, and does entertain his
imagination with many such visionary projects, as he sees no power rising to
oppose him. But I cannot be persuaded that he hath so taken his measures, that
the weakest amongst us (for the weakest they are who spread such rumours) know
what he is next to do. Let us disregard these tales. Let us only be persuaded
of this, that he is our enemy; that we have long been subject to his insolence;
that whatever we expected to have been done for us by others, hath turned
against us; that all the resource left, is in ourselves; and that if we are not
inclined to carry our arms abroad, we shall be forced to engage him at home.
Let us be persuaded of these things, and then we shall come to a proper
determination, and be no longer guided by rumours. We need not be solicitous to
know what particular events are to happen. We may be well assured that nothing
good can happen, unless we give due attention to our own affairs, and act as
becomes Athenians.
[Page 66]
"Were it a point
generally acknowledged that Philip is now at actual war with the state, the
only thing under deliberation would then be, how to oppose him with most
safety. But since there are persons so strangely infatuated, that although he
has already possessed himself of a considerable part of our dominions; although
he is still extending his conquests; although all Greece has suffered by his
injustice; yet they can hear it repeated in this Assembly, that it is some of
us who seek to embroil the State in war, this suggestion must first be guarded
against. I readily admit, that were it in our power to determine whether we
should be at peace or war, peace, if it depended on our option, is most
desirable to be embraced. But if the other party hath drawn the sword, and
gathered his armies round him; if he amuses us with the name of peace, while,
in fact, he is proceeding to the greatest hostilities, what is left for us but
to oppose him? If any man takes that for a peace, which is only a preparation
for his leading his forces directly upon us, after his other conquests, I hold
that man’s mind to be disordered. At least, it is only our conduct towards
Philip, not Philip’s conduct towards us, that is to be termed a peace; and this
is the peace for which Philip’s treasures are expended, for which his gold is
so liberally scattered among our venal orators, that he may be at liberty to
carry on the war against you, while you make no war on him.
"Heavens! is there
any man of a right mind who would judge of peace or war by words, and not by
actions? Is there [Page 67] any man so weak as to imagine that it is for the
sake of those paltry villages of Thrace, Drongylus, and Cabyle, and Mastira,
that Philip is now braving the utmost dangers, and enduring the severity of
toils and seasons; and that he has no designs upon the arsenals, and the
navies, and the silver mines of Athens? or that he will take up his winter
quarters among the cells and dungeons of Thrace, and leave you to enjoy all
your revenues in peace? But you wait, perhaps, till he declare war against
you.---He will never do so---no, though he were at your gates. He will still be
assuring you that he is not at war. Such were his professions to the people of
Oreum, when his forces were in the heart of their country; such his professions
to those of Pheræ, until the moment he attacked their walls: and thus he amused
the Olynthians till he came within a few miles of them, and then he sent them a
message, that either they must quit their city, or he his kingdom. He would
indeed be the absurdest of mankind, if, while you suffer his outrages to pass
unnoticed, and are wholly engaged in accusing and prosecuting one another, he
should, by declaring war, put an end to your private contests, warn you to
direct all your zeal against him, and deprive his pensioners of their most
specious pretence for suspending your resolutions, that of his not being at war
with the State. I, for my part, hold and declare, that by his attack of the
Megaræans, by his attempts upon the liberty of Eubæa, by his late incursions
into Thrace, by his practices in Peloponnesus, Philip has violated the treaty;
he is in a state of hostility with you; unless you shall affirm, that he who
prepares to besiege a city, is still at peace, until the walls be actually
invested. The man whose designs, whose whole conduct tends to reduce me to
subjection, [Page 68] that man is at war with me, though not a blow hath yet
been given, nor a sword drawn.
"All Greece, all
the barbarian world, is too narrow for this man’s ambition. And, though we
Greeks see and hear all this, we send no embassies to each other; we express no
resentment; but into such wretchedness are we sunk, that even, to this day, we
neglect what our interest and duty demand. Without engaging in associations, or
forming confederacies, we look with unconcern upon Philip’s growing power; each
fondly imagining, that the time in which another is destroyed, is so much time
gained to him; although no man can be ignorant, that, like the regular periodic
return of a fever, he is coming upon those who think themselves the most remote
from danger.---And what is the cause of our present passive disposition? For
some cause sure there must be, why the Greeks, who have been so zealous
heretofore in defence of liberty, are now so prone to slavery. The cause,
Athenians! is, that a principle, which was formerly fixed in the minds of all,
now exists no more; a principle which conquered the opulence of Persia;
maintained the freedom of Greece, and triumphed over the powers of sea and
land. That principle was, an unanimous abhorrence of all those who accepted
bribes from princes, that were enemies to the liberties of Greece. To be
convicted of bribery, was then a crime altogether unpardonable. Neither
Orators, nor Generals, would then sell for gold the favourable conjunctures
which fortune put into their hands. No gold could impair our firm concord at
home, our hatred and diffidence of tyrants and barbarians. But now all things
[Page 69] are exposed to sale, as in a public market. Corruption has introduced
such manners, as have proved the bane and destruction of our country. Is a man
known to have received foreign money? People envy him. Does he own it? They
laugh. Is he convicted in form? They forgive him: so universally has this
contagion diffused itself among us.
If there be any who,
though not carried away by bribes, yet are struck with terror, as if Philip was
something more than human, they may see, upon a little consideration, that he
hath exhausted all those artifices to which he owes his present elevation; and
that his affairs are now ready to decline. For I myself, Athenians! should
think Philip really to be dreaded, if I saw him raised by honourable
means.---When forces join in harmony and affection, and one common interest
unites confederating powers, then they share the toils with alacrity, and
endure distresses with perseverance. But when extravagant ambition, and lawless
power, as in the case of Philip, have aggrandized a single person, the first
pretence, the slightest accident, overthrows him, and dashes his greatness to
the ground. For, it is not possible, Athenians! it is not possible, to found a
lasting power upon injustice, perjury, and treachery. These may perhaps succeed
for once, and borrow for a while, from hope, a gay and a flourishing appearance.
But time betrays their weakness, and they fall of themselves to ruin. For, as
in structures of every kind, the lower parts should have the firmest stability,
so the grounds and principles of great enterprizes should be justice and truth.
But this solid foundation is wanting to all the enterprises of Philip.
[Page 70]
"Hence, among his
confederates, there are many who hate, who distrust, who envy him. If you will
exert yourselves, as your honour and your interest require, you will not only
discover the weakness and insincerity of his confederates, but the ruinous
condition also of his own kingdom. For you are not to imagine, that the
inclinations of his subjects are the same with those of their prince. He
thirsts for glory; but they have no part in this ambition. Harassed by those
various excursions he is ever making, they groan under perpetual calamity; torn
from their business and their families; and beholding commerce excluded from
their coasts. All those glaring exploits, which have given him his apparent
greatness, have wasted his natural strength, his own kingdom, and rendered it
much weaker than it originally was. Besides, his profligacy and baseness, and
those troops of buffoons, and dissolute persons, whom he caresses and keeps
constantly about him, are, to men of just discernment, great indications of the
weakness of his mind. At present, his successes cast a shade over these things;
but let his arms meet with the least disgrace, his feebleness will appear, and
his character be exposed. For, as in our bodies, while a man is in apparent
health, the effect of some inward debility, which has been growing upon him,
may, for a time, be concealed; but, as soon as it comes the length of disease,
all his secret infirmities show themselves, in whatever part of his frame the
disorder is lodged: so, in states and monarchies, while they carry on a war
abroad, many defects escape the general eye; but, as soon as war reaches their
own territory, their infirmities come forth to general observation.
[Page 71]
"Fortune has great
influence in all human affairs; but I, for my part, should prefer the fortune
of Athens, with the least degree of vigour in asserting your cause, to this man’s
fortune. For we have many better reasons to depend upon the favour of Heaven
than this man. But, indeed, he who will not exert his own strength, hath no
title to depend either on his friends, or on the Gods. Is it at all surprising
that he, who is himself ever amidst the labours and dangers of the field; who
is every where, whom no opportunity escapes; to whom no season is unfavourable;
should be superior to you, who are wholly engaged in contriving delays, and
framing decrees, and enquiring after news? The contrary would be much more
surprising, if we, who have never hitherto acted as became, a state engaged in
war, should conquer one who acts, in every instance, with indefatigable
vigilance. It is this, Athenians! it is this which gives him all his advantage
against you. Philip, constantly surrounded by his troops, and perpetually engaged
in projecting his designs, can, in a moment, strike the blow where he pleases.
But we, when any accident alarms us, first appoint our Trierarchs; then we
allow them the exchange by substitution: then the supplies are considered;
next, we resolve to man our fleet with strangers and foreigners; then find it
necessary to supply their place ourselves. In the midst of these delays, what
we are sailing to defend, the enemy is already master of; for the time of
action is spent by us in preparing; and the issues of war will not wait for our
flow and irresolute measures.
[Page 72]
Consider then your
present situation, and make such provision as the urgent danger requires. Talk
not of your ten thousands, or your twenty thousand foreigners; of those armies
which appear so magnificent on paper only; great and terrible in your decrees,
in execution weak and contemptible. But let your army be made up chiefly of the
native forces of the state; let it be an Athenian strength to which you are to
trust; and whomsoever you appoint as general, let them be entirely under his
guidance and authority. For, ever since our armies have been formed of
foreigners alone, their victories have been gained over our allies and
confederates only, while our enemies have risen to an extravagance of
power."
The Orator goes on to
point out the number of forces which should be raised; the places of their
destination; the season of the year in which they should set out; and then
proposes in form his motion, as we would call it, or his decree, for the
necessary supply of money, and for ascertaining the funds from which it should
be raised. Having finished all that relates to the business under deliberation,
he concludes these Orations on public affairs, commonly with no longer
peroration than the following, which terminates the First Philippic: "I,
for my part, have never, upon any occasion, chosen to court your favour, by
speaking any thing but what I was convinced would serve you. And, on this
occasion, you have heard my sentiments freely declared, without art, and
without reserve. I should have been pleased, indeed, that, as it is for your
advantage to have your true interest laid before you, so I might have been
assured, that he who layeth it before you [Page 73] would share the advantage.
But, uncertain as I know the consequence to be with respect to myself, I yet
determined to speak, because, I was convinced, that these measures, if pursued,
must prove beneficial to the Public. And, of all those opinions which shall be
offered to your acceptance, may the Gods determine that to be chosen which will
best advance the general welfare!"
These Extracts may
serve to give some imperfect idea of the manner of Demosthenes. For a juster
and more complete one, recourse must be had to the excellent original.
[Page 74]
I TREATED in the last
Lecture, of what is peculiar to the Eloquence of Popular Assemblies. Much of
what was said on that head is applicable to the Eloquence of the Bar, the next
great scene of Public Speaking to which I now proceed, and my observations upon
which, will therefore be the shorter. All, however, that was said in the former
Lecture must not be applied to it; and it is of importance, that I begin with
showing where the distinction lies.
In the first place, The
ends of speaking at the Bar, and in Popular Assemblies, are commonly different.
In Popular Assemblies, the great object is persuasion; the Orator aims at
determining the hearers to some choice or conduct, as good, fit, or useful. For
accomplishing this end, it is incumbent on him to apply himself to all the
principles of action in our nature; [Page 75] to the passions and to the heart,
as well as to the understanding. But, at the Bar, conviction is the great
object. There, it is not the Speaker’s business to persuade the Judges to what
is good or useful, but to show them what is just and true; and, of course, it
is chiefly, or solely, to the understanding that his Eloquence is addressed.
This is a characteristical difference which ought ever to be kept in view.
In the next place,
Speakers at the Bar address themselves to one, or to a few Judges, and these,
too, persons generally of age, gravity, and authority of character. There, they
have not those advantages which a mixed and numerous Assembly affords for
employing all the arts of Speech, even supposing their subject to admit them.
Passion does not rise so easily; the Speaker is heard more coolly; he is
watched over more severely; and would expose himself to ridicule, by attempting
that high vehement tone, which is only proper in speaking to a multitude.
In the last place, The
nature and management of the subjects which belong to the Bar, require a very
different species of Oratory from that of Popular Assemblies. In the latter,
the Speaker has a much wider range. He is seldom confined to any precise rule;
he can fetch his topics from a great variety of quarters; and employ every
illustration which his fancy or imagination suggest. But, at the Bar, the field
of speaking is limited to precise law and statute. Imagination is not allowed
to take its scope. The Advocate has always lying before him the line, the
square, and the compass. These, it is his principal [Page 76] business to be
continually applying to the subjects under debate.
For these reasons, it
is clear, that the Eloquence of the Bar is of a much more limited, more sober
and chastened kind, than that of Popular Assemblies; and, for similar reasons,
we must beware of considering even the judicial Orations of Cicero or
Demosthenes, as exact models of the manner of speaking which is adapted to the
present state of the Bar. It is necessary to warn young Lawyers of this;
because, though these were Pleadings spoken in civil or criminal causes, yet,
in fact, the nature of the Bar antiently, both in Greece and Rome, allowed a
much nearer approach to Popular Eloquence, than what it now does. This was
owing chiefly to two causes:
First, Because in the
ancient Judicial Orations, strict law was much less an object of attention than
it is become among us. In the days of Demosthenes and Cicero, the municipal
statutes were few, simple, and general; and the decision of causes was trusted,
in a great measure, to the equity and common sense of the Judges. Eloquence,
much more than Jurisprudence, was the study of those who were to plead causes.
Cicero somewhere says, that three months study was sufficient to make any man a
complete Civilian; nay, it was thought that one might be a good Pleader at the
Bar, who had never studied law at all. For there were among the Romans a set of
men called Pragmatici, whose office it was to give the Orator all the law
knowledge which the cause he was to plead required, and which he put into that
popular form, and dressed up with those colours of [Page 77] Eloquence, that
were most fitted for influencing the Judges before whom he spoke.
We may observe next,
that the Civil and Criminal Judges, both in Greece and Rome, were commonly much
more numerous than they are with us, and formed a sort of Popular Assembly. The
renowned tribunal of the Areopagus at Athens consisted of fifty Judges at the
least . Some make it to consist of a great many more. When Socrates was
condemned, by what court it is uncertain, we are informed that no fewer than
280 voted against him. In Rome, the Prætor, who was the proper Judge both in
civil and criminal causes, named, for every cause of moment, the Judices
Selecti, as they were called, who were always numerous, and had the office and
power of both Judge and Jury. In the famous cause of Milo, Cicero spoke to
fifty-one Judices Selecti, and so had the advantage of addressing his whole
pleading, not to one or a few learned Judges of the point of law, as is the
case with us, but to an Assembly of Roman citizens. Hence all those arts of
Popular Eloquence, which we find the Roman Orator so frequently employing, and
probably with much success. Hence tears and commiseration are so often made use
of as the instruments of gaining a cause. Hence certain practices, which would
be reckoned theatrical among us, were common at the Roman Bar; such as
introducing not only the accused person dressed in deep mourning, but
presenting to the Judges his family, and his young children, endeavouring to
move them by their cries and tears.
[Page 78]
For these reasons, on
account of the wide difference between the ancient and modern state of the Bar,
to which we may add also the difference in the turn of ancient and modern
Eloquence, which I formerly took notice of, too strict an imitation of Cicero’s
manner of pleading would now be extremely injudicious. To great advantage he
may still be studied by every Speaker at the Bar. In the Address with which he
opens his subject, and the insinuation he employs for gaining the favour of the
Judges; in the distinct arrangement of his facts; in the gracefulness of his
narration; in the conduct and exposition of his arguments, he may and he ought
to be imitated. A higher pattern cannot be set before us; but one who should
imitate him also in his exaggeration and amplifications, in his dissuse and
pompous declamation, and in his attempts to raise passion, would now make
himself almost as ridiculous at the Bar, as if he should appear there in the
Toga of a Roman Lawyer.
Before I descend to more
particular directions concerning the Eloquence of the Bar, I must be allowed to
take notice, that the foundation of a Lawyer’s reputation and success, must
always be laid in a profound knowledge of his own profession. Nothing is of
such consequence to him, or deserves more his deep and serious study. For
whatever his abilities as a Speaker may be, if his knowledge of the law be
reckoned superficial, few will chuse to commit their cause to him. Besides
previous study, and a proper stock of knowledge attained, another thing highly
material to the success of every Pleader, is, a diligent and painful attention
to every cause with which he is intrusted, so as to be thoroughly master of all
the facts and circumstances relating to it. On this the ancient Rhetoricians
insist with great earnestness, and justly represent it as a necessary basis to
all the Eloquence [Page 79] that can be exerted in pleading. Cicero tells us
(under the character of Antonius, in the second book De Oratore), that he
always conversed at full length with every client who came to consult him; that
he took care there should be no witness to their conversation, in order that
his client might explain himself more freely; that he was wont to start every
objection, and to plead the cause of the adverse party with him, that he might
come at the whole truth, and be fully prepared on every point of the business;
and that, after the client had retired, he used to balance all the facts with
himself, under three different charcters, his own, that of the Judge, and that
of the Advocate on the opposite side. He censures very severely those of the
profession who declined taking so much trouble; taxing them not only with
shameful negligence, but with dishonesty and breach . To the same purpose
Quinctilian, in the eighth chapter of his last book, delivers a great many
excellent rules concerning all the methods which a Lawyer should employ for
attaining the most thorough knowledge of the cause he is to plead; again and
again recommending patience and attention in conversation with clients, and
observing very sensibly, "Non tam obest audire surpervacua, quam ignorare
necessaria. Frequenter enim et vulnus, et remedium, in iis Orator inveniet quæ
[Page 80] litigatori in neutram partem, habere momentum ."
Supposing an Advocate
to be thus prepared, with all the knowledge which the study of the law in
general, and of that cause which he is to plead in particular, can furnish him,
I must next observe, that Eloquence in pleading is of the highest moment for
giving support to a cause. It were altogether wrong to infer, that because the
ancient popular and vehement manner of pleading is now in a great measure
superseded, there is therefore no room for Eloquence at the Bar, and that the
study of it is become superfluous. Though the manner of speaking be changed,
yet still there is a right and a proper manner, which deserves to be studied as
much as ever. Perhaps there is no scene of public speaking where Eloquence is
more necessary. For on other occasions, the subject on which men speak in
public, is frequently sufficient, by itself, to interest the hearers. But the
dryness and subtilty of the subjects generally agitated at the Bar, require
more than any other a certain kind of Eloquence in order to command attention;
in order to give proper weight to the arguments that are employed, and to
prevent any thing which the Pleader advances from passing unregarded. The
effect of good speaking is always very great. There is as much difference in
the impression made upon the hearers, by a cold, dry, and confused Speaker, and
that made by one who [Page 81] pleads the same cause with elegance, order, and
strength, as there is between our conception of an object, when it is presented
to us in a dim light, and when we behold it in a full and clear one.
It is no small
encouragement to Eloquence at the Bar, that of all the liberal professions,
none gives fairer play to genius and abilities than that of the Advocate. He is
less exposed than some others, to suffer by the arts of rivalry, by popular
prejudices, or secret intrigues. He is sure of coming forward according to his
merit. For he stands forth every day to view; he enters the list boldly with
his competitors; every appearance which he makes is an appeal to the Public,
whose decision seldom fails of being just, because it is impartial. Interest
and friends may set forward a young Pleader with peculiar advantages beyond
others, at the beginning; but they can do no more than open the field to him. A
reputation resting on these assistances will soon fail. Spectators remark,
Judges decide, Parties watch; and to him will the multitude of Clients never
fail to resort, who gives the most approved specimens of his knowledge,
eloquence, and industry.
It must be laid down
for a first principle, that the Eloquence suited to the Bar, whether in
speaking or in writing law papers, is of the calm and temperate kind, and
connected with close reasoning. Sometimes a little play may be allowed to the
Imagination, in order to enliven a dry subject, and to give relief to the
fatigue of attention; but this liberty must be taken with a sparing hand. For a
Florid Style, and a sparkling manner, never fail to make the Speaker be heard
with a jealous ear by the [Page 82] Judge. They detract from his weight, and always
produce a suspicion of his failing in soundness and strength of argument. It is
purity and neatness of expression which is chiefly to be studied; a Style
perspicuous and proper, which shall not be needlessly overcharged with the
pedantry of law terms, and where, at the same time, no affectation shall appear
of avoiding these, when they are suitable and necessary.
Verbosity is a common
fault, of which the gentlemen of this profession are accused; and into which
the habit of speaking and writing to hastily, and with so little preparation,
as they are often obliged to do, almost unavoidably betrays them. It cannot,
therefore, be too much recommended to those who are beginning to practise at
the Bar, that they should early study to guard against this, while as yet they
have full leisure for preparation. Let them form themselves, especially in the
papers which they write, to the habit of a strong and a correct Style; which
expresses the same thing much better in a few words, than is done by the
accumulation of intricate and endless periods. If this habit be once acquired,
it will become natural to them afterwards, when the multiplicity of business
shall force them to compose in a more precipitant manner. Whereas, if the
practice of a loose and negligent Style has been suffered to become familiar,
it will not be in their power, even upon occasions when they wish to make an
unusual effort, to express themselves with energy and grace.
Distinctness is a
capital property in speaking at the Bar. This should be shown chiefly in two
things; first, in stating the question; in showing clearly what is the point in
debate; what [Page 83] we admit; what we deny; and where the line of division
begins between us, and the adverse party. Next, it should be shown in the order
and arrangement of all the parts of the pleading. In every sort of Oration, a
clear method is of the utmost consequence; but in those embroiled and difficult
cases which belong to the Bar, it is almost all in all. Too much pains,
therefore, cannot be taken in previously studying the plan and method. If there
be indistinctness and disorder there, we can have no success in convincing; we
leave the whole cause in darkness.
With respect to the
conduct of Narration and Argumentation, I shall hereafter make several remarks,
when I come to treat of the component parts of a regular Oration. I shall at
prestent only observe, that the Narration of facts at the Bar, should always be
as concise as the nature of them will admit. Facts are always of the greatest
consequence to be remembered during the course of the pleading; but, if the
Pleader to tedious in his manner of relating them, and needlessly
circumstantial, he lays too great a load upon the memory. Whereas, by cuting
off all superfluous circumstances in his recital, he adds strength to the
material facts; he both gives a clearer view of what he relates, and makes the
impression of it more lasting. In Argumentation, again, I would incline to give
scope to a more diffuse manner at the Bar, than on some other occasions. For in
Popular Assemblies, where the subject of debate is often a plain question,
Arguments, taken from known topics, gain strength by their conciseness. But the
obscurity of law-points frequently requires the Arguments to be spread out, and
placed in different lights, in order to be fully apprehended.
[Page 84]
When the Pleader comes
to refute the arguments employed by his adversary, he should be on his guard
not to do them injustice, by disguising, or placing them in a false light. The
deceit is soon discovered: it will not fail of being exposed; and tends to
impress the Judge and the Hearers with distrust of the Speaker, as one who
either wants discernment to perceive, or wants fairness to admit, the strength
of the reasoning on the other side. Whereas, when they see that he states, with
accuracy and candour, the Arguments which have been used against him, before he
proceeds to combat them, a strong prejudice is created in his favour. They are
naturally led to think, that he has a clear and full conception of all that can
be said on both sides of the Argument; that he has entire confidence in the
goodness of his own cause; and does not attempt to support it by any artifice
or concealment. The Judge is thereby inclined to receive, much more readily,
the impressions which are given him by a Speaker, who appears both so fair and
so penetrating. There is no part of the discourse, in which the Orator has
greater opportunity of showing a masterly address, than when he sets himself to
represent the reasonings of his antagonists, in order to refute them.
Wit may sometimes be of
service at the Bar, especially in a lively reply, by which we may throw
ridicule on something that has been said on the other side. But, though the
reputation of wit be dazzling to a young Pleader, I would never advise him to
rest his strength upon this talent. It is not his business to make an Audience
laugh, but to convince the Judge; and seldom, or never, did any one rise to
eminence in his profession, by being a witty Lawyer.
[Page 85]
A proper degree of
warmth in pleading a cause is always of use. Though, in speaking to a
multitude, greater vehemence be natural; yet, in addressing ourselves even to a
single man, the warmth which arises from seriousness and earnestness, is one of
the most powerful means of persuading him. An Advocate personates his client;
he has taken upon him the whole charge of his interests; he stands in his
place. It is improper, therefore, and has a bad effect upon the cause, if he
appears indifferent and unmoved; and few clients will be fond of trusting their
interests in the hands of a cold Speaker.
At the same time, he
must beware of prostituting his earnestness and sensibility so much, as to
enter with equal warmth into every cause that is committed to him, whether it
can be supposed really to excite his zeal or not. There is a dignity of character,
which it is of the utmost importance for every one in this profession to
support. For it must never be forgotten, that there is no instrument of
persuasion more powerful, than an opinion of probity and honour in the person
who undertakes . It is scarcely possible for any hearer to separate altogether
the impression made by the character of him that speaks, from the things that
he says. However secretly and imperceptibly, it will be always lending its
weight to one side or other; either detracting from, or adding to, the
authority and influence of his Speech. This opinion of honour and probity must
therefore be carefully preserved, both by some degree of delicacy in the choice
of causes, and by the manner of conducting [Page 86] them. And though, perhaps,
the nature of the profession may render it extremely difficult to carry this
delicacy its utmost length, yet there are attentions to this point, which, as
every good man for virtue’s sake, so every prudent man for reputation’s sake,
will find to be necessary. He will always decline embarking in causes that are
odious and manifestly unjust; and, when he supports a doubtful cause, he will
lay the chief stress upon such arguments as appear to his own judgment the most
tenable; reserving his zeal and his indignation for cases where injustice and
iniquity are flagrant. But of the personal qualities and virtues requisite in
Public Speakers, I shall afterwards have occasion to discourse.
These are the chief
directions which have occurred to me concerning the peculiar strain of Speaking
at the Bar. In order to illustrate the subject farther, I shall give a short
Analysis of one of Cicero’s Pleadings, or judicial Orations. I have chosen
that, pro Cluentio. The celebrated one pro Milone is more laboured and showy;
but it is too declamatory. That, pro Cluentio comes nearer the strain of a
Modern Pleading; and though it has the disadvantage of being very long, and
complicated too in the subject, yet it is one of the most chaste, correct, and
forcible of all Cicero’s judicial Orations, and well deserves attention for its
conduct.
Avitus Cluentius, a
Roman Knight of splendid family and fortunes, had accused his Stepfather
Oppianicus of an attempt to poison him. He prevailed in the prosecution;
Oppianicus was condemned and banished. But as rumours arose of the Judges
having been corrupted by money in this cause, these [Page 87] gave occasion to
much popular clamour, and had thrown a heavy odium on Cluentius. Eight years
afterwards Oppianicus died. An accusation was brought against Cluentius of
having poisoned him, together with a charge also of having bribed the Judges in
the former trial to condemn him. In this action Cicero defends him. The
accusers were Sassia, the mother of Cluentius, and widow of Oppianicus, and young
Oppianicus, the son. Q. Naso, the Prætor, was Judge, together with a
considerable number of Judices Selecti.
The introduction of the
Oration is simple and proper, taken from no common-place topic, but from the
nature of the cause. It begins with taking notice, that the whole Oration of
the accuser was divided into two parts These two parts were, the charge of
having poisoned Oppianicus; on which the accuser conscious of having no proof,
did not lay the stress of his cause but rested it chiefly on the other charge
of formerly corrupting the Judges, which was captial in certain cases, by the
Roman law. Cicero purposes to follow him in this method, and to apply himself
chiefly to the vindication of his client from the latter charge. He makes
several proper observations on the danger of Judges suffering themselves to be
swayed by a popular cry, which often is raised by faction, and directed against
the innocent. [Page 88] He acknowledges, that Cluentius had suffered much and
long by reproach, on account of what had passed at the former trial; but begs
only a patient and attentive hearing, and assures the Judges, that he will
state every thing relating to that matter so fairly and so clearly, as shall
give them entire satisfaction. A great appearance of candour reigns throughout
this Introduction.
The crimes with which
Cluentius were charged, were heinous. A mother accusing her son, and accusing
him of such actions, as having first bribed Judges to condemn her husband, and
having afterwards poisoned him, were circumstances that naturally raised strong
prejudices against Cicero’s client. The first step, therefore, necessary for
the Orator, was to remove these prejudices; by shewing what sort of persons
Cluentius’s mother, and her husband Oppianicus, were; and thereby turning the
edge of public indignation against them. The nature of the cause rendered this
plan altogether proper, and, in similar situations, it is fit to be imitated.
He executes his plan with much eloquence and force; and, in doing it, lays open
such a scene of infamy and complicated guilt, as gives a shocking picture of
the manners of that age; and such as would seem incredible, did not Cicero
refer to the proof that was taken in the former trial, of the facts which he
alleges.
Sassia, the mother, appears
to have been altogether of an abandoned character. Soon after the death of her
first husband, the father of Cluentius, she fell in love with Aurius Melinus, a
young man of illustrious birth and great fortune, who was married to her own
daughter. She prevailed with him to divorce [Page 89] her daughter, and then
she married him . 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 impudence of the proposal,
nor at the thoughts of marrying one, whose hands had been imbrued in her former
husband’s blood, objected only, as Cicero says, to Oppianicus having two sons
by his present wife. Oppianicus removed the objection, by having his sons
privately dispatched; and then, divorcing his wife, the infamous match was
concluded between him and Sassia. Those flagrant deeds are painted, as we may
well believe, with the highest colours of Cicero’s Eloquence, which there has a
very proper field. Cluentius, as a man of honour, could no longer 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 dishonour; and hence, the feud which had ever
since-subsisted between them, and had involved her unfortunate son in so much
trouble and persecution. As for Oppianicus, Cicero gives a sort of history of
his life, and a full detail of his crimes; and by what he relates, Oppianicus
appears to have [Page 90] been a man daring, fierce, and cruel, insatiable in
avarice and ambition; trained and hardened in all the crimes which those
turbulent times of Marius and Sylla’s proscriptions produced: "such a man,"
says our Orator, "as in place of being surprised that he was condemned,
you ought rather to wonder that he had escaped so long."
And now, having
prepared the way by all this narration, which is clear and elegant, he enters
on the history of that famous trial in which his client was charged with
corrupting the Judges. Both Cluentius and Oppianicus were of the city Larinum.
In a public contest about the rights of the freemen of that city, they had
taken opposite sides, which embittered the misunderstanding already subsisting
between them. Sassia, now the wife of Oppianicus, pushed him on to the
destruction of her son, whom she had long hated, as one who was conscious of
her crimes; and as Cluentius was known to have made no will, they expected,
upon his death, to succeed to his fortune. The plan was formed, therefore, to
dispatch him by poison; which, considering their former conduct, is no
incredible part of the story. Cluentius was at that time indisposed: the
servant of his physician was to be bribed to give him poison, and one
Fabricius, an intimate friend of Oppianicus, was employed in the negociation.
The servant having made the discovery, Cluentius first prosecuted Scamander, a
freedman of Fabricius, in whose custody the poison was found; and afterwards
Fabricius, for this attempt upon his life. He prevailed in both actions: and
both these persons were condemned by the voices, almost unanimous, of the
Judges.
[Page 91]
Of both these
Prejudicia, as our Author calls them, or previous trials, he gives a very
particular account; and rests upon them a great part of his argument, as, in
neither of them, there was the least charge or suspicion of any attempt to
corrupt the Judges. But in both these trials, Oppianicus was pointed at
plainly; in both, Scamander and Fabricius were prosecuted as only the
instruments and ministers of his cruel designs. As a natural consequence,
therefore, Cluentius immediately afterwards raised a third prosecution against
Oppianicus 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 corrupti Judicii.
He reasons first, that
there was not the least reason to suspect it; seeing the condemnation of
Oppianicus was a direct and necessary consequence of the judgments given
against Scamander and Fabricius, in the two former trials; trials, that were
fair and uncorrupted, to the satisfaction of the whole world. Yet by these, the
road was laid clearly open to the detection of Oppianicus’s guilt. His
instruments and ministers being once condemned, and by the very same Judges
too, nothing could be more absurd than to raise a cry about an innocent person
being circumvened by bribery, when it was evident, on the contrary, that a
guilty person was now brought into judgment, under such circumstances, that
unless the Judges were altogether inconsistent with themselves, it was
impossible for him to be acquitted.
[Page 92]
He reasons next, that,
if in this trial there was any corruption of the Judges by money, it was
infinitely more probable, that corruption should have proceeded from Oppianicus
than from Cluentius. For setting aside the difference of character between the
two men, the one fair, the other flagitious; what motive had Cluentius to try
so odious and dangerous an experiment, as that of bribing Judges? Was it not
much more likely that he should have had recourse to this last remedy, who saw
and knew himself, and his cause, to be in the utmost danger; than the other,
who had a cause clear in itself, and of the issue of which, in consequence of
the two previous sentences given by the same Judges, he had full reason to be
confident? Was it not much more likely that he should bribe, who had every
thing to fear; whose life and liberty, and fortune were at stake; than he who
had already prevailed in a 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 as a certain fact, that Oppianicus did attempt to bribe the Judges;
that the corruption in this trial, so much complained of, was employed, not by
Cluentius, but against him. He calls on Titus Attius, the Orator on the
opposite side; he challenges him to deny, if he can, or if he dare, that
Stalenus, one of the thirty-two Judices Selecti, did receive money from
Oppianicus; he names the sum that was given; he names the persons that were
present, when, after the trial was over, Stalenus was obliged to refund the
bribe. This is a strong fact, and would seem quite decisive. But, unluckily, a
very cross circumstance occurs here. For this very Stalenus gave his voice to
condemn Oppianicus. For [Page 93] this strange incident, Cicero accounts in the
following manner: Stalenus, says he, known to be a worthless man, and accustomed
before to the like practices, entered into a treaty with Oppiænicus to bring
him off, and demanded for that purpose a certain sum, which he undertook to
distribute among a competent number of the other Judges. When he was once in
possession of the money; when he found a greater treasure, than ever he had
been master of, deposited in his empty and wretched habitation, he became very
unwilling to part with any of it to his colleagues; and bethought himself of
some means by which he could contrive to keep it all to himself. The scheme
which he devised for this purpose, was, to promote the condemnation, instead of
the acquittal of Oppianicus; as, from a condemned person, he did not apprehend
much danger of being called to account, or being obliged to make restitution.
In place, therefore, of endeavouring to gain any of his colleagues, he
irritated such as he had influence with against Oppianicus, by first promising
them money in his name, and afterwards telling them, that Oppianicus 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, [Page 94] and obliged to give his voice, he found it necessary to lead
the way, in condemning the man whose money he had taken, without fulfilling the
bargain which he had made with him.
By these plausible
facts and reasonings, the character of Cluentius seems in a great measure
cleared; and, what Cicero chiefly intended, the odium thrown upon the adverse
party. But a difficult part of the Orator’s business still remained. There were
several subsequent decisions of the Prætor, the Censors, and the Senate,
against the Judges in this cause; which all proceeded, or seemed to proceed,
upon this ground of bribery and corruption: for it is plain the suspicion
prevailed, that if Oppianicus had given money to Stalenus, Cluentius had
outbribed him. To all these decisions, however, Cicero replies with much
distinctness and subtility of argument; though it might be tedious to follow him
through all his reasonings on these heads. He shows, that the facts were, at
that time, very indistinctly known; that the decisions appealed to were hastily
given; that not one of them concluded directly against his Client; and that
such as they were, they were entirely brought about by the inflammatory and
factious harangues of Quinctius, the Tribune of the People, who had been the
Agent and Advocate of Oppianicus; and who, enraged at the defeat he had
sustained, had employed all his 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 Sicariis, was
contained this clause (which we find still extant, Pandect. lib. xlviii. [Page
95] Tit. 10. § 1.) "Qui judicem corruperit, vel corrumpendum curaverit, hâc
lege teneatur." This clause, however, we learn from Cicero, was restricted
to Magistrates and Senators; and as Cluentius was only of the Equestrian Order,
he was not, even 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 prosecutor, "you, T. Attius, I know, had every where
given it out, that I was to defend my Client, not from facts, not upon the
footing of innocence, but by taking advantage merely of the law in his behalf.
Have I done so? I appeal to yourself. Have I sought to cover him behind a legal
defence only? On the contrary, have I not pleaded his cause as if he had been a
Senator, liable, by the Cornelian law, to be capitally convicted; and shown,
that neither proof nor probable presumption lies against his innocence? In
doing so, I must acquaint you, that I have complied with the desire of
Cluentius himself. For when he first consulted me in this cause, and when I
informed him that it was clear no action could be brought against him from the
Cornelian Law, he instantly besought and obtested me, that I would not rest his
defence upon that ground; saying, with tears in his eyes, That his reputation
was as dear to him as his life; and that what he sought, as an innocent man,
was not only to be absolved from any penalty, but to be acquitted in the
opinion of all his fellow-citizens.
"Hitherto, then, I
have pleaded this cause upon his plan. But my Client must forgive me, if now I
shall plead it upon my [Page 96] own. For I should be wanting to myself, and to
that regard which my character 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 regulated by law, to depart from
the law. What safety have any of us in our persons, what security for our
rights, if the law shall be set aside? By what title do you, Q. Naso, sit in
that chair, and preside in this judgment? 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 common
bond, holds its members together; and, like the Soul within the Body, actuates
and directs all the public functions ? On what ground, then, dare you speak
lightly of the law, or move that, in a criminal trial, Judges should advance
one step beyond what it permits [Page 97] them to go? The wisdom of our
ancestors has found, that, as Senators and Magistrates enjoy higher dignities,
and greater advantages than other members of the state, the law should also,
with regard to them, be more strict, and the purity and uncorruptedness of
their morals be guarded by more severe sanctions. But if it be your pleasure
that this institution should be altered, if you wish to have the Cornelian Law,
concerning bribery extended to all ranks, then let us join, not in violating
the law, but in proposing to have this alteration made by a new law. My Client,
Cluentius, will be the foremost in this measure, who now, while the old law
subsists, rejected its defence, and required his cause to be pleaded, as if he
had been bound by it. But, though he would not avail himself of the law, you
are bound in justice not to stretch it beyond its proper limit."
Such is the reasoning
of Cicero on this head; eloquent, surely, and strong. As his manner is diffuse,
I have greatly abridged it from the original, but have endeavoured to detain
its force.
In the latter part of
the Oration, Cicero treats of the other accusation that was brought against
Cluentius, of having poisoned Oppianicus. On this, it appears, his accusers
themselves laid small stress; having placed their chief hope in overwhelming
Cluentius with the odium of bribery in the former trial; and, therefore, on
this part of the cause, Cicero does not dwell long. He shows the improbability
of the whole tale, which they related concerning this pretended poisoning, and
[Page 98] 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 conduct
of Sassia ought to excite, and the compassion due to a son, persecuted through
his whole life by such a mother. He recapitulates the crimes of Sassia; her lewdness,
her violation of every decorum, her incestuous marriages, her violence and
cruelty. He places, in the most odious light, the eagerness and fury which she
had shown in the suit she was carrying on against her son; describes her
journey from Larinum to Rome, with a train of attendants, and a great store of
money, that she might employ every method for circumvening 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 [Page 99] of Cluentius, fair, unspotted, and respectable. He
produces the testimonies of the magistrates of Larinum in his favour, given in
the most ample and honourable manner by a public decree, and supported by a
great concourse of the most noted inhabitants, who were now present, to second
every thing that Cicero could say in favour of Cluentius.
"Wherefore,
Judges," he concludes, "if you abominate crimes, stop the triumph of
this impious woman, prevent this most unnatural mother from rejoicing in her
son’s blood. If you love virtue and worth, relieve this unfortunate man, who,
for so many years, has been exposed to most unjust reproach through the
calumnies raised against him by Sassia, Oppianicus, and all their adherents.
Better far it had been for him to have ended his days at once by the poison which
Oppianicus had prepared for him, than to have escaped those snares, if he must
still be oppressed by an odium which I have shown to be so unjust. But in you
he trusts, in your clemency, and your equity, that now, on a full and fair
hearing of his cause, you will restore him to his honour; you will restore him
to his friends and fellow-citizens, of whose zeal and high estimation of him
you have seen such strong proofs; and will show, by your decision, that, though
faction and calumny may reign for a while in popular meetings and harangues, in
trial and judgment regard is paid to the truth only."
[Page 100]
I have given only a
skeleton of this Oration of Cicero. What I have principally aimed at, was to
show his disposition and method; his arrangement of facts, and the conduct and
force of some of his main arguments. But, in order to have a full view of the
subject, and of the art with which the Orator manages it, recourse must be had
to the original. Few of Cicero’s Orations contain a greater variety of facts
and argumentations, which renders it difficult to analyse it fully. But for
this reason I chose it, as an excellent example of managing at the Bar a
complex and intricate cause, with order, elegance, and force.
[Page 101]
BEFORE treating of the
structure and component parts of a regular Oration, I purposed making some
observations on the peculiar strain, the distinguishing characters, of each of
the three great kinds of Public Speaking. I have already treated of the Eloquence
of Popular Assemblies, and of the Eloquence of the Bar. The subject which
remains for this Lecture is, the strain and spirit of that Eloquence which is
suited to the Pulpit.
Let us begin with
considering the advantages, and disadvantages, which belong to this field of
Public Speaking. The Pulpit has plainly several advantages peculiar to itself.
The dignity and importance of its subjects must be acknowledged superior to any
other. They are such as ought to interest every one, and can be brought home to
every man’s heart; and such as admit, at the same time, both the highest
embellishment in describing, [Page 102] and the greatest vehemence and warmth
in enforcing them. The Preacher has also great advantages in treating his
subjects. He speaks not to one or a few Judges, but to a large Assembly. He is
secure from all interruption. He is obliged to no replies, or extemporaneous
efforts. He chuses his theme at leisure; and comes to the Public with all the
assistance which the most accurate premeditation can give him.
But, together with
these advantages, there are also peculiar difficulties that attend the
Eloquence of the Pulpit. The Preacher, it is true, has no trouble in contending
with an adversary; but then, Debate and Contention enliven the genius of men,
and procure attention. The Pulpit Orator is, perhaps, in too quiet possession
of his field. His subjects of discourse are, in themselves, noble and
important; but they are subjects trite and familiar. They have, for ages,
employed so many Speakers, and so many pens; the public ear is so much
accustomed to them, that it requires more than an ordinary power of genius to
fix attention. Nothing within the reach of art is more difficult, than to
bestow, on what is common, the grace of novelty. No sort of composition
whatever is such a trial of skill, as where the merit of it lies wholly in the
execution; not in giving any information that is new, not in convincing men of
what they did not believe; but in dressing truths which they knew, and of which
they were before convinced, in such colours as may most forcibly affect their
imagination and heart . It is to be considered [Page 103] too, that the subject
of the Preacher generally confines him to abstract qualities, to virtues and
vices; whereas, that of other popular Speakers leads them to treat of persons;
which is a subject that commonly interests the hearers more, and takes faster
hold of the imagination. The Preacher’s business is solely to make you detest
the crime. The Pleader’s, to make you detest the ctiminal. He describes a
living person; and with more facility rouses 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. We are still far
from perfection in the art of Preaching; and perhaps there are few things, in
which it is more difficult [Page 104] . The object, however, is noble, and
worthy, upon many accounts, of being pursued with zeal.
It may perhaps occur to
some, that preaching is no proper subject of the Art of Eloquence. This, it may
be said, belongs only to human studies and inventions: but for the truths of
religion, with the greater simplicity, and the less mixture of art they are set
forth, they 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 deceitful art, the study of words and of
plausibility only, calculated to please, and to tickle the ear. But against
this idea of Eloquence I have all along guarded. True 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 [Page 105] any
further on this head, we might refer to the Discourses of the Prophets and
Apostles, as models of the most sublime and persuasive Eloquence, adapted both
to the imagination and the passions of men.
An essential requisite,
in order’ to preach well, is, to have a just, and, at the same time, a fixed
and habitual view of the end of preaching. For in no art can any man execute
well, who has not a just idea of the end and object of that art. The end of all
preaching is, to persuade men to become good. Every Sermon therefore should be
a persuasive Oration. Not but that the Preacher is to instruct and to teach, to
reason and argue. All persuasion, as I showed formerly, is to be founded on
conviction. The understanding must always be applied to in the first place, in
order to make a lasting impression on the heart: and he who would work on men’s
passions, or influence their practice, 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, it must be remembered, that all the
Preachers instructions are to be of the practical kind; and that persuasion
must ever be his ultimate object. It is not to discuss some abstruse point,
that he ascends the Pulpit. It is not to illustrate some metaphysical truth, or
to inform men of something which they never heard before; but it is to make
them better men; it is to give them, at once, clear views, and persuasive
impressions of religious truth. The Eloquence of the Pulpit then, must be
Popular Eloquence. One of the first qualities of preaching is to be popular;
not in the sense of accommodation to the humours [Page 106] 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 abstract 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. In a preceding Lecture, I endeavoured to show, that on no subject can any
man be truly eloquent, who does not utter the "veræ 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 preaching. There,
it is of the utmost consequence that the Speaker firmly believe both the truth,
and the importance of those principles which he inculcates 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
Eloquence; and, without it, the assistance of art will seldom be able to conceal
the mere declaimer. A spirit of true piety would prove [Page 107] the most
effectual guard against 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 the great causes why so few arrive at very high eminence in
this sphere.
The chief
characteristics of the Eloquence suited to the Pulpit, as distinguished from
the other kinds of Public Speaking, appear to me to be these two, Gravity and
Warmth. The serious nature of the subjects 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 utmost 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 affecting, penetrating, interesting manner, flowing from a strong
sensibility of heart in the Preacher to the importance of those truths which he
delivers, and an earnest desire that they may make full impression on the
hearts of his Hearers.
[Page 108]
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 reputed 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 to be afterwards delivered, when
treating 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 Sermon. Unity indeed is of great
consequence in every composition; but in other Discourses, where the choice and
direction of the subject are not left to the Speaker, it may be less in his
power to preserve it. In a Sermon, it must be always the Preacher’s own fault
if he transgress it. What I mean by unity is, that there should be some one
main point to which the whole strain of the Sermon shall refer. It must not be
a bundle of different [Page 109] subjects strung together, but one object must
predominate throughout. This rule is founded on what we all experience, that
the mind can attend fully only to one capital object at a time. By dividing,
you always weaken the impression. Now this Unity, without which no Sermon can
either have much beauty, or much force, does not require that there should be
no divisions or separate heads in the Discourse, or that one single thought
only should be, again and again, turned up to the hearers in different lights.
It is not to be understood in so narrow a sense: it admits of some variety; it
admits of underparts and appendages, provided always that so much Union and
Connection be preserved, as to make the whole concur in some one impression
upon the mind. I may employ, for instance, several different arguments to
enforce the love of God; I may also enquire, 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 would 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 subject of them be. 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 in a particular one. The impression made must
always be more undeterminate; and the instruction conveyed, will commonly too,
be less direct and convincing. General subjects, indeed, such as the excellency
or [Page 110] 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
propriety. But these are not the subjects most favourable for producing the
high effects of preaching. They fall in almost unavoidably with the beaten
tract 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 is, I admit, more
difficult, but the merit and the effect are higher.
In the third place,
never study to say all that can be said upon a subject; no error is greater
than this. Select the most useful, the most striking and persuasive topics
which the text suggests, and rest the 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 exceeding full on every particular, left
there should be any hazard of their not affording complete information. But it
is much less for the sake of information than of persuasion, that Discourses
are delivered from the Pulpit; and nothing is more opposite to persuasion, than
an unnecessary and tedious fulness. There are always some things which the
Preacher may suppose to be known, and some things which he may only shortly
touch. If [Page 111] 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 of a serious hearer. Let him suppose
the subject addressed to himself: let him consider what views of it would
strike him most; what arguments would be most likely to persuade him; what
parts of it would dwell most upon his mind. Let these be employed as his
principal materials; and in these, it is most likely his genius will exert
itself with the greatest vigour. The spinning and wire-drawing 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 chuse 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 profoundness and distinctness, in one or a few Discourses: for it is
a very false notion to imagine, that they always preach the most profoundly, or
go the deepest into a subject, who dwell on it the longest. On the contrary,
that tedious circuit, which some are ready to take in all their illustrations,
is very frequently owing, either to their want of discernment for perceiving
what is most important in the subject; or to their want of ability for placing
it in the most proper point of view.
[Page 112]
In the fourth place,
study above all things to render your instructions interesting to the Hearers.
This is the great trial and mark of true genius for the Eloquence of the
Pulpit: for nothing is so fatal to success in preaching, as a dry manner. A dry
Sermon can never be a good one. In order to preach in an interesting manner,
much will depend upon the delivery of a Discourse; for the manner in which a
man speaks, is of the utmost consequence for affecting his Audience; but much
will also depend on the composition of the Discourse. Correct language, and
elegant description, are but the secondary instruments of preaching in an
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 abstract metaphysical manner. As much as
possible, the Discourse ought to be carried on in the strain of direct address
to the Audience; not in the strain of one writing an essay, but of one speaking
to a multitude, and studying to mix what is called Application, or what has an
immediate reference to practice, with the doctrinal and didactic parts of the
Sermon.
It will be of much
advantage to keep always in view the different ages, characters, and conditions
of men, and to accommodate directions and exhortations to these different
classes of hearers. Whenever you bring forth what a man feels to touch his own
character, or to suit his own circumstances, you are sure of interesting him.
No study is more necessary for this purpose, than the study of human life, and
the human heart. To be able to unfold the heart, and to discover a man to
himself, [Page 113] 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 Audience are apt to think themselves unconcerned in
the description. It is the striking accuracy of 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, command high attention. No favourable
opportunity of introducing these should be omitted. They correct, in some
degree, that disadvantage to which I before observed preaching is subject, of
being confined to treat of qualities in the abstract, not of persons, and place
the weight and reality of religious truths in the most convincing light.
Perhaps the most beautiful, and among the most useful sermons of 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 sacred writings; by pursuing which, one can
trace, and lay open, some of the most secret windings of man’s heart. Other
topics of preaching have been much beaten; but this is a field, which, wide in
itself, has hitherto been little explored by the composers of sermons, and
possesses all the advantages of being curious, new, and highly useful. Bishop
Butler’s sermon on the character of Balaam, will give an idea of that sort of
preaching which I have in my eye.
In the fifth and last
place, Let me add a caution against taking the model of preaching from
particular fashions that chance to have the vogue. These are torrents that
swell to day, [Page 114] and 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 time all
argumentative, according as some celebrated Preacher has set the example. Each
of these modes, in the extreme, is very faulty; and he who conforms himself to
it will both cramp genius, and corrupt it. It is the universal taste of mankind
which is subject to no such changing modes, that alone is entitled to possess
any authority; and this will never give its sanction to any strain of
preaching, but what is founded on human nature, connected with usefulness,
adapted to the proper idea of a Sermon, as a serious persuasive Oration,
delivered to a multitude, in order to make them better men. Let a Preacher form
himself upon this standard, and keep it close in his eye, and he will be in a
much surer road to reputation, and success at last, than by a servile compliance
with any popular taste, or transient humour of his Hearers. Truth and good
sense are firm, and will establish themselves; mode and humour are feeble and
fluctuating. Let him never follow, implicitly, any one example; or become a
servile imitator of any Preacher, however much admired. From various examples,
he may pick up much for his improvement; some he may prefer to the rest: but
the servility of imitation extinguishes all genius, or rather is a proof of the
entire want of genius.
With respect to Style,
that which the Pulpit requires, must certainly, in the first place, be very
perspicuous. As discourses spoken there, are calculated for the instruction of
all sorts of hearers, plainness and simplicity should reign in them. All
unusual, swoln, or high sounding words, should be avoided; [Page 115]
especially all words that are merely poetical, or merely philosophical. Young
Preachers are apt to be caught with the glare of these; and in young Composers
the error may be excusable; but they may be assured that it is an error, and
proceeds from their not having yet acquired a correct Taste. Dignity of
expression, indeed, the Pulpit requires in a high degree; nothing that is mean
or groveling, no low or vulgar phrases, ought on any account to be admitted.
But this dignity is perfectly 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
apostrophise the saint or the sinner; may personify inanimate objects, break
out into bold exclamations, and, in general, has the command of the most
passionate figures of Speech. But on this subject, of the proper use and 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 recal 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 [Page 116] from Scripture, in order to support what the Preacher
inculcates, both give authority to his doctrine, and render his discourse more
solemn and venerable. Allusions to remarkable passages, or expressions of
Scripture, when introduced with propriety, have generally a pleasing effect.
They afford the Preacher a fund of metaphorical expression which no other
composition enjoys, and by means of which he can vary and enliven his Style.
But he must take care that any such allusions be natural and easy; for if they
seem forced, they approach to the nature of conceits.
In a Sermon, no points
or conceits should appear , no affected smartness and quaintness of expression.
These derogate much from the dignity of the Pulpit; and give to a Preacher that
air of foppishness, which he ought, above all things, to shun. It [Page 117] is
rather a strong expressive Style, than a sparkling one, that is to be studied.
But we must beware of imagining, that we render Style strong or expressive, by
a constant and multiplied use of epithets. This is a great error. Epithets have
often great beauty and force. But if we introduce them into every Sentence, and
string many of them together to one object, in place of strengthening, we clog
and enfeeble Style; in place of illustrating the image, we render it confused
and indistinct. He that tells me, "of this perishing, mutable and
transitory world;" by all these three epithets, does not give me so strong
an idea of what he would convey, as if he had used one of them with propriety.
I conclude this head with an advice, never to have what may be called a
favourite expression; for it shews affectation, and becomes disgusting. Let not
any expression, which is remarkable for its lustre or beauty, occur twice in
the same discourse. The repetition of it 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? I am of opinion, that no universal rule can
here be given. The choice of either of these methods must be left to Preachers,
according to their different genius. The expressions which come warm and
glowing from the mind, during the servour of pronunciation, will often have a
superior grace and energy, to those which are studied in the retirement of the
closet. But then, this fluency and power of expression cannot, at all times, be
depended upon, even by [Page 118] 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 absolutelynecessary in the beginning, in order
to acquire the power and habit of correct speaking, nay also of correct
thinking, upon religious subjects. I am inclined to go further, and to say,
that it is proper not only to begin thus, but also to continue, as long as the
habits of industry last, in the practice both of writing, and committing to
memory. Relaxation in this particular is so common, and so ready to grow upon
most Speakers in the Pulpit, that there is little occasion for giving any
cautions against the extreme of overdoing in accuracy.
Of pronunciation or
delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. All that I shall now say upon this
head is, that the practice of reading Sermons, is one of the greatest obstacles
to the Eloquence of the Pulpit in Great Britain, where alone this practice
prevails. No discourse, which is designed to be persuasive, can have the same
force when read, as when spoken. The common people all feel this, and their
prejudice against this practice is not without foundation in nature. What is
gained hereby in point of correctness, is not equal, I apprehend, to what is
lost in point of persuasion and force. They, whose memories are not able to
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.
[Page 119]
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
instructive 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 English accuracy and reason, that would form, according to
my idea, the model of a perfect Sermon. A French Sermon would sound in our ears
as a florid, and, often, as an enthusiastic, harangue. The censure which, in
fact, the French critics pass on the English Preachers is, that they are
Philosophers and Logicians, . The defects of most of the French Sermons are
these: from a mode that prevails among them of taking their texts from the
lesson of the day, the connection of the text with the subject is often
unnatural and forced ; 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 very few [Page
120] thoughts spread out, and highly wrought up, than of a rich variety of
sentiments. Admitting, however, all these defects, it cannot be denied, that
their Sermons are formed upon the idea of a persuasive popular Oration; and
therefore I am of opinion, they may be read with benefit.
Among the French Protestant
divines, Saurin is the most distinguished: He is copious, eloquent, and devout,
though too ostentatious in his manner. Among the Roman Catholics, the two most
eminent are, Bourdaloue and Massillon. It is a subject of dispute among the
French Critics, to which of these the preference is due, and each of them have
their several partizans. To Bourdaloue, they attribute more solidity and close
reasoning; to Massillon, a more pleasing and engaging manner. Bourdaloue is
indeed a great reasoner, and inclucates his doctrines with much zeal, piety,
and earnestness; 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 perhaps, the most eloquent writer of
Sermons which modern times have produced
[Page 121]
Duringthe period that
preceded the restoration of King Charles II. the Sermons of the English divines
abounded with [Page 122] 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 divisions of the sectaries; but it threw out also
their warm and pathetic Addresses, and established itself wholly upon the model
of cool reasoning, and rational instruction. As the 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
enthusiastic and fanatical; and hence that argumentative manner, bordering on
the dry and unpersuasive, which is too generally [Page 123] 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 imagination or passions. Archbishop Tillotson’s manner is more free and
warm, and he approaches nearer than most of the English divines to the
character of Popular Speaking. Hence he is, to this day, one of the best models
we have for preaching. We must not indeed consider him in the light of a perfect
Orator: his composition is too loose and remiss; his style too feeble, and
frequently too flat, to deserve that high character; but there is in some of
his Sermons so much warmth and earnestness, and through them all there runs so
much ease and perspicuity, such a vein of good sense and sincere piety, as
justly intitle him to be held as eminent a Preacher as England has produced.
In Dr. Barrow, one
admires more the prodigious fecundity of his invention, and the uncommon
strength and force of his conceptions, than the felicity of his execution, or
his talent in composition. We see a genius far surpassing the common, peculiar
indeed almost to himself; but that genius often shooting wild, and unchastised
by any Discipline or study of Eloquence.
[Page 124]
I cannot attempt to
give particular characters of that great number of Writers of Sermons which
this, and the former age, have produced, among whom we meet with a variety of
the 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, found divinity and useful instruction; though, in general, the degree of
Eloquence bears not, perhaps, equal proportion to the goodness of the matter.
Bishop Atterbury deserves being particularly mentioned as a model of correct
and beautiful Style, besides having the merit of a warmer and more eloquent
strain of writing, in some of his Sermons, than is commonly met with. Had
Bishop Butler, in place of abstract philosophical essays, given us more
Sermons, in the strain of those two excellent ones which he has composed upon
Self- deceit, and upon the character of Balaam, we would 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 passages from 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 public 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 hazard 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 consult [Page 125] many, will throw perplexity and confusion into his ideas;
and, if he consults only one, will often warp him insensibly into his method,
whether it be right or not. But let him begin with pondering the subject in his
own thoughts; let him endeavour to fetch materials from within; to collect and
arrange his ideas; and form some sort of plan to himself; which it is always
proper to put down in writing. Then, and not till then, he may enquire how
others have treated the same subject. By this means, the method, and the
leading thoughts in the Sermon are likely to be his own. These thoughts he may
improve, by comparing them with the tract 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 beyond is plagiarism.
On the whole, never let
the capital principle, with which we set out at first, be forgotten, to keep
close in view, the great end for which a Preacher mounts the pulpit; even to
infuse good dispositions into his hearers, 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. Embellish truth only, with a view to
gain it the more full and free admission 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
encomium, perhaps, ever bestowed on a Preacher, was [Page 126] 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 I hear you, I go away
displeased with myself; for I see more of my own character."
[Page 127]
THE last Lecture was
employed in observations on the peculiar and distinguishing Characters of the
Eloquence proper for the Pulpit. But as rules and directions, when delivered in
the abstract, are never so useful as when they are illustrated by particular
instances, it may, perhaps, be of some benefit to those who are designed for
the Church, that I should analyse an English Sermon, and consider the matter of
it, together with the manner. For this purpose, I have chosen Bishop Atterbury
as my example, who is deservedly accounted one of our most eloquent writers of
Sermons, and whom I mentioned as such in the last Lecture. At the same time, he
is more distinguished for 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 rational; but pious and devotional,
which is a great [Page 128] excellency. The Sermon which I have singled out,
is, that upon Praise and Thanksgiving, the first Sermon of the first Volume,
which is reckoned one of his best. In examining it, it is necessary that I
should use full liberty, and, together with the beauties, point out any defects
that occur to me in the matter, as well as in the Style.
Psalm 1. 14. Offer unto
God Thansgiving.
"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 shew of religion, in ceremonies and ritual observances;
and taught, rather to practise (that which was shadowed out by these rites, and
to which they are designed to lead) sound inward piety and virtue.
"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 conversed; to preserve a foolish people from idolatry, and false
worship; to rescue the law from corrupt glosses, and superstitious abuses; and
to put men in mind of (what they are so willing to forget) that eternal and invariable
rule, which was before these positive duties, would continue after them, and
was to be observed, even then, in preference to them.
[Page 129]
"The discharge, I
say, of this part of the prophetic office taking up so much room in the book of
Psalms; this hath been one reason, among many others, why they have always been
so highly esteemed; because we are from hence furnished with a proper reply to
an argument commonly made use of by unbelievers, who look upon all revealed
religions as pious frauds and impostures, on the account of the prejudices they
have entertained in relation to that of the Jews; the whole of which they first
suppose to lie in external performances, and then easily 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 shew; and that inward purity, and the devotion of
the heart, was a duty then, as well as now."
This appears to me an
excellent Introduction. The thought on which it rests is solid and judicious;
that in the book of Psalms, the attention of men is called to the moral and
spiritual part of religion; and the Jewish dispensation thereby vindicated from
the suspicion of requiring nothing more from its votaries, than the observance
of the external rites and ceremonies of the law. Such views of religion are
proper to be often displayed; and deserve to be insisted on, by all who wish to
render preaching conducive to the great purpose of promoting righteousness
[Page 130] and virtue. The Style, as far as we have gone, is not only free from
faults, but elegant and happy.
It is a great beauty in
an introduction, when it can be made to turn on some one thought, fully brought
out and illustrated; especially, if that thought has a close connection with
the following discourse, and, at the same time, does not anticipate any thing
that is afterwards to be introduced in a more proper place. This Introduction
of Atterbury’s has all these advantages. The encomium which he makes on the
strain of David’s Psalms, is not such as might as well have been prefixed to
any other discourse, the text of which was taken from any of the Psalms. Had
this been the case, the Introduction would have lost much of its beauty. We
shall see from what follows, how naturally the introductory thought connects
with his text, and how happily it ushers it in.
"One great
instance of this proof, we have in the words now before us; which are taken
from a Psalm of Asaph, written on purpose to set out the weakness and
worthlessness of external performances, when compared with more substantial and
vital duties. To enforce which doctrine, God himself is brought in as
delivering it. Hear, O my people, and I will speak; O Israel, and I will
testify against thee: I am God, even thy God. The Preface is very solemn, and
therefore what it ushers in, we may be sure is of no common importance; I will
not reprove thee for thy sacrifices or thy burnt offerings, to have been
continually before me. That is, I will not so reprove thee for any failures in
thy sacrifices [Page 131] and burnt-offerings, as if these were the only, or
the chief things I required of thee. I will take no bullock out of thy house,
nor he-goat out of thy folds; I prescribed not sacrifices to thee for my own
sake, because I needed them; For every beast of the forest is mine, and the
cattle on a thousand bills. Mine they are, and were, before I commanded thee to
offer them to me; so that, as it follows, If I were hungry, yet would I not
tell thee; for the world is mine, and the fullness 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 I eat the flesh of bulls, or drink
the blood of goats?---Thus doth he expostulate severely with them, after the
most graceful manner of the Eastern Poetry. The issue of which is a plain and
full resolution of the case, in those few words of the text.---Offer unto God
thanksgiving. Would you do your homage the most agreeable way? would you render
the most acceptable of services? offer unto God thanksgiving."
It is often a difficult
matter to illustrate gracefully the text of a Sermon from the context, and to
point out the connection between them. This is a part of the discourse which is
apt to become dry and tedious, especially when pursued into a minute
commentary. And therefore, except as far as such illustration from the context
is necessary for 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 wholly omitted, and the text assumed merely
as an independent proposition, if the connection with the context be obscure,
and would require a laborious explanation. [Page 132] In the present case, the
illustration from the context is singularly happy. The passage of the Psalm on
which it is founded is noble and spirited, and connected in such a manner with
the text, as to introduce it with a very striking emphasis. On the language I
have little to observe, except that the phrase, one great instance of this
proof, is a clumsy expression. It was sufficient to have said, one great proof,
or one great instance, of this. In the same sentence, when he speaks of setting
out the weakness and worthlessness of external performances, we may observe,
that the word worthlessness, as it is now commonly used, signifies more than
the deficiency of worth, which is all that the Author means. It generally
imports, a considerable degree of badness or blame. It would be more proper,
therefore, to say, the imperfection, or the insignificancy, of external
performances.
"The use I intend
to make of these words, is, from 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 establishment 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 [Page 133] part of our duty,
with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that keep holidays."
In this paragraph there
is nothing remarkable; no particular beauty or neatness of expression; and the
Sentence which it forms is long and tiresome ---to raise some thoughts about
that very excellent, &c. is rather loose and awkward;---better---to
recommend that very excellent, &c. and when he mentions setting aside a
particular day in the calendar, one would imagine, that setting apart would
have been more proper, as to sat aside, seems rather to suggest a different
idea.
"Offer unto God
Thanksgiving.---Which that we may do, let us enquire first, how we are to
understand this command of offering Praise and Thanksgiving unto God; and then,
how reasonable it is that we should comply with it."
This is the general
division of the discourse. An excellent one it is, and corresponds to many
subjects of this kind, where particular duties are to be treated of; first to
explain, and then to recommend or enforce them. A division should always be
simple and natural; and much depends on the proper view which it gives of the
subject.
"Our enquiry into
what is meant here, will be very short; for who is there, that understands any
thing of religion, but knows, that the offering praise and thanks to God,
implies, our having a lively and devout sense of his excellencies, and of his
benefits; our recollecting them with humility and thankfulness of heart; and
our expressing these inward affections [Page 134] by suitable outward signs, by
reverent and lowly postures of body, by songs and hymns, and spiritual
ejaculations; either publicly or privately; either in the customary and daily
service of the Church, or in its more solemn Assemblies, convened upon
extraordinary occasions? This is the account which every Christian easily gives
himself of it; and which, therefore, it would be needless to enlarge upon. I
shall only take notice upon this head, that Praise and Thanksgiving do, in
strictness of speech, signify things somewhat different. Our praise properly
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 someway 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 follows, thus nicely always to distinguish
them."
There was room here for
insisting more fully on the nature of the duty, than the Author has done under
this head; in particular, this was the place for correcting the mistake, to
which men are always prone, of making Thanksgiving to consist merely in outward
expressions; and for shewing them, that the essence [Page 135] 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 fullness 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 enforcing the duty. For, as it is an easier
matter to know, than to practise duty, the persuasive part of the discourse is
that to which the Speaker should always bend his chief strength. The account
given in this head, of the nature of Praise and Thanksgiving, though short, is
yet comprehensive and distinct, and the language is smooth and elegant.
"Now the great
reasonableness of this duty of Praise or Thanksgiving, and our several
obligations to it, will appear, if we either consider it absolutely in itself,
as the debt of our natures; or compare it with other duties, and shew the rank
it bears among them; or set out, in the last place, some of its peculiar
properties and advantages, with regard to the devout performer of it."
The Author here enters
upon the main part of his subject, the reasonableness 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 shewn the
obligations we are under to this duty, from the various subjects of
Thanksgiving afforded us by the divine goodness. This would [Page 136] have led
him to review the chief benefits of Creation, Providence, and Redemption: and
certainly, they are these which lay the foundation of the whole argument for
Thanksgiving. The heart must first be affected with a suitable sense of the
divine benefits, before one can be excited to praise God. If you would persuade
me to be thankful to a benefactor, you must not employ such considerations
merely as those upon which the Author here rests, taken from gratitude’s being
the law of my nature, or bearing a high rank among moral duties, or being
attended with peculiar advantages. These are considerations but of a secondary
nature. You must begin with setting before me all that my friend has done for
me, if you mean to touch my heart, and to call forth the emotions of gratitude.
The case is perfectly similar, when we are exhorted to give thanks to God; and,
therefore, in giving a full view of the subject, the blessings conferred on us
by divine goodness should have been taken into the argument.
It may be said,
however, in apology for our Author, that this would have led him into too wide
a field for one discourse, and into a field also, which is 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 them as known and acknowledged; and setting aside what may be called
the pathetic part of the subject, or what was calculated to warm the heart, he
goes on to the reasoning part. In this management, I cannot altogether blame
him. I do not by 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 [Page 137] render it too copious and comprehensive.
The Preacher may, without reprehension, take up any part of a great subject to
which his genius at the time leads him, and make that his theme. But when he
omits any thing which may be thought essential, he ought to give notice, that
this is a part, which for the time he lays aside. 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, preserving,
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 faculties 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 hath ever since been
approved and inculcated by the wisest men of all ages, that the original design
of making man was, that he might praise and honour him who made him. When God
had finished this goodly frame of things we call the world, and put together
the several parts of it, according to his infinite wisdom, in exact number,
weight, and measure; there was still wanting a creature, in these lower
regions, [Page 138] that could apprehend the beauty, order, and exquisite
contrivance of it; that from contemplating the gift, might be able to raise
itself to the great Giver, and do honour to all his attributes. Every thing
indeed that God made, did, in some sense, glorify its Author, inasmuch as it
carried upon it the plain mark and impress of the 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 firmament to show his handy-work: But this was an imperfect and defective
glory; the sign was of no signification here below, whilst there was no one
here as yet to take notice of it. Man, therefore, was formed to supply this
want, endowed with powers fit to find out, and to acknowledge these unlimited
perfections; and then put into this Temple of God, this lower world, as the
priest of nature, to offer up the incense of Thanks and Praise for the mute and
insensible part of the Creation.
"This, I say, hath
been the opinion all along of the most thoughtful men down from the most
ancient times: and though it be not demonstrative, yet it is what we cannot but
judge highly reasonable, if we do but allow, that man was made for some end or
other; and that he is capable of perceiving that end. For, then, let us search
and enquire never so much, we shall find no other account of him that we can
rest upon so well. If we say, that he was made purely for the good pleasure of
God; this is, in effect, to say, that he was made for no determinate end; or
for none, at least, that we can discern. If we say, that he was designed as an
instance of the wisdom, and power, and goodness of God; [Page 139] this, indeed,
may be the reason of his being in general; for ’tis the common reason of the
being of every thing besides. But it gives no account, why he was made such a
being as he is, a reflecting, thoughtful, inquisitive being. The particular
reason of this, seems most aptly to be drawn from the praise and honour that
was (not only to redound to God from him, but) to be given to God by him."
The thought which runs
through all this passage, of man’s being the Priest of Nature, and of his
existence being calculated chiefly for this end, that he might offer up the
praises of the mute part of the creation, is an ingenious thought, and well
illustrated. It was a favourite idea among some of the antient philosophers;
and it is not the worse on that account, as it thereby appears to have been a
natural sentiment of the human mind. In composing a Sermon, however, it might
have been better to have introduced it as a sort of collateral argument, or an
incidental illustration, than to have displayed it with so much pomp, and to have
placed it in the front of the arguments for this duty. It does not seem to me,
when placed in this station, to bear all the stress which the Author lays upon
it. When the divine goodness brought man into existence, we cannot well
conceive that its chief purpose was, to form a being who might 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 be a principal
head of discourse.
[Page 140]
"This duty,
therefore, is the debt and law of our nature. And it will more distinctly
appear to be such, if we consider the two ruling faculties of our mind, the
Understanding and the Will apart, in both which it is deeply founded: in the
Understanding, as in the principle of Reason, which owns and acknowledges it;
in the Will, as in the 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 cannot, 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 admire 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 think of God without praising
him: for it depends not on the understanding, how it shall apprehend things, any
more than it doth on the eye, how visible objects shall appear to it.
"The duty takes
the further and surer hold of us, by the means of the will, and that strong
bent towards gratitude, which the Author or our Nature hath implanted in it.
There is not a more active principle than this in the mind of man; and surely
that which deserves its utmost force; and should set all its springs a-work, is
God; the great and universal [Page 141] Benefactor, from whom alone we received
whatever we either have, or are, and to whom we can possibly repay nothing but
our Praises, or (to speak more properly on this head, and according to the
strict import of the word) our Thanksgiving. Who hath first given to God (faith
the great Apostle, in his usual figure) and it shall be recompensed unto him
again? A gift, it seems, always requires a recompence: nay, but of him, and
through him, and to him, are all things: of him, as the Author; through him, as
the Preserver and Governor; to him, as the end and perfection of all things: to
whom, therefore, (as it follows) be glory for ever, Amen!"
I cannot much approve
of the light in which our Author places his argument in these paragraphs. There
is something too metaphysical and refined, in his deducing, in this manner, the
obligation to thanksgiving, from the two faculties of the mind, Understanding
and Will. Though what he says be in itself just, yet the argument is not
sufficiently plain and striking. Arguments in Sermons, especially on subjects
that so naturally and easily suggest them, should be palpable and popular;
should not be brought from topics that appear far sought, but should directly
address the heart and feelings. 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 in
the human heart; had illustrated this, by showing how odious the opposite
disposition is, and with what general consent men, in all ages, have agreed in
hating, and condemning the ungrateful; and then applying [Page 142] these
reasonings to the present case, had placed, in a strong view, that entire
corruption of moral sentiment which it discovers, to be destitute of thankful
emotions towards the Supreme Benefactor of Mankind. As the most natural method
of giving vent to grateful sentiments is, by external expressions of
thanksgiving, he might then have answered the objection that is apt to occur,
of the expression of our praise being insignificant to the Almighty. But, by
seeking to be too refined in his argument, he has omitted some of the most
striking and obvious considerations, and which, properly displayed, would have
afforded as great a field for Eloquence, as the topics which he has chosen. He
goes on,
"Gratitude
consists in an equal return of benefits, if we are able; of thanks, if we are
not: which thanks, therefore, must rise always in proportion as the favours
received are great, and the receiver incapable of making any other sort of
requital. Now, since no man hath benefited God at any time, and yet every man,
in each moment of his life, is 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 hath put a value upon
them: he hath declared, he will accept them in lieu of the vast debt we owe;
and after that, which is fittest for us, to dispute how they came to be taken
as an equivalent, or to pay them?
"It is, therefore,
the voice of nature (as far as gratitude itself is so) that the good things we
receive from above, [Page 143] 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 considerations which I mentioned. But he has
only touched them; whereas, with advantage, they might have formed the main
body of his argument.
"We have
considered the duty absolutely; we are now to compare it with others, and to
see what rank it bears among them. And here we shall find, that, among all the
acts of religion immediately addressed to God, this is much the noblest and
most excellent; as it must needs be, if what hath been laid down be allowed,
that the end of man’s creation was to praise and glorify God. For that cannot
but be the most noble and excellent act of any being, which best answers the
end and design of it. Other parts of devotion, such as confession and prayer,
seem not originally to have been designed for man, nor man for them. They imply
guilt and want, with which the state of innocence was not 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 [Page
144] the loss, and to restore him to that finte wherein he should be able to
live without them. These are fitted, therefore, for a lower dispensation;
before which, in paradise, there was nothing but praise, and after which, there
shall be nothing but that in Heaven. Our perfect state did at first, and will
at last, consist in the performance of this duty; and herein, therefore, lies
the excellence, and the honour of our nature.
"’Tis the same way
of reasoning, by which the Apostle lrath given the preference to charity,
beyond faith, and hope, and every spiritual gift. Charity never faileth, faith
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 prophesies, they shall
fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge,
it shall vanish away. These are gifts of a temporary advantage, and shall all
perish in the using. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part; our present
state is 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 Christian worship; and we may conclude our reasoning,
therefore, as he doth his: And 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 [Page 145] with other duties of religion. This he handles,
with much eloquence and beauty. His idea, that this was the original worship of
man, before his fall 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 illustration of it is very
happy; and the style extremely flowing and sweet. Seldom do we meet with any
piece of composition in Sermons, that has more merit than this head.
"It is so,
certainly, on other accounts, as well as this; particularly, as it is the most
disinterested branch of our religious service; such as hath the most of God,
and the least of ourselves in it, of any we pay; and therefore approaches the
nearest of any to a pure, and free, and perfect act of homage. For though a
good action doth not grow immediately worthless by being done with the prospect
of advantage, as some have strangely imagined; yet it will be allowed, I
suppose, that its being done, without the mixture of that end, or with as
little of it as possible, recommends it so much the more, and raises the price
of it. Doth Job fear God for nought? was an objection of Satan; which implied,
that those duties were most valuable, where our own interest was least aimed
at: and God seems, by the commission he then gave Satan, to try experiments
upon Job, thus far to have allowed his plea. Now, our requests for future, and
even our acknowledgments of past mercies, center purely in ourselves; our own
interest is the direct aim of them. But praise is a generous and unmercenary
principle, which proposes no other end to itself, but to do, as is fit for a
creature endowed [Page 146] with such faculties to do, towards the most perfect
and beneficent of beings; and to pay the willing tribute of honour there, where
the voice of Reason 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
stirred us up to them. Had it been so, we should naturally have betaken
ourselves to Prayer, and breathed out our desires in that form wherein they are
most properly conveyed.
In short, Praise is our
most excellent work, a work common to the church triumphant and militant, and
which lifts us up into communion and fellowship with Angels. The matter about
which it is conversant, is always the perfections 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 elegantly; 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 certainly are not
required (as the Author admits) to divest ourselves of such regards. The
concluding Sentence of this head is elegant and happily expressed.
[Page 147]
"I come now, in
the last place, to set out some of its peculiar properties and advantages,
which recommend it to the devout performer. And, 1. It is the most pleasing
part of our devotions: it proceeds always from a lively cheerful temper of
mind, and it cherishes and improves what it proceeds from. For it is good to
sing praises unto our God (says one, whose experience, in this case, we may
rely upon), for it is pleasant, and praise is comely. Petition and Confession
are the language of the indigent and the guilty, the breathings of a sad and
contrite spirit: Is any afflicted? let him pray; but, Is any merry? let him
sing psalms. The most usual and natural way of men’s expressing the mirth of
their hearts is in a song, and songs are the very language of praise; to the expressing
of which they are in a peculiar manner 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 proceeds from Love and from
Thankfulness; from Love, 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 of those
thoughts of praise and gratitude, those exultations it is so full of; and which
would grow uneasy and troublesome to it, if they were kept in. If the thankful
refrained, it would be pain and grief to them; but then, then [Page 148] is
their soul satisfied as with marrow and fatness, when their mouth praiseth God with
joyful lips."
In beginning this head
of discourse, the expression which the Author uses, to set out some of its
peculiar properties and advantages, would now be reckoned not so proper an
expression, as to point out, or to show. The first subdivision concerning
praise being the most pleasant part of devotion, is very just and well
expressed, as far as it goes; but seems to me rather defective. Much more might
have been said, upon the pleasure that accompanies such exalted acts of
devotion. It was a cold thought, to dwell upon its disburdening the mind of a
debt. The Author should have insisted more upon the influence of Praise and
Thanksgiving, in warming, gladdening, soothing the mind; lifting it above the
world, to dwell among divine and eternal objects. He should have described the
peace and joy which then expand the heart; the relief which this exercise
procures from the cares and agitations of life; the encouraging views of
Providence to which it leads our attention; and the trust which it promotes in
the divine mercy for the future, by the commemoration of benefits past. In
short, this was the place for his pouring out a greater flow of devotional
sentiments than what we here find.
"2. It is another
distinguishing property of divine praise, 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 [Page 149] man, such as there is hardly
greater between man and beast; and this proceeds chiefly from the different
sphere of thought which they act in, and the different objects they converse
with. The mind is 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 affairs, and within narrower bounds; the other
exercises himself in things of weight and moment; and this it is, that puts the
wide distance between them. Noble objects are to the mind, what the sun-beams
are to a bud or flower; they open and unfold, as it were, the leaves of it; put
it upon exerting and spreading itself every way; and call forth all those
powers that lie hid and locked up in it. The praise and admiration of God,
therefore, brings this advantage along with it, that it sets our faculties upon
their full stretch, and improves them to all the degrees of perfection of which
they are capable."
This head is just, well
expressed, and to censure it might appear hypercritical. Some of the
expressions, however, one would think, might be amended. The simile, for
instance, about the effects of the sun-beams 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 similies 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 [Page 150] way as this: "As the sun-beams open the
bud, and unfold the leaves of a flower, noble objects have a like effect upon
the mind: they expand and spread it, and call forth those powers that before
lay hid and locked up in the soul."
"3. It farther
promotes in us an exquisite sense of God’s honour, and an high indignation of
mind at every thing that openly profanes it. For what we value and delight in,
we cannot with patience hear slighted or abused. Our own praises, which we are
constantly putting up, will be a spur to us toward 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 carelesly and loosely brought out. The Sentence, our
own praises which we are constantly putting up, will be a spur to us toward
procuring and promoting the divine glory in every other instance, is both
negligent in language, and ambiguous in meaning; for our own praises, properly
signifies the praises of ourselves. Much better if he had said, "Those
devout praises which we constantly offer up to the Almighty, will naturally
prompt us to promote the divine glory in every other instance."
[Page 151]
"4. It will,
beyond all this, work in us a deep humility and consciousness 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 distinguish us
from the rest of mankind; then, ’tis odds, but we look into ourselves with
great degrees of complacency, and are wiser (and better every way) in our own
conceit, than seven men that can render a reason. Now nothing will contribute
so much to the cure of this vanity, as a due attention to God’s excellencies
and perfections. By comparing these with those which we imagine belong to us,
we shall learn, not to think more highly of ourselves than we ought to think of
ourselves, but to think soberly; we shall find more satisfaction in looking
upwards, and humbling ourselves before our common Creator, than in casting our
eyes downward with scorn upon our fellow creatures, and setting at nought any
part of the work of his hands. The vast distance we are at from real and
infinite Worth, will astonish us so much, that we shall not be tempted to value
ourselves upon these lesser degrees of preeminence, 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 elegance and beauty appears. The phrase ’tis
odds, [Page 152] 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 to belong to us, is also very careless style.---By comparing
these with the virtues and abilities which we ascribe to ourselves, we shall
learn---would have been purer and more correct.
"5. I shall
mention but one use of it more, and ’tis this; that a 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 ’tis commonly managed,
is nothing else but a trial of skill upon a man, how many good things we can
possibly say of him. All the treasures of Oratory are ransacked, and all the
fine things that ever were said, are heaped together for his sake; and no
matter whether it belongs to him or not; so there be but enough on’t. Which is
one deplorable instance, among a thousand, of the baseness of human nature, of
its small regard to truth and justice; to right or wrong; to what is, or is not
to be praised. But he who hath a deep sense of the excellencies of God upon his
heart, will make a God of nothing besides. He will give every one his just
encomium, honour where honour is due, and as much as is due, because it is his
duty to do so; but the honour of God will suffer him to go no further. Which
rule, if it had been observed, a 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."
[Page 153]
This head appears
scarcely to deserve any place among the more important topics, that naturally
presented themselves on this subject; at least, it had much better have wanted
the application which the Author makes of his reasoning to the flatterers of Louis
XIV.; and the thanks which he offers to God, for the affairs of that prince
being in so low a state, that he now needed flattery more than ever. This
Political Satire is altogether out of place, and unworthy of the subject.
One would be inclined
to think, upon reviewing our Author’s arguments, 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
dispositions in the heart; to promote love to God, and imitation of those
perfections which we adore; and to infuse a spirit of ardour and zeal into the
whole of religion, as the service of our benefactor. These are consequences
which naturally follow from the proper performance of this duty; and which
ought not to have been omitted; as no opportunity should be lost, of showing
the good effect of devotion on practical religion and moral virtue; and
pointing out the necessary connection of the one with the other. For certainly
the great end of Preaching is, to make men better in all the relations of life,
and to promote that complete reformation of heart and conduct, in which true
Christianity consists. Our Author, however, upon the whole, is not deficient in
such views of religion; for, in his general strain of preaching, as he is
extremely pious, so he is, at the same time, practical and moral.
[Page 154]
His summing up of the
whole argument, in the next paragraph is elegant and beautiful; and such
concluding views of the subject are frequently very proper and useful:
"Upon these grounds doth the duty of praise stand, and these are the
obligations that bind us to the performance of it. ’Tis the end of our being,
and the very rule and law of our nature; flowing from the two great fountains
of human action, the understanding and the will, naturally, and almost
necessarily. It is the most excellent part of our religious worship; enduring
to eternity, after the rest shall be done away; and paid, even now, in the
frankest manner, with the least regard to our own interest. It recommends
itself to us by several peculiar properties and advantages; as it carries more
pleasure in it, than all other kinds of devotion; as it enlarges and exalts the
several powers of the mind; as it breeds in us an exquisite sense of God’s
honour, and a willingness to promote it in the world; as it teaches us to be
humble and lowly ourselves, and yet preserves us from base and sordid flattery,
from bestowing mean and undue praises upon others."
After this, our Author
addresses himself to two classes of men, the Careless and the Profane. His
address to the Careless is beautiful, and pathetic; that to the Profane, is not
so well executed, and is liable to some objection. Such addresses appear to me
to be, on several occasions, very useful parts of a discourse. They prevailed
much in the strain of preaching before the Restoration; and, perhaps, since
that period, have been too much neglected. They afford an opportunity of
bringing home to the consciences of the audience, many things, [Page 155]
which, in the course of the Sermon, were, perhaps, delivered in the abstract.
I shall not dwell on
the Conclusion of the Sermon, which is chiefly employed in observations on the
posture of public affairs at that time. Considered, upon the whole, this
Discourse of Bishop Atterbury’s is both useful and beautiful, though I have
ventured to point out some defects in it. Seldom, or never, can we expect to
meet with a composition of any kind, which is absolutely perfect in 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.
[Page 156]
I HAVE, in the four
preceding Lectures, considered what is peculiar to each of the three great
fields of Public Speaking, Popular Assemblies, the Bar, and the Pulpit. I am
now to treat of what is common to them all; of the conduct of a Discourse or
Oration, in general. The previous view which I have given of the distinguishing
spirit and character of different kinds of Public Speaking, was necessary for
the proper application of the rules which I am about to deliver; and as I
proceed, I shall farther point out, how far any of these rules may have a
particular respect to the Bar, to the Pulpit, or to Popular Courts.
On whatever subject any
one intends to discourse, he will most commonly begin with some introduction,
in [Page 157] 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 Introduction; secondly, the State, and the Division
of the Subject; thirdly, Narration, or Explication; fourthly, the Reasoning or
Arguments; fifthly, the Pathetic Part; and lastly, the Conclusion. I do not
mean, that each of these must enter into every Public Discourse, or that they
must enter always in this order. There is no reason for being so formal on
every occasion; nay, it would often be a fault, and would render a Discourse
pedantic and stiff. There may be many excellent Discourses in public, where
several of these parts are altogether wanting; where the Speaker, for instance,
uses no Introduction, but enters directly on his subject; where he has no
occasion either to divide or explain; but simply reasons on one side of the
question, and then finishes. But as the parts, which I mentioned, are the
natural constituent parts of a regular Oration; and as in every Discourse
whatever, some of them must be found, it is necessary to our present purpose,
that I should treat of each of them distinctly.
I begin, of course,
with the Exordium or Introduction. This is manifestly common to all the three
kinds of Public Speaking. It is not a rhetorical invention. It is founded [Page
158] upon nature, and suggested by common sense. When one is going to counsel
another; when he takes upon him to instruct, or to reprove, prudence will
generally direct him not to do it abruptly, but to use some preparation; to
begin with somewhat that may incline the persons, to whom he addresses himself,
to judge favourably of what he is about to say; and may dispose them to such a
train of thought, as will forward and assist the purpose which he has in view.
This is, or ought to be, the main scope of an Introduction. Accordingly Cicero
and Quinctilian mention three ends, to one or other of which it should be
subservient, "Reddere auditores benevolos, attentos, dociles."
First, To conciliate
the good will of the hearers; to render them benevolent, or well-affected to
the Speaker and to the subjects. Topics 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
discourse. The third end, is to render the hearers docile, or open to
persuasion; for which end, we must begin with studying to [Page 159] remove any
particular prepossessions they may have contracted against the cause, or side
of the argument which we espouse.
Some one of these ends
should be proposed by every Introduction. When there is no occasion for aiming
at any of them; when we are already secure of the good will, the attention, and
the docility of the Audience, as may often be the case, formal Introductions
may, without any prejudice, be omitted. And, indeed, when they serve for no
purpose but mere ostentation, they had, for the most part, better be omitted;
unless as far as respect to the Audience makes it decent, that a Speaker should
not break in upon them too abruptly, but by a short exordium prepare them for
what he is going to say. Demosthenes’s Introductions are always short and
simple; Cicero’s are fuller and more artful.
The ancient Critics
distinguish two kinds of Introductions, which they call "Principium,"
and "Insinuatio." "Principium" is, where the Orator plainly
and directly professes his aim in speaking. "Insinuatio" is, where a
larger compass must be taken; and where, presuming the disposition of the
Audience to be much against the Orator, he must gradually reconcile them to
hearing him, before he plainly discovers the point which he has in view.
Of this latter sort of
Introduction, we have an admirable instance in Cicero’s second Oration against
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 absolute power for five years over all the lands [Page 160] conquered by
the Republic, in order to divide them among the citizens. Such laws had often
been proposed by factious magistrates, and were always greedily 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 delicate, 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 declares, 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 assures them, that when he first heard of Rullus’s
law, he had resolved to support it, if he found it for their interest; but
that, upon examining it, he found it calculated to establish a dominion that
was inconsistent with liberty, and to aggrandize a few men at the expence of
the public: and then terminates his exordium, with telling them, that he is
going to give his reasons for being of this opinion; but that if his reasons
shall not satisfy them, he will give up his own opinion, and embrace theirs. In
all this, [Page 161] there was great art. His Eloquence 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 Introduction, I proceed to lay down
some rules for the proper composition of it. These are the more necessary, as
this is a part of the Discourse which requires no finall care. It is always of
importance to begin well; to make a favourable impression at first setting out;
when the minds of the hearers, vacant as yet and free, are most disposed to
receive any impression easily. I must add too, that a good Introduction is
often found to be extremely difficult. Few parts of the Discourse give the
Composer more trouble, or are attended with more nicety in the execution.
The first rule is, that
the Introduction should be easy and natural. The subject must always suggest
it. It must appear, as Cicero beautifully expresses it: "Effloruisse
penitus ex re de ." 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 detached from the
rest of the Discourse. Of this kind are Sallust’s Introductions, prefixed to
his Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars. They might as well have been
Introductions to any other History, or to any other Treatise whatever: and,
therefore, though elegant in themselves, [Page 162] they must be considered as
blemishes in the work, from want of due connection with it. Cicero, though
abundantly correct in this particular in his Orations, yet is not so in his
other works. It appears from a letter of his to Atticus (L. xvi. 6.) that it
was his custom to prepare, at his leisure, a collection of different
Introductions or Prefaces, ready to be prefixed to any work that he might
afterwards 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 opinion, a good rule, that they
should not be planned, till after one has meditated in his own mind the
substance of his Discourse. Then, and not till then, he should begin to think
of some proper and natural Introduction. By taking a contrary course, and
labouring in the first place on an 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 accommodated to
the Discourse, he is obliged to accommodate the whole Discourse to the
Introduction which he had previously written. Cicero makes this remark; though,
as we have seen, his practice was not always conformable to his own rule.
"Omnibus rebus consideratis, tum denique id quod primum est dicendum,
postremum soleo cogitare, quo utar exordio. Nam si quando id primum invenire
volui, nullum mihi occurrit, nisi aut exile, aut nugatorium, [Page 163] ."
After the mind has been once warmed and put in train, by close meditation on
the subject, materials for the Preface will then suggest themselves much more
readily.
In the second place, In
an Introduction, correctness should be 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
directed to the Speaker’s style and manner. Something must be done, therefore,
to prepossess them in his favour; though for the same reasons, too much art
must be avoided; for it will be more easily detected at that time, than
afterwards; and will derogate from persuasion in all that follows. A correct
plainness, an elegant simplicity, is the proper character of an Introduction;
"ut videamur," says Quinctilian, "accuratè non callidè
dicere."
In the third place,
Modesty is another character which it must carry. All appearances of modesty
are favourable, and prepossessing. If the Orator set out with an air of
arrogance and ostentation, the self-love and pride of the hearers will be
presently awakened, and will follow him with a very suspicious eye throughout
all his progress. His modesty should discover [Page 164] 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 ." 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 beginning, might be then like a
confession of guilt. By the boldness and strength of his Exordium, he must
endeavour to stem the tide that is against him, and to remove prejudices, by
encountering them without fear. In subjects too of a declamatory nature, [Page
165] and in Sermons, 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, preached on the 30th of
January, the Anniversary of what is called King Charles’s Martyrdom, sets out
in this pompous manner: "This is a day of Trouble, of Rebuke, and of
Blasphemy; distinguished in the Calendar of our Church, and the annals of our
Nation, by the sufferings of an excellent Prince, who fell a sacrifice to the rage
of his rebellious subjects; and, by his fall, derived infamy, misery, and guilt
on them, and their sinful posterity." Bossuet, Flechier, and the other
celebrated French Preachers very often begin their Discourses with laboured and
sublime Introductions. These raise attention, and throw a lustre on the
subject: but let every Speaker be much on his guard against striking a higher
note at the beginning, than he is able to keep up in his progress.
In the fourth place, An
Introduction should usually be carried on in the calm manner. This is seldom
the place for vehemence and passion. 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 unexpected presence of some person
or object, in a Popular Assembly, inflames the Speaker, and makes him break
forth with unusual warmth. Either of these will justify what is called, the
Exordiumab abrupto. Thus the appearance of Catiline in the Senate, renders the
vehement [Page 166] beginning of Cicero’s first Oration against him very
natural and proper. "Quousque tandem, Catilina, abutere patientia
nostra?" And thus Bishop Atterbury, in preaching from this text,
"Blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me," ventures on
breaking forth with this bold Exordium; "And can any man then be offended in
thee, blessed Jesus?" which address to our Saviour, he continues for a
page or two, till he enters on the division of his subject. But such
Introductions as these should be hazarded by very few, as they promise so much
vehemence and unction through the rest of the Discourse, that it is very
difficult to fulfil the expectations of the hearers.
At the same time,
though the Introduction is not the place in which warm emotions are usually to
be attempted, yet I must take notice, that it ought to prepare the way for such
as are designed to be raised in 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
inspire. Much of the Orator’s art and ability is shown, in thus striking
properly at the commencement, the key note, if we may so express it, of the
rest of his Oration.
In the fifth place, It
is a rule in Introductions, not to anticipate any material part of the subject.
When topics, or arguments, which are afterwards to be enlarged upon, are hinted
[Page 167] at, and, in part, brought forth in the Introduction, they lose the
grace of novelty upon their second appearance. The impression intended to be
made by any capital thought, is always made with the greatest advantage, when
it is made 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.
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 appear to convert, to his own favour, the
principles with which we had set out, in beginning our attack upon him. In the
case of Replies, Quinctilian makes an observation which is very worthy of
notice; that Introductions, drawn from something that has [Page 168] 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 gratiæ exordio est, quod ab
actione diversæ partis materiam trahit; hoc ipso, quod non compositum domi, sed
ibi atque e re natum; et facilitate famam ingenii auget; et facie simplicis,
sumptique e proximo sermonis, fidem quoque acquirit; adeo, ut etiamsi reliqua
scripta atque elaborata sint, tamen videatur tota extemporalis oratio, cujus
initium nihil preparatum habuisse, manifestum ."
In Sermons, such a
practice as this cannot take place; and, indeed, in composing Sermons, few
things are more difficult than to remove an appearance of stiffness from an
Introduction, when a formal one is used. The French Preachers, as I before
observed, are often very splendid and lively in their Introductions; but, among
us, attempts of this kind are not always so successful. When long Introductions
are formed upon some common-place topic, as the desire of happiness being
natural to man, or the like, they never fail of being tedious. Variety should
be studied in this part of composition as much as possible; often it may be
proper to begin without any Introduction at all, unless, perhaps, one or two
Sentences. Explanatory [Page 169] 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 rouze attention; when one can lay hold upon
some noted fact that is connected with the Text or the Discourse, and, by a
proper illustration of it, open the way to the subject that is to be treated
of.
After the Introduction,
what commonly comes next in order, is, the Proposition, or Enunciation of the
Subject; concerning which there is nothing to be said, but that it should be as
clear and distinct as possible, and expressed in few and plain words, without
the least affectation. To this, generally succeeds the Division, or the laying
down the method of the Discourse; on which it is necessary to make some
observations. I do not mean, that, in every Discourse, a formal Division, or
Distribution of it into parts, is requisite. There are many occasions of Public
Speaking, when this is neither requisite, nor would be proper; when the
Discourse, perhaps, is to be short, or only one point is to be treated of; or
when the Speaker does not chuse 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 after. But this may be accomplished by means of a concealed
method. What we call Division, is, when the method is propounded in form to the
hearers.
[Page 170]
The Discourse in which
this sort of Division most commonly takes place, is a Sermon; and a question
has been moved, whether this method of laying down heads, as it is called, be
the best method of preaching. A very able Judge, the Archbishop of Cambray, in
his Dialogues on 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 connection of one part with another, the attention of the
hearers would be carried along the whole with more advantage.
But, notwithstanding
his authority and his arguments, I cannot help being of opinion, that the
present method of dividing a Sermon into heads, ought not to be laid aside.
Established practice has now given it so much weight, that, were there nothing
more in its favour, it would be dangerous for any Preacher to deviate so far
from the common track. But the practice itself has also, in my judgment, much
reason on its side. If formal partitions give a Sermon less of the oratorial
appearance, they render it, however, more clear, more easily apprehended, and,
of course, more instructive to the bulk of hearers, which is always the main
object to be kept in view. The heads of a Sermon are great assistances to the memory,
and recollection of a hearer. They serve also to fix his 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
[Page 171] 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: "Reficit audientem,"
says Quinctilian, taking notice of this very advantage of Divisions in other
Discourses, "Reficit audientem certo singularum partium fine; non aliter
quám facientibus iter, multum detrahunt fatigationis notata spatia inscriptis
lapidibus: nam et exhausti laboris nôsse mensuram voluptati est; et hortatur ad
reliqua fortius exequenda, scire quantum supersit ." With regard to
breaking the Unity of a Discourse, I cannot be of opinion that there arises,
from that quarter, 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 conspicuous
and complete; by showing how all the parts of a Discourse hang upon one
another, and tend to one point.
In a Sermon, or in a
Pleading, or any Discourse, where Division is proper to be used, the most
material rules are,
[Page 172]
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 method 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 apprehended, and necessary to be first discussed;
and proceeding thence to those which are built upon the former, and which
suppose them to be known. We must divide the subject into those parts, into
which most easily and naturally it is resolved; that the subject may seem to
split itself, and not to be violently torn asunder: "Dividere," as is
commonly said, "non frangere."
Thirdly, The several
members of a Division ought to exhaust the subject; otherwise we do not make a
complete Division; we exhibit the subject by pieces and corners only, without
giving any such plan as displays the whole.
Fourthly, The terms in
which our partitions are expressed, should be as concise as possible. Avoid all
circumlocution here. Admit not a 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 [Page 173] clearest, most expressive, and, at the same time,
the fewest words possible. This never fails to strike the hearers agreeably;
and is, at the same time, of great consequence towards making the Divisions be
more easily remembered.
Fifthly, Avoid an
unnecessary multiplication of heads. To split a subject into a great many
minute parts, by Divisions and Subdivisions without end, has always a bad
effect in speaking. It may be proper in a logical treatise; but it makes an
Oration appear hard and dry, and unnecessarily fatigues the memory. In a
Sermon, there may be from three to five, or six heads, including Subdivisions;
seldom should there be more.
In a Sermon, or in a
Pleading at the Bar, few things are of greater consequence, than a proper and
happy Division. It should be studied with much accuracy and care; for if one
take a wrong method at first setting out, it will lead him astray in all that
follows. It will render the whole Discourse either perplexed or languid; and
though the hearers may not be able to tell where the fault or disorder lies,
they will be sensible there is a disorder somewhere, and find themselves little
affected by what is spoken. The French writers of Sermons study neatness and
elegance in laying down their heads, much more than the English do; whose
distributions, though sensible and just, yet are often inartificial and
verbose. Among the French, however, too much quaintness appears in their
Divisions, with an affectation of always setting out either with two, or with
three, general heads of Discourse. A Division of Massillon’s on this text,
"It is finished," has been much extolled [Page 174] by the French
Critics: "This imports," says the Preacher, "the consummation,
first, of justice on the part of God; secondly, of wickedness on the part of
men; thirdly, of love on the part of Christ." This also of Bourdaloue’s
has been much praised, from these words," "My peace I give unto
you." "Peace," says he, "first, to the understanding, by
submission to faith; secondly, to the heart, by submission to the law."
The next constituent
part of a Discourse, which I mentioned, was Narration or Explication. I put
these two together, both because they fall nearly under the same rules, and
because they commonly answer the same purpose; serving to illustrate the cause,
or the subject of which one treats, before proceeding to argue either on one
side or other; or to make any attempt for interesting the passions of the
hearers.
In Pleadings at the
Bar, Narration is often a very important part of the Discourse, and requires to
be particularly attended to. Besides, its being in any case no easy matter to
relate with grace and propriety, there is, in Narrations at the Bar, a peculiar
difficulty. The Pleader must say nothing but what is true; and, at the same
time, he must avoid saying any thing that will hurt his cause. The facts which
he relates, are to be the ground-work of all his future reasoning. To recount
them so as to keep strictly within the bounds of truth, and yet to present them
under the 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, demands no small exertion of skill and dexterity. He
[Page 175] must always remember, that if he discovers too much art, he defeats
his own purpose, and creates a distrust of his sincerity. Quinctilian very
properly directs, "Effugienda in hac præcipuè parte, omnis calliditatis
suspicio; neque enim se usquam magis custodit judex, quàm cùm narrat orator;
nihil tum videatur fictum; nihil follicitum; 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. Distinctness belongs to the whole train of the Discourse,
but is especially requisite in Narration, which ought to throw light on all
that follows. A fact, or a single circumstance left in obscurity, and
misapprehended by the Judge, may destroy the effect of all the argument and
reasoning which the Speaker employs. If his Narration be improbable, the Judge
will not regard it; and if it be tedious and diffuse, he will tire of it, and
forget it. In order to produce distinctness, besides the study of the general
rules of perspicuity which were formerly given, Narration requires particular
attention to ascertain clearly the names, the dates, the places, and every
other material circumstance of the facts recounted. In order to be probable in
Narration, it is material to enter into the characters of the persons of whom
we speak, and to show, that their [Page 176] actions proceeded from such
motives as are natural, and likely to gain belief. In order to be as concise as
the subject will admit, it is necessary to throw out all superfluous
circumstances; the rejection of which, will likewise tend to make our Narration
more forcible, and more clear.
Cicero is very
remarkable for his talent of Narration; and from the examples in his Orations
much may be learned. The Narration, for instance, in the celebrated Oration pro
Milone, has been often and justly admired. His scope is to show, that though in
fact Clodius was killed by Milo or his servants, yet that it was only in
self-defence; and that the design had been laid, not by Milo against Clodius,
but by Clodius against Milo’s life. All the circumstances for rendering this
probable are painted with wonderful art. In relating the manner of Milo’s
setting out from Rome, he gives the most natural description of a family
excursion to the country, under which it was impossible that any bloody design
could be concealed. "He remained," says he, "in the Senate-house
that day, till all the business was over. He came home, changed his clothes
deliberately, and waited for some time, till his wife had got all her things
ready for going with him in his carriage to the country. He did not set out,
till such time as Clodius might easily have been in Rome, if he had not been
lying in wait for Milo by the way. By and by, Clodius met him on the road, on
horseback, like a man prepared for action, no carriage, not his wife, as was
usual, nor any family equipage along with him: whilst Milo, who is supposed to
be meditating slaughter and assassination, is travelling in a carriage with his
wife, wrapped up in his cloak, embarrassed [Page 177] with baggage, and
attended by a great train of women servants, and boys." He goes on,
describing the rencounter that followed, Clodius’s servants attacking those of
Milo, and killing the driver of his carriage; Milo jumping out, throwing off
his cloak, and making the best defence he could, while Clodius’s servants
endeavoured to surround him; and then concludes his narration with a very
delicate and happy stroke. He does not say in plain words, that Milo’s servants
killed Clodius, but that "in the midst of the tumult, Milo’s servants,
without the orders, without the knowledge, without the presence of their
master, did what every master would have wished his servants, in a like
conjuncture, to have done ."
[Page 178]
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 Discourse, is
properly the didactic part of preaching; on the right execution of which much
depends for all that comes afterward in the way of persuasion. The great art 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 Scripture 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 enquiring into causes, or tracing effects; by pointing
out examples, or appealing to the feelings of the hearers; that thus, a
definite, precise, circumstantial view may be afforded of the doctrine to be
inculcated. Let the Preacher be persuaded, that by such distinct and apt
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 valuable,
render his Discourses weighty, instructive, and useful.
[Page 179]
IN treating of the
constituent parts of a regular Discourse or Oration, I have already considered
the Introduction, the Division, and the Narration or Explication. I proceed
next to treat of the argumentative or reasoning Part of a Discourse. In
whatever place, or on whatever subject one speaks, this beyond doubt is of the
greatest consequence. For the great end for which men speak on any serious
occasion, is to convince their hearers of something being either true, or right,
or good; and, by means of this conviction, to influence their practice. Reason
and Argument make the foundation, as I have often inculcated, of all manly and
persuasive Eloquence.
Now, with respect to
Arguments, three things are requisite. First, the invention of them; secondly,
the proper disposition [Page 180] 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 material, 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 reasons that are
most proper to convince men, and another, to manage those reasons with most
advantage. The latter is all that Rhetoric can pretend to.
The ancient
Rhetoricians did indeed attempt to go much farther than this. They attempted to
form Rhetoric into a more complete system; and professed not only to assist
Public Speakers in setting off their arguments to most advantage; but to supply
the defect of their invention, and to teach them where to find arguments on
every subject and cause. Hence their Doctrine of Topics, or "Loci
Communes," and "Sedes Argumentorum," which makes so great a figure
in the writings of Aristotle, Cicero, and Quinctilian. 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 [Page 181] ness and
Contrariety, Definition, Circumstances of Time and Place; and a great many more
of the same kind. For each of the different kinds of Public Speaking, they had
their "Loci Personarum," and "Loci Rerum:" As in
demonstrative Orations, for instance, the heads from which any one could be
decried or praised; his birth, his country, his education, his kindred, the
qualities of his body, the qualities of his mind, the fortune he enjoyed, the
stations he had filled, &c. and in Deliberative 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 system of Oratory; and they showed
a prodigious subtilty, and fertility in the contrivance of these Loci.
Succeeding Rhetoricians, dazzled by the plan, wrought them up into so regular a
system, that one would think they meant to teach how a person might
mechanically become an Orator, without any genius at all. They gave him
receipts for making Speeches, on all manner of subjects. At the same time, it
is evident, that though this study of common places might produce very showy
academical declamations, it could never produce useful discourses on real
business. The Loci indeed supplied a most exuberant fecundity of matter. One
who had no other aim, but to talk copiously and plausibly, by consulting them
on every subject, and laying hold of all that they suggested, might discourse
without end; and that too, though he had none but the most superficial
knowledge of his subject. But such Discourse, could be no other than trivial.
What is truly solid and persuasive, must be [Page 182] drawn "ex visceribus
causæ," 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 Quinctilian,
or what Cicero has written on this head, in his Treatise De Inventione, his
Topica, and Second Book De Oratore. But when they are to prepare a Discourse,
by which they purpose to convince a Judge, or to produce any considerable
effect upon an Assembly, I would advise them to lay aside their common places,
and to think closely of their subject. Demosthenes, I dare, 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 respect to the disposition, and conduct of
Arguments.
Two different methods
may be used by Orators in the conduct of their reasoning; the terms of art for
which are, the Analytic, and the Synthetic method. The Analytic is, when the
Orator conceals his intention concerning the point he is to prove, [Page 183]
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 propositions. As,
for instance, when one intending to prove the being of a God, sets out with
observing that every thing which we see in the world has had a beginning; that
whatever has had a beginning, must have had a prior cause; that in human
productions, art shown in the effect necessarily infers design in the cause;
and proceeds leading you on from one cause to another, till you arrive at one
supreme first cause, from whom is derived all the order and design visible in
his works. This is much the same with the Socratic method, by which that
Philosopher silenced the Sophists of his age. It is a very artful method of
reasoning; may be carried on with much beauty, and is proper to be used when
the hearers are much 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 most generally used, and most
suited to the train of Popular Speaking, is what is called the Synthetic; when
the point to be proved is fairly laid down, and one Argument after another is
made to bear upon it, till the hearers be fully convinced.
Now, in all arguing,
one of the first things to be attended to is, among the various Arguments which
may occur upon a cause, to make a proper selection of such as appear to one’s
self the most solid; and to employ these as the chief means of persuasion.
[Page 184] Every Speaker should place himself in the situation of a hearer, and
think how he would be affected by those reasons, which he purposes to employ
for persuading others. For he must not expect to impose on mankind by mere arts
of Speech. They are not so easily imposed on, as Public Speakers are sometimes
apt to think. Shrewdness and sagacity are found among all ranks; and the
Speaker may be praised for his fine Discourse, while yet the hearers are not
persuaded of the truth of any one thing he has uttered.
Supposing the Arguments
properly chosen, it is evident that their effect will, in some measure, depend
on the right arrangement of them; so as they shall not justle and embarrass one
another, but give mutual aid; and bear with the fairest and fullest direction
on the point in view. Concerning this, the following rules may be taken:
In the first place,
avoid blending Arguments confusedly together, that are of a separate nature.
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 either
of them are generically distinct; and he who blends them all under one Topic,
which he calls his Argument, as, in Sermons, especially, is too often done,
will render his reasoning indistinct, and inelegant. Suppose, for instance,
that I am recommending to an Audience Benevolence, or the Love of our
Neighbour; and that I take my first Argument, from the inward satisfaction
which a benevolent [Page 185] temper affords; my second, from the obligation
which the example of Christ lays upon us to this duty; and my third, from its
tendency to procure us the good- will of all around us; my 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, separate and distinct.
In the second place, With
regard to the different degrees of strength in Arguments, the general rule is,
to advance in the way of climax, "ut augeatur semper, et increscat
oratio." This especially is to be the course, when the Speaker has a clear
cause, and is confident that he can prove it fully. He may then adventure to
begin with feebler arguments; rising gradually, and not putting forth his whole
strength till the last, when he can trust to his making a successful impression
on the minds 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 preoccupy the hearers early, and make the strongest effort at first;
that, having removed prejudices, and disposed them to be favourable, the rest
of his reasoning may be listened to with more docility. 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 [Page 186] these in the middle, as a station less conspicuous than either
the beginning, or the end, of the train of reasoning.
In the third place,
When our Arguments are strong and satisfactory, the more they are distinguished
and treated apart from each other, the better. Each can then bear to be brought
out by itself, placed in its full light, amplified and rested upon. But when
our Arguments are doubtful, and only of the presumptive kind, it is safer to
throw them together in a crowd, and to run them into one another: "ut quæ
sunt natura imbecilla," as Quinctilian speaks, "mutuo auxilio
sustineantur;" that. though infirm of themselves, they may serve mutually
to prop each other. He gives a good example, in the case of one who was accused
of murdering a relation, to whom he was heir. Direct proof was wanting; but,
"you expected a succession, and a great succession; you was in distrest
circumstances; you was pushed to the utmost by your creditors; you had offended
your relation, who had made you his heir; you knew that he was just then
intending to alter his will; no time was to be lost. Each of these particulars,
by itself," says the Author, "is inconclusive; but when they were
assembled in one "groupe, they have effect."
Of the distinct
Amplification of one persuasive Argument, we have a most beautiful example, in
Cicero’s Oration for Milo. The Argument is taken, from a circumstance of time.
Milo was candidate for the Consulship; and Clodius was killed a few days before
the election. He asks, if any one could believe that Milo would be mad enough,
at such a critical time, by a most odious [Page 187] assassination, to alienate
from himself the favour of the people, whose suffrages he was so anxiously
courting? This Argument, the moment it is suggested, appears to have
considerable weight. But it was not enough, simply to suggest it ; it could
bear to be dwelt upon, and brought out into full light. The Orator, therefore,
draws a just and striking picture of that solicitous attention with which
candidates, at such a 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 sollicita, cupiditas consulatûs) omnia,
non modo quæ reprehendi palam, sed etiam quæ obscure cogitari poffunt, timemus.
Rumorem, fabulam fictam et falsam, perhorrescimus; ora omnium atque oculos intuemur.
Nihil enim est tain tenerum, tam aut fragile aut flexibile, quam voluntas ergo
nos sensusque civium, qui non modo improbitati irascuntur candidatorum, sed
etiam in recte factis sæpe fastidiunt." From all which he most justly
concludes, "Hunc diem igitur Campi, speratum atque exoptatum, sibi
proponens Milo, cruentis manibus, scelus atque facinus præ se ferens, ad illa
centuriarum auspicia veniebat? Quam hoc in illo minimum " But though such
amplification as this be extremely beautiful, I must add a caution.
[Page 188]
In the fourth place,
against extending Arguments too far, and multiplying them too much. This serves
rather to render a cause suspected, than to give it weight. An unnecessary
multiplicity of Arguments, both burdens the memory, and detracts from the
weight of that conviction, which a few well chosen Arguments carry. It is to be
observed too, that in the Amplification of Arguments, a diffuse and spreading
method, beyond the bounds of reasonable illustration, is always enfeebling. It
takes off greatly from that "vis et acumen," which should be the
distinguishing character of the Argumentative Part of a Discourse. When a
Speaker dwells long on a favourite Argument, and seeks to turn it into every
possible light, it almost always happens, that, fatigued with the effort, he
loses the spirit with which he set out; and concludes with feebleness, what he
began with force. There is a proper temperance in reasoning, as there is in
other parts of a Discourse.
After due attention
given to the proper arrangement of Arguments, what is next requisite for their
success, is to express them in such a style, and to deliver them in such a
manner, as shall give them full force. On these heads I must refer the Reader
to the directions I have given in treating of Style, in former Lectures; and to
the directions I am afterwards to give concerning Pronunciation and Delivery.
[Page 189]
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 candor 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 enquiries 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 understanding alone that is to be applied to. It is by
argument and reasoning, that one man attempts to satisfy another of what is
true, or right, or just; but if persuasion be the object, the case is changed.
In all that relates to practice, there is no man who seriously means to
persuade another, but addresses himself to his passions more or less; for this
plain reason, that passions are the great springs of human action. The most
virtuous man, in treating of the most virtuous subject, seeks to touch the
heart of him to whom he speaks; and makes no scruple to raise his indignation
at injustice, or 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 enquired 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 [Page 190] deduced rules for working
upon it. Aristotle in particular has, in his Treatise upon Rhetoric, discussed
the nature of the passions with much profoundness and subtilty; and what he has
written on that head, may be read with no small profit, as a valuable piece of
Moral Philosophy; but whether it will have any effect in rendering an Orator
more pathetic, is to me doubtful. It is not, I am afraid, any philosophical
knowledge of the passions, that can confer this talent. We must be indebted for
it to Nature, 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 instructions on this, or any other part of Oratory, is not
to supply the want of genius, but to direct it where it is found, into its
proper channel; to assist it in exerting itself with most advantage, and to
prevent the errors and extravagancies 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 Discourse is the most proper for
attempting it. To determine these points belongs to good sense; for it is
evident, that there are many subjects which admit not the Pathetic at all, and
that even in those that are susceptible of it, and 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 [Page
191] 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
resume their ordinary tone of thought; and the emotion which he has raised will
die entirely away. Hence most writers assign the Pathetic to the Peroration or
Conclusion, as its natural place; and, no doubt, all other things being equal,
this is the impression that one would chuse to make last, leaving the minds of
the hearers warmed with the subject, after argument and reasoning had produced
their full effect: but wherever it is introduced, I must advise,
In the second place,
never to set apart a head of discourse in form, for raising any passion; never
give warning that you are about to be pathetic; and call upon your hearers, as
is sometimes done, to follow you in the attempt. This almost never fails to
prove a refrigerant to passion. It puts the hearers immediately on their guard,
and disposes them for criticizing, 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.
[Page 192]
In the third place, It
is necessary to observe, that there is a great difference between showing the
hearers that they ought to be moved, and actually moving them. This distinction
is not sufficiently attended to, especially by Preachers, who, if they have a
head in their Sermon to show how much we are bound to be grateful to God, or to
be compassionate to the distrest, are apt to imagine this to be a pathetic
part. Now, all the Arguments you produce to show me, why it is my duty, why it
is reasonable and fit, that I should be moved in a certain way, go no further
than to dispose or prepare me for entering into such an emotion; but they do
not actually excite it. To every emotion or passion, Nature has adapted a set
of corresponding objects; and, without setting these before the mind, it is not
in the power of any Orator to raise that emotion. I am warmed with gratitude, I
am touched with compassion, not when a Speaker shows me that these are noble
dispositions, and that it is my duty to feel them; or when he exclaims against
me for my indifference and coldness. All this time, he is speaking only to my
reason or conscience. He must describe the kindness and tenderness of my friend;
he must set before me the distress suffered by the person for whom he would
interest me; then, and not till then, my heart begins to be touched, my
gratitude on my compassion begin 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, [Page 193] is, the influence
of the Imagination. Of this power, therefore, the Orator must avail himself, so
as to strike the imagination of the hearers with circumstances which, in lustre
and steadiness, resemble those of Sensation and Remembrance. In order to
accomplish this,
In the fourth place,
the only effectual method is, to be moved yourselves. There are a thousand
interesting circumstances suggested by real passion, which no art can imitate,
and no refinement can supply. There is obviously a contagion among the
passions. Ut ridentibus arrident, sic flentibus adflent, Humani vultus. The internal
emotion of the Speaker adds a pathos to his words, his looks, his gestures, and
his whole manner, which exerts a power almost irresistible over those who hear
him . But on this point, though the most material of all, I shall not now
insist, as I have often had occasion before to show, that all attempts towards
becoming Pathetic, when we are not moved ourselves, expose us to certain
ridicule.
Quinctilian, who
discourses upon this subject with much good sense, takes pains to inform us of
the method which he [Page 194] 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, "Phantasiæ" or "Visrones,"
strong pictures of the distress or indignities which they had suffered, whose
cause he was to plead, and for whom he was to interest his hearers; dwelling
upon these, and putting himself in their situation, till he was affected by a
passion similar to that which the persons themselves had felt . To this method
he attributes all the success he ever had in Public Speaking; and there can be
no doubt, that whatever tends to increase an Orator’s sensibility, will add
greatly to his Pathetic Powers.
In the fifth place, It
is necessary to attend to the proper language of the passions. We should
observe in what manner any one expresses himself who is under the power of a
real and a strong passion; 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, [Page 195] when he would
be pathetic; and this will be his Style, if he speaks from real feeling; bold,
ardent, simple. No sort of description will then succeed, but what is written
"fervente calamo." If he stay till he can work up his Style, and
polish and adorn it, he will infallibly cool his own ardor; and then he will
touch the heart no more. His composition will become frigid; it will be the
Language of one who describes, but who does not feel. We must take notice, that
there is a great difference between painting to the imagination, and painting
to the heart. The one may be done coolly, and at leisure: the other, must
always be rapid and ardent. In the former, art and labour may be suffered to
appear; in the latter, no effect can follow, unless it seem to be the work’ of
nature only.
In the sixth place,
Avoid interweaving any thing of a foreign nature with the pathetic part of a
Discourse. Beware of all digressions, which may interrupt or turn aside the
natural course of the passion, when once it begins to rise and swell. Sacrifice
all beauties, however bright and showy, which would divert the mind from the
principal object, and which would amuse the imagination, rather than touch the
heart. Hence comparisons are always dangerous, and generally quite improper, in
the midst of passion. Beware even of reasoning unseasonably; or, at least, of
carrying on a long and subtile train of reasoning, on occasions when the
principal aim is to excite warm emotions.
In the last place,
Never attempt prolonging the Pathetic too much. Warm emotions are too violent
to be lasting .
Quinct. L. 6.
[Page 196]
Study the proper time
of making a retreat; of making a transition from the passionate to the calm
tone; in such a manner, however, as to descend without falling, by keeping up
the same strain of Sentiment that was carried on before, though now expressing
it with more moderation. Above all things, beware of straining passion too far;
of attempting to raise it to unnatural heights. Preserve always a due regard to
what the hearers will bear; and remember, that he who stops not at the proper
point; who attempts to carry them farther, in passion, than they will follow
him, destroys his whole design. By endeavouring to warm them too much, he takes
the most effectual method of freezing them completely.
Having given these
rules concerning the Pathetic, I shall give one example from Cicero, which will
serve to illustrate several of them, particularly the last. It shall be taken
from his last Oration against Verres, wherein he describes the cruelty
exercised by Verres, when Governor of Sicily, against one Gavius, a Roman
citizen. This Gavius had made his escape from prison, into which he had been
thrown by the Governor; and when just embarking at Messina, thinking himself
now safe, had uttered some threats, that when he had once arrived at Rome,
Verres should hear of him, and be brought to account for having put a Roman
citizen in chains. The Chief Magistrate of Messina, a creature of Verres’s,
instantly apprehends [Page 197] him, and gives information of his threatnings.
The behaviour of Verres, on this occasion, is described in the most picturesque
manner, and with all the colours which were proper, in order to excite against
him the public indignation. He thanks the Magistrate of Messina for his
diligence. Filled with rage, he comes into the Forum; orders Gavius to be
brought forth, the executioners to attend, and against the laws, and contrary
to the well-known privileges of a Roman citizen, commands him to be stripped
naked, bound, and scourged publicly in a cruel manner. Cicero then proceeds
thus; "Cædebatur virgis, in medio foro Messanæ, civis Romanus,
Judices!" every word rises above another in describing this flagrant
enormity; and, "Judices," is brought out at the end with, the
greatest propriety: "Cædebatur virgis, in medio foro Messanæ, civis
Romanus, Judices! cum interea, nullus gemitus, nulla vox alia istius miseri,
inter dolorem crepitumque plagarum audiebatur, nisi hæc, Civis Romanus sum. Hâc
se commemoratione civitatis, omnia verbera depulsurum a corpore arbitrabatur.
Is non modo hoc non perfecit, ut virgarum vim deprecaretur, sed cum imploraret
sæpius usurparetque nomen civis, crux, crux inquam, infelici isto & ærumnoso,
qui nunquam istam potestatem viderat, comparabatur. O nomen dulce libertatis! O
jus eximium nostræ civitatis! O Lex Porcia, legesque Semproniæ!---Huccine omnia
tandem reciderunt, ut civis Romanus, in provincia populi Romani, in oppido
foederatorum, ab eo qui beneficio populi Romani fasces et secures haberet,
deligatus, in foro, virgis ?"
[Page 198]
Nothing can be finer,
nor better conducted than this passage. The circumstances are well chosen for
exciting both the compassion of his hearers for Gavius, and their indignation
against Verres. The style is simple; and the passionate Exclamation, the Address
to Liberty and the Laws, is well-timed, and in the proper Style of Passion. The
Orator goes on to exaggerate Verres’s cruelty still farther, by another very
striking circumstance. He ordered a gibbet to be erected for Gavius, not in the
common place of execution, but just by the sea-shore, over against the coast of
Italy. "Let him," said he, "who boasts so much of his being a
Roman citizen, take a view from his gibbet of his own country.---This base
insult over a dying man is the least part of his guilt. It was not Gavius alone
that Verres meant to insult; but it was you, O Romans! it was every citizen who
now hears me; in the [Page 199] person of Gavius, he scoffed at your rights,
and showed in what contempt he held the Roman name, and Roman liberties."
Hitherto all is
beautiful, animated, pathetic; and the model would have been perfect, if Cicero
had stopped at this point. But his redundant and florid genius carried him
further. He must needs interest, not his hearers only, but the beasts, the
mountains, and the stones, against Verres: "Si hæc non ad cives Romanos,
non ad amicos nostræ civitatis, non ad eos qui populi Romani nomen audissent;
denique si non ad homines, verum ad bestias; atque ut longius progrediar, si in
aliqua desertissima solitudine, ad saxa et ad scopulos, hæc conqueri et
deplorare vellem, tamen omnia muta atque inanima, tantâ et tam indignâ rerum
atrocitate ." This, with all the deference due to so eloquent an Orator,
we must pronounce to be Declamatory not Pathetic. This is straining the
Language of Passion too far. Every hearer sees this immediately to be a studied
figure of Rhetoric; it may amuse him, but instead of inflaming him more, it, in
truth, cools his passion. So dangerous it is to give [Page 200] scope to a
flowery imagination, when one intends to make a strong and passionate
impression.
No other part of
Discourse remains now to be treated of, except the Peroration, or Conclusion.
Concerning this, it is needless to say much, because it must vary so
considerably, according to the strain of the preceding Discourse. Sometimes,
the whole pathetic part comes in most properly at the Peroration. Sometimes,
when the Discourse 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 Audience. For the great rule of a
Conclusion, and what nature obviously suggests, is, to place that last on which
we choose that the strength of our cause should rest.
In Sermons, inferences
from what has been said, make a common 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
throughout the Discourse, as not to break the Unity of the Sermon. For
inferences, how justly soever they may be deduced from the doctrine of the
Text, yet have a bad effect, if, at the Conclusion of a Discourse, they
introduce some subject altogether new, and turn off our attention from the main
object to which the Preacher had directed our thoughts. They appear, in this
case, like excrescences jutting out from the body, which; had better have been
wanted; and tend to enfeeble the impression, which the Composition, as a whole,
is calculated to make.
[Page 201]
The most eloquent of
the French, perhaps, indeed, of all modern Orators, Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux,
terminates in a very moving manner, his funeral Oration on the great Prince of
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 grey 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
ardor, 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 our being
done; and continuing to hover round and [Page 202] round the Conclusion, till
they become heartily tired of us. We should endeavour to go off with a good
grace; not to end with a languishing and drawling Sentence; but to close with
dignity and spirit, that we may leave the minds of the hearers warm; and
dismiss them with a favourable impression of the Subject, and of the Speaker.
[Page 203]
HAVING treated of
several general heads relating to Eloquence, or Public Speaking, I now proceed
to another very important part of the subject yet remaining, that is, the
Pronunciation, or Delivery of a Discourse. How much stress was laid upon this
by the most eloquent of all Orators, Demosthenes, appears from a noted saying
of his, related both by Cicero and Quinctilian; when being asked, What was the
first point in Oratory? he answered, Delivery; and being asked, 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 antients 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
[Page 204] one of the inferior arts of catching an Audience. But this is far
from being the case. It is intimately connected with what is, or ought to be,
the end of all Public Speaking, Persuasion; and therefore deserves the study of
the most grave and serious Speakers, as much as of those, whose only aim it is
to please.
For, let it be
considered, whenever we address ourselves to others by words, our intention
certainly is to make some impression on those to whom we speak; it is to convey
to them our own ideas and emotions. Now the tone of our voice, our looks, and
gestures, interpret our ideas and emotions no less than words do; nay, the
impression they make on others, is frequently much stronger than any that words
can make. We often see that an expressive look, or a passionate cry,
unaccompanied by words, convey to others more forcible ideas, and rouse within
them stronger passions, than can be communicated by the most eloquent
Discourse. The signification of our sentiments, made by tones and gestures, has
this advantage above that made by words, that it is the Language of nature. It
is that method of interpreting our mind, which nature has dictated to all, and
which is understood by all; whereas, words are only arbitrary, conventional
symbols of our ideas; and, by consequence, must make a more feeble impression.
So true is this, that, to render words fully significant, they must, almost in
every case, receive some aid from the manner of Pronunciation and Delivery; and
he who, in speaking, should employ bare words, without enforcing them by proper
tones and accents, would leave us with a faint and indistinct impression, often
with a doubtful and ambiguous conception, of what he had delivered. Nay, so
close is the connection between certain sentiments and the [Page 205] 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 Callidius accused one of an attempt to poison him, but
enforced his accusation in a languid manner, and without any warmth or
earnestness of Delivery, Cicero, who pleaded for the accused person, improved
this into an argument of the falsity of the charge, "An tu, M. Callidi
nisi fingeres, sic ageres?" In Shakespeare’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
.
[Page 206]
In order to be fully
and easily understood, the four chief requisites 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 considerable
assistance from art. Much depends for this purpose on the proper pitch, and
management of the voice. Every man has three pitches in his voice; the High,
the Middle, and the Low one. The High, is that which he uses in calling aloud
to some one at a distance. The Low is, when he approaches to a whisper. The
Middle is, that which he employs in common conversation, and which he should
use for ordinary in public Discourse. For it is a great mistake, to imagine
that one must take the highest pitch of his voice, in order to be well heard by
a great Assembly. This is confounding two things which are different, Loudness,
or Strength of Sound, with the key, or note on which we speak. A Speaker may
render his voice louder, without altering the key; and we will always be able
to give most body, most persevering force of sound, to that pitch of voice, to
which in conversation we are accustomed. Whereas, by setting out on our highest
pitch or key, we certainly allow ourselves less compass, and are likely to
strain and outrun our voice before we have done. We shall fatigue ourselves,
and speak with pain; and whenever a man speaks with pain to himself, he is
always heard with pain by his Audience. Give the voice therefore full strength
and swell [Page 207] of sound; but always pitch it on your ordinary speaking
key. Make it a constant rule never to utter a greater quantity of voice, than
you can afford without pain to yourselves, and without any extraordinary
effort. As long as you keep within these bounds, the other organs of speech
will be at liberty to discharge their several offices with ease; and you will
always have your voice under command. But whenever you transgress these bounds,
you give up the reins, and have no longer any management of it. It is an useful
rule too, in order to be well heard, to fix our eye on some of the most distant
persons in the Assembly, and to consider ourselves as speaking to them. We
naturally and mechanically utter our words with such a degree of strength, as
to make ourselves be heard by one to whom we address ourselves, provided he be
within the reach of our voice. As this is the case in common conversation, it
will hold also in Public Speaking. But remember, that in public as well as in
conversation, it is possible to offend by speaking too loud. This extreme hurts
the ear, by making the voice come upon it in rumbling indistinct masses;
besides its giving the Speaker the disagreeable appearance of one who
endeavours to compel assent, by mere vehemence and force of sound.
In the next place, to
being well heard, and clearly understood, distinctness of articulation
contributes more, perhaps, than mere loudness of sound. The quantity of sound
necessary to fill even a large space, is smaller than is commonly imagined; and
with distinct articulation, a man of a weak voice will make it reach farther,
than the strongest voice can reach without it. To this, therefore, every Public
Speaker ought to pay great attention. He must give every sound which he utters
its due [Page 208] proportion, and make every syllable, and even every letter
in the word which he pronounces, be heard distinctly; without slurring,
whispering, or suppressing any of the proper sounds.
In the third place, In
order to articulate distinctly, moderation is requisite with regard to the
speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy of Speech, confounds all articulation, and
all meaning. I need scarcely observe, that there may be also an extreme on the
opposite side. It is obvious, that a lifeless, drawling Pronunciation, which
allows the minds of the hearers to be always outrunning the Speaker, must
render every Discourse insipid and fatiguing. But the extreme of speaking too
fast is much more common, and requires the more to be guarded against, because,
when it has grown up into a habit, few errors are more difficult to be
corrected. To pronounce with a proper degree of slowness, and with full and
clear Articulation, is the first thing to be studied by all who begin to speak
in public; and cannot be too much recommended to them. Such a Pronunciation,
gives weight and dignity to their Discourse. It is a great assistance to the
voice, by the pauses and rests which it allows it more easily to make; and it
enables the Speaker to swell all his sounds, both with more force, and more
music. It assists him also in preserving a due command of himself; whereas a
rapid and hurried manner, is apt to excite that flutter of spirits, which is
the greatest enemy to all right execution in the way of Oratory. "Promptum
sit os," says Quinctilian, "non præceps, moderatum, non lentum."
After these fundamental
attentions to the pitch and management of the voice, to distinct Articulation,
and to a proper [Page 209] degree of slowness of speech, what a Public Speaker
must, in the fourth place, study, is, propriety of Pronunciation; or the giving
to every word, which he utters, that sound which the most polite usage of the
language appropriates to it; in opposition, to broad, vulgar, or provincial
Pronunciation. This is requisite, both for speaking intelligibly, and for
speaking with grace or beauty. Instructions concerning this Article, can be
given by the living voice only. But there is one observation, which it may not
be improper here to make. In the English Language, every word which consists of
more syllables than one, has one accented syllable. The accent rests sometimes
on the vowel, sometimes on the consonant. Seldom, or never, is there more than
one accented syllable in any English word, however long; and the genius of the
language requires the voice to mark that syllable by a stronger percussion, and
to pass more slightly over the rest. Now, having once learned the proper seats
of these accents, it is an important rule, to give every word just the same
accent in Public Speaking, as in common Discourse. Many persons err in this
respect. When they speak in public, and with solemnity, they pronounce the
syllables in a different manner from what they do at other times. They dwell
upon them, and protract them; they multiply accents on the same word; from a
mistaken notion, that it gives gravity and force to their Discourse, and adds
to the pomp of Public Declamation. Whereas, this is one of the greatest faults
that can be committed in Pronunciation; it makes what is called, a theatrical,
or mouthing manner; and gives an artificial affected air to Speech, which
detracts greatly both from its agreeableness, and its impression.
[Page 210]
I proceed to treat next
of those higher parts of delivery, by studying which, a Speaker has something
farther in view than merely to render himself intelligible, and seeks to give
grace and force to what he utters. These may be comprised under four heads,
Emphasis, Pauses, Tones, and Gestures. Let me only premise, in general, to what
I am to say concerning them, that attention to these articles of delivery is by
no means to be confined, as some might be apt to imagine, to the more
elaborate, and pathetic parts of a Discourse. There is, perhaps, as great
attention requisite, and as much skill displayed, in adapting Emphases, Pauses,
Tonés, and Gestures, properly, to calm and plain Speaking; and the effect of a
just and graceful delivery will, in every part of a subject, be found of high
importance for commanding attention, and enforcing what is spoken.
First, Let us consider
Emphasis; by this, is meant a stronger and fuller sound of voice, by which we
distinguish the accented Syllable of some word, on which we design to lay
particular stress, and to show how it affects the rest of the sentence.
Sometimes the emphatic word must be distinguished by a particular tone of
voice, as well as by a stronger accent. On the right management of the
Emphasis, depends the whole life and spirit of every Discourse. If no emphasis
be placed on any words, not only is Discourse rendered heavy and lifeless, but
the meaning left often ambiguous. If the Emphasis be placed wrong, we pervert
and confound the meaning wholly. To give a common instance; such a simple
question as this: "Do you ride to town to-day?" is capable of no
fewer than four different acceptations, according as the Emphasis is
differently placed on the [Page 211] words. If it be pronounced thus; do you
ride to town to-day? the answer may naturally be, No; I send my servant in my
stead. If thus; Do you ride to town to-day? Answer, No; I intend to walk. Do
you ride to town to-day? No; I ride out into the fields. Do you ride to town
to-day? No; but I shall to-morrow. In like manner, in solemn Discourse, the
whole force and beauty of an expression often depends on the accented word; and
we may present to the hearers quite different views of the same Sentiment, by
placing the Emphasis differently. In the following words of our Saviour,
observe in what different lights the thought is placed, according as the words
are pronounced. "Judas, betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss?
Betrayest thou---makes the reproach turn, on the infamy of treachery. Betrayest
thou---makes it rest, upon Judas’s connection with his master. Betrayest thou
the Son of Man--- rests it, upon our Saviour’s personal character and eminence.
Betrayest thou the Son of a Man with a kiss ? turns it, upon his prostituting
the signal of peace and friendship, to the purpose of a mark of destruction.
In order to acquire the
proper management of the Emphasis, the great rule, and indeed the only rule
possible to be given is, that the Speaker study to attain a just conception, of
the force and spirit of those sentiments which he is to pronounce. For to lay
the Emphasis with exact propriety, is a constant exercise of good sense, and
attention. It is far from being an inconsiderable attainment. It is one of the
greatest trials of a true and just taste; and must arise from feeling
delicately ourselves, and from judging accurately, of what is fittest to strike
the feelings of others. There is as great a difference between a Chapter of
[Page 212] the Bible, or any other piece of plain prose, read by one who places
the several Emphases every where, with taste and judgment, and by one who
neglects or mistakes them, as there is between the same tune played by the most
masterly hand, or by the most bungling performer.
In all prepared
Discourses, it would be of great use, if they were read over or rehearsed in
private, with this particular view, to search for the proper Emphases before
they were pronounced in public; marking, at the same time, with a pen, the
emphatical words in every Sentence, or at least in the most weighty and
affecting parts of the Discourse, and fixing them well in memory. Were this
attention oftener bestowed, were this part of Pronunciation studied with more
exactness, and not left to the moment of delivery, as is commonly done, Public
Speakers would find their care abundantly repaid, by the remarkable effects
which it would produce upon their Audience. Let me caution, at the same time,
against one error, that of multiplying emphatical words too much. It is only by
a prudent reserve in the use of them, that we can give them any weight. If they
recur too often; if a Speaker attempts to render every thing which he says of
high importance, by a multitude of strong Emphases, we soon learn to pay little
regard to them. To crowd every Sentence with emphatical words, is like crowding
all the pages of a Book with Italic Characters, which, as to the effect, is
just the same with using no such distinctions at all
Next to Emphasis, the
pauses in Speaking demand attention. These are of two kinds; first, Emphatical
Pauses; and next, [Page 213] such as mark the distinctions of Sense. An
Emphatical Pause is made, after something has been said of peculiar moment, and
on which we want to fix the hearer’s attention. Sometimes, before such a thing
is said, we usher it in with a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same
effect, as a strong Emphasis; and are subject to the same rules; especially to
the caution just now given, of not repeating them too frequently. For as they
excite uncommon attention, and of course raise expectation, if the importance
of the matter be not fully answerable to such expectation, they occasion disappointment
and disgust.
But the most frequent
and the principal use of pauses, is to mark the divisions of the sense, and at
the same time to allow the Speaker to draw his breath; and the proper and
graceful adjustment of such pauses, is one of the most nice and difficult
articles in delivery. In all Public Speaking, the management of the breath
requires a good deal of care, so as not to be obliged to divide words from one
another, which have so intimate a connection, that they ought to be pronounced
with the same breath, and without the least separation. Many a sentence is
miserably mangled, and the force of the Emphasis totally lost, by divisions
being made in the wrong place. To avoid this, every one, while he is speaking,
should be very careful to provide a full supply of breath for what he is to
utter. It is a great mistake to imagine, that the breath must be drawn, only at
the end of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. It can easily be
gathered at the intervals of the period, when the voice is only suspended for a
moment; and, by this management, one may [Page 214] have always a sufficient
stock for carrying on the longest Sentence, without improper interruptions.
If any one, in Public
Speaking, shall have formed to himself a certain melody or tune, which requires
rest and pauses of its own, distinct from those of the sense, he has for
certain contracted one of the worst habits into which a Public Speaker can
fall. It is the sense which should always rule the pauses of the voice; for
wherever there is any sensible suspension of the voice, the hearer is always
led to expect somewhat corresponding in the meaning. Pauses in Public
Discourse, must be formed upon the manner in which we utter ourselves in
ordinary, sensible conversation; and not upon the stiff artificial manner which
we acquire, from reading books according to the common punctuation. The general
run of punctuation is very arbitrary; often capricious and false; and dictates
an uniformity of tone in the pauses, which is extremely disagreeable: for we
are to observe, that to render pauses graceful and expressive, they must not
only be made in the right place, but also be accompanied with a proper tone of
voice, by which the nature of these pauses is intimated; much more than by the
length of them, which can never be exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a
slight and simple suspension of voice that is proper; sometimes a degree of
cadence in the voice is required; and sometimes that peculiar tone and cadence,
which denotes the Sentence finished. In all these cases, we are to regulate
ourselves, by attending to the manner in which Nature teaches us to speak, when
engaged in real and earnest discourse with others.
[Page 215]
When we are reading or
reciting verse, there is a peculiar difficulty in making the pauses justly. The
difficulty arises from the melody of verse, which dictates to the ear pauses or
rests of its own; and to adjust and compound these properly with the pauses of
the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor offend the understanding, is so
very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we so seldom meet with good readers of
poetry. There are two kinds of pauses that belong to the music of verse; one
is, the pause at the end of the line; and the other, the cæsural pause in the
middle of it. With regard to the pause at the end of the line, which marks that
Strain or Verse to be finished, Rhyme renders this always sensible, and in some
measure compels us to observe it in our Pronunciation. In blank verse, where
there is a greater liberty permitted of running the lines into one another,
sometimes without any suspension in the sense, it has been made a question,
Whether in reading such verse with propriety, any regard at all should be paid
to the close of a line? On the Stage, where the appearance of speaking in verse
should always be avoided, there can, I think, be no doubt, that the close of
such lines as make no pause in the sense, should not be rendered perceptible to
the ear. But on other occasions, this were improper: for what is the use of
melody, or for what end has the Poet composed in verse, if in reading his
lines, we suppress his numbers; and degrade them, by our Pronunciation, into
mere prose? We ought therefore, certainly to read blank verse so, as to make
every line sensible to the ear. At the same time in doing so, every appearance
of sing-song and tone, must be carefully guarded against. The close of the
line, where it makes no pause in the meaning, ought to be marked, not by such a
tone as is used in finishing a sentence; but without either letting the [Page
216] voice fall, or elevating it, it should be marked only by such a slight
suspension of sound, as may distinguish the passage from one line to another, without
injuring the meaning.
The other kind of
musical pause, is that which falls somewhere about the middle of the verse, and
divides it into two hemistichs; a pause, not so great as that which belongs to
the close of the line, but still sensible to an ordinary ear. This, which is
called the cæsural pause, in the French heroic verse falls uniformly in the
middle of the line. In the English, it may fall after the 4th, 5th, 6th, or 7th
syllables in the line, and no other. Where the verse is so constructed, that
this cæsural pause coincides with the slightest pause or division in the sense,
the line can be read easily; as in the two first verses of Mr. Pope’s Messiah,
Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song; To heavenly themes, sublimer strains
belong. But if it shall happen that words, which have such a strict and
intimate connection, as not to bear even a momentary separation, are divided
from one another by this cæsural pause, we then feel a sort of struggle between
the sense and the sound, which renders it difficult to read such lines
gracefully. The rule of proper Pronunciation in such cases is, to regard only
the pause which the sense forms; and to read the line accordingly. The neglect
of the cæsural pause, may make the line sound somewhat unharmoniously; but the
effect would be much worse, if the sense were sacrificed to the sound. For
instance, in the following line of Milton, [Page 217] ------What in me is dark,
Illumine; what is low, raise and support.
The sense clearly
dictates the pause after "illumine," at the end of the third
syllable, which, in reading, ought to be made accordingly; though, if the
melody only were to be regarded, "illumine" should be connected with
what follows, and the pause not made till the 4th or 6th syllable. So in the
following line of Mr. Pope’s (Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot): I sit, with sad
civility I read.
The ear plainly points
out the cæsural pause as falling after "sad," the 4th syllable. But
it would be very bad reading to make any pause there, so as to separate
"sad" and "civility." The sense admits of no other pause
than after the second syllable "sit," which therefore must be the
only pause made in the reading.
I proceed to treat next
of Tones in Pronunciation, which are different both from emphasis and pauses;
consisting in the modulation of the voice, the notes or variations of sound
which we employ in Public Speaking. How much of the propriety, the force and
grace of Discourse, must depend on these, will appear from this single
consideration; that to almost every sentiment we utter, more especially to
every strong emotion, Nature hath adapted some peculiar tone of voice;
insomuch, that he who should tell another that he was very angry, or very
grieved, in a tone which did not suit such emotions, instead of being believed,
would be laughed at. Sympathy is one of the most powerful principles by which
Persuasive Discourse works its effect. The Speaker endeavours to transfuse into
his hearers his own sentiments and emotions; which he can [Page 218] never be
successful in doing, unless he utters them in such a manner as to convince the
hearers that he . The proper language and expression of tones, therefore,
deserves to be attentively studied by every one who would be a successful
Orator.
The greatest and most
material instruction which can be given for this purpose is, to form the tones
of Public Speaking upon the tones of sensible and animated conversation. We may
observe that every man, when he is much in earnest in common Discourse, when he
is engaged in speaking on some subject which interests him nearly, has an
eloquent or persuasive tone and manner. What is the reason of our being often
so frigid and unpersuasive in Public Discourse, but our departing from the
natural tone of Speaking, and delivering ourselves in an affected artificial
manner? Nothing can be more absurd than to imagine, that as soon as one mounts
a Pulpit, or rises in a Public Assembly, he is instantly to lay aside the voice
with which he expresses himself in private; to assume a new, studied tone, and
a cadence altogether foreign to his natural manner. This [Page 219] has
vitiated all delivery; this has given rise to cant and tedious monotony, in the
different kinds of Modern Public Speaking, especially in the Pulpit. Men
departed from Nature; and sought to give a beauty or force, as they imagined,
to their Discourse, by substituting certain studied musical tones, in the room
of the genuine expressions of sentiment, which the voice carries in natural
Discourse. Let every Public Speaker guard against this error. Whether he speak
in a private room, or in a great Assembly, let him remember that he still
speaks. Follow Nature: consider how she teaches you to utter any sentiment or
feeling of your heart. Imagine a subject of debate started in conversation
among grave and wise men, and yourself bearing a share in it. Think after what
manner, with what tones and inflexions of voice, you would on such an occasion
express yourself, when you was most in earnest, and sought most to be listened
to. Carry these with you to the Bar, to the Pulpit, or to any Public Assembly;
let these be the foundation of your manner of pronouncing there; and you will
take the surest method of rendering your delivery both agreeable, and
persuasive.
I have said, Let these
conversation tones be the foundation of Public Pronunciation; for, on some
occasions, solemn Public Speaking requires them to be exalted beyond the strain
of common Discourse. In a formal studied Oration, the elevation of the Style,
and the harmony of the Sentences, prompt, almost necessarily, a modulation of
voice more rounded, and bordering more upon music, than conversation admits.
This gives rise to what is called, the Declaiming Manner. But though this mode
of Pronunciation runs considerably beyond ordinary Discourse, yet still it must
have, for its basis, the natural tones of grave and dignified conversation. I
must observe, at the same time, that [Page 220] the constant indulgence of a
declamatory manner, is not favourable either to good composition, or good
delivery; and is in hazard of betraying Public Speakers into that monotony of
tone and cadence, which is so generally complained of. Whereas, he who forms
the general run of his delivery upon a speaking manner, is not likely ever to
become disagreeable through monotony. He will have the same natural variety in
his tones, which a person has in conversation. Indeed, the perfection of
delivery requires both these different manners, that of speaking with
liveliness and ease, and that of declaiming with stateliness and dignity, to be
possessed by one man; and to be employed by him, according as the different
parts of his Discourse require either the one or the other. This is a
perfection which not many attain; the greatest part of Public Speakers,
allowing their delivery to be formed altogether accidentally; according as some
turn of voice appears to them most beautiful, or some artificial model has
caught their fancy; and acquiring, by this means, a habit of Pronunciation,
which they can never vary. But the capital direction, which ought never to be
forgotten is, to copy the proper tones for expressing every sentiment from
those which Nature dictates to us, in conversation with others; to speak always
with her voice; and not to form to ourselves a fantastic public manner, from an
absurd fancy of its being more beautiful than a natural one .
[Page 221]
It now remains to treat
of gesture, or what is called action in public Discourse. Some nations animate
their words in common conversation, with many more motions of the body than
others do. The French and the Italians are, in this respect, much more
sprightly than we. But there is no nation, hardly any person so phlegmatic, as
not to accompany their words with some actions and gesticulations, on all
occasions, when they are much in earnest. It is therefore unnatural in a Public
Speaker, it is inconsistent with that earnestness and seriousness which he
ought to show in all affairs of moment, to remain quite unmoved in his outward
appearance; and to let the words drop from his mouth, without any expression of
meaning, or warmth in his gesture.
The fundamental rule as
to propriety of action, is undoubtedly the same with what I gave as to
propriety of tone. Attend to the looks and gestures, in which earnestness,
indignation, compassion, or any other emotion, discovers itself to most
advantage in the common intercourse of men; and let these be your model. Some
of these looks and 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 manner
which is natural to him in private. His gestures and motions ought all to carry
that kind of expression which nature has dictated to him; [Page 222] and,
unless this be the case, it is impossible, by means of any study, to avoid
their appearing stiff and forced.
However, although
nature must be the groundwork, I admit that there is room in this matter for
some study and art. For many persons are naturally ungraceful in the motions
which they make; and this ungracefulness might, in part at least, be reformed
by application and care. The study of action in Public Speaking, consists
chiefly in guarding against awkward and disageeable 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 Writers on this subject, to practise before a
mirror, where one may see, and judge of their own gestures. But I am afraid,
persons are not always the best judges of the gracefulness of their own
motions; and one may declaim long enough before a mirror, without correcting
any of his faults. The judgment of a friend, whose good taste they can trust,
will be found of much greater advantage to beginners, than any mirror they can
use. With regard to particular rules concerning action and gesticulation,
Quinctilian 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.
[Page 223]
I shall only add
further on this head , that in order to succeed well in delivery , nothing is
more necessary than for a Speaker to guard against a certain flutter of spirits
, which is peculiarly incident to those who begin to speak in public . He must
endeavour above all things to be recollected , and master of himself. For this
end, he will find nothing of more use to him, than to study to become wholly
engaged in his subject; to be possessed with a sense of its importance or
seriousness; to be concerned much more to persuade, than to please. He will
[Page 224] generally please most, when pleasing is not his sole nor chief aim.
This is the only rational and proper method of raising one’s self above that
timid and bashful regard to an Audience, which is so ready to disconcert a
Speaker, both as to what he is to say, and as to his manner of saying it.
I cannot conclude,
without an earnest admonition to guard against all affectation, which is the
certain ruin of good delivery. Let your manner, whatever it is, be your own;
neither imitated from another, nor assumed upon some imaginary model, whichis
unnatural to you. Whatever is native, even though accompanied with several
defects, yet is likely to please; because it shows us a man; because it has the
appearance of coming from the heart. Whereas a delivery, attended with several
acquired graces and beauties, if it be not easy and free, if it betray the
marks of art and affectation, never fails to disgust. To attain any extremely
correct, and perfectly graceful delivery, is what few can expect; so many
natural talents being requisiteto concur in forming it. But to attain, what as
to the effect is very little inferior, a forcible and persuasive manner, is
within the power of most persons; if they will only unlearn false and corrupt
habits; if they will allow themselves to follow nature, and will speak in
public, as they do in private, when they speak in earnest, and from the heart.
If one has naturally any gross defects in his voice or gestures, he begins at
the wrong end, if he attempts at reforming them, only when he is to speak in
public. He should begin with rectifying them, in his private manner of
Speaking; and then carry to the Public the right habit he has formed. For when
a Speaker is engaged ina Public Discourse, he should not be then employing his
attention [Page 225] about his manner, or thinking of his tones and his
gestures. If he be so employed, study and affectation will appear. He ought to
be then quite in earnest; wholly occupied with his subject and his sentiments;
leaving Nature, and previously formed habits, to prompt and suggest his manner
of Delivery.
[Page 226]
I HAVE now treated
fully of the different kinds of Public Speaking, of the Composition, and of the
Delivery of a Discourse. Before finishing this subject, it may be of use, that
I suggest some things concerning the properest means of Improvement in the Art
of Public Speaking, and the most necessary studies for that purpose.
To be an Eloquent
Speaker, in the proper sense of the word, is far from 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, is a matter not very difficult.
But though some praise be due to this, yet the idea, which I have endeavoured
to give of Eloquence, is much higher. It is a great exertion of the human
powers. It is the Art of being persuasive and commanding; the Art, not of
pleasing the fancy merely, but of speaking both to the understanding and [Page
227] 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 presence of
mind; all improved by great and long attention to Style and Composition; and
supported also by the exterior, yet important qualifications, of a graceful manner,
a presence not ungainly, and a full and tuneable voice. How little reason to
wonder, that a perfect and accomplished Orator, should be one of the characters
that is most rarely to be found?
Let us not despair
however. Between mediocrity and perfection, there is a very wide interval.
There are many intermediate spaces, which may be filled up with honour; and the
more rare and difficult that complete perfection is, the greater is the honour
of approaching to it, though we do not fully attain it. The number of Orators
who stand in the highest class is, perhaps, smaller than the number of Poets
who are foremost in poetic fame; but the study of Oratory has this advantage
above that of Poetry, that, in Poetry, one must be an eminently good Performer,
or he is not supportable: ------Mediocribus esse Poëtis Non homines, non Dî,
non concessêre columnæ .
[Page 228]
In Eloquence this does
not hold. There, one may possess a moderate station with dignity. Eloquence
admits of a great many different forms; plain and simple, as well as high and
pathetic; and a Genius that cannot reach the latter, may shine with much
reputation and usefulness in the former.
Whether Nature or Art
contribute most to form an Orator, is a trifling enquiry. 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 those seeds to
perfection. 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
attention to the rules of Style, Composition, and Delivery. Homer formed
himself; Demosthenes and Cicero were formed by the help of much labour, and of
many assistances derived from the labour of others. After these preliminary
observations, let us proceed to the main design of this Lecture; to consider of
the means to be used for Improvement in Eloquence.
In the first place,
What stands highest in the order of means, is personal character and
disposition. In order to be a truly eloquent or persuasive Speaker, nothing is
more necessary than to be a virtuous man. This was a favourite position among
the antient Rhetoricans: "Non posse Oratorem esse nisi virum [Page 229]
bonum." To find any such connection 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 connection here alleged,
is undoubtedly founded in truth and reason.
For, consider first,
Whether any thing be more essential to persuasion, than the opinion which we
entertain of the probity, disinterestedness, 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 dispose 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 persuade? We even read a book with more pleasure, when we think
favourably of its Author; but when we have the living Speaker before our eyes,
addressing us personally on some subject of importance, the opinion we
entertain of his character must have a much more powerful effect.
But, lest it should be
said, that this relates only to the character of Virtue, which one may
maintain, without being at bottom a truly worthy man, I must observe farther,
that, besides the weight which it adds to Character, real Virtue operates also,
in other ways, to the advantage of Eloquence.
[Page 230]
First, Nothing is so
favourable as Virtue to the prosecution of honourable studies. It prompts a
generous emulation to excel; it inures to industry; it leaves the mind vacant
and free master of itself, disencumbered of those bad passions, and disengaged from
those mean pursuits, which have ever been found the greatest enemies to true
proficiency. Quinctilian has touched this consideration very properly:
"Quod si agrorum nimia cura, et sollicitior rei familiaris diligentia, et
venandi voluptas, & dati spectaculis dies, multum studiis auferunt, quid
putamus facturas cupiditatem, avaritiam, invidiam? Nihil enim est tam
occupatum, tam multiforme, tot ac tam variis affectibus concisum, atque
laceratum, quam mala ac improba mens. Quis inter hæc, literis, aut ulli bonæ
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 powerful in affecting the hearts of others. Bad as the world is,
nothing has so great and universal a command [Page 231] over the minds of men
as virtue. No kind of Language is so generally understood, and so powerfully
felt, as the native Language of worthy and virtuous feelings. He only,
therefore, who possesses these full and strong, can speak properly, and in its
own language, to the heart. On all great subjects and occasions, there is a
dignity, there is an energy in noble sentiments, which is overcoming and
irresistible. They give an ardour and a flame to one’s Discourse, which seldom
fails to kindle a like flame in those who hear; and which, more than any other cause,
bestows on Eloquence that power, for which it is famed, of seizing and
transporting an Audience. Here, Art and Imitation will not avail. An assumed
character conveys nothing of this powerful warmth. It is only a native and
unaffected glow of feeling, which can transmit the emotion to others. Hence,
the most renowned Orators, such as Cicero and Demosthenes, were no less
distinguished for some of the high virtues, as Public Spirit and zeal for their
country, than for Eloquence. Beyond doubt, to these virtues their Eloquence
owed much of its effect; and those Orations of theirs, in which there breathes
most of the virtuous and magnanimous spirit, are those which have most
attracted the admiration of ages.
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 them
to cultivate, are the [Page 232] 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; magnanimity of spirit; the love
of liberty, of their country and the public; zeal for all great and noble
designs, and reverence for all worthy and heroic characters. A cold and
sceptical turn of mind is extremely adverse to Eloquence; and no less so, is
that cavilling disposition which takes pleasure in depretiating what is great,
and ridiculing what is generally admired. Such a disposition bespeaks one not
very likely to excel in any thing; but least of all in Oratory. A true Orator
should be a person of generous sentiments, of warm feelings, and of a mind
turned towards the admiration of all those great and high objects, which
mankind are naturally formed to admire. Joined with the manly virtues, he should,
at the same time, possess strong and tender 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 essential; it is always, and
justly, supposed, to be a concomitant of merit; and every appearance of it is
winning and prepossessing. But modesty ought not to run into excessive
timidity. Every 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 impression
on those who hear.
[Page 233]
Next to moral
qualifications, what, in the second place, is most necessary to an Orator, is a
fund of knowledge. Much is this inculcated by Cicero and Quinctilian:
"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 Composition, and all the Arts of Speech, can only assist an Orator in
setting off, to advantage, the stock of materials which he possesses; but the
stock, the materials themselves, must be brought from other quarters than from
Rhetoric. He who is to plead at the Bar, must make himself thoroughly master of
the 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
speak from the Pulpit, must apply himself closely to the study of divinity, of
practical religion, of morals, of human nature; that he may be rich in all the
topics, both of instruction and of persuasion. He who would fit himself for
being a Member of the Supreme Council of the Nation, or of any Public Assembly,
[Page 234] must be thoroughly acquainted with the business that belongs to such
Assembly; he must study the forms of Court, the course of procedure; and must
attend minutely to all the facts that may be the subject of question or deliberation.
Besides the knowledge
that properly belongs to that profession to which he addicts himself, a Public
Speaker, if ever he expects to be eminent, must make himself acquainted, as far
as his necessary occupations allow, with the general circle of polite
literature. The study of Poetry may be useful to him, on many occasions, for
embellishing his Style, for suggesting lively images, or agreeable allusions.
The study of History may be still more useful to him; as the knowledge of
facts, of eminent characters, and of the course of human affairs, finds .
Quinct. L. xii. Cap. 4.
There are few great
occasions of Public Speaking, in which will one not derive assistance from
cultivated taste, and extensive knowledge. They will often yield him materials
for proper ornament; sometimes, for argument and real use. A deficiency of
knowledge, even in subjects that belong not directly to his own profession,
will expose him to many disadvantages, and give better qualified rivals a great
superiority over him.
Allow me to recommend,
in the third place, not only the attainment of useful knowledge, but a habit of
application and industry. [Page 235] Without this, it is impossible to excel in
anything. We must not imagine, that it is by a sort of mushroom growth, that one
can rise to be a distinguished Pleader, or Preacher, or Speaker in any
Assembly. It is not by starts of application, or by a few years preparation of
study afterwards discontinued, that eminence can be attained. No; it can be
attained only by means of regular industry, grown up into a habit, and ready to
be exerted on every occasion that calls for industry. This is the fixed law of
our nature; and he must have a very high opinion of his own genius indeed, that
can believe himself an exception to it. A very wise law of our nature it is;
for industry is, in truth, the great "Condimentum," the seasoning of
every pleasure; without which life is doomed to languish. Nothing is so great
an enemy both to honourable attainments, and to the real, to the brisk, and
spirited enjoyment of life, as that relaxed state of mind which arises from
indolence and dissipation. One that is destined to excel in any art, especially
in the arts of Speaking and Writing, will be known by this more than by any
other mark whatever, an enthusiasm for that art; an enthusiasm, which, firing
his mind with the object he has in view, will dispose him to relish every
labour which the means require. It was this, that characterised the great men
of antiquity; it is this, which must distinguish the Moderns who would tread in
their steps. This honourable enthusiasm, it is highly necessary for such as are
studying Oratory to cultivate. If youth wants it, manhood will flag miserably.
In the fourth place,
Attention to the best models will contribute greatly towards improvement. Every
one who speaks, or writes, should, indeed, endeavour to have somewhat that is
[Page 236] his own, that is peculiar to himself, and that characterises 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 upon the right choice of models which we purpose to imitate; and
supposing them rightly chosen, a farther care is requisite, of not being
seduced by a blind universal admiration. For, "decipit exemplar, vitiis
imitabile." Even in the most finished models we can select, it must not be
forgotten, that there are always some things improper for imitation. We should
study to acquire a just conception of the peculiar characteristic 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 antient and modern, from whom benefit may be derived 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 Public Speaking. [Page 237] Among the French there are
more. Saurin, Bourdaloue, Flechier, Massillon, particularly the last, are
eminent for the Eloquence of the Pulpit. But the most nervous and sublime of
all their Orators is Bossuet, the famous Bishop of Meaux; in whose Oraisons
Funebres, there is a very high spirit of Oratory . Some of Fontenelle’ s
Harangues to the French Academy, are elegant and agreeable. And at the Bar, the
printed Pleadings of Cochin and D’Aguesseau, are highly extolled by the late
French Critics.
There is one
observation which it is of importance to make, concerning Imitation of the
Style of any favourite Author, when we would carry his Style into Public
Speaking. We must attend to a very material distinction, between written and
spoken Language. These are, in truth, two different manners of communicating
ideas. A Book that is to be read, requires one sort of Style; a man that is to
speak, must use another. In books, we look for correctness, precision, all
redundancies pruned, all repetitions avoided, Language completely polished.
Speaking admits a more easy copious Style, and less fettered by rule;
repetitions 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 [Page 238] 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 Shaftsbury’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, maintains 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
Philosophical ones, that this observation can be applied) carry much more the
appearance of one declaiming with warmth in a great Assembly, than of one
writing in a closet, in order to be read by others. They have all the
copiousness, the fervour, the inculcating [Page 239] 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 advantage 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 is, doubtless, most useful, which relates to the profession, or
kind of Public Speaking, to which persons addict themselves. This, they should
keep ever in their eye, and be gradually inuring themselves to it. But let me
also advise them, not to allow themselves in negligent Composition of any kind.
He who has it for his aim to write, or to speak correctly, should, in the most
trivial kind of Composition, in Writing a Letter, nay, even in common
Discourse, study to acquit himself with propriety. I do not at all mean, that
he is never to write, or to speak a word, but in elaborate and artificial
Language. This would form him to a stiffness and 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 becoming
manner is very often the most light, and seemingly careless manner; but it
requires taste and attention to seize the just idea of it. That idea, when
acquired, we should keep in our eye, and form upon it whatever we write or say.
[Page 240]
Exercises of speaking
have always been recommended to Students, in order that they may prepare
themselves for speaking in public, and on real business. The Meetings, or
Societies, into which they sometimes form themselves for this purpose, are
laudable institutions; and, under proper conduct, may serve many valuable
purposes. They are favourable to knowledge and study, by giving occasion to
enquiries, concerning those subjects which are made the ground of discussion.
They produce emulation; and gradually inure those who are concerned in them, to
somewhat that resembles a Public Assembly. They accustom them to know their own
powers, and, to acquire a command of themselves in speaking; and what is,
perhaps, the greatest advantage of all, they give them a facility and fluency
of expression, and assist them in 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 understood of those academical associations,
where a moderate number of young Gentlemen, who are carrying on their studies,
and are connected by some affinity in the future pursuits which they have in
view, assemble privately, in order to improve one another, and to prepare
themselves for those public exhibitions which may 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. [Page 241]
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 render them useful. If their subjects of Discourse be
improperly chosen; if they maintain extravagant or indecent topics; if they
indulge themselves in loose and flimsy declamation, which has no foundation in
good sense; or accustom themselves to speak pertly on all subjects without due
preparation, they may improve one another in petulance, but in no other thing;
and will infallibly form themselves to a very faulty and vicious taste in
speaking. I would, 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, or on 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 too
often, nor on subjects where they are ignorant or unripe; but only, when they
have proper materials for a Discourse, and have digested and thought of the
subject before-hand. In the third place, When they do speak, they should study
always to keep good sense and persuasion in view, rather than an ostentation of
Eloquence; and for this end, I would, in the fourth place, repeat the advice
which I gave in a former Lecture, that they should always [Page 242] choose
that side of the question to which, in their own judgment, they are most
inclined, as the right and the true side; and defend it by such 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
enquire, of what use may the study of Critical and Rhetorical Writers be, for
improving one in the practice 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 Antients.
In modern times, for reasons which were before given, Popular Eloquence, as an
Art, has never been very much the object of study; it has not the same powerful
effects now that it had 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 Eloquence, or Public Discourse; and what has been
given us of that kind, has been drawn mostly from the Antients. Such a writer
as Joannes Gerardus Vossius, who has gathered into one heap of ponderous
lumber, all the trifling, as well as the useful things, that are to be found in
the Greek and Roman Writers, is enough to disgust one with the study of
Eloquence. Among the French, there has been more attempted, on this subject,
than among the English. The Bishop of Cambray’s Writings on Eloquence, I before
mentioned with honour. Rollin, Batteux, Crevier, Gibert, and several other
French Critics, have also written on [Page 243] Oratory; but though some of
them may be useful, none of them are so considerable as to deserve particular
recommendation.
It is to the original
Antient Writers that we must chiefly have recourse; and it is a reproach to any
one, whose profession calls him to speak in public, to be unacquainted with
them. In all the Antient 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
into so many different Sciences, has investigated the principles of Rhetoric
with great penetration. Aristotle appears to have been the first who took
Rhetoric out of the hands of the Sophists, and introduced reasoning and good
sense into the Art. Some of the profoundest things which have been written on
the passions and manners of men, are to be found in his Treatise on Rhetoric;
though in this, as in all his writings, his great brevity often renders him
obscure. Succeeding Greek Rhetoricians, most of whom are now lost, improved on
the [Page 244] foundation which Aristole 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; especially 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 Orator, must be worthy of attention. His most
considerable work on this subject is that De Oratore, in three books. None of
Cicero’s writings are more highly finished than this Treatise. The dialogue is
polite; the characters are 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 all
Cicero’s rhetorical works there run those high and sublime ideas of Eloquence,
which are fitted both for forming a just taste, and for creating that
enthusiasm for the Art, which is of the greatest consequence for excelling in
it.
But, of all the Antient
Writers on the subject of Oratory, the most instructive, and most useful, is
Quinctilian. I know few books which abound more with good sense, and discover a
greater degree of just and accurate taste, than Quinctilian’s Institutions.
Almost all the principles of good Criticism are to be found in them. He has
digested into excellent order all [Page 245] the antient ideas concerning
Rhetoric, and is, at the same time, himself an eloquent Writer. Though some
parts of his work contain too much of the technical and artificial system then
in vogue, and for that reason may be thought dry and tedious, yet I would not
advise the omitting to read any part of his Institutions. To Pleaders at the
Bar, even these technical parts may prove of some use. Seldom has any person,
of more sound and distinct judgment than Quinctilian, applied himself to the
study of the Art of Oratory.
[Page 246]
I HAVE now finished
that part of the Course which respected Oratory, or Public Speaking, and which,
as far as the subject allowed, I have endeavoured to form into some sort of
system. It remains, that I enter on the consideration of the most distinguished
kinds of Composition both in prose and Verse, and point out the principles of
Criticism relating to them. This part of the work might easily be drawn out to
a great length; but I am sensible, that critical discussions, when they are
pursued too far, become both trifling and tedious. I shall study, therefore, to
avoid unnecessary prolixity; and hope, at the same time, to omit nothing that
is very material under the several heads.
I shall follow the same
method here which I have all along pursued, and without which, these Lectures
could not be [Page 247] 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 often quoted several of the antient classics for their beauties, so I have
also, sometimes, pointed out their defects. Hereafter, I shall have occasion to
do the same, when treating of their writings under more general heads. It may
be fit, therefore, that, before proceeding farther, I make some observations on
the comparative merit of the Antients 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 Antients. These observations are the more
necessary, 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 phænomenon,
and one which has often employed 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 exerted herself
with a more than ordinary effort, and to have poured them forth with a profuse
fertility. Various reasons have been assigned for this. Some of the moral
causes lie obvious; such as favourable circumstances of government and of
manners; encouragement from great men; emulation excited among the men of
Genius. But as these have been thought inadequate to the whole effect, [Page
248] physical causes have been also assigned; and the Abbe du Bos, in his
Reflections on Poetry and Painting, has collected a great many observations on
the influence which the air, the climate, and other such natural causes, may be
supposed to have upon genius. But whatever the causes be, the fact is certain,
that there have been certain periods or ages of the world much more
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 Peloponnesian war, and extended till the time of Alexander
the Great; within which period, we have Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon,
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, Æschines, Lysias, Isocrates, Pindar, Æschylus,
Euripides, Sophocles, Aristophanes, Menander, Anacreon, Theocritus, Lysippus,
Apelles, Phidias, Praxiteles. The second, is the Roman Age, included nearly
within the days of Julius Cæsar and Augustus; affording us, Catullus,
Lucretius, Terence, Virgil, Horace, Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, Phædrus, Cæsar,
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 XIV. and Queen Anne, when flourished in France, Corneille, Racine, De
Retz, Moliere, Boileau, Fontaine, Baptiste Rousseau, Bossuet, Fenelon,
Bourdaloue, Pascall, Malebranche, Massillon, Bruyere, Bayle, Fontenelle,
Vertot; and in England, Dryden, Pope, Addison, Prior, Swift, Parnell, Congreve,
Otway, [Page 249] Young, Rowe, Atterbury, Shaftbury, Bolingbroke, Tillotson,
Temple, Boyle, Locke, Newton, Clark.
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, including also the eminent
Writers down to our own times. Any comparison between these two classes of
Writers, cannot be other than 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 Antients, and Perrault and La
Motte, on the other, for the Moderns; and it was carried to extremes on both
sides. To this day, among men of taste and letters, we find a leaning to one or
other side. A few 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 him to decry the ancient classics;
if he pretends to have discovered that Homer and Virgil are Poets of
inconsiderable merit, and that Demosthenes and Cicero are not great Orators, we
may boldly venture to tell such a man, that he is come too late with his
discovery. The reputation of such Writers is established upon a foundation too
solid, to be now shaken by any [Page 250] arguments whatever; for it is
established upon the almost universal taste of mankind, proved and tried
throughout the succession of so many ages. Imperfections in their works he may
indeed point out; passages that are faulty he may shew; for where is the human
work that is perfect? But, if he attempts to discredit their works in general,
or to prove that the reputation 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 nature is against him. In matters of taste, such as
Poetry and Oratory, to whom does the appeal lie? where is the standard? and
where the authority of the last decision? where is it to be looked for, but, as
I formerly shewed, in those feelings and sentiments that are found, on the most
extensive examination, to be the common sentiments and feelings of men? These
have been fully consulted on this head. The Public, the unprejudiced Public,
has been tried and appealed to for many centuries, and throughout almost all
civilized nations. It has pronounced its verdict; it has given its sanction to
those writers; and from this Tribunal there lies no farther appeal.
In matters of mere
reasoning, the world may be long in an error; and 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 matters of fact are brought to light. For this
reason, a system of Philosophy receives no sufficient sanction from its
antiquity, or long currency. The world, as it grows older, may be justly
expected to become, if not wiser, at least more knowing; and supposing [Page
251] 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 because it is the
natural, it is, for that reason, the right feeling. The reputation of the Iliad
and the Æneid must therefore stand upon sure ground, because it has stood so
long; though that of the Aristotelian or Platonic philosophy, every one is at
liberty to call in question.
It is in vain also to
allege, that the reputation of the Ancient Poets, and Orators, is owing to
authority, to pedantry, and to the prejudices of education, transmitted from
age to age. These, it is true, are the Authors put into our hands at schools
and colleges, and by that means we have now an early prepossession in their
favour; but how came they to gain the possession of colleges and schools?
Plainly, by the high fame which these Authors 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 consequence of the high admiration which was paid them by the
best judges in their own country and nation. As early as the days of Juvenal,
who wrote under the reign of Domitian, [Page 252] we find Virgil and Horace
become the standard books in the education of youth. Quot stabant pueri, cum
totus decolor esset Flaccus, & hæreret nigro fuligo Maroni.
Sat. .
From this general
principle, then, of the reputation ofgreat ancient Classics being so early, so
lasting, so universal among all the most polished nations, we may justly and
boldly infer that their reputation cannot be wholly unjust, but must have a
solid foundation in the merit of their writings.
Let us guard, however,
against a blind and implicit veneration for the Ancients, in every thing. I
have opened the general principle, which must go far in instituting a fair
comparison between them and the Moderns. Whatever superiority the Ancients may
have had in point of genius, yet in all arts, where the natural progress of
knowledge has had room to produce any considerable effects, the Moderns cannot
but have some advantage. The world may, in certain respects, be 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 [Page 253] avail itself, more or less, of former discoveries. At intervals,
there arose some happy genius, who could both improve on what had gone before,
and invent something new. With the advantage of a proper stock of materials, an
inferior genius can make greater progress, than a much superior one, to whom
these materials are wanting.
Hence, in Natural
Philosophy, Astronomy, Chemistry, and other Sciences that depend on an
extensive knowledge and observation of facts, Modern Philosophers have an
unquestionable superiority over the Ancient. I am inclined also to think, that
in matters of pure reasoning, there is more precision among the Moderns, than
in some instances there was among the Ancients; owing perhaps to a more extensive
literary intercourse, which has improved and sharpened the faculties of men. In
some studies too, that relate to taste and fine writing, which is our object,
the progress of Society must, in equity, be admitted to have given us some
advantages. For instance, in History; there is certainly more political
knowledge in several European nations at present, than there was in ancient
Greece and Rome. We are better acquainted with the nature of government,
because we have seen it under a greater variety of forms and revolutions. The
world is more laid open than it was in former times; commerce is greatly
enlarged; more countries are civilized; posts are every where 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 afterwards show, they have availed themselves. In the
more complex kinds of Poetry, likewise, we may have gained somewhat, perhaps,
in point of regularity and [Page 254] accuracy. In Dramatic Performances,
having the advantage of the ancient models, we may be allowed to have made some
improvements, in the variety of the characters, the conduct of the plot,
attentions to 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
knowledge and correctness. To return to our comparison of the age of the world
with that of a man; it may be said, not altogether without reason, that if the
advancing age of the world bring along with it more science and more
refinement, there belong, however, to its earlier periods, more vigour, more
fire, more enthusiasm of genius. This appears indeed to form the
characteristical difference between the Ancient Poets, Orators, and Historians,
compared with the Modern. Among the Ancients, we find higher conceptions,
greater simplicity, more original fancy. Among the Moderns, sometimes more art
and correctness, but feebler exertions 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 Shakespeare are inferior to no
Poets in any age.
It is proper to
observe, that there were some circumstances in ancient times, very favourable
to those uncommon efforts of genius which were then exerted. Learning was a
much more [Page 255] 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 enquired after all the monuments of learning there. They conversed
with Priests, Philosophers, Poets, with all who had acquired any distinguished
fame. They returned to their own country full of the discoveries which they had
made, and fired by the new and uncommon objects which they had seen. Their
knowledge and improvements cost them more labour, raised in them more
enthusiasm, were attended with higher rewards and honours, than in modern days.
Fewer had the means and opportunities of distinguishing themselves than now;
but such as did distinguish themselves, were sure of acquiring that fame, and
even 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 repeat any verses of Euripides were saved, from honour 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, Poëmata passim .
[Page 256]
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. So a man that only translates, shall never be a
Poet; so people that trust to others charity, rather than their own industry,
will be always poor. Who can tell," he adds, "whether learning may
not even weaken invention, in a man that has great advantages from nature?
Whether the weight and number of so many other men’s thoughts and notions may
not suppress his own; as heaping on wood sometimes suppresses a little spark,
that would otherwise have grown into a flame? The strength of mind, as well as
of body, grows more from the warmth of exercise, than of clothes; nay, too much
of this foreign heat, rather makes men faint, and their constitutions weaker
than they would be without them."
From whatever cause it
happens, so it is, that among some of the Ancient Writers, we must look for the
highest models in [Page 257] most of the kinds of elegant Composition. For
accurate thinking and enlarged ideas, in several parts of Philosophy, to the
Moderns we ought chiefly to have recourse. Of correct and finished writing in
some works of taste, they may afford useful patterns; but for all that belongs
to original genius, to spirited, masterly, and high execution, our best and
most happy ideas are, generally speaking, drawn from the Ancients. In Epic
Poetry, for instance, 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 mention in the
Ancient Historical Plans, it may be safely asserted, that we have no such
historical narration, so elegant, so picturesque, so animated, and interesting
as that of Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Livy, Tacitus, and Sallust.
Although the conduct of the drama may be admitted to have received some
improvements, yet for Poetry and 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 unrivalled. 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 Satyres 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, [Page 258]
we would 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 Ancient Classics, both Greek and Roman. Nocturnâ versate
manu, versate . 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 Authors would afford him. Any one
has great reason to suspect his own taste, who receives little or no pleasure
from the perusal of Writings, which so many ages and nations have consented in
holding up as objects of admiration. And I am persuaded, it will be found, that
in proportion as the Ancients are generally studied and admired, or are unknown
and disregarded in any country, good taste and good composition will flourish,
or decline. They are commonly none but the ignorant or superficial, who
undervalue them.
At the same time, a
just and high regard for the prime writers of 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 pedants. Among the Greek and Roman Authors, some assuredly deserve much
higher regard than others; [Page 259] 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 distinguishing eye, so as to propose for imitation their beauties only;
and it is perfectly consistent with just and candid criticism, to find fault
with parts, while, at the same time, it admires the whole.
After these reflections
on the Ancients and Moderns, I proceed to a critical examination of the most
distinguished kinds of Composition, and the Characters of those Writers who
have excelled in them, whether Modern or Ancient.
The most general
division of the different kinds of Composition is, into those written in Prose,
and those written in Verse; which certainly require to be separately
considered, because subject to separate laws. I begin, as is most natural, with
Writings in Prose. Of Orations, or 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 purpose to treat of it at
some length.
As it is the office of
an Orator to persuade, it is that of an Historian to record truth for the
instruction of mankind. This is the proper object and end of history, from
which may be deduced many of the laws relating to it; and if this object were
[Page 260] 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, nor
a Satyrist. He must not enter into faction, nor give scope to affection: but,
contemplating past events and characters with a cool and dispassionate eye,
must present to his Readers a faithful copy of human nature.
At the same time, it is
not every record of facts, however true, that is entitled to the name of
History; but such a record as enables us to apply the transactions of former
ages for our own instruction. The facts ought to be momentous and important;
represented in connection 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 judgment 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 employed, no flippancy of style, no quaintness of wit. But
the Writer must sustain the character of a wise man, writing for the
instruction of posterity; one who has studied to inform himself well, who has
pondered his subject with care, and addresses himself to our judgment, rather
than to our [Page 261] imagination. Not that this is inconsistent with
ornamented and spirited narration. History 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, Annals, Memoirs, Lives. But these are its
inferior subordinate species; on which I shall hereafter make some reflections,
when I shall have first considered what belongs to a regular and legitimate
work of History. Such a work is chiefly of two kinds. Either the entire History
of some state or kingdom through its different revolutions, such as Livy’s
Roman History; or the History of some one great event, or some portion or
period of time which may be considered as making a whole by itself; such as,
Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian war, Davila’s History of the Civil
Wars of France, or Clarendon’s of those of 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 merely, but should be bound together by some
connecting principle, which shall make the impression on the mind of something
that is one, whole and entire. It is inconceivable how great 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 [Page 262] has always before
it the progress of some one great plan or system of actions; when there is some
point or centre, to which we can refer the various facts related by 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 complex, yet the great constituent parts of it, form so many
subordinate wholes, when taken by themselves; each of which can be treated both
as complete within itself, and as connected with what goes before and follows.
In the History of a Monarchy, for instance, every reign should have its own
unity; a beginning, a middle, and an end to the system of affairs; while, at
the same time, we are taught to discern how that system of affairs rose from
the preceding, and how it is inserted into what follows after. We should be
able to trace all the secret links of the chain, which binds together remote,
and seemingly unconnected events. In some kingdoms of Europe, it was the plan
of many succeeding princes to reduce the power of their nobles; and during
several reigns, most of the leading actions had a reference to this end. In
other states, the rising power of the Commons, influenced for a tract of time
the course and connection of public affairs. Among the Romans, the leading
principle was a gradual extension of conquest, and the attainment of universal
empire. The continual increase of their power, advancing towards this end from
small beginnings, and by a sort of regular progressive plan, furnished to Livy
a happy subject for historical unity, in the midst of a great variety of
transactions.
[Page 263]
Of all the ancient
general Historians, the one who had the most exact idea of this quality of
Historical Composition, though, in other respects, not an elegant Writer, is
Polybius. This appears from the account he gives of his own plan in the
beginning of his Third Book; observing, that the subject of which he had
undertaken to write, is, throughout the whole of it, one action, one great
spectacle; how, and by what causes, all the parts of the habitable world became
subject to the Roman empire. "This action," says he, "is
distinct in its beginning, determined in its duration, and clear in its final
accomplishment; therefore, I think it of use, to a 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 connection; whereas, in the times of which he writes,
all the great transactions of the world tended and verged to one point, and
were capable of being considered as parts of one system. Whereupon he adds
several very judicious observations, concerning the usefulness of writing
History upon such a comprehensive and connected plan; 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 .
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 [Page
266] middle of transactions, in order to inform us of what was happening
elsewhere at the same time. He discovers no art, if he cannot form some
connection 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 recording, in strict
chronological order, a multitude of separate transactions, connected by nothing
else, but their happening at the same time.
Though the history of
Herodotus be of greater compass than that of Thucydides, and comprehend a much
greater variety of dissimilar parts, he has been more fortunate in joining them
together; and digesting them into order. Hence he is a more pleasing Writer,
and gives a stronger impression of his subject; though in judgment and
accuracy, much inferior to Thucydides. With digressions and episodes he
abounds; but when these have any connection with the main subject, and are
inserted professedly as Episodes, the unity of the whole is less violated by them,
than by a broken and scattered narration of the principal story. Among the
Moderns, the President Thuanus has, by attempting to make the History of his
own times too universal, fallen into the same error, of loading the Reader with
a great variety of unconnected facts, going on together in different parts of
the world: an Historian otherwise of great probity, candour, and excellent
understanding; but through this want of unity, more tedious, and less
interesting than he would otherwise have been.
[Page 267]
AFTER making some
observations on the controversy which has been often carried on concerning the
comparative merit of the Ancients and the Moderns, I entered, in the last
Lecture, on the consideration of Historical Writing. The general idea of
History is, a record of truth for the instruction of mankind. Hence arise the
primary qualities required in a good Historian, impartiality, fidelity,
gravity, and dignity. What I principally considered, was the unity which
belongs to this sort of Composition; the nature of which I have endeavoured to
explain.
I proceed next to
observe, that in order to fulfil the end of History, the Author must study to
trace to their springs the actions and events which he records. Two things are
especially necessary for his doing this successfully; a thorough acquaintance
with human nature, and political knowledge, or acquaintance [Page 268] with
government. The former is necessary to account for the conduct of individuals,
and to give just views of their character; the latter, to account for the
revolutions of government, and the operation of political causes on public
affairs. Both must concur, in order to form a completely instructive Historian.
With regard to the
latter article, Political Knowledge, the Ancient 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 hinted,
was more shut up in ancient times, than it is now; there was then less
communication among neighbouring states, and by consequence 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
observed too, that they wrote for their own countrymen only; they had no idea
of writing for the instruction of foreigners, whom they despised, or of the
world in general; and hence, they are less attentive to convey all that
knowledge with regard to domestic policy, which we, in distant times, would
desire to have learned from them. Perhaps also, though in ancient ages men were
abundantly animated with the love of liberty, yet the full extent of the
influence of government, and of political causes, was not then so thoroughly
scrutinized, as it has been in modern times; when a longer experience of all
the different modes of government has rendered men more enlightened and
intelligent, with respect to public affairs.
[Page 269]
To these reasons it is
owing, that though the Ancient Historians set before us the particular facts
which they relate, in a very distinct and beautiful manner, yet sometimes they
do not give us a clear view of all the political causes, which affected the
situation of affairs of which they treat. From the Greek Historians, we are
able to form but an 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 connections
and interfering interests. In writing the History of the Romans, Livy had
surely the most ample field for displaying political knowledge, concerning the
rise of their greatness, and the advantages or defects of their government. Yet
the instruction in these important articles, which he affords, is not
considerable. An elegant Writer he is, and a beautiful relater of facts, if
ever there was one; but by no means distinguished 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 complete
information, which we would naturally have expected from him of the state of
parties in Rome, and of that particular conjuncture of affairs, which enabled
so desperate a profligate as Catiline to become so formidable to government, he
has given us little more than a general declamatory account of the luxury and
corruption of manners in that age, compared with the simplicity of former
times.
I by no means, however,
mean to censure all the Ancient Historians as defective in political
information. No Historians [Page 270] 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 disad- advantages of every plan that was
proposed, and every measure that was pursued. Polybius excels in comprehensive
political views, in penetration into great systems, and in his profound and
distinct knowledge of all military affairs. Tacitus is eminent for his
knowledge of the human heart; is sentimental and refined in a high degree;
conveys much instruction with respect to political matters, but more with
respect to human nature.
But when we demand from
the Historian profound and instructive views of his subject, it is not meant
that he should be frequently interrupting the course of his History, with his
own reflections and speculations. 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 revenues,
the internal state of the country of which he writes; and with its interests
and connections in respect of neighbouring countries. 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 Historian is much given to
dissertation, and is ready to philosophise and speculate on all that he
records, a suspicion naturally arises, that he will be in hazard of adapting
his narrative of facts to favour some system which he has formed to himself. It
is rather by [Page 271] fair and judcious narration that history should
instruct us, than by delivering instruction in an avowed and direct manner. On some
occasions, when doubtful points require to be scrutinized, or when some great
event is in agitation, concerning the causes or circumstances of which mankind
have been much divided, the narrative may be allowed to stand still for a
little; the Historian may appear, and may with 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 detached reflections. For instance; in the life of Agricola, Tacitus,
speaking of Domitian’s treatment of Agricola, makes this observation:
"Proprium humani ingeniiest, odisse quem læseris." The observation 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 jealousies which Germanicus knew to be
entertained against him by Livia and Tiberius: "Anxius," says he,
"occultis in se patrui aviæque odiis, quorum causæ acriores quia ."
Here a profound moral observation is made; but it is made, without appearing to
make it in form; it is introduced as a part of the [Page 272] 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 "Præfectus Castrorum," on account of the severe labour
which he imposed on the soldiers. "Quippe Rufus, diu manipularis, dein
centurio, mox castris præfectus, antiquam duramque militiam revocabat, vetus
operis & laboris, et eo immitior quia toleraverat ." There was room
for turning this into a general observation, that they who have been educated
and hardened in toils, are commonly found to be the most severe in requiring
the like toils from others. But the manner in which Tacitus introduces this
sentiment, as a stroke in the character of Rufus, gives it much more life and
spirit. This Historian has a particular talent of intermixing after this manner
with the course of his narrative, many striking sentiments and useful
observations.
Let us next proceed to
consider the proper qualities of Historical Narration. It is obvious, that on
the manner of narration much must depend, as the first notion of History is the
recital of past facts; and how much one mode of recital may be preferable to
another we shall soon be convinced, by thinking of the different effects, which
the same story, when told by two different persons, is found to produce.
The first virtue of
Historical Narration, is Clearness, Order, and due Connection. To attain this,
the Historian must be completely [Page 273] master of his subject; he must see
the whole as at one view; and comprehend the chain and dependance of all its
parts, that he may introduce every thing in its proper place; that he may lead
us smoothly along the track of affairs which are recorded, and may always give
us the satisfaction of seeing how one event arises out of another. Without
this, there can be neither pleasure nor instruction, in reading History. Much
for this end will depend on the observance of that unity in the general plan
and conduct, which, in the preceding Lecture, I recommended. Much too will
depend on the proper management of transitions, which forms one of the chief
ornaments of this kind of writing, and is one of the most difficult in
execution. Nothing tries an Historian’s abilities more, than so to lay his
train before-hand, as to make us pass naturally and agreeably from one part of
his subject to another; to employ no clumsy and awkward junctures; and to contrive
ways and means of forming 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 Composition, gravity must always be
maintained in the narration. There must be no meanness nor vulgarity in the
style: no quaint, nor colloquial phrases; no affectation of pertness, or of
wit. The smart, or the sneering manner of telling a story, are inconsistent
with the historical character. I do not say, that an Historian is never to let
himself down. He may sometimes do it with propriety, in order to diversify the
strain of his narration, which, if it be perfectly uniform, is apt to become
tiresome. But he should be careful never to descend too far; and, on occasions
where a light or ludicrous anecdote is proper to be [Page 274] recorded, it is
generally better to throw it into a note, than to hazard becoming too familiar,
by introducing it into the body of the work.
But an Historian may
posses these qualities of being perspicuous, distinct, and grave, and may
notwithstanding be a dull Writer; in which case, we shall reap little benefit
from his labours. We will read him without pleasure; or, most probably, we
shall soon give over to read him at all. He must therefore study to render his
narration interesting; which is the quality that chiefly distinguishes a Writer
of genius and eloquence.
Two things are
especially conducive to this; the first is, a just medium in the conduct of
narration, between a rapid or crowded recital of facts, and a prolix detail.
The former embarrasses, and the latter tires us. An Historian that would
interest us, must know when to be concise, and where he ought to enlarge;
passing concisely over slight and unimportant events, but dwelling on such as are
striking and considerable in their nature, or pregnant with consequences;
preparing beforehand our attention to them, and bringing them forth into the
most full and conspicuous light. The next thing he must attend to, is a proper
selection of the circumstances belonging to those events, which he chooses to
relate fully. General facts make a slight impression on the mind. It is by
means of circumstances and particulars properly chosen, that a narration
becomes interesting and affecting to the Reader. These give life, body, and
colouring to the recital of facts, and enable us to behold them as present, and
passing before our eyes. It is this employment of [Page 275] circumstances, in
Narration, that is properly termed Historical Painting.
In all these virtues of
Narration, particularly in this last, of picturesque descriptive Narration,
several of the Antient Historians eminently excel. Hence, the pleasure that is
found in reading Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Livy, Sallust, and Tacitus.
They are all conspicuous for the Art of Narration. Herodotus is, at all times,
an agreeable Writer, and relates every thing with that naïveté and simplicity
of manner, which never fails to interest the Reader. Though the manner of
Thucydides be more dry and harsh, yet, on great occasions, as when he is giving
an account of the Plague of Athens, the Siege of Platæa, the Sedition in
Corcyra, the Defeat of the Athenians in Sicily, he displays a very strong and
masterly power of description. Xenophon’s Cyropædia, 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 Catilinarian, 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 Furcæ Caudinæ, in the beginning of [Page 276] 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 decoyed the Romans. When they
find themselves caught, and no hope of escape left, we are made to see, first,
their astonishment, next, their indignation, and then, their dejection, painted
in the most lively manner, by such circumstances and actions as were natural to
persons in their situation. The restless and unquiet manner in which they pass
the night; the consultations of the Samnites; the various measures proposed to
be taken; the messages between the two armies, all heighten the scene. At
length, in the morning, the Consuls return to the camp, and inform them that
they could receive no other terms but that of surrendering their arms, and
passing under the yoke, which was considered as the last mark of ignominy for a
conquered army. Part of what then follows, I shall give in the Author’s own
words. "Redintegravit luctum in castris consulum adventus; ut vix ab iis
abstinerent manus, quorum temeritate in eum locum deducti essent. Alii alios
intueri, contemplari arma mox tradenda, & inermes futuras dextras;
proponere sibimet ipsi ante oculos, jugum hostile, et ludibria victoris, et vultus
superbos, et per armatos inermium iter. Inde fædi agminis miserabilem viam; per
sociorum urbes reditum in patriam ac parentes quo sæpe ipsi triumphantes
venissent. Se solos sine vulnere, sine ferro, sine acie victos; sibi non
stringere licuisse gladios, non manum cum hoste conserere; sibi nequicquam
arma, nequicquam vires, nequicquam animos datos. Hæc frementibus, hora fatalis
ignominiæ advenit. Jamprimùm cum singulis vestimentis, inermes [Page 277] extra
vallum abire jussi. Tum a consulibus abire lictores jussi, paludamentaque
detracta. Tantam hoc inter ipsos, qui paulo ante eos dedendos, lacerandosque
censuerant, miserationem fecit, ut suæ quisque conditionis oblitus, abilla
deformatione tantæ majestatis, velut ab nefando spectaculo, averteret oculos.
Primi consules, prope seminudi, sub jugum missi . No image, in any Poet, is
more strong and expressive than this last stroke of the discription: "Non
tumultus, non quies, sed quale," &c. This is a conception of the
sublime kind, and discovers high genius. Indeed, throughout all his work,
Tacitus shows the hand of a master. As he is profound in reflexion, so he is
striking in description, and pathetic in sentiment. The Philosopher, the Poet,
and the Historian, all meet in him. Though the period of which he writes may be
reckoned unfortunate for a Historian, he has made it afford us many interesting
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 imagination merely, but to the heart. With many of the
most distinguished beauties, he is, at the same time, not a perfect model for
History, and such as have formed themselves upon him, have seldom been
successful. He is to be admired, rather than imitated. In his reflexions, he is
too refined; in his style, too concise, sometimes quaint and affected, often
abrupt and obscure. History seems to require a more natural, flowing, and
popular manner.
[Page 280]
The Antients employed
one embellishment of History which the Moderns have laid aside, I mean
Orations, which, on weighty occasions, they put into the mouths of some of
their chief personages. By means of these, they diversified their history; they
conveyed both moral and political instruction; and, by the opposite arguments
which were employed, they gave us a view of the sentiments of different
parties. Thucydides was the first who introduced this method. The Orations with
which his History abounds, and those too of some other Greek and Latin
Historians, are among the most valuable remains which we have of Antient
Eloquence. How beautiful soever they are, it may be much questioned, I think,
whether they find a proper place in History. I rather incline to think, that
they are unsuitable to it. For they form a mixture which is unnatural in
History, of fiction with truth. We know, that these Orations are entirely of
the Author’s own composition, and that he has introduced some celebrated person
haranguing in a public place, purely that he might have an opportunity of
showing his own eloquence, or delivering his own sentiments, under the name of
that person. This is a sort of poetical liberty which does not suit the gravity
of History, throughout which, an air of the strictest truth should always
reign. Orations may be an embellishment to History; such might also Poetical
Compositions be, introduced under the name of some of the personages mentioned
in the Narration, who were known to have possessed poetical talents. But
neither the one, nor the other, find a proper place in History. Instead of
inserting formal Orations, the method adopted by later Writers, seems better
and more natural; that of the Historian, on some great occasion, delivering, in
his own person, [Page 281] son, the sentiments and reasonings of the opposite
parties, or the substance of what was understood to be spoken in some Public
Assembly; which he may do without the liberty of fiction.
The drawing of characters
is one of the most splendid, and, at the same time, one of the most difficult
ornaments of Historical Composition. For characters are generally considered,
as professed exhibitions of fine writing; and an Historian, who seeks to shine
in them, is frequently in danger of carrying refinement to excess, from a
desire of appearing very profound and penetrating. He brings together so many
contrasts, and subtile oppositions of qualities, that we are rather dazzled
with sparkling expressions, than entertained with any clear conception of a
human character. A Writer who would characterise in an instructive and masterly
manner should be simple in his style, and should avoid all quaintness and
affectation; at the same time, not contenting himself with giving us general
outlines only, but descending into those peculiarities which mark a character,
in its most strong and distinctive features. The Greek Historians sometimes
give elogiums, but rarely draw full and professed characters. The two Antient
Authors who have laboured this part of Historical Composition most, are Sallust
and Tacitus.
As History is a species
of Writing designed for the instruction of mankind, sound morality should
always reign in it. Both in describing characters, and in relating transactions,
the Author should always show himself to be on the side of virtue. To deliver
moral instruction in a formal manner, falls [Page 282] not within his province;
but both as a good man, and as a good Writer, we expect, that he should
discover sentiments of respect for virtue, and of indignation at flagrant vice.
To appear neutral and indifferent with respect to good and bad characters, and
to affect a crafty and political, rather than a moral turn of thought, will,
besides other bad effects, derogate greatly from the weight of Historical
Composition, and will render the strain of it much more cold and uninteresting.
We are always most interested in the transactions which are going on, when our
sympathy is awakened by the story, and when we become engaged in the fate of
the actors. But this effect can never be produced by a Writer, who is deficient
in sensibility and moral feeling.
As the observations
which I have hitherto made, have mostly respected the Antient 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 latter ages, shone forth with most lustre,
beyond doubt is Italy. The national character of the Italians seems favourable
to it. They were always distinguished as an acute, penetrating, reflecting
people, remarkable for political sagacity and wisdom, and who early addicted
themselves to the arts of Writing. Accordingly, soon after the restoration of
letters, Machiavel, Guicciardin, Davila, Bentivoglio, Father Paul, became
highly conspicuous for historical merit. They all appear to have conceived very
just ideas of History; and are agreeable, instructive, and interesting Writers.
In their manner of [Page 283] narration, they are much formed upon the
Antients; some of them, as Bentivoglio and Guicciardin, have, in imitation of
them, introduced Orations into their History. In the profoundness and
distinctness of their political views, they may, perhaps, be esteemed to have
surpassed the Antients. Critics have, at the same time, observed some
imperfections in each of them. Machiavel, in his History of Florence, is not
altogether so interesting as one would expect an Author of his abilities to be;
either through his own defect, or through some unhappiness in his subject,
which led him into a very minute detail of the intrigues of one city.
Guicciardin, at all times sensible and profound, is taxed for dwelling so long
on the Tuscan affairs as to be sometimes tedious; a defect which is also
imputed, occasionally, to the judicious Father Paul. Bentivoglio, in his
excellent History of the wars of Flanders, is accused for approaching to the
florid and pompous manner: and Davila, though one of the most agreeable and
entertaining Relaters, has manifestly this defect of spreading a sort of
uniformity over all his characters, by representing them as guided too
regularly by political interest. But, although some such objections may be made
to these Authors, they deserve, upon the whole, to be placed in the first rank
of Modern Historical Writers. The wars of Flanders, written in Latin by
Famianus Strada, is a book of some note; but is not entitled to the same
reputation as the works of the other Historians I have named. Strada is too
violently partial to the Spanish cause; and too open a Panegyrist of the Prince
of Parma. He is florid, diffuse, and an affected imitator of the manner and
style of Livy.
[Page 284]
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 Historical
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 attentive to elegance,
than to accuracy. Accustomed to form his political notions wholly upon the
plans of antient 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 time, 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 controverted facts which make the subject
of that part of his work, it is impossible 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 [Page 285] of one side, yet there appears more impartiality
in his relation of facts, than might at first be expected. A great spirit of
virtue and probity runs through his work. He maintains all the dignity of an
Historian. His sentences, indeed, are often too long, and his general manner is
prolix; but his style, on the whole, is manly; and his merit, as a 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 a strong hand; but
they are generally light and satyrical; and he abounds so much in little
stories concerning himself, that he resembles more a Writer of Memoirs than of
History. During a long period, English Historical Authors were little more than
dull Compilers; till of late the distinguished names of Hume, Robertson, and
Gibbon, have raised 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 collection
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 [Page 286] respecting the period of which he writes, but only to
relate what he himself had access to know, or what he was concerned in, or what
illustrates the conduct of some person, or the circumstances of some
transaction, which he chooses for his subject. From a Writer of Memoirs,
therefore, is not exacted the same profound research, or enlarged information,
as from a writer of History. He is not subject to the same laws of unvarying
dignity and gravity. He may talk freely of himself; he may descend into the
most familiar anecdotes. What is chiefly required of him is, that he be
sprightly and interesting; and especially, that he inform us of things that are
useful and curious; that he convey to us some sort of knowledge worth the
acquiring. This is a species of Writing very bewitching to such as love to
write concerning themselves, and conceive every transaction, in which they had
a share, to be of singular importance. There is no wonder, therefore, that a
nation so sprightly as the French, should, for two centuries past, have been
pouring forth a whole flood of Memoirs; the greatest part of which are little
more than agreeable trifles.
Some, however, must be
excepted from this general character; two in particular; the Memoirs of the
Cardinal de Retz, and those of the Duke of Sully. From Retz’s Memoirs, besides
the pleasure of agreeable and lively narration, we may derive also much instruction,
and much knowledge of human nature. Though his politics be often too sine spun,
yet the Memoirs of a professed factious leader, such as the Cardinal was,
wherein he draws both his own character, and that of several great personages
of his time, so fully, cannot be read by any person of good sense without
benefit. The Memoirs [Page 287] 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 near to the usefulness, and
the dignity of a full legitimate History. They have this peculiar advantage, of
giving us a beautiful display of two of the most illustrious characters which
history presents; Sully himself, one of the ablest, and most incorrupt
ministers, and Henry IV. one of the greatest and most amiable princes of modern
times. I know few books more full of virtue, and of good sense, than Sully’s
Memoirs; few, therefore, more proper to form both the heads and the hearts of
such as are designed for public business, and action, in the world.
Biography, or the
Writing of Lives, is a very useful kind of Composition; less formal and stately
than History; but to the bulk of Readers, perhaps, no less instructive; as it
affords them the opportunity of seeing the characters and tempers, the virtues
and failings of eminent men fully displayed; and admits them into a more
thorough and intimate acquaintance with such persons, than History generally
allows. For a Writer of Lives may descend, with propriety, to minute
circumstances, and familiar incidents. It is expected of him, that he is to
give the 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 [Page 288] personages of antiquity. His matter is, indeed, better
than his manner; as he cannot lay claim to any peculiar beauty or elegance. His
judgment too, and his accuracy, have sometimes been taxed; but whatever defects
of this kind he may be liable to, his Lives of Eminent Men will always be
considered as a valuable treasure of instruction. He is remarkable for being
one of the most humane Writers of all antiquity; less dazzled than many of them
are, with the exploits of valour and ambition; and fond of displaying his great
men to us, in the more gentle lights of retirement and private life.
I cannot conclude the
subject of History, without taking notice of a very great improvement which
has, of late years, begun to be introduced into Historical Composition; I mean,
a more particular attention than was formerly given to laws, customs, commerce,
religion, literature, and every other thing that tends to show the spirit and
genius of nations. It is now understood to be the business of an able Historian
to exhibit manners, as well as facts and events; and assuredly, whatever
displays the state and life of mankind, in different periods, and illustrates
the progress of the human mind, is more useful and interesting than the 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, the general attention, and
received that high approbation, which so ingenious and eloquent a production
merited. His Essay on the general History of Europe, [Page 289] since the days
of Charlemagne, is not to be considered either as a History, or the proper Plan
of an Historical Work; but only as a series of observations on the chief events
that have 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 inaccurate, and is tinged with
those particularities which unhappily distinguish Voltaire’s manner of thinking
on religious subjects, yet it contains so many enlarged and instructive views,
as justly to merit the attention of all who either read or write the History of
those ages.
[Page 290]
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 instruction, and as they who study it are
supposed to do so for instruction, not for entertainment, the Style, the form,
and dress, of such Writings, are less material objects. They are objects,
however, that must not be wholly neglected. He who attempts to instruct
mankind, without studying, at the same time, to engage their attention, and to
interest them in [Page 291] 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 utmost perspicuity: and, by
reflecting on what was formerly delivered on the subject of Perspicuity, with
respect both to single words, and the construction of Sentences, we may be
convinced that this is a study which demands considerable attention to the
rules of Style and good Writing. Beyond mere perspicuity, strict accuracy and
precision are required in a Philosophical Writer. He must employ no words of
uncertain meaning, no loose nor indeterminate expressions; and should avoid
using words which are seemingly synonymous, 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, they seldom fail of producing a happy effect. They
diversify the Composition; [Page 292] they relieve the mind from the fatigue of
mere reasoning, and at the same time raise more full conviction than any
reasonings produce: for they take Philosophy out of the abstract, and give
weight to Speculation, by shewing its connection 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 Philosopher, 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 Antients, as Plato and Cicero, have left us Philosophical
Treatises composed with much elegance and beauty. Seneca has been long and
justly censured for the affectation that appears in his Style. He is too fond
of a certain brilliant and sparkling manner; of antitheses and quaint
sentences. It cannot be denied, at the same time, that he often expresses
himself with much liveliness and force; though his Style, upon the whole, is
far from deserving imitation. In English, Mr. Locke’s celebrated Treatise on
Human Understanding, may be pointed out as a model, on the one hand, of the
greatest clearness and distinctness of Philosophical Style, with very little
approach to ornament: Lord Shaftsbury’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.
[Page 293]
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 Moderns have endeavoured to imitate them. Dialogue Writing may be
executed in two ways, either as direct Conversation, where none but the
Speakers appear, which is the method that Plato uses; or as the recital of a
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, and subject to the same laws.
A Dialogue, in one or
other of these forms, on some philosophical, moral, or critical subject, when
it is well conducted, stands in a high rank among the Works of Taste; but 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 conversation;
exhibiting the character, and manners of the several Speakers, and suiting to
the character of each, that peculiarity of thought and expression which
distinguishes him from another. A Dialogue, thus conducted, gives the Reader a
very agreeable entertainment; as by means of the debate going on among the
personages, he receives a fair and full view of both sides of the argument; and
is, at the same time, amused with polite conversation, and with a display of
consistent and well supported characters. An Author, [Page 294] 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 conversation, 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 Philotheos perhaps, and a Philatheos, or an A and a B; 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 sceptical
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 conversation. The Dialogue serves no purpose, but
to make awkward interruptions; and we would with more patience hear the Author
continuing always to reason himself, and to remove the objections that are made
to his principles, than be troubled with the unmeaning appearance of two
persons, whom we see to be in reality no more than one.
Among the Ancients,
Plato is eminent for the beauty of his Dialogues. The scenery, and the
circumstances of many of [Page 295] them, are beautifully painted. The
characters of the Sophists, with whom Socrates disputed, are well drawn; a
variety of personages are exhibited to us; we are introduced into a real conversation,
often supported with much life and spirit, after the Socratic manner. For
richness and beauty of imagination, no Philosophic Writer, Ancient or Modern,
is comparable to Plato. The only fault of his imagination is, such an excess of
fertility as allows it sometimes to obscure his judgment. It frequently carries
him into Allegory, Fiction, Enthusiasm, and the airy regions of Mystical
Theology. The Philosopher is, at times, lost in the Poet. But whether we be
edified with the matter or not (and much edification he often affords), we are
always entertained with the manner; and left with a strong impression 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
dignity. The Author of the elegant Dialogue, "De Causis Corruptæ Eloquentiæ,"
which is annexed sometimes to the works of Quinctilian, and sometimes to those
of Tacitus, has happily imitated, perhaps has excelled Cicero, in this manner
of writing.
Lucian is a Dialogue
Writer of much eminence; though his subjects are seldom such as can entitle him
to be ranked among Philosophical Authors. He has given the model of the [Page
296] light and humourous Dialogue, and has carried it to great perfection. A
character of levity, and at the same time of wit and penetration, distinguish
all his writings. His great object was, to expose the follies of superstition,
and the pedantry of Philosophy, which prevailed in his age; and he could not
have taken any more successful method for this end, than what he has employed
in his Dialogues, especially in those of the Gods and of the Dead, which are
full of pleasantry and Satire. In this invention of Dialogues of the Dead, he
has been followed by several Modern Authors. Fontenelle, in particular, has
given us Dialogues of this sort, which are sprightly and agreeable; but as for
characters, whoever his personages be, they all become Frenchmen in his hands.
Indeed few things in Composition are more difficult, than in the course of a
Moral Dialogue to exhibit characters properly distinguished; as calm
conversation furnishes none of those assistances for bringing characters into
light, which the active scenes, and interesting situations of the Drama, afford.
Hence few Authors are eminent for Characteristical Dialogue on grave subjects.
One of the most remarkable in the English language, is a Writer of the last
age, Dr. Henry More, in his Divine Dialogues, relating to the foundations of
Natural Religion. Though his Style be now in some measure obsolete, and his
Speakers be marked with the academic stiffness of those times, yet the Dialogue
is animated by a variety of Character, and a sprightliness of Conversation,
beyond what are commonly met with in Writings of this kind. Bishiop 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.
[Page 297]
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 Public, in
the form of a Letter. Lord Shaftsbury, 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 treatises under the head of Epistolary
Composition. Though they bear, in the title page, a Letter to a Friend, after
the first address, the friend disappears, and we see, that it is, in truth, the
Public with whom the Author corresponds. Seneca’s Epistles are of this sort.
There is no probability that they ever passed in correspondence, as real
letters. They are no other than miscellaneous dissertations on moral subjects;
which the Author, for his convenience, chose to put into the epistolary form.
Even where one writes a real letter on some formal topic, as of moral or
religious consolation to a person under distress, such as Sir William Temple
has written to the Countess of Essex on the death of her daughter, he is at
liberty, on such occasions, to write wholly as a Divine or as a Philosopher,
and to assume the style and manner of one, without reprehension. We consider
the Author not as writing a Letter, but as composing a Discourse, suited
particularly to the circumstances of some one person.
Epistolary Writing
becomes a distinct species of Composition, subject to the cognizance of
Criticism, only or chiefly, when it is of the easy and familiar kind; when it
is conversation carried on upon paper, between two friends at a distance. [Page
298] 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 considerable in the
subject, yet if the spirit and turn of the correspondence be agreeable; if they
be written in a sprightly manner, and with native grace and ease, they may
still be entertaining; more especially if there be any thing to interest us, in
the characters of those who write them. Hence the curiosity which the Public
has always discovered, concerning the letters of 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; for a 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 [Page 299] who, either in Conversation or in Letters, affects to shine and
to sparkle always, will not please long. The style of Letters should not be too
highly polished. It ought to be neat and correct, but no more. All nicety about
words, betrays study; and hence musical periods, and appearances of number and
harmony in arrangement, should be carefully avoided in letters. The best
letters, are commonly such as the Authors have written with most facility. What
the heart or the imagination dictate, always flows readily; but where there is
no subject to warm or interest these, constraint appears; and hence, those
Letters of mere compliment, congratulation, or affected condolance, 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.
It ought, at the same
time, to be remembered, that the ease and simplicity which I have recommended
in Epistolary Correspondence, not to be understood as importing entire
carelessness. In writing to the most intimate friend, a certain degree of
attention, both to the subject and the style, is requisite and becoming. It is
no more, than what we owe both to ourselves, and to the friend with whom we
correspond. A slovenly and neglected manner of Writing, is a disobliging mark
of want of respect. The liberty, besides, of writing Letters with too careless
a hand, is apt to betray persons into imprudence in what they write. The first
requisite, both in conversation and correspondence, is to attend to all the
proper decorums which our own character, and that of others, demand. An
imprudent expression in conversation may be forgotten and pass away; but [Page
300] when we take the pen into our hand, we must remember, that "Litera
scripta manet."
Pliny’s Letters are one
of the most celebrated collections which the Ancients have given us, in the
epistolary way. They are elegant and polite; and exhibit a very pleasing and
amiable view of the Author. But, according to the vulgar phrase, they smell too
much of the lamp. They are too elegant and fine; and it is not easy to avoid
thinking, that the Author is casting an eye towards the Public, when he is
appearing to write only for his friends. Nothing indeed is more difficult, than
for an Author, who publishes his own letters, to divest himself altogether of
attention to the opinion of the world in what he says; by which means, he
becomes much less agreeable than a man of parts would be, if, without any
constraint of this sort, he were writing to his intimate friend.
Cicero’s Epistles,
though not so showy as those of Pliny, are, on several accounts, a far more
valuable collection; indeed, the most valuable collection of Letters extant in
any language. They are letters of real business, written to the greatest men of
the age, composed with purity and elegance, but without the least affectation;
and, what adds greatly to their merit, written without any intention of being
published to the world. For it appears, that Cicero never kept copies of his
own Letters; and we are wholly indebted to the care of his freed-man Tyro, for
the large collection that was made, after his death, of those which are now
extant, amounting to near a . They [Page 301] 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 during 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 it is remarkable that most of Cicero’s correspondents, as well as
himself, are elegant and polite Writers; which serves to heighten our idea of
the taste and manners of that age.
The most distinguished
collection of Letters in the English Language, is that of Mr. Pope, Dean Swift,
and their friends; partly published in Mr. Pope’s Works, and partly in those of
Dean Swift. This Collection is, on the whole, an entertaining and agreeable
one; and contains much wit and ingenuity. It is not, however, altogether free
of the fault which I imputed to Pliny’s Epistles, of too much study and
refinement. In the variety of Letters from different persons, contained in that
Collection, we find many that are written with ease, and a beautiful
simplicity. Those of Dr. Arbuthnot, in particular, always deserve that praise.
Dean Swift’s also are unaffected; and as a proof of their being so, they
exhibit his character fully, with all its defects; though it were to be wished,
for the honour of [Page 302] his memory, that his Epistolary Correspondence had
not been drained to the dregs, by so many successive publications, as have been
given to the world. Several of Lord Bolingbroke’s, and of Bishop Atterbury’s
Letters, are masterly. The censure of writing Letters in too artificial a
manner, falls heaviest on Mr. Pope himself. There is visibly more study, and
less of nature and the heart in his Letters, than in those of some of his
correspondents. He had formed himself on the manner of Voiture, and is too fond
of writing like a wit. His Letters to Ladies are full of affectation. Even in
writing to his friends, how forced an Introduction is the following of a Letter
to Mr. Addison: "I am more joyed at your return, than I should be at that
of the Sun, as much as I wish for him in this melancholy wet season; but it is
his fate too, like yours, to be displeasing to owls and obscene animals, who
cannot bear his lustre." How stiff a compliment is it, which he pays to
Bishop Atterbury? "Though the noise and daily bustle for the Public be now
over, I dare say, you are still tendering its welfare; as the Sun in winter,
when seeming to retire from the world, is preparing warmth and benedictions for
a better season." This sentence might be tolerated in a harangue; but is
very unsuitable to the Style of one friend corresponding with another.
The gaiety 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. [Page 303] His Composition is extremely
sparkling; he shows a great deal of wit, and can trifle in the most
entertaining manner. His only fault is, that he is too open and professed a
wit, to be thoroughly agreeable as a Letter Writer. The Letters of Madam de
Sevignè, 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
varied narration, and so many strokes of the most lively and beautiful
painting, perfectly free from any affectation, that they are justly intitled to
high praise. The Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague are not unworthy of
being named after those of Mad. de Sevignè. 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 deserve that any particular notice should be taken of them.
But I cannot be of this opinion. Mr. Fletcher of Salton, in one of his Tracts,
quotes it as the saying of a wise man, that give him the making of all the
ballads of a nation, he would allow any one that pleased to make their laws.
The saying was founded on reflection and good sense, and applies to the subject
now before us. For any kind of Writing, [Page 304] how trifling soever in
appearance, that obtains a general currency, 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, therefore, the nature of this sort of Writing considered in
itself, but the faulty manner of its excution, that can expose it to any
contempt. Lord Bacon takes notice of our taste for fictitious history, as a
proof of the greatness and dignity of the human mind. He observes very
ingeniously, that the objects of this world, and the common train of affairs
which we behold going on in it, do not fill the mind, nor give it entire
satisfaction. We seek for something that shall expand the mind in a greater
degree: we seek for more heroic and illustrious deeds, for more diversified and
surprising events, for a more splendid order of things, a more regular and just
distribution of rewards and punishments than what we find here: because we meet
not with these in true history, we have recourse to fictitious. We create
worlds according to our fancy, [Page 305] in order to gratify our capacious
desires: "Accomodando," says that great philosopher, "Rerum
simulachra ad animi desideria, non fubmittendo animum rebus, quod ratio facit,
et historia ." Let us then, since the sub ject wants neither dignity nor
use, make a few observations on the rise and progress of Fictitious History,
and the different forms it has assumed in different countries.
In all countries we
find its origin very antient. 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 parables. The Indians, the Persians, and Arabians, were all famous
for their tales. The "Arabian Night’s Entertainments" are the
production of a romantic invention, but of a rich and amusing imagination;
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 are now perished, and, from any account
that we have of them, appear to have been of the loose and wanton kind. Some
fictitious histories yet remain, that were composed during the decline of the
Roman Empire, by Apuleius, Achilles Tatius, and Heliodorus bishop of Trica, in
the 4th century; but none of them are considerable enough to merit particular
criticism.
During the dark ages,
this sort of writing assumed a new and very singular form, and for a long while
made a great [Page 306] figure in the world. The martial spirit of those
nations, among whom the feudal government prevailed; the establishment of
single combat, as an allowed method of deciding causes both of justice and
honour; the appointment of champions in the cause of women, who could not
maintain their own rights by the sword; together with the institution of
military tournaments, in which different kingdoms vied with one another, gave
rise, in those times, to that marvellous system of chivalry, which is one of
the most singular appearances in the history of mankind. Upon this were founded
those romances of knight-errantry, which carried an ideal chivalry, to a still
more extravagant height than it had risen in fact. There was displayed in them
a new and very wonderful sort of world, hardly bearing any resemblance to the
world in which we dwell. Not only knights setting forth to redress all manner
of wrongs, but in every page magicians, dragons, and giants, invulnerable men,
winged horses, enchanted armour, and enchanted castles; adventures absolutely
incredible, yet suited to the gross ignorance of these ages, and to the
legends, and superstitious notions concerning magic and necromancy, which then
prevailed. This merit they had, of being writings of the highly moral and
heroic kind. Their knights were patterns, not of courage merely, but of
religion, generosity, courtesy, and sidelity; and the heroines were no less
distinguished for modesty, delicacy, and the utmost dignity of manners.
These were the first
compositions that received the name of Romances. The origin of this name is
traced, by Mr. Huet the learned bishop of Avranche, to the provençal
Troubadoures, a sort of story-tellers and bards in the country of Provençe,
where [Page 307] there subsisted some remains of literature and poetry. The
language which prevailed in that country was a mixture of Latin and Gallic,
called the Roman or Romance Language; and their stories being written in that
language, hence it is said the name of Romance, which we now apply to all
sictitious 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 Atchievements 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
increased the spirit for such Writings; the Christians against the Saracens
made the common ground-work 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 manners throughout Europe,
began to give a new turn to sictitious Composition.
Then appeared the Astræa
of D’urfè, the Grand Cyrus, the Clelia and Cleopatra of Mad. Scuderi, the
Arcadia of Sir Philip [Page 308] 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 dragons, the
necromancers, and the enchanted castles, were banished, and some small resemblance
to human nature was introduced. Still, however, there was too much of the
marvellous in them to please an age which now aspired to refinement. The
characters were discerned to be strained; the style to be swoln; the adventures
incredible: the books themselves were voluminous and tedious.
Hence, this sort of
Composition soon assumed a third form, and from magnificent Heroic Romance,
dwindled down to the Familiar Novel. These novels, both in France and England,
during the age of Lewis XIV. and King Charles II. were in general of a trifling
nature, without the 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 made their principal object. Relations have been professed
to be given of the behaviour of persons in particular interesting situations,
such as may actually occur in life; by means of which, what is laudable or defective
in character and in conduct, may be pointed out, and placed in an 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
knowledge of the world. The works of Marivaux, especially his Marianne,
discover great refinement of thought, great peneration into human [Page 309]
nature, and paint, with a very delicate pencil, some of the nicest shades and
features in the distinction of characters. The Nouvelle Heloise of Rousseau is
a production of a very singular kind; in many of the events which are related,
improbable and unnatural; in some of the details tedious, and for some of the
scenes which are described justly blameable; but withal, for the power of
eloquence, for tenderness of sentiment, for ardour of passion, entitled to rank
among the highest productions of Fictitious History.
In this kind of Writing
we are, it must be confessed, in Great Britain, inferior to the French. We
neither relate so agreeably, nor draw characters with so much delicacy; yet we
are not without some performances which discover the strength of the British
genius. 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
original, 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 goodness of heart; and in Tom Jones, his
greatest work, the artful conduct of the fable, and the subserviency of all the
incidents to the winding up of the whole, deserve much praise. The most moral
of all our novel Writers is Richardson, the Author of Clarissa, [Page 310] a
Writer of excellent intentions, and of very considerable capacity and genius;
did he not possess the unfortunate talent of spinning out pieces of amusement
into an immeasurable length. The trivial 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 according
as 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.
[Page 311]
I HAVE now finished my
observations on the different kinds of Writing in Prose. What remains is, to
treat of Poetical Composition. Before entering on the consideration of any of
its particular kinds, I design this Lecture as an Introduction to the subject
of Poetry in general; wherein I shall treat of its nature, give an account of
its rise and origin, and make some observations on Versification, or Poetical
Numbers.
Our first enquiry 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
authority of Aristotle and Plato. But this is certainly too limited a
definition; for though fiction may have [Page 312] a great share in many
Poetical Compositions, yet many subjects of Poetry may not be feigned; as where
the Poet describes objects which actually exist, or pours forth the real
sentiments of his own heart. Others have made the characteristic of Poetry to
lie in Imitation. But this is altogether loose; for several other arts imitate
as well as Poetry; and in imitation of human manners and characters, may be
carried on in the humblest Prose, no less than in the most 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 enlivened 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
pleasing and moving, that he accomplishes this end. His mind is supposed to be
animated by some interesting object which fires his Imagination, or engages his
Passions; and which, of course, communicates to his Style a peculiar elevation
suited to his ideas; very different from that mode of expression, which is
natural to the mind in its clam, ordinary state. I have added to my definition,
that this language of Passion, or Imagination, is formed, most commonly, into
regular numbers; because, though Versification be, in general, the exterior distinction
of Poetry, yet there are some forms of Verse so loose and familiar, as to be
hardly distinguishable from Prose; such as the [Page 313] Verse of Terence’s
Comedies; and there is also a species of Prose, so measured in its cadence, and
so much raised in its tone, as to approach very near to Poetical Numbers; such
as the Telemachus of Fenelon; and the English Translation of Ossian. The truth
is, Verse and Prose, on some occasions, run into one another, like light and
shade. It is hardly possible to determine the exact limit where Eloquence ends,
and Poetry begins; nor is there any occasion for being very precise about the
boundaries, as long as the nature of each is understood. These are the minutiæ
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 invention of all sciences and arts, have
ascribed the origin of Poetry to Orpheus, Linus, and Musæus. There were,
perhaps, such persons as these, who were the first distinguished Bards in the
Grecian countries. But long before such names were heard of, and among nations
where they were never known, Poetry existed. It is a great error to imagine,
that Poetry and Music are Arts which belong only to polished nations. They have
their foundation in the nature of man, and belong to all nations, and to all
ages; though, like other Arts founded in nature, they have been more
cultivated, and, from a concurrence of favourable circumstances, carried to
greater perfection in some countries, than in others. In order to explore [Page
314] the rise of Poetry, we must have recourse to the deserts and the wilds; we
must go back to the age of hunters and of shepherds; to the highest antiquity;
and to the simplest form of manners among mankind.
It has been often said,
and the concurring voice of all antiquity affirms, that Poetry is older than
Prose. But in what sense this seemingly strange paradox holds true, has not
always been well understood. There never, certainly, was any period of society,
in which men conversed together in Poetical Numbers. It was in very humble and
scanty Prose, as we may easily believe, that the first tribes carried on
intercourse among themselves, relating to the wants and necessities of life.
But from the very beginning of Society, there were occasions on which they met
together for feasts, sacrifices, and Public Assemblies; and on all such
occasions, it is well known, that music, song, and dance, made their principal
entertainment. It is chiefly in America, that we have had the opportunity of
being made acquainted with men in their savage state. We learn from the
particular and concurring accounts of Travellers, that, among all the nations
of that vast continent, especially among the Northern Tribes, with whom we have
had most intercourse, music and song are, at all 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
their heroes; excite each other to perform brave exploits in [Page 315] war, or
to suffer death and torments with unshaken constancy.
Here then we see the
first beginnings of Poetic Composition, in those rude effusions, which the
enthusiasm of fancy or passion suggested to untaught men, when roused by
interesting events, and by their meeting together in Public Assemblies. Two
particulars would early distinguish this language of song, from that in which
they conversed on the common occurrences of life; namely, an unusual
arrangement of words, and the employment of bold figures of speech. It would
invert words, or change them from that order in which they are commonly placed,
to that which most suited the train in which they rose in the Speaker’s imagination;
or which was most accommodated to the cadence of the passion by which he was
moved. Under the influence too of any strong emotion, objects do not appear to
us such as they really are, but such as passion makes us see them. We magnify
and exaggerate; we seek to interest all others in what causes our emotion; we
compare the least things to the greatest; we call upon the absent as well as
the present, and even address ourselves to things inanimate. Hence, in
congruity with those various movements of the mind, arise those turns of
expression, which we now distinguish by the learned names of Hyperbole,
Prosopopoeia, Simile, &c. but which are no other than the native original
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 [Page 316] 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 transposition, or
inversion, which the Poetic Style, as I observed, would naturally 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 degrees, passed into an Art.
It appears from what
has been said, that the first Compositions, which were either recorded by
Writing, or transmitted by Tradition, could be no other than Poetical
Compositions. No other but these, could draw the attention of men in their rude
uncivilized state. Indeed, they knew no other. Cool reasoning, and plain
discourse, had no power to attract savage Tribes, addicted only to hunting and
war. There was nothing that could either rouse the Speaker to pour himself
forth, or draw the crowd to listen, but the high powers of Passion, of Music,
and of Song. This vehicle, therefore, and no other, could be employed by Chiefs
and Legislators, when they meant to instruct, or to animate their Tribes. There
is, likewise, a [Page 317] farther reason why such Compositions only could be
transmitted to posterity; because, before Writing was invented, Songs only
could last, and be remembered. 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, was conveyed all the historical knowledge, and
all the instruction, of the first ages.
The earliest accounts
which History gives us concerning all nations, 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
most antient Bards, are represented as the first tamers of mankind, the first
founders of law and civilisation. Minos and Thales, sung to the Lyre the laws
which they composed ; and till the age immediately preceding that of Herodotus,
History had appeared in no other form than that of Poetical Tales.
In the same manner,
among all other nations, Poets and Songs are the first objects that make their
appearance. Among the Scythian or Gothic nations, many of their kings and leaders
were 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 [Page 318] country, were. They were always
near the person of the chief or sovereign; they recorded all his great
exploits; they were employed as the ambassadors between contending tribes, and
their persons were held sacred.
From this deduction it
follows, that as we have reason to look for Poems and Songs among the
antiquities of all countries, so we may expect, that in the strain of these
there will be a remarkable resemblance, during the primitive periods of every
country. The occasions of their being composed, are every where nearly the
same. The praises of Gods and heroes, the celebration of famed ancestors, the
recital of martial deeds, songs of victory, and songs of lamentation over the
misfortunes and death of their countrymen, occur among all nations; and the
same enthusiasm and fire, the same wild and irregular, but animated Composition,
concise and glowing Style, bold and extravagant Figures of Speech, are the
general distinguishing characters of all the most antient original Poetry. That
strong hyperbolical manner which we have been long accustomed to call the
Oriental manner of poetry (because some of the earliest poetical productions
came to us from the East), is in truth no more Oriental than Occidental; it is
characteristical of an age rather than of a country; and belongs, in some
measure, to all nations at that period which first gives rise to Music and to
Song. Mankind never resemble each other, so much as they do in the beginnings
of society. Its subsequent revolutions, give birth to the principal
distinctions of character among nations, and divert into channels widely separated,
that current of human genius and manners, which descends originally from one
spring.
[Page 319]
Diversity of climate,
and of manner of living, will, however, occasion 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 flower, in the arts of civilisation. Thus we find all the remains of
the antient 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 refinement; in consequence of the long cultivation of Poetry
among the Celtæ, by means of a series and succession of bards which had been
established for ages. So Lucan informs us: Vos quoque qui fortes animos,
belloque peremptos Laudibus in longum vates diffunditis ævum 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 concerning the subjects of Orpheus, Linus, and Musæus,
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 [Page 320] a quicker pace in all the arts of refinement than
most other nations.
The Arabians and the
Persians have always been the greatest Poets of the East; and among them, as
among other nations, Poetry was the earliest vehicle of all their learning and
instruction . The antient Arabs, we are informed , valued themselves much on their
metrical Compositions, which were of two sorts; the one they compared to loose
pearls, and the other to pearls strung. In the former, the sentences or verses
were without connection; 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 apothegms,
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. The Greeks seem to have been the first who introduced
a more regular structure, and closer connection of parts, into their Poetical
Writings.
During the infancy of
Poetry, all the different kinds of it lay confused, and were mingled in the
same composition, according as inclination, enthusiasm, or casual incidents,
directed the Poet’s strain. In the progress of Society and Arts, they began to
assume those different regular forms, and to be distinguished by [Page 321]
those different names under which we now know them. But in the first rude state
of Poetical Effusions, we can easily discern the seeds and beginnings of all the
kinds of regular Poetry. Odes and hymns of every sort, would naturally be among
the first compositions; according as the Bards were moved by religious
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 atchievements
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 wanted to move or to
persuade, to inform or to entertain his countrymen and neighbours, whatever was
the subject, accompanied his sentiments 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 [Page 322] by degrees
to a separation of the different literary provinces from each other.
The Art of Writing was
in process of time invented; records of past transactions began to be kept;
men, occupied with the subjects of policy and useful arts, wished now to be
instructed and informed, as well as moved. They reasoned and reflected upon the
affairs of life; and were interested by what was real, not fabulous, in past transactions.
The Historian, therefore, now laid aside the buskins of Poetry; he wrote in
Prose, and attempted to give a faithful and judicious relation of former
events. The Philosopher addressed himself chiefly to the understanding. The
Orator studied to persuade by reasoning, and retained more or less of the
ancient passionate, and glowing Style, according as it was conducive to his
purpose. Poetry became now a separate art, calculated chiefly to please, and
confined generally to such subjects as related to the imagination and passions.
Even its earliest companion, Music, was in a great measure divided from it.
These separations
brought all the literary arts into a more regular form, and contributed to the
exact and accurate cultivation of each. Poetry, however, in its ancient
original condition, was perhaps more vigorous than it is in its modern state.
It included then, the whole burst of the human mind; the whole exertion of its
imaginative faculties. It spoke then the language of passion, and no other; for
to passion, it owed its birth. Prompted and inspired by objects, which to him
seemed great, by events which interested his country or his friends, the early
Bard arose and sung. He sung indeed in wild and disorderly [Page 323] strains;
but they were the native effusions of his heart; they were the ardent
conceptions of admiration or resentment, of sorrow or friendship, which he
poured forth. It is no wonder, therefore, that in the rude and artless strain
of the first Poetry of all nations, we should often find somewhat that
captivates and transports the mind. In after ages, when Poetry became a regular
art, studied for reputation and for gain, Authors began to affect what they did
not feel. Composing 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 artifical 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. As long as they remained united, Music enlivened and
animated Poetry, and Poetry gave force and expression to musical sound. The
Music of that early period was beyond doubt, extremely simple; and must have
consisted chiefly of such pathetic notes, as the voice could adapt to the 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 accompany 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 antient Greeks, as well as among
other nations, the Bard sung his verses, and played upon his harp or lyre at
the [Page 324] 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 story. And certain
it is, that from simple Music only, and from Music accompanied with Verse or
Song, we are to look for strong expression, and powerful influence over the
human mind. When instrumental 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 connection
with Music. By being uttered in Song, it was formed into numbers, or into an
artificial arrangement of words and syllables, very different in different
countries; but such, as to the inhabitants of each, seemed most melodious and
agreeable in sound. Whence arises that great characteristic of Poetry which we
now call Verse; a subject which comes next to be treated of.
It is a subject of a
curious nature; but as 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
[Page 325] perceived in pronouncing them, rested the melody of their Verse upon
the number of syllables it contained, upon the proper disposition of accents
and pauses in it, and frequently upon that return of corresponding sounds,
which we call Rhyme. The former was the case with the Greeks and Romans; the
latter is the case with us, and with most modern nations. Among the Greeks and
Romans, 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 contained
in their hexameter verse was allowed to vary. It may extend to 17; it can
contain, when regular, no fewer than 13: but the musical time was,
notwithstanding, precisely the same in every hexameter verse, and was always
equal to that of 12 long syllables. In order to ascertain the regular time of
every verse, and the proper mixture and succession of long and short syllables
which ought to compose it, were invented, what the Grammarians call Metrical
Feet, Dactyles, Spondees, Iambus, &c. By these measures was tried the
accuracy of Composition in every line, and whether it was so constructed as to
fulfil its proper melody. It was requisite, for instance, that the hexameter
verse should have the quantity of its syllables so disposed, that it could be
scanned or measured by fix metrical feet , which might be either Dactyles or
Spondees (as the musical-time of both these is the same ) , with this restriction
only , that the fifth foot was regularly to be a Dactyle , and the last a
Spondee.
[Page 326]
The introduction of
these feet into English Verse, would be altogether out of place; for the genius
of our language corresponds not in this respect to the Greek or Latin. I say
not, that we have no regard to quantity, or to long and short, in pronouncing.
Many words we have, especially our words consisting of several syllables, where
the quantity, or the long and short syllables, are invariably fixed; but great
numbers we have also, where the quantity is left altogether loose. This is the
case with a great part of our words consisting of two syllables, and with
almost all our monosyllables. In general, the differencemade between long and
short syllables, in our manner of pronouncing them is so very inconsiderable,
and so much liberty isleft us for making them either long or short at pleasure,
that mere [Page 327] 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 syllable longer, but gives
it more force of sound only: and it is upon a certain order and succession of
accented and unaccented syllables, infinitely more than upon their being long
or short, that the melody of our Verse depends. If we take any of Mr. Pope’s
lines, and in reciting them alter the quantity of the syllables, as far as our
quantities are sensible, the Music of the Verse will not be much injured:
whereas, if we do not accent the syllables according as the verse dictates, its
melody will be totally destroyed.
Our English Heroic
Verse is of what may be called an Iambic structure; that is, composed of a
succession nearly alternate of syllables, not short and long, but unaccented
and accented. With regard to the place of these accents, however, some liberty
is’ admitted, for the sake of variety. Very often, though not always, the line
begins with an unaccented syllable; and sometimes, in the course of it, two
unaccented syllables [Page 328] follow each other. But, in general, there are
either five, or four, accented syllables in each line. The number of syllables
is ten, unless where an Alexandrian Verse is occasionally admitted. In Verses
not Alexandrian, instances occur where the line appears to have more than the
limited number. But in such instances, I apprehend it will be found, that some
of the liquid syllables are so slurred in pronouncing, as to bring the Verse,
with respect to its effect upon the ear, within the usual bounds.
Another essential
circumstance in the constitution of our Verse, is the cæsural pause, which
falls towards the middle of each line. Some pause of this kind, dictated by the
melody, is found in the Verse of most nations. It is found, as might be shown,
in the Latin hexameter. In the French heroic Verse, it is very sensible. That
is a verse of twelve syllables, and in every line, just after the sixth
syllable, there falls regularly and indispensably, a cæsural pause, dividing
the line into two equal hemistichs. 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 tardis | d’une lente vieilesse, Qui seul sans Ministre | à | l’example
des Dieux Soutiens tout par toi-même | & vois tous par ses 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, [Page 329] it is a distinguishing advantage 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 tenor of the Music becomes solemn and grave.
The verse marches [Page 330] now with a more slow and measured pace, than in
any of the two former cases. The wrath of Peleus’ son | the diresul spring Of
all the Grecian woes | O Goddess sing!
But the grave, solemn
cadence becomes still more sensible, when the pause falls after the 7th
syllable, which is the nearest place to the 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 flow Alexandrian air, which is finely suited to a
close; and for this reason, such lines almost never occur together, but are
used in finishing the couplet. And in the smooth description | murmur still.
Long loved adored 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 sensible 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 [Page 331] both to the nature of Versification, and to
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 meaning.
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 cæsural pause; which renders the line less graceful
indeed, but, however, does not entirely destroy its sound.
Our Blank Verse
possesses great advantages, and is indeed a noble, bold, and disencumbered
species of Versification. The principal defect in rhyme, is the full close
which it forces upon the ear, at the end of every couplet. Blank Verse is freed
from this; and allows the lines to run into each other with as great liberty as
the Latin hexameter permits, perhaps with greater. Hence it is particularly
suited to subjects of dignity and force, which demand more free and manly
numbers than rhyme. [Page 332] The constraint and strict regularity of rhyme
are unfavourable to the sublime, or to the highly pathetic strain. An Epic
Poem, or a Tragedy, would be fettered and degraded by it. It is best adapted to
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, Satyres, &c. To these, it communicates that degree of
elevation which is proper for them; and without any other assistance
sufficiently distinguishes the Style from Prose. He who should write such Poems
in Blank Verse, would render his work harsh and unpleasing. In order to support
a poetical Style, he would be obliged to affect a pomp of language unsuitable
to the subject.
Though I join in
opinion with those, who think that Rhyme finds its proper place in the middle,
but not in the higher regions of Poetry, I can by no means join in the
invectives which some have poured out against it, as if it were a mere
barbarous gingling 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 advantages. Every language
has powers and graces, and music peculiar to itself; and what is becoming in
one, would be ridiculous in another. Rhyme was barbarous in Latin; and an attempt
to construct English Verses, after the form of [Page 333] hexameters, and
pentameters, and Sapphics, is as barbarous among us. It is not true, that rhyme
is merely a monkish invention. On the contrary, it has obtained under different
forms, in the Versification of most known nations. It is found in the Ancient
Poetry of the northern nations of Europe; it is said to be found among the
Arabs, the Persians, the Indians, and the Americans. This shows that there is
something in the return of similar sounds, which is grateful to the ears of
most part of mankind. And if any one, after reading Mr. Pope’s Rape of the
Lock, or Eloisa to Abelard, shall not admit our rhyme, with all its varieties
of pauses, to carry both 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 Spencer employs, borrowed
from the Italian; a measure very constrained and artificial. Waller was the
first who brought couplets into vogue; and Dryden afterwards established the
usage. Waller first smoothed our Verse; Dryden perfected it. Mr. Pope’s
Versification has a peculiar character. It is flowing and smooth, in the
highest degree; far more laboured and correct than that of any who went before
him. He introduced one considerable change into Heroic Verse, by totally
throwing aside the triplets, or three lines rhyming together, in which Mr.
Dryden abounded. Dryden’s Versification, however, has very great merit; and,
like all his productions, has much spirit, mixed [Page 334] with carelessness.
If not so smooth and correct as Pope’s, it is however more varied and easy. He
subjects himself less to the rule of closing the sense with the couplet; and
frequently takes the liberty of making his couplets run into one another, with
somewhat of the freedom of Blank Verse.
[Page 335]
IN the last Lecture, I
gave an account of the Rise and Progress of Poetry, and made some observations
on the nature of English Versification. I now proceed to treat of the chief
kinds of Poetical Composition; and of the critical rules that relate to them. I
shall follow that order, which is most simple and natural; beginning with the
lesser forms of Poetry, and ascending from them to the Epic and Dramatic, as
the most dignified. This Lecture shall be employed on Pastoral, and Lyric
Poetry.
Though I begin with the
consideration of Pastoral Poetry, it is not because I consider it as one of the
earliest forms of poetical Composition. 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 [Page 336] 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 make as little doubt, that the calm and tranquil scenes of
rural felicity were not, by any means, the first objects which inspired that
strain of Composition, which we now call Poetry. It was inspired, in the first
periods of every nation, by events and objects which roused men’s passions; or,
at least, awakened 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 Compositions, 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 Societies was known, that Pastoral Poetry assumed its present form. Men
then began to look back upon the more simple and innocent life, which their
forefathers led, or which, at least, they fancied them to have led: they looked
back upon it with pleasure; and in those rural scenes, and pastoral
occupations, 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 Ptolomy, that Theocritus wrote the first Pastorals with which we
are acquainted; and, in the court of Augustus, he was imitated by Virgil.
[Page 337]
But whatever may have
been the origin of Pastoral Poetry, it is, undoubtedly, a natural, and very agreeable
form of Poetical Composition. 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 innocence; and, therefore, we
readily set open our heart to such representations 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 bids fairer for being favourable to
Poetry. Amidst rural objects, nature presents, on all hands, the finest field
for description; and nothing appears to flow more, of its own accord, into
Poetical Numbers, than rivers and mountains, meadows and hills, flocks and
trees, and shepherds void of care. Hence, this species of Poetry has, at all
times, allured many Readers, and excited many Writers. But, notwithstanding
these 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 [Page 338] manners, was respectable in his state: or, lastly, such as it
never was, and never can in reality be, when, to the ease, innocence, and
simplicity of the early ages, we attempt to add the polished taste, and
cultivated manners, of modern times. Of these three states, the first is too
gross and mean, the last too refined and unnatural, to be made the ground-work
of Pastoral Poetry. Either of these extremes is a rock upon which the Poet will
split, if he approach too near it. We shall be disgusted if he give us too much
of the servile employments, and low ideas of actual peasants, as Theocritus 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 certain periods of Society may have actually taken
place, where there was ease, equality, and innocence; where Shepherds were gay
and agreeable, without being learned or refined; and plain and artless, without
being gross and wretched. The great charm of Pastoral Poetry arises, from the
view which it exhibits of the transquillity and happiness of a rural life. This
pleasing illusion, therefore, the Poet must carefully maintain. He must
display, to us, all that is agreeable in that state, but hide whatever is
displeasing . Let him paint its [Page 339] simplicity and innocence to the
full; but cover its rudeness and misery. Distresses, indeed, and anxieties he
may attribute to it; for it would be perfectly unnatural to suppose any
condition of human life to be without them; but they must be of such a nature,
as not to shock the fancy with any thing peculiarly disgusting in the pastoral
life. The Shepherd may well be afflicted for the 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 somewhat embellished and beautified, at least, seen on its
fairest side only, that the Poet ought to present to us. But let him take care,
that, in embellishing nature, he does not altogether disguise her; or pretend
to join with rural simplicity and happiness, such improvements as are unnatural
and foreign to it. If it be not exactly real life which he presents to us, it
must, however, be somewhat that resembles it. This, in my Hinc tibi, quæ semper
vicino ab limite sepes, Hyblæis apibus, florem depasta salicti, Sæpe levi
somnum suadebit inire susurro. Hinc altâ sub rupe canet frondator ad auras; Nec
tamen interea, raucæ, tua cura, palumbes, Nec gemere aëriâ cessabit turtur ab
ulmo. Happy old man! here mid th’ accustomed streams And sacred springs you’ll
shun the scorching beams; While from you willow fence, thy pastures bound, The
bees that suck their flowery stores around, Shall sweetly mingle, with the
whispering boughs, Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose. While from steep
rocks the pruner’s Song is heard; Nor the soft cooing dove, they fav’rite bird,
Meanwhile shall cesae to breathe her melting strain, Nor turtles from the aërial
elms to plain.
Warton.
[Page 340]
Opinion, is the general
idea of Pastoral 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 exhibit.
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 than those of the other . In every Pastoral, a [Page 341] scene, or
rural prospect, should be distinctly drawn, and set before us. It is not
enough, that we have those unmeaning groupes 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 landscape, as a painter could copy after. His objects must be
particularised; the stream, the rock, or the tree, must, each of them, stand
forth, so as to make a figure in the imagination, and to give us a pleasing
conception of the place where we are. A single object, happily introduced, will
sometimes distinguish and characterise 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 Agricolæ
stringunt frondes---
Ecl. [Page 342] 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
imitation. It is also incumbent on him, to suit the scenery to the subject of
the Pastoral; and, according as it is of a gay or a melancholy kind, to exhibit
nature under such forms as may correspond with the emotions or sentiments which
he describes. Thus Virgil, in his second Eclogue, which contains the
Lamentation of a despairing Lover, gives, with propriety, a gloomy appearance
to the scene: Tantum inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos, Assiduè veniebat;
ibi hæc 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 refiding in the country. The adventures, or the
discourses of courtiers, or citizens, in the country, are not what we look for
in such Writings; we expect to be entertained by Shepherds, or persons wholly
engaged in rural occupations; whose innocence and freedom from the cares of the
world [Page 343] may, in our imagination, form an agreeable contrast, with the
manners and characters of those who are engaged in the bustle of life.
One of the principal
difficulties which here occurs has been already hinted; that of keeping the
exact medium between too much rusticity on the one hand, and too much
refinement on the other. The 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 necessity for his
being dull and insipid. He may have good sense and reflection; he may have
sprightliness and vivacity; he may have very tender and delicate 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 subtilise; he must not
deal in general reflections, and abstract reasoning; and still less in the
points and conceits of an affected gallantry, which surely belong not to his
character and situation. Some of these conceits are the chief blemishes of the
Italian Pastorals, which are otherwise 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 knots. What advantage have the servants of love, if those precious
chains?"
Atto, III. Sc. 1.
Such strained [Page
344] sentiments as these, ill befit the woods. Rural personages are supposed to
speak the language of plain sense, and natural feelings. When they describe, or
relate, they do it with simplicity, and naturally allude to rural
circumstances; as in these beautiful lines of one of Virgil’s Eclogues: Sepibus
in nostris parvam te roscida mala (Dux ego vester eram) vidi cum matre
legentem; Alter ab undecimo tum me jam ceperat annus, Jam fragiles poteram a
terra contingere ramos.
Warton.
In another passage, he
makes a Shepherdess throw an apple at her Lover: Tum fugit ad salices, & se
cupit ante videri
Dryden.
[Page 345]
This is naïve, as the
French express it, and perfectly suited to Pastoral 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 enquiry is, about what is he to employ them? and what are to be the
subjects of his Eclogues? For it is not enough, that he gives us Shepherds
discoursing together. Every good Poem, of every kind, ought to have a subject
which should, in some way, interest us. Now, here, I apprehend, lies the chief
difficulty of Pastoral Writing. The active scenes of country life either are,
or to most describers appear to be, too barren of incidents. The state of a
Shepherd, or a person occupied in rural employments only, is exposed to few of
those accidents and revolutions which render his situation interesting, or
produce curiosity or surprise. The tenor of his life is uniform. His ambition
is conceived to be without policy, and his love without intrigue. Hence it is,
that, of all Poems, the most meagre commonly in the subject, and the least
diversified in the strain, is the Pastoral. From the first lines, we can,
generally, guess at [Page 346] all that is to follow. It is either a Shepherd
who sits down solitary by a brook, to lament the absence, or cruelty of his
mistress, and to tell us how the trees wither, and the flowers droop, now that
she is gone; or we have two Shepherds who challenge one another to sing,
rehearsing alternate verses, which have little either of meaning or subject,
till the Judge rewards one with a studded crook, and another with a beechen
bowl. To the frequent repetition of common-place topics, of this fort, which
have been thrummed over by all Eclogue Writers since the days of Theocritus and
Virgil, is owing much of that insipidity 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 antient 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 objects 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 felicity or disquiet; the
attachment of friends and of brothers; the rivalship and competitions of
lovers; the unexpected successes or misfortunes [Page 347] of families, might
give occasion to many a pleasing and tender incident; and were more of the
narrative and sentimental intermixed with the descriptive in this kind of
Poetry, it would become much more interesting than it now generally is, to the
bulk of readers.
The two great fathers
of Pastoral Poetry are, Theocritus, and Virgil. Theocritus was a Sicilian; and
as he has laid the scene of his Eclogues in his own country, Sicily became ever
afterwards a sort of consecrated ground for Pastoral Poetry. His Idyllia, as he
has intitled them, are not all of equal merit; nor indeed are they all
pastorals; but some of them, poems of a quite different nature. In such,
however, as are properly pastorals, there are many and great beauties. He is
distinguished for the simplicity of his sentiments; for the great sweetness and
harmony of his numbers, and for the richness of his scenery and description. He
is the original, of which Virgil is the imitator. For most of Virgil’s highest
beauties in his Eclogues are copied from Theocritus; in many places he has done
nothing more than translate him. He must be allowed, 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 [Page 348] between Theocritus
and Virgil, as between many other of the Greek and Roman writers. The Greek led
the way, followed nature more closely, and showed more original genius. The
Roman discovered more of the polish, and correctness of art. We have a few
remains of other two Greek Poets in the Pastoral Style, Moschus and Bion, which
have very considerable merit; and if they want the simplicity of Theocritus,
excel him in tenderness and delicacy.
The Modern Writers of
Pastorals have, generally, contented themselves with copying, or imitating, the
descriptions and sentiments of the antient Poets. Sannazarius, indeed, a famous
Latin Poet, in the age of Leo X. attempted a bold innovation. He composed
Piscatory Eclogues; changing the scene from Woods to the Sea, and from the life
of Shepherds to that of Fishermen. But the innovation was so unhappy, that he
has gained no followers. For the life of Fishermen is, obviously, much more
hard and toilsome than that of Shepherds, and presents to the fancy much less
agreeable images. Flocks, and trees, and flowers, are objects of 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 Idylls (as
he entitles them) many new ideas. His rural scenery is often striking, and his
descriptions are lively. He presents Pastoral life to us, with all the
embellishments of which it is susceptible; but without any excess of
refinement. What forms the chief merit of this Poet, is, that he writes to the
heart; and has enriched the subjects of his Idylls with incidents, which give
rise to much tender sentiment. Scenes [Page 349] of domestic felicity are
beautifully painted. The mutual affection of husbands and wives, of parents and
children, 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 Poetry 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 honour to the English Poetry. Mr. Pope’s
were composed in his youth; which may be an apology for other faults, but
cannot well excuse the barrenness that appears in them. They are written in
remarkably smooth and flowing numbers: and this is their chief merit; for there
is scarcely any thought in them 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 becomes flat and insipid.
There was no small competition between these two Authors, at the time when
their Pastorals were published. In some papers of the Guardian, great
partiality was shown to Philips, and high praise bestowed upon him. Mr. Pope,
resenting this preference, under a seigned name procured a Paper to be inserted
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 [Page 350] . About the same time, Mr. Gay published
his Shepherd’s Week, in Six Pastorals, which are designed to ridicule that sort
of simplicity which Philips and his partizans extolled, and are, indeed, an
ingenious burlesque of Pastoral Writing, when it rises no higher than the
manners of modern clowns and rustics. Mr. Shenstone’s Pastoral Ballad, in four
parts, may justly be reckoned, I think, one of the most elegant Poems of this
kind, which we have in English.
I have not yet
mentioned one form in which Pastoral Writing has appeared in latter ages, that
is, when extended into a Play, or regular 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 reputation they have gained. To the
latter, the preference seems due, as being less intricate in the plot and
conduct, and less strained and affected in the sentiments; and though not
wholly free of Italian refinement (of which I already gave one instance, the
worst, indeed, that occurs in all the Poem), it is, on the whole, a performance
of high merit. The strain of the Poetry is gentle and pleasing; and the Italian
Language contributes to add much of that softness, which is peculiarly suited
to Pastoral .
Aminta . Atto II. Sc.
ii.
[Page 351]
I must not omit the
mention of another Pastoral Drama, which will bear being brought into
comparison with any Composition [Page 352] of this kind, in any Language; that
is, Allan Ramsay’s Gentle Shepherd. It is a great disadvantage to this
beautiful Poem, that it is written in the old rustic dialect of Scotland,
which, in a short time, will probably be entirely obsolete, and not
intelligible; and it is a farther disadvantage, that it is so entirely formed
on the rural manners of Scotland, that none but a native of that country can
throughly understand, or relish [Page 353] it. But, though subject to those
local disadvantages, which confine its reputation within narrow limits, it is
full of so much natural description, and tender sentiment, as would do honour
to any Poet. The characters are well drawn, the incidents affecting, the
scenery and manners lively and just. It affords a strong proof, both of the
power which nature and simplicity possess, to reach the heart in every sort of
Writing; and of the variety of pleasing characters and subjects, with which
Pastoral Poetry, when properly managed, is capable of being enlivened.
I proceed next, to
treat of Lyric Poetry, or the Ode; a species of Poetical Composition which
possesses much dignity, and in which many Writers have distinguished
themselves, in every age. Its peculiar 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 distinction was not,
at the first, peculiar to any one species of Poetry. For, as I observed in the
last Lecture, Music and Poetry were coeval, 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 designed to be still joined with Music or Song, were, by way of
distinction, called Odes.
In the Ode, therefore,
Poetry retains its first and most antient form; that form, under which the
original Bards poured forth their enthusiastic strains, praised their Gods and
their [Page 354] Heroes, celebrated their victories, and lamented their
misfortunes. It is from this circumstance, of the Ode’s being supposed to
retain its original union with Music, that we are to deduce the proper idea,
and the peculiar qualities of this kind of Poetry. It is not distinguished from
other kinds, by the subjects on which it is employed; for these may be
extremely various. I know no distinction of subject that belongs to it, except
that other Poems are often employed in the recital of actions, whereas
sentiments, of one kind or other, form, almost always, the subject of the Ode.
But it is chiefly the spirit, the manner of its execution, that marks and
characterises it. Music and Song naturally add to the warmth of Poetry. They
tend to transport, in a higher degree, both the person who sings, and the
persons who hear. They justify, therefore, a bolder and more passionate strain,
than can be supported in simple recitation. On this is formed the peculiar
character of the Ode. Hence, the enthusiasm that belongs to it, and the
liberties it is allowed to take, beyond any other species of Poetry. Hence,
that neglect of regularity, those digressions, and that disorder which it is
supposed to admit; and which, indeed, most Lyric Poets have not failed
sufficiently to exemplify in their practice.
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 soothe, 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 gay; and between these, there is, also, a middle region, of the mild [Page
355] and temperate emotions, which the Ode may often occupy to advantage.
All Odes may be
comprised under four denominations. First, Sacred Odes; Hymns addressed to God,
or composed on religious subjects. Of this nature are the Psalms of David,
which exhibit to us this species of Lyric Poetry, in its highest degree of
perfection. Secondly, Heroic Odes, which are employed in the praise of heroes,
and in the celebration of martial exploits and great actions. Of this kind are
all Pindar’s Odes, and some few of Horace’s. These two kinds ought to have
sublimity and elevation, for their reigning character. Thirdly, moral and
philosophical Odes, where the sentiments are chiefly inspired by virtue, friendship,
and humanity. Of this kind, are many of Horace’s Odes, and several of our best
modern Lyric productions; and here the Ode possesses that middle region, which,
as I observed, it sometimes occupies. Fourthly, Festive and Amorous Odes,
calculated merely for pleasure and amusement. Of this nature, 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 gaiety.
One of the chief
difficulties in composing Odes, arises from that enthusiasm which is understood
to be a characteristic of Lyric Poetry. A professed Ode, even of the moral
kind, but more especially if it attempt the sublime, is expected to be
enlivened and animated, in an uncommon degree. Full of this idea, the Poet,
when he begins to write an Ode, if he has any real warmth of genius, is apt to
deliver himself up to it, without [Page 356] controul or restraint; if he has
it not, he strains after it, and thinks himself bound to assume the appearance,
of being all fervour, and all flame. In either case, he is in great hazard of
becoming extravagant. The licentiousness of writing without order, method, or
connection, has infected the Ode more than any other species of Poetry. Hence,
in the class of Heroic Odes, we find so few that one can read with pleasure.
The Poet is out of sight, in a moment. He gets up into the clouds; becomes so
abrupt in his transitions; so eccentric and irregular in his motions, and of
course so obscure, that we essay in vain to follow him, or to partake of his
raptures. I do not require, that an Ode should be as regular in the structure
of its parts, as a didactic, or an Epic Poem. But still, in every composition,
there ought to be a subject; there ought to be parts which make up a whole; there
should be a connection of those parts with one another. The transitions from
thought to thought may be light and delicate, such as are prompted by a lively
fancy; but still they should be such as preserve the connection of ideas, and
show the Author to be one who thinks, and not one who raves. Whatever authority
may be pleaded for the incoherence and disorder of Lyric Poetry, nothing can be
more certain, than that any composition which is so irregular in its method, as
to become obscure to the bulk of Readers, is so much worse upon that account.
[Page 357]
The extravagant liberty
which several of the modern Lyric Writers assume to themselves in their
Versification, increases the disorder of this species of Poetry. They prolong
their periods to such a degree, they wander through so many different measures,
and employ such a variety of long and short lines, corresponding in rhyme at so
great a distance from each other, that all sense of melody is utterly lost.
Whereas Lyric Composition ought, beyond every other species of Poetry, to pay
attention to melody and beauty of sound; and the Versification of those Odes
may be justly accounted the best, which renders the harmony of the measure most
sensible to every common ear.
Pindar, the great
Father of Lyric Poetry, has been the occasion of leading his imitators into
some of the defects I have now mentioned. His genius was sublime; his
expressions are beautiful and happy; his descriptions, picturesque. But finding
[Page 358] it a very barren subject to sing the praises of those who had gained
the prize in the public games, he is perpetually digressive, and fills up his
Poems with Fables of the Gods and Heroes, that have little connection either
with his subject, or with one another. The Ancients admired him greatly; but as
many of the histories of particular families and cities, to which he alludes,
are now unknown to us, he is so obscure, partly from his subjects, and partly
from his rapid, abrupt manner of treating them, that, notwithstanding the
beauty of his expression, our pleasure in reading him is much diminished. One
would imagine, that many of his modern imitators thought the best way to catch
his spirit, was to imitate his disorder and obscurity. In several of the
choruses of Euripides and Sophocles, we have the same kind of Lyric Poetry as
in Pindar, carried on with more clearness and connection, and at the same time
with much sublimity.
Of all the writers of
Odes, Ancient or Modern, there is none, that, in point of correctness, harmony,
and happy expression, can vie with Horace. He has descended from the Pindaric
rapture to a more moderate degree of elevation; and joins connected thought,
and good sense, with the highest beauties of Poetry. He does not often aspire
beyond that middle region, which I mentioned as belonging to the Ode; and those
Odes, in which he attempts the sublime, are perhaps . The peculiar character,
in which he excels, [Page 359] is grace and elegance; and in this Style of
Composition, no Poet has ever attained to a greater perfection than Horace. No
Poet supports a moral sentiment with more dignity, touches a gay one more
happily, or possesses the art of trifling more agreeably, when he chuses to
trifle. His language is so fortunate, that with a single word or epithet, he
often conveys a whole description to the fancy. Hence he ever has been, and
ever will continue to be, a favourite Author with all persons of taste.
Among the Latin Poets
of later ages, there have been many imitators of Horace. One of the most
distinguished is Casimin a Polish Poet of the last century, who wrote four
books of Odes. In graceful ease of expression, he is far inferior to the Roman.
He oftener affects the sublime; and in the attempt, like other Lyric writers,
frequently becomes harsh and unnatural. But, on several occasions, he discovers
a considerable degree of original genius, and poetical fire. Buchanan, in some
of his Lyric Compositions, is very elegant and classical.
Among the French, the
Odes of Jean Baptiste Rousseau, have been much, and justly, celebrated. They
possess great beauty, both of sentiment and expression. They are animated,
without being rhapsodical; and are not inferior to any poetical productions in
the French language.
[Page 360]
In our own Language, we
have several Lyric Compositions of considerable merit. Dryden’s Ode on St.
Cecilia, is well known. Mr. Gray is distinguished in some of his Odes, both for
tenderness and sublimity; and in Dodsley’s Miscellanies, several very beautiful
Lyric Poems are to be found. As to professed Pindaric Odes, they are, with a
few exceptions, so incoherent, as seldom to be intelligible. Cowley, at all
times harsh, is doubly so in his Pindaric Compositions. In his Anacreontic
Odes, he is much happier. They are smooth and elegant; and, indeed, the most agreeable,
and the most perfect, in their kind, of all Mr. Cowley’s Poems.
[Page 361]
HAVING treated of
Pastoral and Lyric Poetry, I proceed next to Didactic Poetry; under which is
included a numerous Class of Writings. The ultimate end of all Poetry, indeed,
of every Composition, should be to make some useful impression on the mind.
This useful impression is most commonly made in Poetry, by indirect methods; as
by fable, by narration, by representation of characters; but Didactic Poetry
openly professes its intention of conveying knowledge and instruction. It
differs, therefore, in the form only, not in the scope and substance, from a
philosophical, a moral, or a critical treatise in Prose. At the same time, by
means of its form, it has several advantages over Prose Instruction. By the
charm of Versification and Numbers, it renders instruction more agreeable; by
the descriptions, episodes, and other embellishments, which it may interweave,
it detains, and engages the fancy; it fixes also useful circumstances more
deeply in the memory. [Page 362] Hence, it is a field, wherein a Poet may gain
great honour, may display both much genius, and much knowledge and judgment.
It may be executed in
different manners. The Poet may choose some instructive subject, and he may
treat it regularly, and in form; or, without intending a great or regular work,
he may only inveigh against particular vices, or make some moral observations
on human life and characters, as is commonly done in Satires and Epistles. All
these come under the denomination of Didactic Poetry.
The highest species of
it, is a regular treatise on some philosophical, grave, or useful subject. Of
this nature we have several, both ancient and modern, of great merit and
character: such as Lucretius’s six Books De Rerum Natura, Virgil’s Georgics,
Pope’s Essay on Criticism, Akenside’s Pleasures of the Imagination, Armstrong
on Health, Horace’s, Vida’s, and Boileau’s Art of Poetry.
In all such works, as
instruction is the professed object, the fundamental merit consists in sound
thought, just principles, clear and apt illustrations. The Poet must instruct;
but he must study, at the same time, to enliven his instructions, by the
introduction of such figures, and such circumstances, as may amuse the
imagination, may conceal the dryness of his subject, and embellish it with
poetical painting. Virgil, in his Georgics, presents us here with a perfect
model. He has the art of raising and beautifying the most trivial circumstances
in rural life. [Page 363] When he is going to say, that the labour of the
country must begin in spring, he expresses himself thus: Verè novo, gelidus
canis cum montibus humor Liquitur, et Zephyro putris se gleba resolvit;
Depresso incipiat jam tum mihi Taurus aratro Ingemere, & sulco attritus
splendescere vomer .
Dryden.
Instead of telling his
husbandman in plain language, that his crops will fail through bad management
his language is, Heu magnum alterius frustra spectabis acervum, Concussaque
famem in sylvis solabere quercu .
Dryden.
Instead of ordering him
to water his grounds, he presents us with a beautiful landscape, Ecce
supercilio clivosi tramitis undam Elicit; illa cadens, raucum per lævia murmur
Saxa ciet; scatebrisque arentia temperat arva.
Warton.
[Page 364]
In all Didactic Works,
method and order is essentially requisite; not so strict and formal as in a
prose treatise; yet such as may exhibit clearly to the Reader a connected train
of instruction. Of the Didactic Poets, whom I before mentioned, Horace, in his
Art of Poetry, is the one most censured for want of method. Indeed, if Horace
be deficient in any thing throughout many of his Writings, it is in this, of
not being sufficiently attentive to juncture and connection of parts. He writes
always with ease and gracefulness; but often in a manner somewhat loose and
rambling. There is, however, in that work much good sense, and excellent
criticism; and, if it be considered as intended for the regulation of the Roman
drama, which seems to have been the Author’s chief purpose, it will be found to
be a more complete and regular treatise, than under the common notion, of its
being a System of the whole Poetical Art.
With regard to Episodes
and Embellishments, great liberty is allowed to Writers of Didactic Poetry. We
soon tire of a continued series of instructions, especially in a poetical work,
where we look for entertainment. The great art of rendering a Didactic Poem
interesting, is to relieve and amuse the Reader, by connecting some agreeable
Episodes with the principal subject. These are always the parts of the work
which are best known, and which contribute most to support the reputation of
[Page 365] the Poet. The principal beauties of Virgil’s Georgics lie in
digressions of this kind, in which the Author has exerted all the force of his
genius; such as the prodigies that attended the death of Julius Cæsar, the
Praises of Italy, the Happiness of a Country Life, the Fable of Aristeus, and
the moving Tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. So also the favourite passages in
Lucretius’s work, and which alone could render such a dry and abstract subject
tolerable in Poetry, are the digressions on the Evils of Superstition, the
Praise of Epicurus and his philosophy, the Description of the Plague, and
several other incidental illustrations, which are remarkably elegant, and
adorned with a sweetness and harmony of Versification peculiar to that Poet.
There is indeed nothing in Poetry, so entertaining or descriptive, but what a
Didactic Writer of genius may be allowed to introduce in some part of his work;
provided always, that such Episodes arise naturally from the main subject; that
they be not disproportioned in length to it; and that the Author know how to
descend with propriety to the plain, as well as how to rise to the bold and
figured Style.
Much art may be shewn
by a Didactic Poet, in connecting his Episodes happily with his subject. Virgil
is also distinguished for his address in this point. After seeming to have left
his husbandmen, he again returns to them very naturally by laying hold of some
rural circumstance, to terminate his digression. Thus, having spoken of the
battle of Pharsalia, he subjoins immediately, with much art: Scilicet et tempus
veniet, cum finibus illis, Agricola, incurvo terram molitus aratro, [Page 366]
Exesa inveniet scabrâ rubigine pila: Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit
inanes, Grandiaque effossis mirabitur osfa sepulchris .
Dryden.
In English, Dr.
Akenside has attempted the most rich and poetical form of Didactic Writing, in
his Pleasures of the Imagination; and though, in the execution of the whole, he
is not equal, he has, in several parts, succeeded happily, and displayed much
genius. Dr. Armstrong, in his Art of Preserving Health, has not aimed at so
high a strain as the other. But he is more equal; and maintains throughout a
chaste, and correct elegance.
Satires and Epistles
naturally run into a more familiar Style, than solemn Philosophical Poetry. As
the manners and characters, which occur in ordinary life, are their subject,
they require being treated with somewhat of the ease and freedom of
conversation, and hence it is commonly the "musa pedestris," which
reigns in such Compositions.
Satire, in its first
state among the Romans, had a form different from what it afterwards assumed.
Its origin is obscure, and has given occasion to altercation among Critics. It
seems to have been at first a relic of the Ancient Comedy, written [Page 367]
partly in Prose, partly in Verse, and abounding with scurrility. Ennius and
Lucilius corrected its grossness; and at last, Horace brought it into that
form, which now gives the denomination to Satirical Writing. Reformation of
manners, is the end which it professes to have in view; and in order to this
end, it assumes the liberty of boldly censuring vice, and vicious characters.
It has been carried on in three different manners, by the three great Ancient
Satirists, Horace, Juvenal, and Persius. Horace’s Style has not much elevation.
He entitled his Satires, "Sermones," and seems not to have intended
rising much higher than Prose put into numbers. His manner is easy and
graceful. They are rather the follies and weaknesses of mankind, than their
enormous vices, which he chuses for the object of his Satire. He reproves with
a smiling aspect; and while he moralizes like a sound Philosopher, discovers,
at the same time, the politeness of a courtier. Juvenal is much more serious
and declamatory. He has more strength and fire, and more elevation of Style,
than Horace; but is greatly inferior to him in gracefulness and ease. His
Satire is more zealous, more sharp and pointed, as being generally directed
against more flagitious characters. As Scaliger says of him, "ardet,
instat, jugulat;" whereas Horace’s character is, "admissus circum præcordia
ludit." Persius has a greater resemblance of the force and fire of
Juvenal, than of the politeness of Horace. He is distinguished for sentiments
of noble and sublime morality. He is a nervous and lively writer; but withal,
often harsh and obscure.
Poetical Epistles, when
employed on moral or critical subjects, seldom rise into a higher strain of
Poetry than Satires. [Page 368] In the form of an Epistle, indeed, many other
subjects may be handled, and either Love Poetry, or Elegiac, may be carried on;
as in Ovid’s Epistolæ Heroidum, and his Epistolæ de Ponto. Such works as these
are designed to be merely sentimental; and as their merit consists in being
proper expressions of the passion or sentiment which forms the subject, they
may assume any tone of Poetry that is suited to it. But Didactic Epistles, of
which I now speak, seldom admit of much elevation. They are commonly intended
as observations on Authors, or on Life and Characters; in delivering which, the
Poet does not purpose to compose a formal treatise, or to confine himself
strictly to regular method; but gives scope to his genius on some particular
theme, which, at the time, has prompted him to write. In all Didactic Poetry of
this kind, it is an important rule "quicquid precipies, esto brevis."
Much of the grace, both of Satirical and Epistolary Writing, consists in a
spirited conciseness. This gives to such composition an edge and a liveliness,
which strike the fancy, and keep attention awake. Much of their merit depends
also on just and happy representations of characters. As they are not supported
by those high beauties of descriptive and poetical language which adorn other
compositions, we expect, in return, to be entertained with lively paintings of
men and manners, which are always pleasing; and in these, a certain
sprightliness and turn of wit finds its proper place. The higher species of
Poetry seldom admit it; but here it is seasonable and beautiful.
In all these respects,
Mr. Pope’s Ethical Epistles deserve to be mentioned with signal honour, as a
model, next to perfect, of this kind of Poetry. Here, perhaps, the strength of
his genius [Page 369] appeared. In the more sublime parts of Poetry, he is not
so distinguished. In the enthusiasm, the fire, the force and copiousness of
poetic genius, Dryden, though a much less correct Writer, appears to have been
superior to him. One can scarce think that he was capable of Epic or Tragic
Poetry; but within a certain limited region, he has been outdone by no Poet.
His translation of the Iliad will remain a lasting monument to his honour, as
the most elegant and highly finished translation, that, perhaps, ever was given
of any poetical work. That he was not incapable of tender Poetry, appears from
the epistle of Eloisa to Abelard, and from the verses to the memory of an
Unfortunate Lady, which are almost his only sentimental productions; and which
indeed are excellent in their kind. But the qualities for which he is chiefly
distinguished are, judgment and wit, with a concise and happy expression, and a
melodious versification. Few Poets ever had more wit, and at the same time more
judgment, to direct the proper employment of that wit. This renders his Rape of
the Lock the greatest master-piece that perhaps was ever composed, in the gay
and sprightly Style; and in his serious works, such as his Essay on Man, and
his Ethic Epistles, his wit just discovers itself as much, as to give a proper
seasoning to grave reflexions. His imitations of Horace are so peculiarly
happy, that one is at a loss, whether most to admire the original or the copy;
and they are among the few imitations extant, that have all the grace and ease
of an original. His paintings of characters are natural and lively in a high
degree; and never was any Writer so happy in that concise spirited Style, which
gives animation to Satyres and Epistles. We are never so sensible of the good
effects of rhyme in English verse, as in reading these parts of his works. We
see it adding to the [Page 370] Style, an elevation which otherwise it could
not have possessed; while at the same time he manages it so artfully, that it
never appears in the least to encumber him; but, on the contrary, serves to
increase the liveliness of his manner. He tells us himself, that he could
express moral observations more concisely, and therefore more forcibly, in
rhyme, than he could do in prose.
Among moral and
Didactic Poets, Dr. Young is of too great eminence, to be passed over without
notice. In all his works, the marks of strong genius appear. His Universal
Passion, possesses the full merit of that animated conciseness of Style, and
lively description of characters, which I mentioned as particularly requisite
in Satirical and Didactic Compositions. Though his wit may often be thought too
sparkling, and his sentences too pointed, yet the vivacity of his fancy is so
great, as to entertain every Reader. In his Night Thoughts, there is much
energy of expression; in the three first, there are several pathetic passages;
and scattered through them all, happy images and allusions, as well as pious
reflections, occur. But the sentiments are frequently over-strained, and
turgid; and the Style is too harsh and obscure to be pleasing. Among French
Authors, Boileau has undoubtedly much merit in Didactic Poetry. Their later
Critics are unwilling to allow him any great share of original genius, or
poetic fire . But his Art of Poetry, his Satires and Epistles, must ever be
esteemed eminent, not only for solid and judicious thought, but for correct and
elegant poetical expression, and fortunate imitation of the Ancients.
[Page 371]
From Didactic, I
proceed next to treat of Descriptive Poetry, where the highest exertions of
genius may be displayed. By Descriptive Poetry, I do not mean any one
particular species or form of Composition. There are few Compositions of any
length, that can be called purely descriptive, or wherein the Poet proposes to
himself no other object, but merely to describe, without employing narration,
action, or moral sentiment, as the ground-work of his Piece. Description is
generally introduced as an embellishment, rather than made the subject, of a
regular work. But though it seldom form a separate species of writing, yet into
every species of Poetical Composition, Pastoral, Lyric, Didactic, Epic, and
Dramatic, it both enters, and possesses in each of them a very considerable
place; so that in treating of Poetry, it demands no small attention.
Description is the
great test of a Poet’s imagination; and always distinguishes an original from a
second-rate Genius. To a Writer of the inferior class, nature, when at any time
he attempts to describe it, appears exhausted by those who have gone before him
in the same tract. He sees nothing new, or peculiar, in the object which he
would paint; his conceptions of it are loose and vague; and his expressions, of
course, feeble and general. He gives us words rather than ideas; we meet with
the language indeed of poetical description, but we apprehend the object
described very indistinctly. Whereas, a true Poet makes us imagine that we see
it before our eyes; he catches the distinguishing features; he gives it the
colours of life and reality; he places it in such a light, that a Painter could
copy after him. This happy talent is chiefly owing to a strong imagination,
which first receives a [Page 372] lively impression of the object; and then, by
employing a proper selection of circumstances in describing it, transmits that
impression in its full force to the imagination of others.
In this selection of
circumstances, lies the great art of Picturesque Description. In the first
place, they ought not to be vulgar, and common ones, such as are apt to pass by
without remark; but, as much as possible, new and original, which may catch the
fancy, and draw attention. In the next place, they ought to be such as
particularize the object described, and mark it strongly. No description, that
rests in generals, can be good. For we can conceive nothing clearly in the
abstract; all distinct ideas are formed upon particulars. In the third place,
all the circumstances employed ought to be uniform, and of a piece; that is,
when describing a great object, every circumstance brought into view should
tend to aggrandize; or, when describing a gay and pleasant one, should tend to
beautify, that by this means, the impression may rest upon the imagination
complete and entire: and lastly, the circumstances in description should be
expressed with conciseness, and with simplicity; for, when either too much
exaggerated, or too long dwelt upon and extended, they never fail to enfeeble
the impression that is designed to be made. Brevity, almost always, contributes
to vivacity. These general rules will be best understood by illustrations,
founded on particular instances.
Of all professed
Descriptive Compositions, the largest and fullest that I am acquainted with, in
any language, is Mr. Thomson’s Seasons; a work which possesses very uncommon
merit. The Style, in the midst of much splendor and strength, [Page 373] is
sometimes harsh, and may be censured as deficient in ease and distinctness.
But, notwithstanding this defect, Thomson is a strong and a beautiful
Describer; for he had a feeling heart, and a warm imagination. He had studied,
and copied nature with care. Enamoured of her beauties, he not only described
them properly, but felt their impression with strong sensibility. The
impression which he felt, he transmits to his Readers; and no person of taste
can peruse any one of his Seasons, without having the ideas and feelings which
belong to that season, recalled, and rendered present to his mind. Several
instances of most beautiful description might be given from him; such as, the
shower in Spring, the morning in Summer, and the man perishing in snow in
Winter. But, at present, I shall produce a passage of another kind, to shew the
power of a single well chosen circumstance, to heighten a description. In his
Summer, relating the effects of heat in the torried zone, he is led to take
notice of the pestilence that destroyed the English fleet, at Carthagena, under
Admiral Vernon; when he has the following lines: ------you, gallant Vernon, saw
The miserable scene; you pitying saw To infant weakness sunk the warrior’s arm;
Saw the deep racking pang; the ghastly form; The lip pale quiv’ring; and the
beamless eye No more with ardour bright; you heard the groans Of agonizing
ships from shore to shore; Heard nightly plunged, amid the sullen waves, The
frequent corse.------
L. 1050.
All the circumstances
here are properly chosen, for setting this dismal scene in a strong light
before our eyes. But what is [Page 374] most striking in the picture, is, the
last image. We are conducted through all the scenes of distress, till we come
to the mortality prevailing in the fleet, which a vulgar Poet would have
described by exaggerated expressions, concerning the multiplied trophies and
victories of death. But, how much more is the imagination impressed, by this
single circumstance, of dead bodies thrown overboard every night; of the
constant sound of their falling into the waters; and of the Admiral listening
to this melancholy sound, so often striking his ear? Heard nightly plunged,
amid the sullen waves, The frequent corse .& quot;
[Page 375]
Mr. Parnell’s Tale of
the Hermit, is conspicuous, throughout the whole of it, for beautiful
Descriptive Narration. The manner of the Hermit’s setting forth to visit the
world; his meeting with a companion, and the houses in which they are
successively entertained, of the vain man, the covetous man, and the good man,
are pieces of very fine painting, touched with a light and delicate pencil,
overcharged with no superfluous colouring, and conveying to us a lively idea of
the objects. But, of all the English Poems in the Descriptive Style, the
richest and most remarkable are, Milton’s Allegro and Penseroso. The collection
of gay images on the one hand, and of melancholy ones on the other, exhibited
in these two small, but inimitably fine Poems, are as exquisite as can be
conceived. They are, indeed, the storehouse whence many succeeding Poets have
enriched their descriptions of similar subjects; and they alone are sufficient
for illustrating the observations which I made, concerning the proper selection
of circumstances in Descriptive Writing. Take, for instance, the following
passage from the Penseroso: ------I walk unseen On the dry, smooth-shaven
green, To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, And oft, as
if her head she bow’d, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of
rising ground, I hear the far off curfew sound, [Page 376] Over some wide
watered shore, Swinging slow with solemn roar: Or, if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach
light to counterfeit a gloom; Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on
the hearth, Or the belman’s drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm;
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, Be seen, in some high lonely tower, Exploring
Plato, to unfold What worlds, or what vast regions hold Th’ immortal mind, that
hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook; And of these Dæmons that are
found In fire, air, flood, or under-ground.
Here, there are no
unmeaning general expressions; all is particular; all is picturesque; nothing
forced or exaggerated; but a simple Style, and a collection of strong
expressive images, which are all of one class, and recal a number of similar
ideas of the melancholy kind: particularly, the walk by moonlight: the sound of
the curfew bell heard distant; the dying embers in the chamber; the Bellman’s
call; and the lamp seen at midnight, in the high lonely tower. We may observe,
too, the conciseness of the Poet’s manner. He does not rest long on one
circumstance, or employ a great many words to describe it; which always makes
the impression faint and languid; but placing it in one strong point of view,
full and clear before the Reader, he there leaves it.
[Page 377]
"From his shield
and his helmet," says Homer, describing one of his heroes in battle,
"From his shield and helmet, there sparkled an incessant blaze; like the
autumnal star, when it appears in its brightness from the waters of the
ocean." This is short and lively; but when it comes into Mr. Pope’s hand,
it evaporates in three pompous lines, each of which repeats the same image in
different words: High on his helm celestial lightnings play, His beamy shield
emits a living ray; Th’ unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, Like the
red star that fires th’ autumnal skies.
It is to be observed,
in general, that, in describing solemn or great objects, the concise manner is,
almost always, proper. Descriptions of gay and smiling scenes can bear to be
more amplified and prolonged; as strength is not the predominant quality
expected in these. But where a sublime, or a pathetic impression is intended to
be made, energy is above all things required. The imagination ought then to be
seized at once; and it is far more deeply impressed by one strong and ardent
image, than by the anxious minuteness of laboured illustration.--"His face
was without form, and dark," says Ossian, describing a ghost, "the
stars dim twinkled through his form; thrice he sighed over the hero; and thrice
the winds of the night roared around."
It deserves attention
too, that in describing inanimate natural objects, the Poet, in order to
enliven his description, ought always to mix living beings with them. The
scenes of dead and still life are apt to pall upon us, if the Poet do not
suggest [Page 378] sentiments, and introduce life and action into his
description. This is well known to every Painter who is a master in his art.
Seldom has any beautiful landscape been drawn, without some human being
represented on the canvas, as beholding it, or on some account concerned in it:
Hîc gelidi fontes, hîc mollia prata, Lycori, Hîc nemus; hîc ipso tecum
consumerer ævo .
Virg. Ecl. X Warton.
The touching part of
these fine lines of Virgil’s, is the last, which sets before us the interest of
two lovers in this rural scene. A long description of the "fontes,"
the "nemus," and the "prata," in the most poetical modern
manner, would have been insipid without this stroke, which, in a few words,
brings home to the heart all the beauties of the place; "hic ipso tecum
consumerer ævo." It is a great beauty in Milton’s Allegro, that it is all
alive, and full of persons.
Every thing, as I
before said, in description, should be as marked and particular as possible, in
order to imprint on the mind a distinct and complete image. A hill, a river, or
a lake, rise up more conspicuous to the fancy, when some particular lake, or
river, or hill, is specified, than when the terms are left general. Most of the
Antient Writers have been sensible of the advantage which this gives to
description. Thus, in that beautiful Pastoral Composition, the Song of Solomon,
the images are commonly particularised by the objects to which they allude.
[Page 379] It is the "Rose of Sharon; the lily of the vallies; the flock
which feeds on Mount Gilead; the stream which comes from Mount Lebanon. Come
with me, from Lebanon, my Spouse; look from the top Amana, from the top of
Shenir and Hermon, from the mountains of the Leopards." Ch. iv. 8. So
Horace: Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem Vates ? quid orat de patera novum
Fundens liquorem ? non opimas Sardiniæ
segetes feracis; Non ætuosæ grata Calabriæ Armenta; non aurum aut ebur Indicum,
Non rura, quæ Liris quietâ Mordet aqua,
taciturnus amnis .
Both Homer and Virgil
are remarkable for the talent of Poetical Description. In Virgil’s Second Æneid,
where he describes the burning and sacking of Troy, the particulars are so well
selected and represented, that the Reader finds himself in the midst of that
scene of horror. The death of Priam, especially, [Page 380] may be singled out
as a master-piece of description. All the circumstances of the aged monarch
arraying himself in armour, when he finds the enemy making themselves masters
of the city; his meeting with his family, who are taking shelter at an altar in
the court of the palace, and their placing him in the midst of them; his
indignation when he beholds Pyrrhus slaughtering one of his sons; the feeble
dart which he throws; with Pyrrhus’s brutal behaviour, and his manner of
putting the old man to death, are painted in the most affecting manner, and
with a masterly hand. All Homer’s battles, and Milton’s account, both of
Paradise, and of the Infernal Regions, furnish many beautiful instances of
Poetical Description. Ossian too, paints m strong and lively colours, though he
employs few circumstances; and his chief excellency lies in painting to the
heart. One of his fullest Descriptions is, the following of the ruins of
Balclutha: "I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate.
The fire had resounded within the halls; and the voice of the people is now
heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of
the walls; the thistle shook there its lonely head; the moss whistled to the
wind. The fox looked out of the window; the rank grass waved round his head. Desolate
is the dwelling of Moina. Silence is in the house of her fathers."
Shakespeare cannot be omitted on this occasion, as singularly eminent for
painting with the pencil of nature. Though it be in manners and characters,
that his chief excellency lies, yet his scenery also is often exquisite, and
happily described by a single stroke; as in that fine line of the
"Merchant of Venice," which conveys to the fancy as natural and
beautiful an image, as can possibly be exhibited in so few words: [Page 381]
How sweet the moon-light sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, &c.
Much of the beauty of
Descriptive Poetry depends on a right choice of Epithets. Many Poets, it must
be confessed, are too careless in this particular. Epithets are frequently
brought in, merely to complete the verse, or make the rhyme answer; and hence
they are so unmeaning and redundant; expletive words only, which, in place of
adding any thing to the description, clog and enervate it. Virgil’s
"Liquidi fontes," and Horace’s "Prata canis albicant
pruinis," must, I am afraid, be assigned to this class: for, to denote by
an epithet that water is liquid, or that snow is white, is no better than mere
tautology. Every Epithet should either add a new idea to the word which it
qualifies, or at least serve to raise and heighten its known signification. So
in Milton, ------Who shall tempt with wand’ring feet The dark, unbottom’d,
infinite abyss, And through the palpable obscure, find out His uncouth way? or
spread his airy flight, Upborn with indefatigable wings, Over the vast abrupt?
The epithets employed here plainly add strength to the description, and assist
the fancy in conceiving it;---the wandring feet---the unbottomed abyss---the
palpable obscure---the uncouth way---the indefatigable wing---serve to render
the images more complete and distinct. But there are many general epithets,
which, though they appear to raise the signification of the word to which they
are joined, yet leave it so undetermined, and are now become so trite and
beaten in poetical language, [Page 382] as to be perfectly insipid. Of this
kind are "barbarous discord--hateful envy---mighty chiefs---bloody
war---gloomy shades---direful scenes," and a thousand more of the same
kind which we meet with occasionally in good Poets; but with which, Poets of
inferior genius abound every where, as the great props of their affected
sublimity. They give a sort of swell to the language, and raise it above the
tone of Prose; but they serve not in the least to illustrate the object
described; on the contrary, they load the Style with a languid verbosity.
Sometimes it is in the
power of a Poet of genius, by one well-chosen epithet, to accomplish a
description, and by means of a single word, to paint a whole scene to the
fancy. We may remark this effect of an epithet in the following fine lines of
Milton’s Lycidas: Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseles deep Clos’d oe’r
the head of your lov’d Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where
your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor
yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.
Among these wild
scenes, "Deva’s wizard stream" is admirably imaged; by this one word,
presenting to the fancy all the romantic ideas, of a river flowing through a
desolate country, with banks haunted by wizards and enchanters. Akin to this is
an epithet which Horace gives to the river Hydaspes. A good man, says he,
stands in need of no arms, Sive per Syrtes iter æstuosas, Sive facturus per
inhospitalem [Page 383] Caucasum; vel quæ loca fabulosus Lambit Hydaspes . This
epithet "fabulosus& quot; one of the commentators on Horace has
changed into "fabulosus" or sandy; substituting, by a strange want of
taste, the common and trivial epithet of the sandy river, in place of that
beautiful picture which the Poet gives us, by calling Hydaspes the Romantic
River, or the scene of Adventures and Poetic Tales.
Virgil has employed an
epithet with great beauty and propriety, when accounting for Dædalus not having
engraved the fortune of his son Icarus: Bis conatus erat casus effingere in
auro .
Æn. VI.
These instances, and
observations, may give some just idea of true poetical description. We have
reason always to distrust an Author’s descriptive talents, when we find him
laborious and turgid amassing common-place epithets and general expressions,
to. [Page 384] work up a high conception of some object, of which, after all,
we can form but an indistinct idea. The best describers are simple, and
concise. They set before us such features of an object, as, on the first view,
strike and warm the fancy: they give us ideas which a Statuary or a Painter
could lay hold of, and work after them; which is one of the strongest and most
decisive trials of the real merit of Description.
[Page 385]
AMONG the various kinds
of Poetry, which we are, at present, employed in examining, the Antient Hebrew
Poetry, or that of the Scriptures, justly deserves a place. Viewing those
sacred books in no higher light, than as they present to us the most antient
monuments of Poetry extant, at this day, in the world, they afford a curious
object of Criticism. They display the taste of a remote age and country. They
exhibit a species of Composition, very different from any other with which we
are acquainted, and, at the same time, beautiful. Considered as Inspired
Writings, they give rise to discussions of another kind. But it is our
business, at present, to consider them not in a theological, but in a critical
view: and it must needs give pleasure, if we shall find the beauty and dignity
of the Composition, adequate to the weight and importance of the matter. Dr.
Lowth’s learned Treatise, "De Sacra Poësi Hebræorum," ought to be
perused by all who [Page 386] desire to become thoroughly acquainted with this
subject. It is a work exceedingly valuable, both for the elegance of its
Composition, and for the justness of the criticism which it contains. In this
Lecture, as I cannot illustrate the subject with more benefit to the Reader,
than by following the track of that ingenious Author, I shall make much use of
his observations.
I need not spend many
words in showing, that among the books of the Old Testament there is such an
apparent diversity in Style, as sufficiently discovers, which of them are to be
considered as poetical, and which, as prose compositions. While the historical
books, and legislative writings of Moses, are evidently prosaic in the
composition, the Book of Job, the Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, the
Lamentations of Jeremiah, a great part of the Prophetical Writings, and several
passages scattered occasionally through the historical books, carry the most
plain and distinguishing marks of Poetical Writing.
There is not the least
reason for doubting, that originally these were written in verse, or some kind
of measured numbers; though as the antient 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 immaterial to our present
purpose to discuss. Taking the Old Testament in our own translation, which is
extremely literal, we find plain marks of many parts of the original being
written in a measured Style; and the "disjecti membra poëtæ," often
show themselves. Let any person read the Historical Introduction to the book of
Job, contained [Page 387] in the first and second chapters, and then go on to
Job’s speech in the beginning 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 Cæsar’s
Commentaries, to read Virgil’s Æneid. 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 employment 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 those Prophets
coming down from the hill where their school was, "prophesying," it
is said, "with the psaltery, tabret, and harp before them." But in
the days of King David, Music and Poetry were carried to their greatest height.
For the service of the Tabernacle, he appointed [Page 388] four thousand
Levites, divided into twenty-four courses, and marshalled 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
institutions, relating to the sacred Music and Poetry; which were certainly
more costly, more splendid and magnificent, than ever obtained 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 member of the period a sentiment is expressed; and in the second
member, the same sentiment is amplified, or is repeated in different terms, or
sometimes contrasted with its opposite; but in such a manner that the same
structure, and nearly the same number of words is preserved. This, is the
general strain of all the Hebrew Poetry. Instances of it occur every where on
opening the Old Testament. Thus, in Psalm xcvi. "Sing unto the Lord a new
song---Sing unto the Lord all the earth. Sing unto the Lord and bless his
name---shew 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 [Page 389]
in Prose, retains so much of a poetical cast. For the version being strictly
word for word after the original, the form and order of the original sentence
is preserved; which, by this artificial structure, this regular alternation and
correspondence of parts, makes the ear sensible of a departure from the common
Style and tone of Prose.
The origin of this form
of Poetical Composition among the Hebrews, is clearly to be deduced from the
manner in which their Sacred Hymns were wont to be sung. They were accompanied
with music, and they were performed by choirs or bands of singers and
musicians, who answered alternately to each other. When, for instance, one band
began the Hymn thus: "The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice;" the
chorus, or semichorus, took up the corresponding versicle: "Let the
multitudes of the isles be glad thereof."---"Clouds and darkness are
round about him," sung the one; the other replied, "Judgment and
righteousness are the habitation of his throne." And in this manner their
Poetry, when set to music, naturally divided itself into a succession of
strophes and antistrophes correspondent to each other; whence, it is probable,
the origin of the Antiphon, or Responsory, in the public religious service of
so many Christian churches.
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 [Page 390] back to
Mount Zion, must have had a noble effect when performed after this manner, as
Dr. Lowth has illustrated it. The whole people are supposed to be attending the
procession. The Levites and Singers, divided into their several courses, and
accompanied with all their musical instruments, lead 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 semichorus, "Who
shall ascend unto the hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in his holy
place?" The response is made by the full chorus with the greatest dignity;
"He that hath clean hands and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his
soul to vanity, nor sworn deceitfully." As the procession approaches to
the doors of the Tabernacle, the chorus, with all their instruments, join in
this exclamation: "Lift up your heads, ye gates, and be ye lifted up, ye
everlasting doors, and the King of Glory shall come in." Here the
semichorus plainly break in, as with a lower voice, "Who is this King of
Glory?" and at the moment when the Ark is introduced into the Tabernacle,
the response is made by the burst of the whole chorus: "The Lord, strong
and mighty; the Lord, mighty in battle." I take notice of this instance the
rather, as it serves to show how much of the grace and magnificence of the
Sacred Poems, as indeed of all Poems, depend 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 imperfect acquaintance with many particulars of the Hebrew history,
and Hebrew rites.
[Page 391]
The method of
Composition which has been explained, by correspondent versicles, being
universally introduced into the Hymns or musical Poetry of the Jews, easily
spread itself through their other Poetical Writings, which were not designed to
be sung in alternate portions, and which therefore did not so much require this
mode of Composition. But the mode became familiar to their ears, and carried
with it a certain solemn majesty of Style, particularly suited to sacred
subjects. Hence, throughout the Prophetical Writings, we find it prevailing as
much as in the Psalms of David; as, for instance, in the Prophet Isaiah (chap.
lx. 1.) "Arise, shine, for thy light is come---and the glory of the Lord
as risen upon thee; For lo! darkness shall cover the earth,---and gross
darkness the people. But the Lord shall rise upon thee---and his glory shall be
seen upon thee, and the Gentiles shall come to thy light---and kings to the
brightness of thy rising." This form of writing is one of the great
characteristics of the antient Hebrew Poetry; very different from, and even
opposite to, the Style of the Greek and Roman Poets.
Independent 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 characters. One might indeed at first
imagine, that the practice of the Hebrew Poets, of always amplifying the same
thought, by repetition or contrast, might tend to enfeeble their Style. But
they conduct themselves so, as not to produce this effect. Their Sentences are
always short. Few superfluous [Page 392] words are used. The same thought is
never dwelt upon long. To their conciseness and sobriety of expression, their
Poetry is indebted for much of its sublimity; and all Writers who attempt the
Sublime, might profit much, by imitating, in this respect, the Style of the Old
Testament. For as I have formerly had occasion to show, nothing is so great an
enemy to the Sublime, as prolixity or diffuseness. The mind is never so much
affected by any great idea that is presented to it, as when it is struck all at
once; by attempting to prolong the impression, we at the same time weaken it.
Most of the antient original Poets of all nations, are simple and concise. The
superfluities and excrescencies of Style, were the result of imitation in after
times; when Composition passed into inferior hands, and flowed from art and
study, more than from native genius.
No Writings whatever
abound so much with the most bold and animated figures, as the Sacred Books. It
is proper to dwell a little upon this article; as through our early familiarity
with these Books, a familiarity too often with the sound of the words, rather
than with their sense and meaning, beauties of Style escape us in the
Scripture, which, in any other book, would draw particular attention. Metaphors,
Comparisons, Allegories, and Personifications, are there particularly frequent.
In order to do justice to these, it is necessary that we transport ourselves as
much as we can into the land of Judæa; and place before our eyes that scenery,
and those objects, with which the Hebrew Writers were conversant. Some
attention of this kind is requisite, in order to relish the writings of any
Poet of a foreign country, and a different age. For the imagery of every good
Poet is copied from nature, and real life; if it were not so, it [Page 393]
could not be lively; and therefore, in order to enter into the propriety of his
images, we must endeavour to place ourselves in his situtation. Now we shall
find, that the Metaphors and Comparisons of the Hebrew Poets, present to us a
very beautiful view of the natural objects of their own country, and of the
arts and employments of their common life.
Natural objects are in
some measure common to them with Poets of all ages and countries. Light and
darkness, trees and flowers, the forest and the cultivated field, suggest to
them many beautiful figures. But, in order to relish their figures of this
kind, we must take notice, that several of them arise from the particular
circumstances of the land of Judæa. 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
amongst them, "to a dry and thirsty land where no water is;" and
hence, to describe a change from distress to prosperity, their metaphors are
founded on the falling of showers, and the bursting out of springs in the
desart. Thus in Isaiah, "The wilderness and the solitary place shall be
glad, and the desart shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. For in the
wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desart; 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" [Page 394]
"reeds." Chap. xxxv. 1. 6, 7. Images of this nature are very familiar
to Lsaiah, and occur in many parts of his Book.
Again, as Judæa was a
hilly country, it was, during the rainy months, exposed to frequent inundations
by the rushing of torrents, which came down suddenly from the mountains, and
carried every thing before them; and Jordan, their only great river, annually
overflowed its banks. Hence the frequent allusions to "the noise, and to
the rushings of many waters;" and hence great calamities so often compared
to the overflowing torrent, which, in such a country, 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 Lebanon and Carmel: the former noted for its
height, and the woods of lofty cedars that covered it; the latter, for its
beauty and fertility, the richness of its vines and olives. Hence, with the
greatest propriety, Lebanon is employed as an image of whatever is great,
strong, or magnificent; Carmel, of what is smiling and beautiful. "The
glory of Lebanon," says Isaiah, "shall be given to it, and the
excellency of Carmel." (xxxv. 2.); Lebanon is often put metaphorically for
the whole state or people of Israel, for the temple, for the king of Assyria;
Carmel, for the blessings of peace and prosperity. "His countenance is as
Lebanon," says Solomon, speaking of the dignity of a man’s appearance; but
when he describes female beauty, "Thine head is like mount Carmel."
Song, v. 15. and vii. 5.
[Page 394]
It is farther to be
remarked under this head, that in the images of the awful and terrible kind,
with which the Sacred Poets abound, they plainly draw their descriptions from
that violence of the elements, and those concussions of nature, with which
their climate rendered them acquainted. Earthquakes were not unfrequent; and
the tempests of hail, thunder, and lightning in Judæa and Arabia, accompanied
with whirlwinds and darkness, far exceed any thing of that sort which happens
in more temperate regions. Isaiah describes, with great majesty, the earth
"reeling to and fro like a drunkard, and removed like a cottage."
(xxiv. 20.) And in those circumstances of terror, with which an appearance of
the Almighty is described in the 18th Psalm, when his "pavilion round
about him was darkness; when hailstones and coals of fire were his voice; and
when, at his rebuke, the channels of the waters are said to be seen, and the
foundations of the hills discovered;" though there may be some reference,
as Dr. Lowth thinks, to the history of God’s descent upon Mount Sinai, yet it
seems more probable, that the figures were taken directly from those commotions
of nature with which the Author was acquainted, and which suggested stronger
and nobler images than what now occur to us.
Besides the natural
objects of their own country, we find the rites of their religion, and the arts
and employments of their common life, frequently employed as grounds of imagery
among the Hebrews. They were a people chiefly occupied with agriculture and
pasturage. These were arts held in high honour among them; not disdained by
their patriarchs, kings, and prophets. Little addicted to commerce; separated
from the rest of [Page 396] the world by their laws and their religion; they
were, during the better days of their state, strangers in a great measure to
the refinements of luxury. Hence flowed, of course, the many 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 tenderness in them, in the 23d Psalm, and in many other
passages of the Poetical Writings of Scripture. Hence, all the images founded
upon rural employments, upon the 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 minute and particular, in his
similies, founded on what we now call low life; but, in his management of them,
far inferior to the Sacred. Writers, who generally mix with their comparisons
of this kind somewhat of dignity and grandeur, to ennoble them. What
inexpressible grandeur does the following rural image in Isaiah, for instance,
receive from the intervention of the Deity: "The nations shall rush like
the rushings of many waters; but God shall rebuke them, and they shall fly far
off; and they shall be chased as the chaff of the mountain before the wind, and
like the down of the thistle before the whirlwind."
Figurative allusions
too, we frequently find, to the rites and ceremonies 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 [Page 397] the Hebrews included the whole of their
laws, and civil constitution. It was full of splendid external rites, that
occupied their senses; it was connected with every part of their national
history and establishment; and hence, all ideas founded on religion, possessed
in this nation a dignity and importance peculiar to themselves, and were
uncommonly fitted to impress the imagination.
From all this it
results, that the imagery of the Sacred Poets is, in a high degree, expressive
and natural; it is copied directly from real 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 Judæa. The
palm trees, and the cedars of Lebanon, are ever rising in our view. The face of
their territory, the circumstances of their climate, 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 perhaps an advantage over the Greek and Roman Authors; whose
comparisons, by the length to which they are extended, sometimes interrupt the
narration too much, and carry too visible marks of study and labour. Whereas,
in the Hebrew Poets, they appear more like the glowings of a lively fancy, just
glancing aside to some resembling object, and presently returning to its tract.
Such is the following fine comparison, introduced [Page 398] to describe the
happy influence of good government upon a people, in what are called the last
words of David, recorded in the 2d Book of Samuel (xxiii. 3.): "He that
ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God; and he shall be as the
light of the morning, when the Sun riseth; even a morning without clouds; as
the tender grass springing out of the earth, by clear shining after rain."
This is one of the most regular and formal comparisons in the Sacred Books.
Allegory, likewise, is
a figure frequently found in them. When formerly treating of this figure, I
gave, for an instance of it, that remarkably fine and well supported Allegory,
which occurs in the 80th Psalm, wherein the People of Israel are compared to a
Vine. Of Parables, which form a species of Allegory, the Prophetical Writings
are full: and if to us they sometimes appear obscure, we must remember, that in
these early times, it was universally the mode throughout all the eastern
nations, to convey sacred truths under mysterious figures and representations.
But the Poetical
Figure, which, beyond all others, elevates the Style of Scripture, and gives it
a peculiar boldness and sublimity, is Prosopopoeia or Personification. No
Personifications employed by any Poets, are so magnificent and striking as
those of the Inspired Writers. On great occasions, they animate every part of
nature; especially, when any appearance or operation of the Almighty is concerned.
"Before him went the pestilence---the waters saw thee, O God, and were
afraid---the mountains saw thee, and they trembled.---The overflowing of the
water passed by;---the deep uttered his voice, and [Page 399] lifted up his
hands on high." When enquiry is made about the place of wisdom, Job
introduces the "Deep, saying, it is not in me; and the sea faith, it is
not in me. Destruction and death say, we have heard the same 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 sir 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 joining in the triumph. In the same
strain, are these many lively and passionate apostrophes to cities and
countries, to persons and things, with which the Prophetical Writings every
where abound. "O thou sword of the Lord! how long will it be ere thou be
quiet? put thy self up into the scabbard, rest and be still. How can it be
quiet," (as the reply is instantly made) "seeing the Lord hath given
it a charge against Askelon, and the sea-shore? there hath he appointed it."
Jerem. xlvii. 6.
In general, for it
would carry us too far to enlarge upon all the instances, the Style of the
Poetical Books of the Old Testament is, beyond the Style of all other Poetical
Works, servid, bold, and animated. It is extremely different from that regular
correct expression, to which our ears are accustomed in Modern Poetry. It is
the burst of Inspiration. The scenes are not coolly described, but represented
as passing before our eyes. Every object, and every person, is addressed and
spoken to, as if present. The transition is often abrupt; the connection often
obscure; the persons are often changed; figures crowded and heaped upon one
another. Bold sublimity, not correct [Page 400] 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 Scripture in general, I shall conclude this Dissertation,
with a short account of the different kinds of Poetical Composition in the Sacred
Books; and of the distinguishing characters of some of the chief Writers.
The several kinds of
Poetical Composition which we find in Scripture, are chiefly the Didactic,
Elegiac, Pastoral, and Lyric. Of the Didactic species of Poetry, the Book of
Proverbs is the principal instance. The nine first Chapters of that Book are
highly poetical, adorned with many distinguished graces, and figures of
expression. At the 10th Chapter, the Style is sensibly altered, and descends
into a lower strain, which is continued to the end; retaining however that
sententious, pointed manner, and that artful construction of period, which
distinguishes all the Hebrew Poetry. The Book of Ecclesiastes comes likewise
under this head; and some of the Psalms, as the 119th in particular.
Of Elegiac Poetry, many
very beautiful specimens occur in Scripture; 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 Scripture, perhaps in
the whole world, [Page 401] world, is the Book, entitled the Lamentations of
Jeremiah. As the Prophet mourns in that book over the destruction of the
Temple, and the Holy City, and the overthrow of the whole State, he assembles
all the affecting images which a subject so melancholy could suggest. The
Composition is uncommonly artificial. By turns the Prophet, and the city
Jerusalem, are introduced, as pouring forth their sorrows; and, in the end, a
chorus of the people send up the most earnest and plaintive supplications to
God. The lines of the original too, as may, in part, appear from our
translation, are longer than is usual in the other kinds of Hebrew Poetry; and
the melody is rendered thereby more flowing, and better adapted to the
querimonious strain of Elegy.
The Song of Solomon
affords us a high exemplification of Pastoral Poetry. Considered with respect
to its spiritual meaning, it is undoubtedly a mystical Allegory; in its form,
it is a Dramatic Pastoral, or a perpetual Dialogue between personages in the
character of Shepherds; and, suitably to that form, it is full of rural and
pastoral images, from beginning to end.
Of Lyric Poetry, or
that which is intended to be accompained with Music, the Old Testament is full.
Besides a great number of Hymns and Songs, which we find scattered in the
Historical and Prophetical Books, such as the Song of Moses, the Song of
Deborah, and many others of like nature, the whole Book of Psalms is to be
considered as a 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 triumphant; [Page 402]
sometimes solemn and magnificent; sometimes tender and soft. From these
instances, it clearly appears, that there are contained in the Holy Scriptures,
full exemplifications of several of the chief kinds of Poetical Writing.
Among the different
Composers of the Sacred Books, there is an evident diversity of style and
manner; and to trace their different characters in this view, will contribute
not a little towards our reading their Writings with greater advantage. The
most eminent of the Sacred Poets are, the Author of the Book of Job, David, and
Isaiah. As the Compositions of David are of the Lyric kind, there is a greater
variety of style and manner in his works, than in those of the other two. The
manner in which, considered merely as a Poet, David chiefly excels, is the
pleasing, the soft, and the tender. In his Psalms, there are many lofty and
sublime passages; but, in strength of description, he yields to Job; in
sublimity, he yields to Isaiah. It is a sort of temperate grandeur, for which
David is chiefly distinguished; and to this he always soon returns, when, upon
some occasions, he rises above it. The Psalms in which he touches us most, are
those in which he describes the happiness of the righteous, or the goodness of
God; expresses the tender breathings of a devout mind, or sends up moving and
affectionate supplications to Heaven. Isaiah is, without exception, the most
sublime of all Poets. This is abundantly visible in our Translation; and, what
is a material circumstance, none of the Books of Scripture appear to have been
more happily translated than the Writing of this Prophet. Majesty is his
reigning character; a Majesty more commanding, and more uniformly supported
than is to be found among the rest of the Old Testament Poets. [Page 403] He
possesses, indeed, a dignity and grandeur, both in his conceptions and
expressions, which is altogether unparalleled, and peculiar to himself. There
is more clearness and order too, and a more visible distribution of parts, in
his Book, than in any other of the Prophetical Writings.
When we compare him
with the rest of the Poetical Prophets, we immediately see in Jeremiah, a very
different genius. Isaiah employs himself generally on magnificent subjects.
Jeremiah has little turn for the sublime, and inclines always to the tender and
elegiac. Ezechiel, 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, truculentus, et nonnunquam penè deformis;
in dictione grandiloquus, gravis, austerus, et interdum incultus; frequens in
repetitionibus, non decoris aut gratiæ causa, sed ex indignatione et violentia.
Quicquid susceperit tractandum id sedulò persequitur; in eo unicè hæret
defixus; a proposito raro deflectens. In cæteris, a plerisque vatibus fortasse
superatus; sed in eo genere, ad quod videtur a natura unice comparatus,
nimirum, vi, pondere, impetu, granditate, nemo unquam eum superavit." The
same learned Writer compares Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah to Simonides, and
Ezechiel to Æschylus. Most of the Book of Isaiah is strictly Poetical; of
Jeremiah and Ezechiel, not above one half can be held to belong to Poetry.
Among the Minor Prophets Hosea; Joel, Micah, Habakkuk, and especially Nahum,
are distinguished for poetical spirit. In the Prophecies of Daniel and Jonah,
there is no Poetry.
[Page 404]
It only now remains to
speak of the Book of Job, with which I shall conclude. It is known to be
extremely ancient; generally reputed the most ancient of all the Poetical
Books; the Author uncertain. It is remarkable, that this book has no connection
with the affairs, or manners of the Jews, or Hebrews. The scene is laid in the
land of Uz, or Idumæa, 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 allusions to the great events of Sacred History,
to the religious rites of the Jews, to Lebanon or to Carmel, or any of the
peculiarities of the climate of Judæa. 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 description, characterise 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, [Page 404] 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 flie away as a dream, and shall not be found; yea, he
shall be chased away, as a vision of the night. The eye also which saw him,
shall see him no more; they which have seen him, shall say, where is he?---He
shall suck the poison of asps; the viper’s tongue shall slay him. In the
fullness of his sufficiency, he shall be in straits; every hand shall come upon
him. He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel shall strike him
through. All darkness shall be hid in his secret places. A fire not blown shall
consume him. The Heaven shall reveal his iniquity, and the Earth shall rise up against
him. The increase of his house shall depart. His goods shall flow away in the
day of wrath. The light of the wicked shall be put out; the light shall be dark
in his tabernacle. The steps of his strength shall be straitned, and his own
counsel shall cast him down. For he is cast into a net, by his own feet. He
walketh upon a snare. Terrors shall make him afraid on every side; and the
robber shall prevail against him. Brimstone shall be scattered upon his
habitation. His remembrance shall perish from the earth, and he shall have no
name in the street. He shall be driven from light into darkness. They that come
after him shall be astonished at his day. He shall drink of the wrath of the
Almighty."
[Page 406]
IT now remains to treat
of the two highest kinds of Poetical Writing, the Epic and the Dramatic. I
begin with the Epic. This Lecture shall be employed upon the general principles
of that Species of Composition: after which, I shall take a view of the
character and genius of the most celebrated Epic Poets.
The Epic Poem is
universally allowed to be, of all poetical works, the most dignified, and, at
the same time, the most difficult in execution. To contrive a story which shall
please and interest all Readers, by being at once entertaining, important, and
instructive; to fill it with suitable incidents; to enliven it with a variety
of characters, and of descriptions; and, throughout a long work, to maintain
that propriety of sentiment, and that elevation of Style, which the Epic
Character requires, is unquestionably the highest effort of Poetical Genius.
Hence [Page 407] 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 Æneid.
There is no subject, it
must be confessed, on which Critics have displayed more pedantry, than on this.
By tedious Disquisitions, founded on a servile submission to authority, they
have given such an air of mystery to a plain subject, as to render it difficult
for an ordinary Reader to conceive, what an Epic Poem is. By Bossu’s
definition, it is a Discourse invented by art, purely to form the manners of
men, by means of instructions disguised under the allegory of some important
action, which is related in Verse. This definition would suit several of Æsop’s
Fales, 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 Æsop’s Fables, and the plan of Homer’s Iliad. The first
thing, says he, which either a Writer of Fables, or of Heroic Poems, does, is,
to choose some maxim or point of morality; to inculcate which, is to be the
design of his work. Next, he invents a general story, or a series of facts,
without any names, such as he judges will be most proper for illustrating his
intended Moral. Lastly, he particularises his story; that is, if he be a
Fabulist, he introduces his dog, his sheep, and his wolf; or if he be an Epic
Poet, he looks out in Antient History for some proper names of heroes to give
to his actors; and then his plan is completed.
This is one of the most
frigid, and absurd ideas, that ever entered into the mind of a Critic. Homer,
he says, saw the [Page 408] 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 confederacy against
their enemy. The prince, who was chosen as the leader of the rest, affronts one
of the most valiant of the confederates, who thereupon withdraws himself, and
refuses to take part in the common enterprize. Great misfortunes are the
consequence of this division; till, at length, both parties having suffered by
the quarrel, the offended prince forgets his displeasure, and is reconciled to
the leader; and union being once restored, there ensues complete victory over
their enemies. Upon this general plan of his Fable, adds Bossu, it was of no
great consequence, whether, in filling it up, Homer had employed the names of
beasts, like Æsop, or of men. He would have been equally instructive, either
way. But as he rather fancied to write of heroes, he pitched upon the war of
Troy for the scene of his Fable; he seigned 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 his
Actors, might write, perhaps, [Page 409] 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 entertain a doubt, that the first objects
which strike an Epic Poet are, the Hero whom he is to celebrate, and the
Action, or Story, which is to be the ground-work of his Poem. He does not sit
down, like a Philosopher, to form the plan of a Treatise of Morality. His
genius is fired by some great enterprize, which, to him, appears noble and
interesting; and which, therefore, he pitches upon, as worthy of being
celebrated in the highest strain of Poetry. There is no subject of this kind,
but will always afford some general moral instruction, arising from it
naturally. The instruction which Bossu points out, is certainly suggested by
the Iliad; and there is another which arises as naturally, and may just as well
be assigned for the moral of that Poem; namely, that Providence avenges those
who have suffered injustice; but that when they allow their resentment to carry
them too far, it brings misfortunes on themselves. The subject 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 comprehends several other Poems besides the Iliad of Homer,
the Æneid of Virgil, and the Jerusalem of Tasso; which are, perhaps, the three
most regular and complete Epic [Page 410] Works that ever were composed. But to
exclude all Poems from the Epic Class, which are not formed exactly upon the
same model as these, is the pedantry of Criticism. We can give exact
definitions, and descriptions of minerals, plants, and animals; and can arrange
them with precision, under the different classes to which they belong, because
Nature affords a visible unvarying standard, to which we refer them. But with
regard to works of taste and imagination, where Nature has fixed no standard,
but leaves scope for beauties of many different kinds, it is absurd to attempt
defining, and limiting them, with the same precision. Criticism, when employed
in such attempts, degenerates into trifling questions about words and names
only. I therefore have no scruple to class such Poems, as Milton’s Paradise
Lost, Lucan’s Pharsalia, Statius’s Thebaid, Ossian’s Fingal and Temora, Camoen’s
Lusiad, Voltaire’s Henriade, Cambray’s Telemachus, Glover’s Leonidas, Wilkie’s
Epigoniad, under the same species of Composition with the Iliad and the Æneid;
though some of them approach much nearer than others, to the perfection of
these celebrated Works. They are, undoubtedly, all Epic; that is, poetical
recitals of great adventures; which is all that is meant by this denomination
of Poetry.
Though I cannot, by any
means, allow, that it is the essence of an Epic Poem to be wholly an Allegory, or
a Fable contrived to illustrate some moral truth, yet it is certain, that no
Poetry is of a more moral nature than this. Its effect in promoting virtue, is
not to be measured by any one maxim, or instruction, which results from the
whole story, like the moral of one of Æsop’s Fables. This is a poor and trivial
view of [Page 411] 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 examples which it sets before us, and the high
sentiments with which it warms our hearts. The end which it proposes, is to extend
our ideas of human perfection; or, in other words, to excite admiration. Now
this can be accomplished only, by proper representations of heroic deeds, and
virtuous characters. For high virtue is the object, which all mankind are
formed to admire; and, therefore, Epic Poems are, and must be, favourable to
the cause of virtue. Valour, Truth, Justice, Fidelity, Friendship, Piety,
Magnanimity, are the objects which, in the course of such Compositions, are
presented to our minds, under the most splendid and honourable colours. In
behalf of virtuous personages, our affections are engaged; in their designs,
and their distresses, we are interested; the generous and public affections are
awakened; the mind is purified from sensual and mean pursuits, and accustomed to
take 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 testimony of
such weight, that, were it in the power of sceptical Philosophers, to weaken
the force of those reasonings which establish the essential distinction 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 [Page 412] in favour of virtue, that the foundations of
it are laid, deep and strong, in human nature.
The general strain and
spirit of Epic Composition, sufficiently mark its distinction from the other
kinds of Poetry. In Pastoral Writing, the reigning idea is, innocence and
tranquility. Compassion, is the great object of Tragedy; Ridicule, the province
of Comedy. The predominant character of the Epic is, admiration excited by
heroic actions. It is sufficiently distinguished from History, both by its
poetical form, and the liberty of fiction which it assumes. It is a more calm
composition than Tragedy. It admits, nay requires, the pathetic and the
violent, on particular occasions; but the pathetic is not expected to be its
general character. It requires, more than any other species of Poetry, a grave,
equal, and supported dignity. It takes in a greater compass of time and action,
than Dramatic Writing admits; and thereby allows a more full display of
characters. Dramatic Writing, displays characters chiefly by means of
sentiments and passions; Epic Poetry, chiefly by means of actions. The
emotions, therefore, which it raises, are not so violent, but they are more
prolonged.--- These are the general characteristics of this species of
Composition. But, in order to give a more particular and critical view of it,
let us consider the Epic Poem under three heads; first, with respect to the
Subject, or Action; secondly, with respect to the Actors, or Characters; and
lastly, with respect to the Narration of the Poet.
The Action, or Subject
of the Epic Poem, must have three properties; it must be one; it must be great;
it must be interesting.
[Page 413]
First, It must be one
Action, or Enterprise, which the Poet chooses for his subject. I have
frequently had occasion to remark the importance of unity, in many kinds of
Composition, in order to make a full and strong impression upon the mind. With
the highest reason, Aristotle insists upon this, as essential to Epic Poetry;
and it is, indeed, the most material of all his rules respecting it. For it is
certain, that, in the recital of heroic adventures, several scattered and
independent facts can never affect a Reader so deeply, nor engage his attention
so strongly, as a tale that is one and connected, where the several incidents
hang upon one another, and are all made to conspire for the accomplishment of
one end. In a regular Epic, the more that this unity is rendered sensible to
the imagination, the effect will be the better: and for this reason, as
Aristotle has observed, it is not sufficient for the Poet to confine himself to
the actions of one man, or to those which happened during a certain period of
time; but the unity must lie in the subject itself; and arise from all the
parts combining into one whole.
In all the great Epic
Poems, unity of action is sufficiently apparent. Virgil, for instance, has
chosen, for his subject, the establishment of Æneas in Italy. From the
beginning to the end of the Poem, this object is ever in our view, and links
all the parts of it together with full connection. The unity of the Odyssey is
of the same nature; the return and re-establishment of Ulysses in his own
country. The subject of Tasso, is the recovery of Jerusalem from the Infidels;
that of Milton, the expulsion of our first parents from Paradise; and both of
them are unexceptionable in the unity of the Story. The prosessed subject of
the Iliad, is the anger of Achilles, with the consequences [Page 414] which it
produced. The Greeks carry on many unsuccessful engagements against the
Trojans, as long as they are deprived of the assistance of Achilles. Upon his
being appeased and reconciled to Agamemnon, victory follows, and the Poem
closes. It must be owned, however, that the unity, or connecting principle, is
not quite so sensible to the imagination here, as in the Æneid. For, throughout
many books of the Iliad, Achilles is out of sight; he is lost in inaction, and
the fancy terminates on no other object, than the success of the two armies
whom we see contending in war.
The unity of the Epic
Action is not to be so strictly interpreted, as if it excluded all Episodes, or
subordinate actions. It is necessary to observe here, that the term Episode is
employed by Aristotle, in a different sense from what we now give to it. It was
a term originally applied to Dramatic Poetry, and thence transferred to Epic;
and by Episodes, in an Epic Poem, it would seem that Aristotle understood the
extension of the general Fable, or plan of the Poem, into all its
circumstances. What his meaning was, is, indeed, not very clear; and this
obscurity has occasioned much altercation among Critical Writers. Bossu, in particular,
is so perplexed upon this subject, as to be unintelligible. But, dismissing so
fruitless a controversy, what we now understand by Episodes, are certain
actions, or incidents, introduced into the narration, connected with the
principal action, yet not so essential to it, as to destroy, if they had been
omitted, the main subject of the Poem. Of this nature are the interview of
Hector with Andromache, in the Iliad; the story of Cacus, and that of Nisus and
Euryalus, in the Æneid; the adventures of Tancred with Erminia and Clorinda,
[Page 415] in the Jerusalem; and the prospect of his descendants exhibited to
Adam, in the last books of Paradise Lost.
Such Episodes as these,
are not only permitted to an Epic Poet; but, provided they be properly
executed, are great ornaments to his work. The rules regarding them are the
following:
First, They must be
naturally introduced; they must have a sufficient connection with the subject
of the Poem; they must seem inferior parts that belong to it; not mere
appendages stuck to it. The Episode of Olindo and Sophronia, in the second book
of Tasso’s Jerusalem, is faulty, by transgressing this rule. It is too much
detached from the rest of the work; and being introduced so near the opening of
the Poem, misleads the Reader into an expectation, that it is to be of 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 Æneid, 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 variety, that Episodes are introduced into an Epic
Composition. In so long a work, they tend to diversify the [Page 416] 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 subject; he must not leave our curiosity, in any article, ungratified; he
must bring us precisely to the accomplishment of his plan; and then conclude.
The second property of
the Epic Action, is, that it be great; that it have sufficient splendour and
importance, both to fix our attention, and to justify the magnificent apparatus
which the Poet bestows upon it. This is so evidently requisite as not to
require illustration; and, indeed, hardly any who have attempted [Page 417]
Epic Poetry, have failed in choosing some subject sufficiently important,
either by the nature of the action, or by the fame of the personages concerned
in it.
It contributes to the
grandeur of the Epic Subject, that it be not of a modern date, nor fall within
any period of history with which we are intimately acquainted. Both Lucan and
Voltaire have, in the choice of their subjects, transgressed this rule, and
they have, upon that account, succeeded worse. Antiquity is favourable to those
high and august ideas, which Epic Poetry is designed to raise. It tends to
aggrandise, 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 expence 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 with
each other. These observations cannot be applied to Dramatic Writing; where the
personages are exhibited to us, not so much that we may admire, as that we may
love or pity them. Such passions are much more consistent with the familiar
historical knowledge of the persons who are to be the objects of them; and even
require them to be displayed in the light, and with the failings, of ordinary
men. Modern, and well-known history, therefore, may furnish very proper
materials for tragedy. But for Epic Poetry, where Heroism is the ground-work,
and where the object in view, is [Page 418] to excite admiration, antient 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
period, or of the remoteness of the scene, sufficient licence is left him for
fiction and invention.
The third property
required in the Epic Poem, is, that it be interesting. It is not sufficient for
this purpose that it be great. For deeds of mere valour, how heroic soever, may
prove cold and tiresome. Much will depend on the happy choice of some subject,
which shall, by its nature, interest the Public; as when the Poet selects for
his Hero, one who is the founder, or the deliverer, or the favourite of his
nation; or when he writes of atchievements that have been highly celebrated, or
have been connected with important consequences to any public cause. Most of
the great Epic Poems are abundantly fortunate in this respect, and must have
been very interesting to those ages and countries in which they were composed.
But the chief
circumstance which renders an Epic Poem interesting, and which tends to
interest, not one age or country alone, but all Readers, is the skilful conduct
of the Author in the management of his subject. He must so contrive his plan,
as that it shall comprehend many affecting incidents. He must not dazzle us
perpetually with valiant atchievements; for all Readers tire of constant
fighting, and battles; but he must study to touch our hearts. He may sometimes
be awful and august; he must often be tender and pathetic; he must give us
gentle and pleasing scenes of love, friendship, and affection. The [Page 419]
more that an Epic Poem abounds with situations which awaken the feelings of
humanity, it is the more interesting; and these form, always, the favourite
passages of the work. I know no Epic Poets so happy in this respect, as Virgil
and Tasso.
Much, too, depends on
the characters of the Heroes, for rendering the Poem interesting; that they be
such, as shall strongly attach the Readers, and make them take part in the
dangers which the Heroes encounter. These dangers, or obstacles, form what is
called the Nodus, or the Intrigue of the Epic Poem; in the judicious conduct of
which, consists much of the Poet’s art. He must rouse our attention, by a
prospect of the difficulties which seem to threaten disappointment to the
enterprize of his favourite personages; he must make these difficulties grow
and thicken upon us by degrees; till, after having kept us, for some time, in a
state of agitation and suspense, he paves the way, by a proper preparation of
incidents, for the winding up of the plot in a 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 incline 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 [Page 420] as the Epic Poem is of larger compass and extent, it
were too much, if, after the difficulties and troubles which commonly abound in
the progress of the Poem, the Author should bring them all at last to an
unfortunate issue. Accordingly, the general practice of Epic Poets is on the
side of a prosperous conclusion; not, however, without some exceptions. For two
Authors of great name, Lucan and Milton, have held a contrary course; the one
concluding with the subversion of the Roman Liberty; the other, with the
expulsion of man from paradise.
With regard to the time
or duration of the Epic action, no precise boundaries can be ascertained. A
considerable extent is always allowed to it, as it does not necessarily depend
on those violent passions which can be supposed to have only a short
continuance. The Iliad, which is formed upon the anger of Achilles, has, with
propriety, the shortest duration of any of the great Epic Poems. According 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 Æneid, computed in the same way,
from the taking of Troy to the death of Turnus, includes about six years. But
if we measure the period only of the Poet’s own narration, or compute from the
time in which the Hero makes his first appearance, till the conclusion, the
duration of both these last Poems is brought within a much smaller compass. The
Odyssey beginning with Ulysses in the island of Calypso, comprehends
fifty-eight days only; and the Æneid, beginning with the storm, which throws
[Page 421] Æneas upon the coast of Africa, is reckoned to include, at the most,
a year and some months.
Having thus treated of
the Epic Action, or the subject of the Poem, I proceed next to make some
observations on the Actors or Personages.
As it the business of
an Epic Poet to copy after nature, and to form a probable interesting tale, he
must study to give all his personages proper and well-supported characters,
such as display the features of human nature. This is what Aristotle calls,
giving manners to the Poem. It is by no means necessary, that all his actors be
morally good; imperfect, nay, vicious characters may find a proper place;
though the nature of Epic Poetry seems to require, that the principal figures
exhibited should be such as tend to raise admiration and love, rather than
hatred or 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 wise, brave, virtuous, without any farther distinction. Particular
characters express the species of bravery, of wisdom, of virtue, for which any
one is eminent. They exhibit the peculiar features which distinguish one
individual from another, which mark the difference of the same moral quality in
different men, according as it is combined with other dispositions in their
temper. In [Page 422] drawing such particular characters, genius is chiefly
exerted. How far each of the three great Epic Poets have distinguished
themselves in this part of Composition, I shall have occasion 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 personage, whom they distinguish
above all the rest, and make the hero of the tale. This is considered as
essential to Epic Composition, and is attended with several advantages. It
renders the unity of the subject more sensible, when there is one principal
figure, to which, as to a centre, all the rest refer. It tends to interest us
more in the enterprize which is carried on; and it gives the Poet an
opportunity of exerting his talents for adorning, and displaying one character,
with peculiar splendor. It has been asked, Who then is the hero of Paradise Lost?
The Devil, it has been answered by some Critics; and, in consequence of this
idea, much ridicule 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 Poem,
otherwise Epic in its form. For Adam is undoubtedly his hero; that is, the
capital and most interesting figure in his Poem.
Besides human actors,
there are personages of another kind, that usually occupy no small place in
Epic Poetry, I mean the [Page 423] gods, or supernatural beings. This brings us
to the consideration of what is called the Machinery of the Epic Poem; the most
nice and difficult part of the subject. Critics appear to me to have gone to
extremes, on both sides. Almost all the French Critics decide in favour of
Machinery, as essential to the constitution of an Epic Poem. They quote that
sentence of Petronius Arbiter, as if it were an oracle, "per ambages,
Deorumque ministeria, precipitandus est liber spiritus," and hold, that
though a Poem had every other requisite that could be demanded, yet it could
not be ranked in the Epic class, unless the main action was carried on by the
intervention of the gods. This decision seems to be founded on no principle or
reason whatever, unless a superstitious reverence for the practice of Homer and
Virgil. These Poets very properly embellished their story by the traditional
tales and popular legends of their own country; according to which, all the
great transactions of the heroic times were intermixed with the fables of their
deities. But does it thence follow, that in other countries, and other ages,
where there is not the like advantage of current superstition, and popular
credulity, Epic Poetry must be wholly confined to antiquated fictions, and
fairy tales? Lucan has composed a very spirited Poem, certainly of the Epic
kind, where neither gods nor supernatural beings are at all employed. The
Author of Leonidas has made an attempt of the same kind, not without success;
and beyond doubt, wherever a Poet gives us a regular heroic story, well
connected in its parts, adorned with characters, and 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 classed with Epic Writers.
[Page 424]
But though I cannot
admit that Machinery is necessary or essential 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 entertainment from
them; and for the bulk of Readers, indeed for almost all men, the marvellous
has a great charm. It gratifies and fills the imagination; and gives room for
many a striking and sublime description. In Epic Poetry, in particular, where
admiration and lofty ideas are supposed to reign, the marvellous and
supernatural find, if any where, their proper place. They both enable the Poet
to aggrandize his subject, by means of those august and solemn objects which
Religion introduces into it; and they allow him to enlarge and diversify his
plan, by comprehending within it heaven, and earth, and hell, men and invisible
beings, and the whole circle of the universe.
At the same time, in
the use of this supernatural Machinery, it becomes a Poet to be temperate and
prudent. He is not at liberty to invent what system of the marvellous he
pleases. It must always have some foundation in popular belief. He must avail
himself in a decent manner, either of the religious faith, or the superstitious
credulity of the country wherein he lives, or of which he writes, so as to give
an air of probability to events which are most contrary to the common course of
Nature. Whatever Machinery he employs, he must take care not to overload us
with it; not to withdraw human actions and [Page 425] manners too much from
view, nor to obscure them under a cloud of incredible fictions. He must always
remember, that his chief business is to relate to men, the actions and the
exploits of men; that it is, by these principally he is to interest us, and to
touch our hearts; and that if probability be altogether banished from his work,
it can never make a deep or a lasting impression. Indeed, I know nothing more
difficult in Epic Poetry, than to adjust properly the mixture of the marvellous
with the probable; so as to gratify and amuse us with the one, without
sacrificing the other. I need hardly observe, that these observations affect
not the conduct of Milton’s work; whose plan being altogether theological, his
supernatural beings form not the machinery, but are the principal actors in the
Poem.
With regard to
Allegorical Personages, Fame, Discord, Love, and the like, it may be safely
pronounced, that they form the worst machinery of any. In description they are
sometimes allowable, and may serve for 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 person, if they are introduced as mingling with
human actors, an intolerable confusion of shadows and realities arises, and all
consistency of action is utterly destroyed.
In the narration of the
Poet, which is the last head that remains to be considered, it is not material,
whether he relate the whole story in his own character, or introduce some of
his personages to relate any part of the action that had passed before the Poem
opens. Homer follows the one method in his Iliad, [Page 426] and the other in
his Odyssey. Virgil has, in this respect, imitated the conduct of the Odyssey;
Tasso that of the Iliad. The chief advantage which arises from any of the
Actors being employed to relate part of the story, is, that it allows the Poet,
if he chooses it, to open with some interesting situation of affairs, informing
us afterwards of what had passed before that period; and gives him the greater
liberty of spreading out such parts of the subject as he inclines to dwell upon
in person, and of comprehending the rest within a short recital. Where the
subejct is of great extent, and comprehends the transactions of several years,
as in the Odyssey and the Æneid, 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
persons, according as is done in both these Poems.
In the proposition of
the subject, the invocation of the Muse, and other ceremonies of the
introduction, Poets may vary at their pleasure. It is perfectly trifling to
make these little formalities the object of precise rule, any farther, than
that the subject of the work should always be clearly proposed, and without
affected or unsuitable pomp. For, according to Horace’s noted rule, no
Introduction should ever set out too high, or promise too much, lest the Author
should not fulfil the expectations he has raised.
What is of most
importance in the tenor of the narration is, that it be perspicuous, animated,
and enriched with all the beauties of Poetry. No sort of Composition requires
more strength, dignity, and fire, than the Epic Poem. It is the region within
[Page 427] 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 deficient
in poetical colouring, he can have no success. The ornaments which Epic Poetry
admits, must all be of the grave and chaste kind. Nothing that is loose,
ludicrous, or affected, finds any place there. All the objects which it
presents ought to be either great, or tender, or pleasing. Descriptions of
disgusting or shocking objects, should as much as possible be avoided; and
therefore the fable of the Harpies, in the third book of the Æneid, and the
allegory of Sin and Death, in the second book of Paradise Lost, had been better
omitted in these celebrated Poems.
[Page 428]
AS the Epic Poem is
universally allowed to posses the highest rank among Poetical Works, it merits
a particular discussion. Having treated of the nature of this Composition, and
the principal rules relating to it, I proceed to make some observations on the
most distinguished Epic Poems, Ancient and Modern.
Homer claims, on every
account, our first attention, as the Father not only of Epic Poetry, but in
some measure, of Poetry in general. Whoever sits down to read Homer, must
consider that he is going to read the most ancient book in the world, next to
the Bible. Without making this reflection, he cannot enter into the spirit, nor
relish the Composition of the Author. He is not to look for the correctness,
and elegance, of the Augustan Age. He must divest himself of our modern ideas
of dignity [Page 429] 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 imperfectly formed; and the appetites and passions of men brought under
none of those restraints, to which, in a more advanced state of Society, they
are accustomed. But bodily strength, prized as one of the chief heroic
endowments; the preparing of a meal, and the appeasing of hunger, described as
very interesting objects; and the heroes boasting of themselves openly,
scolding one another outrageously, and glorying, as we would 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 in a
great Epic Poem. It turns 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
into the Grecian camp. The Augur, when consulted, declares, that there is no
way of appeasing Apollo, but by restoring the daughter of his Priest. 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. Achilles, as was to be expected, kindles into rage at this demand;
reproaches him for his rapacity and insolence, and, after giving him many hard
names, solemnly swears, that, [Page 430] if he is to be thus treated by the
General, he will withdraw his troops, and assist the Grecians no more against
the Trojans. He withdraws accordingly. His Mother, the Goddess Thetis,
interests Jupiter in his cause; who, to revenge the wrong which Achilles had
suffered, takes part against the Greeks, and suffers them to fall into great
and long distress; until Achilles is pacified, and reconciliation brought about
between him and Agamemnon.
Such is the basis of
the whole action of the Iliad. Hence rise all those "speciosa
miracula," as Horace terms them, which fill that extraordinary Poem; and
which have had the power of interesting almost all the nations of Europe,
during every age, since the days of Homer. The general admiration commanded by
a poetical plan, so very different from what any one would have formed in our
times, ought not, upon reflection, to be matter of surprize. 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 these studied forms of behaviour which now conceal
men from one another. They give free scope to the strongest and most impetuous
emotions of the mind, which make a better figure in description, than calm and
temperate feelings. They show us our native prejudices, appetites, and desires,
exerting themselves without controul. From this state of manners, joined with
the advantage of that strong and expressive Style, [Page 431] which, as I
formerly observed, commonly distinguishes the Compositions of early ages, we
have ground to look for more of the boldness, ease, and freedom of native genius,
in compositions of such a period, than in those of more civilized times. And,
accordingly, the two great characters of the Homeric Poetry are, Fire and
Simplicity. Let us now proceed to make some more particular observations on the
Iliad, under the three heads of the Subject 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 eminently signalized themselves.
Upon these traditions, Homer grounded 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 his time, have fallen
into the degree of obscurity most proper for Poetry; and have left him at full
liberty to mix as much fable as he pleased, with the remains of true history.
He has not chosen, for his subject, the whole Trojan war; but, with great
judgment, he has selected one part of it; the quarrel betwixt Achilles and
Agamemnon, and the events to which that quarrel gave rise; which, though they
take up forty-seven days only, yet include the most interesting, and most
critical period of the war. By this management, he has given [Page 432] greater
unity to what would have otherwise been an unconnected history of battles. He
has gained one Hero, or principal character, Achilles, who reigns throughout
the work; and he has shown the pernicious effect of discord among confederated
princes. At the same time, I admit that Homer is less fortunate in his subject
than Virgil. The plan of the Æneid includes a greater compass, and a more
agreeable diversity of events; whereas the Iliad is almost entirely filled with
Battles.
The praise of high
invention has in every age been given to Homer, with the greatest reason. The
prodigious number of incidents, of speeches, of characters divine and human,
with which he abounds; the surprising variety with which he has diversified his
battles, in the wounds and deaths, and little history pieces of almost all the
persons slain, discover an invention next to boundless. But the praise of
judgment is, in my opinion, no less due to Homer, than that of invention. His
story is all along conducted with great art. He rises upon us gradually; his
Heroes are brought out, one after another, to be objects of our attention. The
distress thickens, as the Poem advances; and every thing is so contrived as to
aggrandize Achilles, and to render him, as the Poet intended he should be, the
capital figure.
But that wherein Homer
excels all Writers, is the characteristical part. Here, he is without a rival.
His lively and spirited exhibition of characters, is, in a great measure, owing
to his being so dramatic a Writer, abounding every where with dialogue and
conversation. There is much more dialogue in Homer than in Virgil; or, indeed,
than in any other Poet. [Page 433] 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 the narrative manner. Of this 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 famliar 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 father; and one is not. And Joseph
said unto them, this it is that I spake unto you, saying ye are spies. Hereby
ye shall be proved; by the life of Pharoah, ye shall not go forth, except your
youngest brother come hither, &c." Genesis xlii. 7-15. Such a Style as
this, is the most simple and artless from of Writing; and must, therefore,
undoubtedly have been the most ancient. It is copying directly from nature;
giving a plain rehearsal of what passed, or was supposed to pass, in
conversation between the persons of whom the Author treats. In progress of
time, when the Art of Writing was more studied, it was thought more elegant to
compress the substance of conversation into short distinct narrative, made by
the Poet or Historian in his own person; and to reserve direct speeches for
solemn occasions only.
[Page 434]
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
tiresome. Homer, it must be admitted, has carried his propensity to the making
of Speeches too far; and if he be tedious any where, it is in these; some of
them trifling, and some of them plainly unseasonable. Together with the Greek
vivacity, he leaves upon our minds, some impression of the Greek loquacity
also. His Speeches, however, are upon the whole 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 familiarly and intimately
acquainted with his heroes. We seem to have lived among them, and to have
conversed with them. Not only has he pursued the single virtue of courage,
through all its different forms and features, in his different warriors; but
some more delicate characters, into which courage either enters not at all, or
but for an inconsiderable part, he has drawn with singular art.
How finely, for
instance, has he painted the character of Helen, so as, notwithstanding her
frailty and her crimes, to prevent her from being an odious object! The
admiration with which the old generals behold her, in the Third Book, when she
is coming towards them, presents her to us with much dignity. Her veiling
herself and shedding tears, her confusion in the presence of Priam, her grief
and self-accusations at the sight of Menelaus, her upbraiding of Paris for his
cowardice, and, at the same time, her returning fondness for him, exhibit the
most [Page 435] 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 characterised with the utmost propriety. He is,
as we would expect him, a mixture-of gallantry and effeminacy. He retreats from
Menelaus, on his first appearance; but immediately afterwards, enters into
single combat with him. He is a great master of civility, remarkably courteous
in his speeches; and receives all the reproofs of his brother Hector with
modesty and deference. He is described as a person of elegance and taste. He
was the Architect of his own Palace. He is, in the Sixth Book, found by Hector,
burnishing and dressing up his armour; and issues forth to battle with a
peculiar gaiety and ostentation of appearance, which is illustrated by one of
the finest comparisons in all the Iliad, that of the horse prancing to the
river.
Homer has been blamed
for making his hero Achilles of too brutal and inamiable a character. But I am
inclined to think, that injustice is commonly done to Achilles, upon the credit
of two lines of Horace, who has certainly overloaded his character. Impiger,
iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, Jura negat sibi nata; nihil non arrogat armis.
[Page 436]
Achilles is passionate
indeed, to a great degree; but he is far from being a contemner of laws and
justice. In the contest with Agamemnon, though he carries it on with too much
heat, yet he has reason on his side. He was notoriously wronged; but he
submits; and resigns Briseis peaceably, when the heralds come to demand her;
only, he will fight no longer under the command of a leader who had affronted
him. Besides his wonderful bravery and contempt of death, he has several other
qualities of a Hero. He is open and sincere. He loves his subjects, and
respects the Gods. He is distinguished by strong friendships and attachments;
he is, throughout, high spirited, gallant, and honourable; and allowing for a
degree of ferocity which belonged to the times, and enters into the characters
of most of Homer’s Heroes, he is, upon the whole, abundantly sitted 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 Æneid, or in any other Epic Poem; and hence Homer
has become the standard of Poetic Theology. Concerning Machinery in general, I
delivered my sentiments in the former Lecture. Concerning Homer’s Machinery, in
particular, we must observe, that it was not his own invention. Like every
other good Poet, he unquestionably followed the traditions of his country. The
age of the Trojan war approached to the age of the Gods, and Demi-gods, in
Greece. Several of the Heroes concerned in that war, were reputed to be the
children of those Gods. Of course, the traditionary tales relating to them, and
to the exploits of that age, [Page 437] 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 introduces into his Poem a great number of
personages, almost as much distinguished by characters as his human actors. It
diversifies his battles greatly, by the intervention of the Gods; and by
frequently shifting the scene from earth to heaven, it gives an agreeable
relief to the mind, in the midst of so much blood and slaughter. Homer’s Gods,
it must be confessed, though they be always lively and animated figures, yet
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 unlucky models for any modern Poet to imitate. In
apology for Homer, however, it must be remembered, that according to the Fables
of those days, the Gods are but one remove above the condition of men. They
have all the human passions. They drink and feast, and are vulnerable like men;
they have children, and kinsmen, in the opposite armies; and bating that they
are immortal, that they have houses on the top of Olympus, and winged chariots,
in which they are often flying down to earth, and then re-ascending, 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. [Page
438] At the same time, though Homer so frequently degrades his divinities, yet
he knows how to make them appear in some conjunctures, with the most awful
Majesty. Jupiter, the Father of Gods and Men, is, for the most part, introduced
with great dignity; and several of the most 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 negligencies and repetitions, which greater
refinement in the Art of Writing has taught succeeding, though far inferior,
Poets to avoid. For Homer is the most simple in his Style of all the great
Poets, and 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 that Translation is,
and faithful in the main to the Original. In some places, it may be thought to
have even improved Homer. It has certainly softened some of his rudenesses, and
added delicacy and grace to some of his sentiments. But withal, it is no other
than Homer modernised. In the midst of the elegance and luxuriancy of Mr. Pope’s
language, we lose sight of the old Bard’s simplicity. I know indeed no Author,
to whom it is more difficult to do justice in a Translation, than Homer. As the
plainness of his diction, were it literally rendered, would often 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 [Page 439]
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 I 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 Jupiter with great magnificence. Annuit; et totum nutu tremesecit Olympum.
But Homer, in
describing the same thing, gives us the sable eye-brows of Jupiter bent, and
his ambrosial curls shaken, at the moment when he gives the nod; and thereby
renders the figure more natural and lively. Whenever he seeks to draw our
attention to some interesting object, he particularises it so happily, as to
paint it in a manner to our sight. The shot of Pandarus’ arrow, which broke the
truce between the two armies, as related in the Fourth Book, may be given for
an instance; and above all, the admirable interview of Hector with Andromache,
in the Sixth Book; where 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, SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
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SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME , as it is finely expressed [Page 440] in the
original, form the most natural and affecting picture that can possibly be
imagined.
In the description of
Battles, Homer particularly excels. He works up the hurry, the terror, and
confusion of them in so masterly a manner, as to place the Reader in the very
midst of the engagement. It is here, that the fire of his genius is most highly
displayed; insomuch, that Virgil’s Battles, and indeed those of most other
Poets, are cold and inanimated in comparison of Homer’s.
With regard to
Similies, no Poet abounds so much with them. Several of them are beyond doubt
extremely beautiful: such as those, of the fires in the Trojan camp compared to
the Moon and Stars by night; Paris going forth to Battle, to the war-horse
prancing to the river; and Euphorbus slain, to the flowering shrub cut down by
a sudden blast: all which are among the finest poetical passages that are any
where to be found. I am not, however, of opinion, that Homer’s Comparisons,
taken in general, are his greatest beauties. They come too thick upon us; and
often interrupt the train of his narration or description. The resemblance on
which they are founded, is sometimes not clear; and the objects whence they are
taken, are too uniform. His Lions, Bulls, Eagles, and herds of Sheep, recur too
frequently; and the allusions in some of his Similies, even after the
allowances that are to be made for ancient manners, must be admitted to be .
[Page 441]
My observations,
hitherto, have been made upon the Iliad only. It is necessary to take some
notice of the Odyssey also. Longinus’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 this meridian beams. It wants the vigour
and sublimity of the Iliad; yet, at the same time, possesses so many beauties,
as to be justly entitled to high praise. It is a very amusing Poem, and has
much greater variety than the Iliad; it contains many interesting stories, and
beautiful descriptions. We see every where the same descriptive and dramatic
genius, and the same fertility of invention that appears in the other work. It
descends indeed from the dignity of Gods, and Heroes, and warlike
atchievements; but in recompence, we have more pleasing pictures of ancient
manners. Instead of that ferocity which reigns in the Iliad, the [Page 442]
Odyssey presents us with the most amiable images of hospitality and humanity;
entertains us with many a wonderful adventure, and many a landscape of nature;
and instructs us by a constant vein of morality and virtue, which runs through
the Poem.
At the same time, there
are some defects which must be acknowledged in the Odyssey. Many scenes in it,
fall below the Majesty which we naturally expect in an Epic Poem. The last
Twelve Books, after Ulysses is landed in Ithaca, are, in several parts, tedious
and languid; and though the discovery which Ulysses makes of himself to his
Nurse Euryclea, and his interview with Penelope before she knows him, in the
Nineteenth Book, are tender and affecting, yet the Poet does not seem happy in
the great anagnorisis, or the discovery of Ulysses to Penelope. She is too
cautious and distrustful, and we are disappointed of the surprise of joy, which
we expected on that high occasion.
After having said so
much of the Father of Epic Poetry, it is now time to proceed to Virgil, who has
a very marked character, quite distinct from that of Homer. As the
distinguishing excellencies of the Iliad are, Simplicity and Fire; those of the
Æneid are, Elegance and Tenderness. Virgil is, beyond doubt, less animated and
less sublime than Homer; but to counterbalance this, he has fewer negligencies,
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 Æneid, we discover all the correctness,
and [Page 443] the improvements, of the Augustan age. We meet with no
contentions of heroes about a female slave; no violent scolding, nor abusive
language; but the Poem opens with the utmost magnificence; with Juno, forming
designs for preventing Æneas’s establishment in Italy, and Æneas himself,
presented to us with all his fleet, in the middle of a storm, which is
described in the highest Style of Poetry.
The subject of the Æneid
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 Æneas. The object
was splendid in itself; it gave the Poet a theme, taken from the antient
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 antient
and fabulous state. The establishment of Æneas constantly traversed by Juno,
leads to a great diversity of events, of voyages, and wars; and furnishes a
proper intermixture of the incidents of peace with martial exploits. Upon the
whole, I believe, there is no where to be found so complete a model of an Epic
Fable, or Story, as Virgil’s Æneid. I see no foundation for the opinion,
entertained by some Critics, that the Æneid is to be considered as an
Allegorical Poem, which carries a constant reference to the character and reign
of Augustus Cæsar; or, that Virgil’s main design in composing the Æneid, was to
reconcile [Page 444] the Romans to the government of that Prince, who is
supposed to be shadowed out under the character of Æneas. Virgil, indeed, like
the other Poets of that age, takes every opportunity which his subject affords
him, of paying court to . 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 motives, as a Poet, to determine him to the
choice of his subject, from its being, in itself, both great and pleasing; from
its being suited to his genius, and its being attended with the peculiar
advantages, which I mentioned above, for the full display of poetical talents.
Unity of action is
perfectly preserved; as, from beginning to end, one main object is always kept
in view, the settlement of Æneas, in Italy, by the order of the Gods. As the
story comprehends the transactions of several years, part of the transactions
are very properly thrown into a recital made by the Hero. The Episodes are
linked with sufficient connection to the main subject; and the Nodus, or
Intrigue of the Poem, is, according to the plan of antient machinery, happily
formed. The wrath of Juno, who opposes herself to the Trojan settlement in
Italy, gives rise to all the difficulties which obstruct. Æneas’s undertaking,
and connects the human with the celestial operations, throughout the whole
work. Hence arise the tempest which throws Æneas upon the shore of Africa; the
passion of Dido, who endeavours to detain him at Carthage; and the efforts of
Turnus, who opposes him [Page 445] in war. Till, at last, upon a composition
made with Jupiter, that the Trojan name shall be for ever sunk in the Latin,
Juno foregoes her resentment, and the Hero becomes victorious.
In these main points,
Virgil has conducted his work with great propriety, and shown his art and
judgment. But the admiration due to so eminent a Poet, must not prevent us from
remarking some other particulars in which he has failed. First, there are
almost no characters at all marked in the Æneid. In this respect, it is
insipid, when compared to the Iliad, which is full of characters and life.
Achates, and Cloanthes, and Gyas, and the rest of the Trojan heroes, who
accompanied Æneas into Italy, are so many undistinguished figures, who are in
no way made known to us, either by any sentiments which they utter, or any
memorable exploits which they perform. Even Æneas himself is not a very
interesting Hero. He is described, indeed, as pious and brave; but his
character is not marked with any of those strokes that touch the heart; it is a
sort of cold and tame character; and, throughout his behaviour to Dido, in the
fourth book, especially in the speech which he makes after she suspected his
intention of leaving her, there appears a certain 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 Æneid. The warmth of her passions, the
keenness of her indignation and resentment, [Page 446] and the violence of her
whole character, exhibit a figure greatly more animated than any other which
Virgil has drawn.
Besides this defect of
character in the Æneid, the distribution and management of the subject is, in
some respects, exceptionable. The Æneid, it is true, must be considered with
the indulgence due to a work not thoroughly completed. The six last books, are
said not to have received the finishing hand of the Author; and for this
reason, he ordered, by his will, the Æneid to be committed 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 interesting objects which had before been presented to us, in the
destruction of Troy, the intrigue with Dido, and the descent into Hell. And in
those Italian wars, there is, perhaps, a more material fault still, in the
conduct of the story. The Reader, as Voltaire has observed, is tempted to take
part with Turnus against Æneas. Turnus, a brave young prince, in love with
Lavinia, his near relation, is destined for her by general consent, and highly
favoured by her mother. Lavinia herself discovers no reluctance to the match:
when there arrives a stranger, a fugitive from a distant region, who had never
seen her, and who founding a claim to an establishment in Italy upon oracles
and prophecies, embroils the country in war, kills the lover of Lavinia, and
proves the occasion of her mother’s death. Such a plan is not fortunately laid,
for disposing us to be favourable [Page 447] to the Hero of the Poem; and the defect
might have been easily remedied, by the Poet’s making Æneas, instead of
distressing Lavinia, deliver her from the persecution of some rival who was
odious to her, and to the whole country.
But, notwithstanding
those defects, which it was necessary to remark, Virgil possesses beauties
which have justly drawn the admiration of ages, and which, to this day, hold
the balance in equilibrium between his same, 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 Composition extremely interesting to all Readers.
The chief beauty, of
this kind, in the Iliad, is, the interview of Hector with Andromache. But, in
the Æneid, 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 burned and sacked in the night, are finely mixed with pathetic and
affecting incidents. Nothing, in any Poet, is more beautifully described than
the death of old Priam; and the family- pieces of Æneas, Anchises, and Creusa,
are as tender as can be conceived. [Page 448] In many passages of the Æneid,
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 Æneas with Andromache and
Helenus, in the third book; the Episodes of Pallas and Evander, of Nisus and
Euryalus, of Lausus and Mezentius, in the Italian wars, are all striking
instances of the Poet’s power of raising the tender emotions. For we must
observe, that though the Æneid be an unequal Poem, and, in some places,
languid, yet there are beauties scattered through it all; and not a 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 sire and sublimity: but there is one
important Episode, the descent into Hell, in which he has outdone Homer in the
Odyssey, by many degrees. There is nothing in all antiquity equal, in its kind,
to the sixth book of the Æneid. The scenery, and the objects are great and
striking; and fill the mind with that solemn awe, which was to be expected from
a view of the invisible world. There runs through the whole description, a
certain philosophical sublime; which Virgil’s Platonic Genius, and the enlarged
ideas of the Augustan Age, enabled him to support with a 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 [Page 449]
whole works, they are so well known, that it were needless to enlarge in the
praise of them.
Upon the whole, as to
the comparative merit of these two great princes of Epic Poetry, Homer and
Virgil; the former must, undoubtedly, be admitted to be the greater Genius; the
latter, to be the more correct Writer. Homer was an original in his art, and
discovers both the beauties, and the defects, which are to be expected in an
original Author, compared with those who succeed him; more boldness, more
nature and ease, more sublimity and force; but greater irregularities and
negligencies 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 Æneid, and Æneas’s
Speech upon that occasion, are translations from the fifth book of the Odyssey;
not to mention almost all the similies of Virgil, which are no other than
copies of those of Homer. The pre-eminence in invention, therefore, must,
beyond doubt, be ascribed to Homer. As to the pre-eminence in judgment, though
many Critics incline to give it to Virgil, yet, in my opinion, it hangs
doubtful. In Homer, we discern all the Greek vivacity; in Virgil, all the Roman
stateliness. Homer’s imagination is by much the most rich and copious; Virgil’s
the most chaste and correct. The strength of the former lies, in his power of
warming the fancy; that of the latter, in his power of touching the heart.
Homer’s style is more simple and animated; Virgil’s more elegant and uniform.
The first has, on many occasions, a sublimity to which the latter never
attains; but the latter, in return, never sinks below a certain degree of [Page
450] 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 defects may reasonably be imputed, not to his genius, but to the
manners of the age in which he lived; and for the feeble passages of the Æneid,
this excuse ought to be admitted, that the Æneid was left an unfinished work.
[Page 451]
AFTER Homer and Virgil,
the next great Epic Poet of antient times, who presents himself, is Lucan. He
is a Poet who deserves our attention, on account of a very peculiar mixture of
great beauties, with great faults. Though his Pharsalia discover too little
invention, and be conducted in too historical a manner, to be accounted a
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 precise limit, that we must refuse the
Epic name to a Poem, which treats of great and heroic adventures, because it is
not exactly conformable to the plans of Homer and Virgil. The subject of the
Pharsalia carries, undoubtedly, all the Epic Grandeur and [Page 452] Dignity;
neither does it want unity of object, viz. the Triumph of Cæsar over the Roman
Liberty. As it stands at present, it is, indeed, brought to no proper close.
But either time has deprived us of the last books, or it has been left by the
Author an incomplete work.
Though Lucan’s subject
be abundantly heroic, yet I cannot reckon him happy in the choice of it. It has
two defects. The one is, that civil wars, especially when as fierce and cruel
as those of the Romans, present too many shocking objects to be fit for Epic
Poetry, and give odious and disgusting views of human nature. Gallant and
honourable atchievements, furnish a more proper theme for the Epic Muse. But
Lucan’s Genius, it must be confessed, seems to delight in savage scenes; he
dwells upon them too much; and, not content with those which his subject
naturally furnished, he goes out of his way to introduce a long Episode of
Marius and Sylla’s proscriptions, which abounds with all the forms of atrocious
cruelty.
The other defect of
Lucan’s subject is, its being too near the times in which he lived. This is a
circumstance, as I observed in a former Lecture, always unlucky for a Poet; as
it deprives him of the assistance of fiction and machinery; and thereby renders
his work less splendid and amusing. Lucan has submitted to this disadvantage of
his subject; and in doing so, has acted with more propriety, than if he had
made an unseasonable attempt to embellish it with machinery; for the fables of
the Gods, would have made a very unnatural mixture with the exploits of Cæsar
and Pompey; and instead of raising, would have diminished the dignity of such
recent, and well-known facts.
[Page 453]
With regard to
characters, Lucan draws them with spirit, and with force. But, though Pompey be
his professed Hero, he does not succeed in interesting us much in his favour.
Pompey is not made to posses any high distinction, either for magnanimity in
sentiment, or bravery in action; but, on the contrary, is always eclipsed by
the superior abilities of Cæsar. Cato, is in truth, Lucan’s favourite
character; and wherever he introduces him, he appears to rise above himself.
Some of the noblest, and most conspicuous passages in the work, are such as
relate to Cato; either speeches put into his mouth, or descriptions of his
behaviour. His speech, in particular, to Labienus, who urged him to enquire at the
Oracle of Jupiter Ammon, concerning the issue of the war [book ix. 564.]
deserves to be remarked, as equal, for Moral Sublimity, to any thing that is to
be found in all antiquity.
In the conduct of the
story, our Author has attached himself too much to chronological order. This
renders the thread of his narration broken and interrupted, and makes him hurry
us too often from place to place. He is too digressive also; frequently turning
aside from his subject, to give us, sometimes, geographical descriptions of a
country; 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 descriptions. 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
[Page 454] too upon disagreeable objects. His principal merit consists in his
sentiments, which are generally noble and striking, and expressed in that
glowing and ardent manner, which peculiarly distinguishes him. Lucan is the
most philosophical, and the most public-spirited Poet, of all antiquity. He was
the nephew of the famous Seneca, the Philosopher; was himself a Stoick; and the
spirit of that Philosophy breathes throughout his Poem. We must observe too,
that he is the only antient 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 kindle, on many occasions, into the most real warmth.
Hence, he abounds in exclamations and apostrophes, which are, almost always,
well-timed, and supported with a vivacity and fire that do him no small honour.
But it is the fate of
this Poet, that his beauties can never be mentioned, without their suggesting
his blemishes also. As his principal excellency is a lively and glowing genius,
which appears, sometimes, in his descriptions, and very often in his
sentiments, his great defect in both is, want of moderation. He carries every
thing to an extreme. He knows not where to stop. From an effort to aggrandise
his objects, he becomes tumid and unnatural: and it frequently happens, that
where the second line of one of his descriptions is sublime, the third, in
which he meant to rise still higher, is perfectly bombast. Lucan lived in an
age, when the Schools of the Declaimers had begun to corrupt the Eloquence, and
Taste of Rome. He was [Page 455] not free from the infection; and too often,
instead of showing the genius of the Poet, betrays the spirit of the Declaimer.
On the whole, however,
he is an Author of lively and original genius. His sentiments are so high, and
his fire, on occasions, so great, as to atone for many of his defects; and
passages can be produced from him, which are inferior to none in any Poet
whatever. The characters, for instance, which he draws of Pompey and Cæsar 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 fortunæ;
stat magni nominis umbra. Qualis, frugifero quercus sublimis in agro, Exuvias
veteres populi, sacrataque gestans Dona ducum; nec jam validis radicibus hærens,
Pondere fixa suo est; nudosque per aëra ramos Effundens, trunco, non frondibus,
efficit umbram. At quamvis primo nutet casura sub Euro, Et circum silvæ firmo
se robore tollant, Sola tamen colitur. Sed non in Cæsare tantum Nomen erat, nec
fama ducis; sed nescia virtus Stare loco; solusque pudor non vincere bello;
Acer et indomitus .
In reviewing the Epic
Poets, it were unjust to make no mention of the amiable Author of the
Adventures of Telemachus. His work, though not composed in verse, is justly
entitled to be held a Poem. The measured poetical Prose, in which it is
written, is remarkably harmonious; and gives the Style nearly as much elevation
as the French langugage is capable of supporting, even in regular Verse.
The plan of the work
is, in general, well contrived; and is deficient neither in Epic grandeur, nor
unity of object. The Author has entered with much felicity into the spirit and
ideas of the Ancient Poets, particularly into the Ancient Mythology, which
retains more dignity, and makes a better figure in his [Page 466] hands, than
in those of any other Modern Poet. His descriptions are rich and beautiful;
especially of the softer and calmer scenes, for which the genius of Fenelon was
best suited; such as the incidents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue,
or a country flourishing in peace. There is an inimitable sweetness and
tenderness in several of the pictures of this kind, which he has given.
The best executed part
of the work, is the first Six Books, in which Telemachus recounts his
adventures to Calypso. The narration, throughout them, is lively and
interesting. Afterwards, especially in the last twelve books, it becomes more
tedious and languid; and in the warlike adventures which are attempted, there
is a great defect of vigour. The chief objection against this work being
classed with Epic Poems, arises from the minute details of 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 [Page 467] laid in the country of the
Cimmerians, which is always covered with clouds and darkness, at the extremity
of the ocean. When the spirits of the dead begin to appear, we scarcely know
whether Ulysses is above ground, or below it. None of the ghosts, even of the
heroes, appear satisfied with their condition in the other world; and when
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-labourer on earth,
than have the command of all the dead.
In the Sixth Book of
the Æneid, we discern a much greater refinement of ideas, corresponding to the
progress which the world had then made in philosophy. The objects there
delineated, are both more clear and distinct, and more grand and awful. The
separate mansions of good and of bad spirits, with the punishments of the one,
and the employments and happiness of the other, are finely described; and in
consistency with the most pure morality. But the visit which Fenelon makes Telemachus
pay to the shades, is much more philosophical still than Virgil’s. He employs
the same fables and the same mythology; but we find the ancient mythology
refined by the knowledge of the true religion, and adorned with that beautiful
enthusiasm, for which Fenelon was so distinguished. His account of the
happiness of the just is an excellent description in the mystic strain; and
very expressive of the genius and spirit of the Author.
Voltaire has given us
in his Henriade, a regular Epic Poem, in French verse. In every performance of
that celebrated Writer, we may expect to find marks of genius; and,
accordingly, [Page 468] 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 considered upon the
whole, I cannot esteem it one of his chief productions; and am of opinion, that
he has succeeded infinitely better in Tragic, than in Epic Composition. French
Versification seems ill adapted to Epic Poetry. Besides it being always
fettered by rhyme, the language never assumes a sufficient degree of elevation
or majesty; and appears to be more capable of expressing the tender in Tragedy,
than of supporting the sublime in Epic. Hence a feebleness, and sometimes a
prosaic flatness, in the Style of the Henriade; and whether from this, or from
some other cause, the Poem often languishes. It does not seize the imagination;
nor interest and carry the Reader along, with that ardour which ought to be
inspired by a sublime and spirited Epic Poem.
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 is in action
perfectly Epic in its nature; great, interesting, and conducted with a
sufficient regard 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 [Page 469] 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 notoriety, a fiction like this shocks the Reader, and
forms an unnatural and ill-sorted mixture with historical truth. The Episode
was contrived, in order to give Henry an opportunity of recounting the former
transactions of the civil wars, in imitation of the recital which Æneas makes
to Dido in the Æneid. But the imitation was injudicious. Æneas might, with
propreity, 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 apprised of all the
facts, which the Poet makes Henry recite to her.
In order to embellish
his subject, Voltaire has chosen to employ a great deal of machinery. But here
also, I am obliged to censure his conduct; for the machinery, which he chiefly
employs, is of the worst kind, and the least suited to an Epic Poem, that of
allegorical beings. Discord, Cunning, and Love, appear as personages, mix with
the human actors, and make a considerable figure in the intrigue of the Poem.
This is contrary to every rule of rational criticism. Ghosts, Angels, and
Devils have popular belief on their side, and can be conceived as existing. But
every one knows, that allegorical beings are no more than representations 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
[Page 470] 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 machinery of St. Louis, which he also
employs, is of a better kind, and possesses real dignity. The finest passage in
the Henriade, indeed one of the finest that occurs in any Poem, is the prospect
of the invisible world, which St. Louis gives to Henry in a dream, in the
Seventh Canto. Death bringing the souls of the departed in succession before
God; their astonishment when arriving from all different countries and
religious sects, they are brought into the divine presence; when they find
their superstitions to be false, and have the truth unveiled to them; the
palace of the Destinies opened to Henry, and the prospect of his successors
which is there given him; are striking and magnificent objects, and do honour
to the genius of Voltaire.
Though some of the
Episodes in this Poem are properly extended, yet the narration is, on the
whole, too general; the events are too much crowded, and superficially related;
which is, doubtless, one cause of the Poem making a faint impression. The
strain of sentiment which runs through it, is high and noble. Religion,
appears, on every occasion, with great and proper lustre; and the Author
breathes that spirit of humanity and toleration, which is conspicuous in all
his works.
[Page 471]
Milton, of whom it
remains now to speak, has chalked out for himself a new, and very extraordinary
road, in Poetry. As soon as we open his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves
introduced all at once into an invisible world, and surrounded with celestial
and infernal beings. Angels and Devils, are not the machinery, but principal
Actors, 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 Paradise Lost can
properly be classed among Epic Poems. By whatever name it is to be called, it
is, undoubtedly, one of the highest efforts of poetical genius; and in one
great characteristic of the Epic Poem, Majesty and Sublimity, it is fully equal
to any that bear that name.
How far the Author was
altogether happy in the choice of his subject, may be questioned. It has led
him into very difficult ground. Had he taken a subject that was more human, and
less theological; that was more connected with the occurences 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 . It is a subject for which Milton alone was fitted; [Page 472] and in the
conduct of it, he has shown a stretch both of imagination and invention, which
is perfectly wonderful. It is astonishing how, from the few hints given us in
the Sacred Scriptures, he was able to raise so complete and regular a
structure; and to fill his Poem with such a variety of incidents. Dry and harsh
passages sometimes occur. The Author appears, upon some occasions, a
Metaphysician and a Divine, rather than a Poet. But the general tenor of his
work is interesting; he seizes and fixes the imagination; engages, elevates,
and affects us as we proceed; which is always a sure test of merit in an Epic
Composition. The artful change of his objects; the scene laid now in Earth, now
in Hell, and now in Heaven, affords a sufficient diversity; while unity of plan
is, at the same time, perfectly supported. We have still life, and calm scenes,
in the employments of Adam and Eve in Paradise; and we have busy scenes and
great actions, in the enterprise of Satan, and the wars of the Angels. The
innocence, purity, and amiableness of our first parents, opposed to the pride
and ambition of Satan, furnishes a happy contrast, that reigns throughout the
whole Poem; only the Conclusion, as I before observed, is too tragic for Epic
Poetry.
The nature of the
subject did not admit any great display of characters; but such as could be
introduced, are supported with much propriety. Satan, in particular, makes a
striking figure, and is, indeed, the best drawn character in the Poem. Milton
has not described him, such as we suppose an infernal spirit to be. He has,
[Page 473] 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 parents; and justifies himself in
his design against them, from the necessity of his situation. He is actuated by
ambition and resentment, rather than by pure malice. In short, Milton’s Satan
is no worse than many a conspirator or factious chief, that makes a figure in
history. The different characters of Beelzebub, Moloch, Belial, are exceedingly
well painted in those eloquent speeches which they make, in the Second Book.
The good Angels, though always described with dignity and propriety, have more
uniformity than the infernal Spirits in their appearance; though among them,
too, 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 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 regard to his human characters; the innocence of our
first parents, and their love, are finely and delicately painted. In some of
his speeches to Raphael and to Eve, Adam is, perhaps, too knowing and refined
for his situation. Eve is more distinctly characterised. Her gentleness,
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 [Page 474] of his leaving Virgil, and every other Poet,
far behind him. Almost the whole of the First and Second Books of Paradise
Lost, are continued instances of the highest sublime. The prospect of Hell and
of the fallen Host, the appearance and behaviour of Satan, the consultation of
the infernal Chiefs, and Satan’s flight through Chaos to the borders of this
world, discover the most lofty ideas that ever entered into the conception of
any Poet. In the Sixth Book also, there is much grandeur, particularly in the
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
possesses 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 many parts of his work. When the scene is laid
in Paradise, the imagery is always of the most gay and smiling kind. His
descriptions show an uncommonly fertile imagination; and in his similies, he
is, for the most part, remarkably happy. They are seldom improperly introduced;
seldom either low, or trite. They generally present to us images taken from the
sublime or the beautiful class of objects; if they have any faults, it is their
alluding too frequently to [Page 475] 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 tragic
kind. The remorse and contrition of the guilty pair, and their lamentations
over Paradise, when they are obliged to leave it, are very moving. The last
Episode of the Angel’s showing Adam the fate of his posterity, is happily
imagined; but, in many places, the execution is languid.
Milton’s language and
versification have high merit. His Style is full of majesty, and wonderfully
adapted to his subject. His blank verse is harmonious and diversified, and
affords the most complete example of the elevation, which our language is
capable of attaining by the force of numbers. It does not flow like the French
verse, in tame, regular, uniform melody, which soon tires the ear; but is
sometimes smooth and flowing, sometimes rough; varied in its cadence, and
intermixed with discords, so as to suit the strength and freedom of Epic
Composition. Neglected and prosaic lines, indeed, we sometimes meet with; but,
in a work so long, and in the main so harmonious, these may be forgiven.
On the whole; Paradise
Lost is a Poem that abounds with beauties of every kind, and that justly
entitles its Author to a degree of same not inferior to any Poet; though it
must be also admitted to have many inequalities. It is the lot of almost every
high and daring genius, not to be uniform and correct. [Page 476] 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 genius equal to every thing that is great;
sometimes he rises above every Poet, at other times he falls much below
himself.
[Page 477]
DRAMATIC Poetry has,
among all civilized nations, been considered as a rational and useful
entertainment, and judged worthy of careful and serious discussion. According
as it is employed upon the light and the gay, or upon the grave and affecting
incidents of human life, it divides itself into the two forms, of Comedy or
Tragedy. But as great and serious objects command more attention than little
and ludicrous ones; as the fall of a Hero interests the public more than the
marriage of a private person; Tragedy has been always held a more dignified
entertainment than Comedy. The one rests upon the high passions, the virtues,
crimes, and sufferings of mankind. The other on their humours, follies, and
pleasures. Terror and pity are the great instruments of the former; ridicule is
the sole instrument of the latter. Tragedy shall therefore be the object of our
fullest discussion. This and the following Lecture shall be employed on it;
after which I shall treat of what is peculiar to Comedy.
[Page 478]
Tragedy, considered as
an exhibition of the characters and behaviour of men, in some of the most
trying and critical situations of life, is a noble idea of Poetry. It is a
direct imitation of human manners and actions. For it does not, like the Epic
Poem, exhibit characters by the narration and description of the Poet; but the
Poet disappears; and the personages themselves are set before us, acting and
speaking what is suitable to their characters. Hence, no kind of writing is so
great a trial of the Author’s profound knowledge of the human heart. No kind of
writing has so much power, when happily executed, to raise the strongest
emotions. It is, or ought to be, a mirror in which we behold ourselves, and the
evils to which we are exposed; a faithful copy of the human passions, with all
their direful effects, when they are suffered to become extravagant.
As Tragedy is a high
and distinguished species of Composition, so also, in its general strain and
spirit, it is favourable to virtue. Such power hath virtue happily over the
human mind, by the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, that as
admiration cannot be raised in Epic Poetry, so neither in Tragic Poetry can our
passions be strongly moved, unless virtuous emotions be awakened within us.
Every Poet finds, that it is impossible to interest us in any character,
without representing that character as worthy and honourable, though it may not
be perfect; and that the great secret for raising indignation, is to paint the
person who is to be the object of it, in the colours of vice and depravity. He
may, indeed, nay, he must, represent the virtuous as sometimes unfortunate,
because this is often the case in real life; but he will always study to engage
our hearts in their behalf; and though they may be described as [Page 479]
unprosperous, 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
sentiments most generally excited by Tragedy. And, therefore, though Dramatic
Writers may sometimes, like other Writers, be guilty of improprieties, though
they may fail of placing virtue precisely in the due point of light, yet no
reasonable person can refuse. Tragedy to be a moral species of composition.
Taking Tragedies complexly, I am fully persuaded, that the impressions left by
them upon the mind, are, on the whole, favourable to virtue and good
dispositions. And, therefore, the zeal which some pious men have shown against
the entertainments of the Theatre, must rest only upon the abuse of Comedy; which,
indeed, has frequently been so great as to justify very severe censures against
it.
The account which
Aristotle gives of the design of Tragedy, is, that it is intended to purge our
passions by means of pity and terror. This is somewhat obscure. Various senses
have been put upon his words, and much altercation has followed among his
commentators. Without entering into any controversy upon this head, the
intention of Tragedy may, I think, be more shortly and clearly defined, 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
[Page 480] sentiments, on beholding the vicissitudes of life, and, by means of
the concern which he raises for the misfortunes of others, leads us to guard
against errors in our own conduct, he accomplishes all the moral purposes of
Tragedy.
In order to this end,
the first requisite is, that he pitch upon some moving and interesting story,
and that he conduct it in a natural and probable manner. For we must observe,
that the natural and the probable must always be the basis of Tragedy; and are
infinitely more essential 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 admiration is concerned,
than when the tender passions are intended to be moved. The imagination, in the
former case, is exalted, accommodates itself to the Poet’s idea, and can admit
the marvellous, without being shocked. But Tragedy demands a stricter 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 be raised,
only by making the impressions of nature, and of truth, upon the mind. By
introducing, therefore, any wild or romantic circumstances into his Story, the
Poet never fails to check passion in its growth, and of course, disappoints the
main effect of Tragedy.
This principle, which
is founded on the clearest reason, excludes from Tragedy all machinery, or
fabulous intervention of the Gods. Ghosts have, indeed, maintained their place;
as being strongly founded on popular belief, and peculiarly suited [Page 481]
to heighten the terror of Tragic Scenes. But all unravellings of the Plot,
which turn upon the interposition of Deities, such as Euripides employs in
several of his plays, are much to be condemned; both as clumsy and
inartificial, and as destroying the probability of the Story. This mixture of
machinery, with the Tragic Action, is undoubtedly a blemish in the Ancient
Theatre.
In order to promote
that impression of probability which is so necessary to the success of Tragedy,
some Critics have required, that the subject should never be a pure fiction
invented by the Poet, but built on real history, or known facts. Such, indeed,
were generally, if not always, the subjects of the Greek Tragedians. But I
cannot hold this to be a matter of any great consequence. It is proved by
experience, that a fictitious tale, if properly conducted, will melt the heart
as much as any real history. In order to our being moved, it is not necesary,
that the events related did actually happen, provided they be such, as might
easily have happened in the ordinary course of nature. Even when Tragedy
borrows its materials from History, it mixes many a fictitious circumstance.
The greatest part of Readers neither know, nor enquire, what is fabulous or
what is historical, in the subject. They attend only to what is probable, and
are touched by events which resemble nature. Accordingly, some of the most
pathetic Tragedies are entirely fictitious in the subject; such as Voltaire’s
Zaire and Alzire, the Orphan, Douglas, the Fair Penitent, and several others.
Whether the subject be
of the real or feigned kind, that on which most depends for rendering the
incidents in a [Page 482] Tragedy probable, and, by means of their probability
affecting, is the conduct, or management of the Story, and the connexion of its
several parts. To regulate this conduct, Critics have laid down the famous rule
of the three Unities; the importance of which, it will be necessary to discuss.
But, in order to do this with more advantage, it will be necessary, that we
first look backwards, and trace the rise and origin of Tragedy, which will give
light to several things relating to the subject.
Tragedy, like other
arts, was, in its beginnings, 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, SPECIAL_IMAGE-tgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-rgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-agr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-ggr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-ogr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-sfgr.gif-REPLACE_ME a Goat,
joined with SPECIAL_IMAGE-ohgr.gif-REPLACE_ME SPECIAL_IMAGE-dgr.gif-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-eegr.gif-REPLACE_ME a Song, undoubtedly arose the word, Tragedy.
These Hymns, or Lyric
Poems, were sung sometimes by the whole company, sometimes by separate bands,
answering alternately to each other; making what we call a Chorus, with its
Strophes and Antistrophes. In order to throw some variety into this
entertainment, and to relieve the Singers, it was thought proper to introduce a
person who, between the Songs, should make a recitation in Verse. Thespis, who
lived about 536 years before the Christian æra, made this innovation; and, as
it was relished, Æschylus, who came 50 years after him, and who is properly the
father of Tragedy, went a step [Page 483] farther, introduced a Dialogue
between two persons, or actors, in which he contrived to interweave some
interesting Story, and brought his actors on a Stage, adorned with proper
scenery and decorations. All that these actors recited, was called Episode, or
additional Song; and the Songs of the Chorus were made to relate no longer to
Bacchus, their original subject, but to the Story in which the Actors were
concerned. This began to give the Drama a regular form, which was soon after
brought to perfection, by Sophocles and Euripides. It is remarkable, in how
short a space of time Tragedy grew up among the Greeks, from the rudest
beginnings to its most perfect state. For Sophocles, the greatest and most
correct of all the Tragic Poets, flourished only 22 years after Æschylus, and
was little more than 70 years posterior to Thespis.
From the account which
I have now given, it appears, that the Chorus was the basis or foundation of
the ancient Tragedy. It was not an ornament added to it; or a contrivance
designed to render it more perfect; but, in truth, the Dramatic Dialogue was an
addition to the Chorus, which was the original entertainment. In process of
time, the Chorus, from being the principal, became only the accessory in Tragedy;
till at last, in Modern Tragedy, it has disappeared altogether; which forms the
chief distinction between the Ancient and the Modern Stage.
This has given rise to
a question, much agitated between the partizans of the Ancients and the
Moderns, whether the Drama has gained, or has suffered, by the abolition of the
Chorus. It must be admitted, that the Chorus tended to render Tragedy [Page
484] both more magnificent, and more instructive and moral. It was always the
most Sublime and Poetical part of the work; and being carried on by singing,
and accompanied with Music, it must, no doubt, have diversified the
Entertainment greatly, and added to its splendour. The Chorus, at the same
time, conveyed constant lessons of Virtue. It was composed of such persons as
might most naturally be supposed present on the occasion; inhabitants of the
place where the scene was laid, often the companions of some of the principal
actors, and, therefore, in some degree interested in the issue of the action.
This company, which, in the days of Sophocles, 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, moralised on all the incidents that were going on,
and, during the intervals of the action, sung their Odes, or Songs, in which
they addressed the Gods, prayed for success to the virtuous, lamented their
misfortunes, and delivered many religious and moral sentiments .
[Page 485]
But, notwithstanding
the advantages which were obtained by means of the Chorus, the inconveniences
on the other side are so great, as to render the modern practice of excluding
the Chorus, far more eligible upon the whole. For if a natural and probable
imitation of human actions be the chief end of the Drama, no other persons
ought to be brought on the Stage, than those who are necessary to the Dramatic
action. The introduction of an adventitious company of persons, who have but a
slight concern in the business of the play, is unnatural in itself,
embarrassing to the Poet, and, though it may render the spectacle splendid,
tends, undoubtedly, to render it more cold and uninteresting, because more
unlike a real transaction. The mixture of Music, or Song, on the part of the
Chorus, with the Dialogue carried on by the Actors, is another unnatural
circumstance, removing the representation still farther from the resemblance of
life. The Poet, besides, is subjected to innumerable difficulties, in so contriving
his plan, that the presence of the Chorus, during all the incidents of the
Play, shall consist with any probability. The scene must be constantly, and
often absurdly, laid in some public place, that the Chorus may be supposed to
have free access to it. To many things that ought to be transacted in private,
the Chorus must ever be witnesses; [Page 486] they must be the consederates of
both parties, who come successively upon the Stage, and who are, perhaps,
conspiring against each other. In short, the management of a Chorus is an
unnatural confinement to a Poet; it requires too great a sacrifice of
probability in the conduct of the action; it has too much the air of a
theatrical decoration, to be consistent with that appearance of reality, which
a Poet must ever preserve in order to move our passions. The 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 asserted, that if, instead of
the Dramatic Dialogue having been superadded to the Chorus, the Dialogue itself
had been the first invention, the Chorus would, in that case, never have been
thought of.
One use, I am of
opinion, might still be made of the Ancient Chorus, and would be a considerable
improvement of the Modern Theatre; if, instead of that unmeaning, and often
improperly chosen Music, with which the Audience is entertained in the
intervals between the acts, a Chorus were then to be introduced, whose Music
and Songs, though forming no part of the Play, should have a relation to the
incidents of the preceding act, and to the dispositions which those incidents
are presumed to have awakened in the Spectators. By this means, the tone of
passion would be kept up without interruption; and all the good effects of the
antient Chorus might be preserved, for inspiring proper sentiments, and for
increasing the morality of the Performance, without those inconveniences which
arose from the Chorus forming a constituent part of the [Page 487] Play, and
mingling unseasonably, and unnaturally, with the personages of the Drama.
After the view which we
have taken of the rise of Tragedy, and of the nature of the Ancient Chorus,
with the advantages and inconveniences attending it, our way is cleared for
examining, with more advantage, the three Unities of Action, Place, and Time,
which have generally been considered as essential to the proper conduct of the
Dramatic Fable.
Of these three, the
first, Unity of Action, is, beyond doubt, far the most important. In treating
of Epic Poetry, I have already explained the nature of it; as consisting in a
relation which all the incidents introduced bear to some design or effect, so
as to combine naturally into one whole. This unity of subject is still more
essential to Tragedy, than it is to Epic Poetry. For a multiplicity of Plots,
or Actions, crowded into so short a space as Tragedy allows, must, of
necessity, distract the attention, and prevent passion from rising to any
height. Nothing, therefore, is worse conduct in a Tragic Poet, than to carry on
two independent actions in the same Play; the effect of which, is, that the
mind being suspended and divided between them, cannot give itself up entirely
either to the one, or the other. There may, indeed, be under-plots; that is,
the persons introduced, may have different pursuits and designs; but the Poet’s
art must be shown in managing these, so as to render them subservient to the
main action. They ought to be connected with the catastrophe of the Play, and
to conspire in bringing it forward. If there be any intrigue which stands
separate and independent, and which may be left out without [Page 488]
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 connection 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 bye, a history of the amours that were going
on in Cato’s family; by which he hath both broken the Unity of his subject, and
formed a very unseasonable junction of gallantry, with the high sentiments, and
public spirited passions which predominate in other parts, and which the Play
was chiefly designed to display.
We must take care not
to confound the Unity of the Action with the Simplicity of the Plot. Unity, and
Simplicity, import different things in Dramatic Composition. The Plot is said
to be Simple, when a small number of incidents are introduced into it. But it
may be implex, as the Critics term it, that is, it may include a considerable
number of persons and events, and yet not be deficient in Unity; provided all
the incidents be made to tend towards the principal object of the Play, and be
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
sometimes to appear to us too naked, and destitute of interesting events. In
the [Page 489] OEdipus Coloneus, for instance, of Sophocles, the whole subject
is no more than this: OEdipus, 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 Heaven and commands him. Yet these simple, and
seemingly barren subjects, are wrought up with so much art by Sophocles, as to
become very tender and affecting.
Among the Moderns, much
greater variety of events has been admitted into Tragedy. It has become more
the theatre of passion than it was among the Ancients. A greater display of
characters is attempted; more intrigue and action are carried on; our curiosity
is more awakened, and more interesting situations arise. This variety is, upon
the whole, an improvement on Tragedy; it renders the entertainment both more
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 deviating 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 [Page 490]
being void of merit, fails in this respect; and may be given as an instance of
one standing in perfect opposition to the simplicity of the ancient Plots. The
incidents succeed one another too rapidly. The Play is too full of business. It
is difficult for the mind to follow and comprehend the whole series of events;
and, what is the greatest fault of all, the catastrophe, which ought always to
be plain and simple, is brought about in a manner too artificial and intricate.
Unity of Action must
not only be studied in the general construction of the Fable, or Plot, but must
regulate the several acts and scenes, into which the Play is divided.
The division of every
Play, into Five Acts, has no other foundation than common practice, and the
authority of Horace: Neve minor, neu fit quinto productior actu Fabula.---
De Arte Poet.
It is a division purely
arbitrary. There is nothing in the nature of the Composition which fixes this
number rather than any other; and it had been much better if no such number had
been ascertained, but every Play had been allowed to divide itself into as many
parts, or intervals, as the subject naturally pointed out. On the Greek Stage,
whatever may have been the case on the Roman, the division by Acts was totally
unknown. The word, Act, never once occurs in Aristotle’s Poetics, in which he
defines exactly every part of the Drama,
Francis.
[Page 491]
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 beginning to end. The Stage was never empty, nor the
curtain let fall. But, at certain intervals, when the Actors retired, the
Chorus continued and sung. Neither do these Songs of the Chorus divide the
Greek Tragedies into five portions, similar to our acts; though some of the
Commentators have endeavoured to force them into this office. But it is plain,
that the intervals at which the Chorus sung, are extremely unequal and
irregular, suited to the occasion and the subject; and would divide the Play
sometimes into three, sometimes into seven or eight acts .
As practice has now
established a different plan on the Modern 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 careful that this Pause shall fall in a proper place; where
there is a natural pause in the Action; and where, if the imagination has any
thing to supply, that is not represented on the Stage, it may be supposed to
have been transacted during the interval.
The First Act ought to
contain a clear exposition of the subject. It ought to be so managed as to
awaken the curiosity of the Spectators; and, at the same time, to furnish them
with materials for understanding the sequel. It should make them acquainted
with the personages who are to appear, with their several views and interests,
and with the situation of affairs at [Page 492] the time when the Play
commences. A striking Introduction, such as the first speech of Almeria, in the
Mourning Bride, and that of Lady Randolph, in Douglas, produces a happy effect;
but this is what the subject will not always admit. In the ruder times of
Dramatic Writing, the exposition of the subject was wont to be made by a
Prologue, or by a single Actor appearing, and giving full and direct information
to the Spectators. Some of Æschylus’s and Euripides’s Plays are opened in this
manner. But such an Introduction is extremely inartificial, and, therefore, is
now totally abolished, and the subject made to open itself by conversation,
among the first Actors who are brought upon the Stage.
During the course of
the Drama, in the Second, Third, and Fourth Acts, the Plot should gradually
thicken. The great object which the Poet ought here to have in view, is, by
interesting us in his Story, to keep our passions always awake. As soon as he
allows us to languish, there is no more Tragic merit. He should, therefore,
introduce no personages but such as are necessary for carrying on the action.
He should contrive to place those, whom he finds it proper to introduce, in the
most interesting situations. He should have no scenes of idle conversation, or
mere declamation. The Action of the Play ought to be always advancing; and as
it advances, the suspense, and the concern of the Spectators, to be raised more
and more. This is the great excellency of Shakespeare, 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 [Page 493] throughout a Tragedy. Every thing should be full of
movements. An useless incident, or an unnecessary conversation, weaken the
interest which we take in the Action, and render us cold and inattentive.
The Fifth Act is, the
seat of the catastrophe, or the unravelling of the Plot, in which we always
expect the art and genius of the Poet to be most fully displayed. The first
Rule concerning it, is, that it be brought about by probable and natural means.
Hence all unravellings which turn upon disguised habits, rencounters by night,
mistakes of one person for another, and other such Theatrical and Romantic
circumstances, are to be condemned as faulty. In the next place, the
Catastrophe ought always to be simple; to depend on few events, and to include
but few persons. Passion never rises so high when it is divided among many
objects, as when it is directed towards one, or a few. And it is still more
checked, if the incidents be so complex and intricate, that the understanding
is put on the stretch to trace them, when the heart should be wholly delivered
up to emotion. The catastrophe of the Mourning Bride, as I formerly hinted,
offends against both these rules. In the last place, the catastrophe of a
Tragedy ought to be the reign of pure sentiment and passion. In proportion as
it approaches, every thing should warm and glow. No long discourses; no cold
reasonings, no parade of genius, in the midst of those solemn and awful events,
that close some of the great Revolutions of human fortune. There, if any where,
the Poet must be simple, serious, pathetic; and speak no language but that of
nature.
[Page 494]
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 extremely striking; such as that famous one in Sophocles,
which makes the whole subject of his OEdipus Tyrannus, and which is,
undoubtedly, the fullest of suspense, agitation, and terror, that ever was
exhibited on any Stage. Among the Moderns, two of the most distinguished
Anagnorises, are those contained in Voltaire’s Merope, and Mr. Home’s Douglass:
both of which, are great master-pieces of the kind.
It is not essential to
the Catastrophe of a Tragedy, that it should end unhappily. In the course of
the Play, there may be sufficient agitation and distress, and many tender
emotions raised by the sufferings and dangers of the virtuous, though, in the
end, good men are rendered 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, especially of English Tragedy, leans more to
the side of leaving the impression of virtuous sorrow full and strong upon the
heart.
A question, intimately
connected with this subject, and which has 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 [Page 495]
to the mind? For, is not sorrow, in its nature, a painful passion? Is not real
distress often occasioned to the Spectators, by the Dramatic representations at
which they assist? Do we not see their tears flow? and yet, while the
impression of what they have suffered remains upon their minds, they again
assemble in crowds, to renew the same distresses. The question is not without
difficulty, and various solutions of it have been proposed by ingenious men .
The most plain and satisfactory account of the matter, appears to me to be the
following. By the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, the exercise of
all the social passions is attended with pleasure. Nothing is more pleasing and
grateful, than love and friendship. Where-ever man takes a strong interest in
the concerns of his fellow-creatures, an internal satisfaction is made to
accompany the feeling. Pity, or compassion, in particular, 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 account of the sympathy with the sufferers,
which it necessarily involves. But, as it includes benevolence and friendship,
it partakes, at the same time, of the agreeable and pleasing nature of those
affections. 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 sympathises: 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, [Page
496] upon the whole, agreeable. At the same time, the immediate pleasure, which
always goes along with the operation of the benevolent and sympathetic
affections, derives an addition from the approbation of our own minds. We are
pleased with ourselves, for feeling as we ought, and for entering, with proper
sorrow, into the concerns of the afflicted. In Tragedy, besides, other adventitious
circumstances concur to diminish the painful part of Sympathy, and to increase
the satisfaction attending it. We are, in some measure, relieved, by thinking
that the cause of our distress is feigned, not real; and we are also gratified
by the charms of Poetry, the propriety of Sentiment and Language, and the
beauty of Action. From the concurrence of these causes, the pleasure which we
receive from Tragedy, notwithstanding the distress it occasions, seems to me to
be accounted for, in a satisfactory manner. At the same time, it is to be
observed, that, as there is always a mixture of pain in the pleasure, that pain
is capable of being so much heightened, by the 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 called, a New Scene. These scenes, or
successive conversations, should be closely linked and connected with each
other; and much of the Art of Dramatic [Page 497] Composition is shown in
maintaining this connection. 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 fet of
persons appearing in the next Scene, independent of the former. This makes a
gap, or total interruption in the representation, which, in effect, puts an end
to that Act. For, wherever the Stage is evacuated, the Act is closed. This rule
is, very generally, observed by the French Tragedians; but the English Writers,
both of Comedy and Tragedy, seldom pay any regard to it. Their Personages
succeed one another upon the Stage with so little connection; the union of
their Scenes is so much broken, that, with equal propriety, their Plays might
be divided into ten or twelve Acts, as into five.
The second rule, which
the English Writers also observe little better than the former, is, that no
person should come upon the Stage, or leave it, without a reason appearing to
us, both for the one and the other. Nothing is more awkward, and contrary to
art, than for an Actor to enter, without our seeing any cause for his appearing
in that Scene, except that it was for the Poet’s purpose he should enter
precisely at such a moment; or for an Actor to go away, without any reason for
his retiring, farther than that the Poet had no more speeches to put into his
mouth. This is managing the Personæ Dramatis exactly like so many puppets, who
are moved by wires, to answer the call of the master of the show. Whereas the
perfection of Dramatic [Page 498] Writing requires that every thing should be
conducted in imitation, as near as possible, of some real transaction; where we
are let into the secret of all that is passing, where we behold persons before
us always busy; see them coming and going; and know perfectly whence they come,
and whither they go, and about what they are employed.
All that I have
hitherto said, relates to the Unity of the Dramatic Action. In order to render
the Unity of Action more complete, Critics have added the other two unities of
Time and Place. The strict 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 shall be continued 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 Representation of the Play; though Aristotle seems to have
given the Poet a little more liberty, and permitted the Action to comprehend
the whole time of one day.
The intention of both
these rules is, to overcharge, as little as possible, the imagination of the
Spectators with improbable circumstances in the acting of the Play, and to
bring the imitation more close to reality. We must observe, that the nature of
Dramatic Exhibitions upon the Greek Stage, subjected the Antient Tragedians to
a more strict observance of those Unities than is necessary in Modern Theatres.
I showed, that a Greek Tragedy was one uninterrupted representation, from
beginning to end. There was no division of Acts; no pauses or interval [Page
499] 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 precise time and place of the representation; any more than is allowed during
the continuance of one Act, on the Modern Theatre.
But the practice of
suspending the spectacle totally for some little time between the Acts, has
made a great and material change; gives more latitude to the imagination, and
renders the ancient strict 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 observance of these Unities, ought not to be
preferred to higher beauties of execution, nor to the introduction of more
pathetic situations, which sometimes cannot be accomplished in any other way,
than by the transgression of these rules.
On the Ancient Stage,
we plainly see the Poets struggling with many an inconvenience, in order to
preserve those Unities which were then so necessary. As the Scene could never
be shifted, they were obliged to make it always lie in some court of a palace,
or some public area, to which all the persons concerned in the action might
have equal access. This led to frequent improbabilities, by representing things
as transacted there, which naturally ought to have been transacted before few
witnesses, and in private apartments. The like improbabilities arose, from
limiting themselves so much in point of time. [Page 500] Incidents were
unnaturally crowded; and it is easy to point out several instances in the Greek
Tragedies, where events are supposed to pass during a Song of the Chorus, which
must necessarily have employed many hours.
But though it seems
necessary to set Modern Poets free from a strict observance of these Dramatic
Unities, yet we must remember, there are certain bounds to this liberty.
Frequent and wild changes of time and place; hurrying the Spectator from one
distant city, or country, to another; or making several days or weeks, to pass
during the course of the Representation, are liberties which shock the
imagination, which give to the performance a romantic and unnatural appearance,
and, therefore, cannot be allowed in any Dramatic Writer who aspires to
correctness. In particular, we must remember, that it is only between the Acts,
that any liberty can be given for going beyond the Unities of Time and Place.
During the course of each Act, they ought to be strictly observed; that is,
during each Act the Scene should continue the same, and no more time should be
supposed to pass, than 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 incorrectness, and destroys the whole intention
of the division of a Play into Acts. Mr. Addison’s Cato, is remarkable beyond
most English Tragedies, 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.
[Page 501]
In general, the nearer
that a Poet can bring the Dramatic Representation, in all its circumstances, to
an imitation of nature and real life, the impression which he makes on us will
always be the more perfect. Probability, as I observed at the beginning of the
Lecture, is highly 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
Dramatic 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, when
they assist at the Theatre, are deceived into a belief of the reality of the
objects which are there set before them; and that, when those Unities are
violated, the charm is broken, and they discover the whole to be a fiction. No
such deception as this can ever be accomplished. No one ever imagines himself
to be at Athens, or Rome, when a Greek or Roman subject is presented on the
Stage. He knows the whole to be an imitation only; but he requires that
imitation to be conducted, with skill and verisimilitude. His pleasure, the
entertainment which he expects, the interest which he is to take in the Story,
all depend on its being so conducted. His imagination, therefore, seeks to aid
the imitation, and to rest on the probability; and the Poet, who shocks him by
improbable circumstances, and by awkward, unskilful imitation, deprives him of
his pleasure, and leaves him hurt and displeased. This is the whole mystery of
the theatrical illusion.
[Page 502]
HAVING 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 degrading, or mean, in the circumstances of the persons which
it exhibits; but it requires nothing more. Their high rank may render the
spectacle more splendid, and the subject seemingly [Page 503] of more
importance, but conduce 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 occasion. In every rank
of life, the relations of Father, Husband, Son, Brother, Lover, or Friend, lay
the foundation of those affecting situations, which make man’s heart feel for
man.
The moral characters of
the persons represented, are of much greater consequence than the external
circumstances in which the Poet places them. Nothing, indeed, in the conduct of
Tragedy, demands a Poet’s attention more, than so to describe his personages,
and so to order the incidents which relate to them, as shall leave upon the
Spectators, impressions favourable to virtue, and to the administration 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 befal the best, and a mixed portion of good
and evil is appointed for all. But, withal, the Author must beware of shocking
our minds with such representations of life as tend to raise horror, or to
render virtue an object of aversion. Though innocent persons suffer, their
sufferings ought to be attended with such circumstances, as shall make virtue
appear amiable and venerable; and shall render their condition, on the whole,
preferable to that of bad men, who have prevailed against them. The stings, and
the remorse of guilt, must ever be represented as productive of greater
miseries, than any that the bad can bring upon the good.
[Page 504]
Aristotle’s
observations on the characters proper for Tragedy, are very judicious. He is of
opinion, that perfect unmixed characters, either of good or ill men, are not
the fittest to be introduced. The distresses of the one being wholly unmerited,
hurt and shock us; and the sufferings of the other, occasion no pity. Mixed
characters, such as in fact we meet with in the world, afford the most proper
field for displaying, without any bad effect on morals, the vicissitudes of
life; and they interest us the more deeply, as they display emotions and
passions which we have all been conscious of. When such persons fall into
distress through the vices of others, the subject may be very pathetic; but it
is always more instructive, when a person has been himself the cause of his
misfortune, and when his misfortune is occasioned by the violence of passion,
or by some weakness incident to human nature. Such subjects both dispose us to
the deepest sympathy, and administer useful warnings to us for our own conduct.
Upon these principles,
it surprises me that the story of Oedipus 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 innocent person, one, in the main, of a virtuous character,
through no crime of his own, nay not by the vices of others, but through mere
fatality and blind chance, is involved in the greatest of all human miseries.
In a casual rencounter, he kills his father, without knowing him; he afterwards
is married to his own mother; and, discovering himself in the end to have
committed both parricide and incest, he becomes frantic, and dies in the utmost
misery. Such a subject [Page 505] excites horror rather than pity. As it is
conducted by Sophocles, it is indeed extremely affecting; but it conveys no
instruction; it awakens in the mind no tender sympathy; it leaves no impression
favourable to virtue or humanity.
It must be
acknowledged, that the subjects of the ancient Greek 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 incident sufficiently melancholy and tragical; but rather purely
tragical, than useful or moral. Hence, both the Oedipus’s of Sophocles, the
Iphigenia in Aulis, the Hecuba of Euripides, and several of the like kind. In
the course of the drama, many moral sentiments occurred. But the instruction,
which the Fable of the Play conveyed, seldom was any more, than that reverence
was owing to the Gods, and submission due to the decrees of Destiny. Modern
Tragedy has aimed at a higher object, by becoming more the theatre of passion;
pointing out to men the consequences of their own misconduct; 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,
ensnared by resentment and want, to engage in a conspiracy, and then stung with
remorse, and involved in ruin; a Siffredi, through the deceit which he employs
for public spirited ends, bringing destruction on all whom he loved; a Calista,
seduced into a criminal intrigue, which overwhelms herself, her father, and all
her friends in misery: these, and such as these, are the examples which Tragedy
now displays to public view; and by [Page 506] 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 State,
is Love. To the Ancient Theatre, it was in a manner wholly unknown. In few of
their Tragedies is it ever mentioned; and I remember no more than one which
turns upon it, the Hippolitus of Euripides. This was owing to the national
manners of the Greeks, and to that greater separation of the two sexes from one
another, than has taken place in modern times; aided too, perhaps, by this
circumstance, that no female actors ever appeared on the Ancient Stage. But though
no reason appears for the total exclusion of Love from the Theatre, yet with
what justice or propriety it has usurped so much place, as to be in a manner
the sole hinge of Modern Tragedy, may be much questioned. Voltaire, who is no
less eminent as a Critic than as a Poet, declares loudly and strongly against
this predominancy of love, as both degrading the Majesty, and confining the
natural limits of Tragedy. And assuredly, the mixing of it perpetually with all
the great and solemn revolutions of human fortune which belong to the Tragic
Stage, tends to give Tragedy too much the air of gallantry, and juvenile
entertainment. The Athalie of Racine, the Meropé of Voltaire, the Douglas of
Mr. Home, are sufficient proofs, that without any assistance from Love, the
Drama is capable of producing its highest effects upon the mind.
This seems to be clear,
that wherever Love is introduced into Tragedy, it ought to reign in it, and to
give rise to the principal action. It ought to be that sort of Love which
possesses [Page 507] all the force and majesty of passion; and which occasions
great and important consequences. For nothing can have a worse effect, or be
more debasing to Tragedy, than, together with the manly and heroic passions, to
mingle a trifling Love intrigue, as a sort of seasoning to the Play. The bad
effects of this, are sufficiently conspicuous both in the Cato of Mr. Addison,
as I had occasion before to remark, and in the Iphiginie of Racine.
After a Tragic Poet has
arranged his subject, and chosen his personages, the next thing he must attend
to, is the propriety of sentiments; that they be perfectly suited to the
characters of those persons to whom they are attributed, and to the situations
in which they are placed. The necessity of observing this general rule is so
obvious, that I need not insist upon it. It is principally in the pathetic
parts, that both the difficulty and the importance of it are the greatest.
Tragedy is the region of passion. We come to it, expecting to be moved; and let
the Poet be ever so judicious in his conduct, moral in his intentions, and
elegant in his Style, yet if he fails in the pathetic, he has no tragic merit;
we return cold and disappointed from the performance; and never desire to meet
with it more.
To paint Passion so
truly and justly as to strike the hearts of the Hearers with full sympathy, is
a prerogative of genius given to few. It requires strong and ardent sensibility
of mind. It requires the Author to have the power of entering deeply into the
characters which he draws; of becoming for a moment the very person whom he
exhibits, and of assuming all his feelings. For as I have often had occasion to
observe, there is no possibility of speaking properly the language of any
passion, without feeling [Page 508] it; and it is to the absence or deadness of
real emotion, that we must ascribe the want of success in so many Tragic
Writers, when they attempt being pathetic.
No man, for instance,
when he is under the strong agitations of anger, or grief, or any such violent
passion, ever thinks of describing to another what his feelings at that time
are; or of telling them what he resembles. This never was, and never will be,
the language of any person, when he is deeply moved. It is the language of one
who describes coolly the condition of that person to another; or it is the
language of the passionate person himself, after his emotion has subsided,
relating what his situation was in the moments of passion. Yet this sort of
secondary description, is what Tragic Poets too often give us, instead of the
native and primary language of passion. Thus, in Mr. Addison’s Cato, when Lucia
confesses to Portius her love for him, but, at the same time, swears with the
greatest solemnity, that in the present situation of their country she will
never marry him; Portius receives this unexpected sentence with the utmost
astonishment and grief; at least the Poet wants to make us believe that he so
received it. How does he express these feelings? Fix’d in astonishment, I gaze
upon thee, Like one just blasted by a stroke from Heav’n, Who pants for breath,
and stiffens yet alive In dreadful looks; a monument of wrath. 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 [Page 509] 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 gazed upon her, Like one just blasted by a stroke from
heaven, Who pants for breath, &c. But the person, who is himself concerned,
speaks, on such an occasion, in a very different manner. He gives vent to his
feelings; he pleads for pity; he dwells upon the cause of his grief and
astonishment; but never thinks of describing his own person and looks, and
showing us, by a simile, what he resembles. Such representations of passions
are no better in Poetry, than it would be in painting, to make a label issue
from the mouth of a figure, bidding us remark, that this figure represents an
astonished, or a grieved person.
On some other
occasions, when Poets do not employ this sort of 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, regrets,
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
passages, we see very plainly, [Page 510] that it is neither Osmyn, nor Jane
Shore, that speak; but the Poet himself in his own person, who, instead of
assuming the feelings of those whom he means to exhibit, and speaking as they
would have done in such situations, is straining his fancy, and spurring up his
genius, to say something that shall be uncommonly strong and lively.
If we attend to the
language that is spoken by persons under the influence of real passion, we
shall find it always plain and simple; abounding indeed with those figures
which express a disturbed and impetuous state of mind, such as interrogations,
exclamations, and apostrophes; but never employing those which belong to the
mere embellishment and parade of Speech. We never meet with any subtilty or
refinement, in the sentiments of real passion. The thoughts which passion
suggests, are always plain and obvious ones, arising directly from its object. Passion
never reasons nor speculates, till its ardour begins to cool. It never leads to
long discourse or declamation. On the contrary, it expresses itself most
commonly in short, broken, and interrupted Speeches; corresponding to the
violent and desultory emotions of the mind.
When we examine the
French Tragedians by these principles, which seem clearly founded in nature, we
find them often deficient. Though in many parts of Tragic Composition, they
have great merit; though in exciting soft and tender emotions, some of them are
very successful; yet in the high and strong pathetic, they generally fail.
Their passionate Speeches too often run into long declamation. There is too
much reasoning and refinement; too much pomp and studied beauty in [Page 511]
them. They rather convey a feeble impression 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 refinement; no exaggerated thoughts. They set before us
the plain and direct feelings of nature, in simple expressive language; and
therefore, on great occasions, they seldom . This too is Shakespeare’s great
excellency; and to this it is principally owing, that his dramatic productions,
notwithstanding their many imperfections, have been so long the favourites of
the Public. He is more faithful to the true language of Nature, in the midst of
passion, than any Writer. He gives us this language, unadulterated by art; and
more instances of it can be quoted from him, than from all other Tragic Poets
put together. I shall refer only to that admirable scence 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, are painted in such a manner, [Page
512] that there is no heart but must feel them, and no fancy can conceive any
thing more expressive of Nature.
With regard to moral
sentiments and reflections in Tragedies, it is clear that they must not recur
too often. They lose their effect, when unseasonably crowded. They render the
Play pedantic and declamatory. This is remarkably the case with those Latin
Tragedies which go under the name of Seneca, which are little more than a
collection of declamations and moral sentences, wrought up with a quaint
brilliancy, which suited the prevailing taste of that age.
I am not, however, of
opinion, that moral reflections ought to be altogether omitted in Tragedies.
When properly introduced, they give dignity to the Composition, and, on many
occasions, they are extremely natural. When persons are under any uncommon
distress, when they are beholding in others, or experiencing in themselves, the
vicissitudes of human fortune; indeed, when they are placed in any of the great
and trying situations of life, serious and moral reflections naturally occur to
them, whether they be persons of much virtue or not. Hardly is there any
person, but who, on such occasions, is disposed to be serious. It is then the
natural tone of the mind; and therefore no Tragic Poet should omit such proper
opportunities, when they occur, for favouring the interests of virtue. Cardinal
Wolsey’s soliloquy upon his fall, for instance, in Shakespeare, when he bids a
long farewell to all his greatness, and the advices which he afterwards gives
to Cromwell, are, in his situation, extremely natural; touch and please all
Readers; and are at once instructive and affecting. Much of the merit [Page
513] 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 sentiments of which it is full, it has
always commanded high regard; and has, both in our own country and among
foreigners, acquired no small reputation.
The Style and
Versification of Tragedy, ought to be free, easy, and 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 of
rhyme. For monotony is, above all things, to be avoided by a Tragic Poet. If he
maintains every where the same stateliness of Style, if he uniformly keeps up
the same run of measure and harmony in his Verse, he cannot fail of becoming
insipid. He should not indeed sink into flat and careless lines; his Style
should always have force and dignity, but not the uniform dignity of Epic
Poetry. It should assume that briskness and ease, which is suited to the
freedom of dialogue, and the fluctuations of passion.
One of the greatest
misfortunes of the French Tragedy is, its being always written in rhyme. The
nature of the French language, indeed, requires this, in order to distinguish
the Style [Page 514] from mere Prose. But it 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
composing in French Rhyme, is one great cause of the pleasure which the
Audience receives from the Composition. Tragedy would be ruined, says he, if we
were to write it in Blank Verse; take away the difficulty, and you take away
the whole merit. A strange idea! as if the entertainment of the 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
female Rhymes. With regard to those splendid comparisons in Rhyme, and strings
of couplets, with which it was, some time ago, fashionable for our English
Poets to conclude, not only every act of a Tragedy, but sometimes also the most
interesting Scenes, nothing need be said, but that they were the most perfect
barbarisms; childish ornaments, introduced to please a false taste in the
Audience; and now universally laid aside.
Having thus treated of
all the different parts of Tragedy, I shall conclude the subject, with a short
view of the Greek, the French, and the English Stage, and with observations on
the principal Writers.
Most of the
distinguishing characters of the Greek Tragedy have been already occasionally
mentioned. It was embellished with the Lyric Poetry of the Chorus, of the
origin of which, and of the advantages and disadvantages attending it, I
treated fully in the preceding Lecture. The Plot was always exceedingly simple.
It admitted of few incidents. It was conducted, [Page 515] for most part, with
a very exact regard to the unities of action, time, and place. Machinery, or
the intervention of the Gods, was employed; and, which is very faulty, the
final unravelling 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 passions, and of the distresses which our passions bring upon
us. Their Plots were all taken from the ancient traditionary stories of their
own nation. Hercules furnishes matter for two Tragedies. The history of
Oedipus, king of Thebes, and his unfortunate family, for six. The war of Troy,
with its consequences, for no fewer than seventeen. There is only one, of later
date than this; which is the Persæ, or expedition of Xerxes, by Æschylus.
Æschylus, 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 understood; partly by reason of the incorrect state in which we
have his works (they having suffered more by time, than any of the Ancient
Tragedians), and partly, on account of the nature of his Style, which is
crowded with metaphors, often harsh and tumid. He abounds with martial ideas
and descriptions. He has much fire and elevation; less of tenderness, than of
force. He delights in the marvellous. The Ghost of Darius in the Persæ, the
Inspiration of Cassandra in Agamemnon, and the Songs of the Furies in the
Eumenides, [Page 516] 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 Oedipus, in his Oedipus Coloneus,
and of the death of Hæmon and Antigone, in his Antigone, are perfect patterns
of description to Tragic Poets. Euripides is esteemed more tender than
Sophocles; and he is fuller of moral sentiments. But, in the conduct of his
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 connection with the main action, than
those of Sophocles. Both Euripides and Sophocles, however, have very high merit
as Tragic Poets. They are elegant and beautiful in their Style; just, for the
most part, in their thoughts; they speak with the voice of nature; and making
allowance for the difference of ancient and modern ideas, in the midst of all
their simplicity, they are touching and interesting.
The circumstances of
theatrical representation on the stages of Greece and Rome, were, in several
respects, very singular, and widely different from what obtains among us. Not
only were the Songs of the Chorus accompanied with instrumental music, but the
Abbé de Bos, in his Reflections on Poetry and Painting, has proved, with much
curious erudition, that the dialogue part had also a modulation of its own,
which was [Page 517] capable of being set to notes; that 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 dubious, that, on some
occasions, on the Roman stage, the pronouncing and gesticulating parts were
divided; that one actor spoke, and another performed the gestures and motions
corresponding to what the first said. The actor in Tragedy wore a long robe,
called Syrma, which flowed upon the Stage. They were raised upon Cothurni,
which rendered their stature uncommonly high; and they always played in
masques. These masques were like helmets, which covered the whole head; the
mouths of them were so contrived, as to give an artifical sound to the voice,
in order to make it be heard over their vast theatres; and the visage was so
formed and painted, as to suit the age, characters, or dispositions of the
persons represented. When, during the course of one Scene, different emotions
were to appear in the same person, the masque is said to have been so painted,
that the Actor, by turning one or other profile of his face to the Spectators,
expressed the change of the situation. This, however, was a contrivance
attended with many disadvantages. The masque must have deprived the Spectators
of all the pleasure which arises from the natural animated expression of the
eye, and the countenance; and, joined with the other circumstances which I have
mentioned, is apt to give us but an unfavourable idea of the dramatic
representations of the Ancients. In defence of them, it must, at the same time,
be remembered, that their theatres were vastly more extensive in the area than
ours, and filled with immense crowds. They were always uncovered, and exposed
to the open air. The actors were beheld at a much greater distance, and of
course much [Page 518] 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 favourite entertainments of the Greeks and Romans, the attention given to
their proper exhibition, and the magnificence of the apparatus bestowed on
their theatres, far exceeded any thing that has been attempted in modern ages.
In the Compositions of
some of the French Dramatic Writers, particularly Corneille, Racine, and
Voltaire, Tragedy has appeared with much lustre, and dignity. They must be
allowed to have improved upon the Ancients, in introducing more incidents, a
greater variety of passions, a fuller display of characters, and in rendering
the subject thereby more 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 morality; and their Style is, generally, very
poetical and elegant. What an English taste is most apt to censure in them, is
the want of fervour, strength, and the natural language of 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
resined, when they should be simple. Voltaire freely acknowledges those defects
of the French Theatre. He admits, that their best Tragedies make not a deep
enough impression on the heart; that the gallantry which reigns in them, and
the long fine spun dialogue with which they over-abound, frequently [Page 519]
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 characterise 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 distinguished by the majesty and
grandeur of his sentiments, and the fruitfulness of his imagination. His genius
was unquestionably very rich, but seemed more turned towards the Epic than the
Tragic vein; for, in general, he is magnificent and splendid, rather than
tender and touching. He is the most declamatory of all the French Tragedians.
He united the copiousness of Dryden with the fire of Lucan, and he resembles
them also in their faults; in their extravagance and impetuosity. He has
composed a great number of Tragedies, very unequal in 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 wanted the copiousness and grandeur of
Corneille’s imagination; but is free of his bombast, and excels him greatly in
tenderness. Few Poets, indeed, are more tender and moving than Racine. His Phædra,
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 Poetical Style; to have managed their Rhyme with
the greatest advantage [Page 520] and facility, and to have given it the most
complete harmony. Voltaire has, again and again, pronounced Voltaire’s Athalie
to be the "Chef d’Oeuvre" of the French Stage. It is altogether a
sacred drama, and owes much of its elevation to the Majesty of Religion; but it
is less tender and interesting than Andromaque. Racine has formed two of his
plays upon plans of Euripides. In the Phædra he is extremely successful, but
not so, in my opinion, in the Iphigenie; where he has degraded the ancient
characters, by unseasonable gallantry. Achilles is a French Lover; and
Eriphile, a .
[Page 521]
Voltaire, in several of
his Tragedies, is inferior to none of his predecessors. In one great article,
he has outdone them all, in the delicate and interesting situations which he
has contrived to introduce. In these, lies his chief strength. He is not,
indeed, exempt from the defects of the other French Tragedians, of wanting
force, and of being sometimes too long and declamatory in his speeches; but his
characters are drawn with spirit, his events are striking, and in his
sentiments there is much elevation. His Zaire, Alzire, Meropé, 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 [Page 522]
sentiments, the most religious, and the most moral, of all Tragic Poets.
Though the musical
Dramas of Metastasio fulfil not the character of just and regular Tragedies,
they approach however 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 Poetry, 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 prevents 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 Britian; the general character of which
is, that it is more animated and passionate than French Tragedy, but more
irregular and incorrect, and less attentive to decorum and to elegance. The pathetic,
it must always be remembered, is the soul of Tragedy. The English, therefore,
must be allowed to 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.
[Page 523]
The first object which
presents itself to us on the English Theatre, is the great Shakespeare. Great
he may be justly called, as the extent and force of his natural genius, both
for Tragedy and Comedy, is altogether unrivalled . But, at the same time, it is
genius shooting wild; deficient in just taste, and altogether unassisted by
knowledge or art. Long has he been idolised by the British nation; much has
been said, and much has been written concerning him; Criticism has been drawn
to the very dregs, in commentaries upon his words and witticisms; and yet it
remains, to this day, in doubt, whether his beauties, or his faults, be
greatest. Admirable scenes, and passages, without number, there are in his
Plays; passages beyond what are to be found in any other Dramatic Writer; but
there is hardly any one of his Plays which can be called altogether a good one,
or which can be read with uninterrupted pleasure from beginning to end. Besides
extreme irregularities in conduct, and grotesque mixtures of serious and comic
in one piece, we are every now and then interrupted by unnatural [Page 524]
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, when we would least wish to meet with them. All those
faults, however, Shakespeare redeems, by two of the greatest excellencies which
any Tragic Poet can possess; his lively and diversified paintings of character;
his strong and natural expressions of passion. These are his two chief virtues;
on these his merit rests. Notwithstanding 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 nature with ourselves. It is therefore no
matter of wonder, that from the more polished and regular, but more cold and
artificial performances of other Poets, the Public should return with pleasure
to such warm and genuine representations of human nature. Shakespeare possesses
likewise the merit of having created, for himself, a sort of world of præternatural
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
masterpieces, 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 peculiear species
of Dramatic Entertainment, calculated to describe the manners of the times of
which he treats, to exhibit the principal characters, and to fix [Page 525] our
imagination on the most interesting events and revolutions of our own country.
After the age of
Shakespeare, we can produce in the English language several detached Tragedies
of considerable merit. But we have not many Dramatic Writers, whose whole works
are intitled 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 sentiments. Otway was
endowed with a high portion of the Tragic spirit; which appears to great
advantage in his two principal Tragedies, "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 is a 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.
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
[Page 526] 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 pathetic scenes, as to render them justly favourites of
the Public.
Dr. Younge’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
admirable. The meeting of Almeria with her husband Osmyn, in the tomb of Anselmo,
is one of the most solemn and striking situations to be found in any Tragedy.
The defects in the catastrophe, I pointed out in the last Lecture. Mr. Thomson’s
Tragedies are too full of a stiff morality, which renders them dull and formal.
Tancred and Sigismunda, far excells the rest; and for the plot, the characters,
and sentiments, justly deserves a place among the best English Tragedies. Of
later pieces, and of living Authors, I have all along declined to speak.
Upon the whole;
reviewing the Tragic Compositions of different nations, the following
conclusions arise. A Greek Tragedy is the relation of any distressful or
melancholy incident; sometimes the effect of passion or crime, oftner of the
decree of the Gods, simply exposed; without much variety of parts or events,
but naturally and beautifully set before us; heightened by the Poetry of the
Chorus. A French Tragedy, is a series of artful and refined conversations,
founded upon a [Page 527] variety 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 combat of strong
passions, set before us in all their violence; producing deep disasters; often
irregularly conducted; abounding in action; and filling the Spectators with
grief. The Ancient Tragedies were more natural and simple; the Moderns are more
artful and complex. Among the French, there is more correctness; among the
English, more fire. Andromaque and Zayre, soften; Othello, and Venice
Preserved, rend the heart. It deserves remark, that three of the greatest
masterpieces of the French Tragic Theatre, turn wholly upon religious subjects:
the Athalie of Racine, the Polyeucte of Corneille, and the Zayre of Voltaire.
The first is founded upon a historical passage of the Old Testament; in the
other two, the distress arises from the zeal and attachment of the principal
personages to the Christian faith; and in all the three, the Authors have, with
much propriety, availed themselves of the Majesty which may be derived from
religious ideas.
[Page 528]
COMEDY is sufficiently
discriminated from Tragedy, by its general spirit and strain. While pity and
terror, and the other strong passions form the province of the latter, the
chief, or rather sole instrument of the former, is ridicule. Comedy proposes
for its object, neither the great sufferings nor the great crimes of men; but
their follies and slighter vices, those parts of their character, which raise
in beholders a sense of impropriety, which expose them to be censured, and
laughed at by others, or which render them troublesome in civil society.
This general idea of
Comedy, as a satyrical exhibition of the improprieties and follies of mankind,
is an idea very moral and useful. There is nothing in the nature, or general
plan of this kind of Composition, that renders it liable to censure. To polish
the manners of men, to promote attention to the proper [Page 529] decorums of
social behaviour, and above all, to render vice ridiculous, is doing a real
service to the world. Many vices might be more successfully exploded, by
employing ridicule against them, than by serious attacks and arguments. At the
same time, it must be confessed, that ridicule is an instrument of such a
nature, that when managed by unskillful, or improper hands, there is hazard of
its doing mischief, instead of good, to society. For ridicule is far from
being, as some have maintained it to be, a proper test of truth. On the
contrary, it is apt to mislead, and seduce, by the colours which it throws upon
its objects; and it is often more difficult to judge, whether these colours be
natural and proper, than it is to distinguish between simple truth and error.
Licentious Writers, therefore, of the Comic class, have too often had it in
their power to cast a ridicule upon characters and objects which did not
deserve it. But this is a fault, not owing to the nature of Comedy, but to the
genius and turn of the Writers of it. In the hands of a loose immoral Author,
Comedy will mislead and corrupt; while, in those of a virtuous and will-
intentioned one, it will be not only a gay and innocent, but a laudable and
useful entertainment. French Comedy is an excellent school of manners; while
English Comedy has been too often the school of vice.
The rules respecting
the Dramatic Action, which I delivered in the first Lecture upon Tragedy,
belong equally to Comedy; and hence, of course, our disquisitions concerning it
are shortened. It is equally necessary to both these forms of Dramatic
Composition, that there be a proper unity of action and subject: that the
unities of time and place be, as much as possible, preserved; [Page 530] that
is, that the time of the action be brought within reasonable bounds; and the
place of the action never changed, at least, not during the course of each Act;
that the several Scenes or successive conversations be properly linked
together; that the Stage be never totally evacuated till the Act closes; and
that the reason should appear to us, why the personages, who fill up the
different Scenes, enter and go off the Stage, at the time when they are made to
do so. The scope of all these rules, I showed, was to bring the imitation as
near as possible to probability; which is always necessary, in order to any
imitation giving 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 easily of what is probable, and
are more hurt by the want of it. The probable, and the natural, both in the
conduct of the story, and in the characters and sentiments of the persons who
are 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 Tragic Muse. But those decorums of
behaviour, those lesser discriminations of [Page 531] character which afford
subject for Comedy, change with the differences of countries and times; and can
never be so well understood by foreigners, as by natives. We weep for the
heroes of Greece and Rome, as freely as we do for those of our own country: but
we are touched with the ridicule of such manners and such characters only, as
we see and know; and 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 or a French intrigue; but to give us
pictures taken from among ourselves; to satirize reigning and present vices; to
exhibit to the age a faithful copy of itself, with its humours, its follies,
and its extravagancies. It is only by laying his plan in this manner, that he
can add weight and dignity to the entertainment which he gives us. Plautus, it
is true, and Terence, did not follow this rule. They laid the scene of their
Comedies in Greece, and adopted the Greek laws and customs. 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 other Greek Writers. In after times, it
is known that the Romans had the "Comoedia Togata," or what was
founded on their own manners, as well as the "Comoedia Palliata," or what
was taken from the Greeks.
Comedy may be divided
into two kinds; Comedy of Character, and Comedy of Intrigue. In the latter, the
plot, or the [Page 532] action of the Play, is made the principal object. In
the former, the display of some peculiar character is chiefly aimed at; the
action is contrived altogether with a view to this end, and is treated as
subordinate to it. The French abound most in Comedies of Character. All Moliere’s
capital Pieces are of this sort; his Avare, for instance, Misanthrope,
Tartuffe; and such are Destouches’s also, and those of the other chief French
Comedians. The English have inclined more to Comedies of Intrigue. In the Plays
of Congreve, and, in general, in all our Comedies, there is much more story,
more bustle and action, than on the French Theatre.
In order to give this
sort of Composition its proper advantage, these two kinds should be properly
mixed together. Without some interesting and well-conducted story, mere
conversation is apt to become insipid. There should be always as much intrigue,
as to give us something to with, and something to fear. The incidents should so
succeed one another, as to produce striking situations, and to fix our
attention; while they afford at the same time a proper field for the exhibition
of character. For the Poet must never forget, that to exhibit characters and
manners, is his principal object. The action in Comedy, though it demands his
care, in order to render it animated and natural, is a less significant and
important part of the performance, than the action in Tragedy: as in Comedy, it
is what men say, and how they behave, that draws our attention, rather than
what they perform, or what they suffer. Hence it is a great fault to overcharge
it with too much intrigue; and those intricate Spanish plots that were
fashionable for a-while, carried on by perplexed apartments, dark entries,
[Page 533] and disguised habits, are now justly condemned and laid aside: for
by such conduct, the main use of Comedy was lost. The attention of the
Spectators, instead of being directed towards any display of characters, was
fixed upon the surprising turns and revolutions of the intrigue; and Comedy was
changed into a mere Novel.
In the management of
Characters, one of the most common faults of Comic Writers, is the carrying of
them too far beyond life. Wherever ridicule is concerned, it is indeed
extremely difficult to hit the precise point where true wit ends, and
buffoonery begins. When the Miser, for instance, in Plautus, searching the
person whom he suspects for having stolen his casket, after examining first his
right hand, and then his left, cries out, "Ostende etiam tertiam,"
"show me your third hand," (a stroke too which Moliere has copied
from him) there is no one but must be sensible of the extravagance. Certain degrees
of exaggeration are allowed to the Comedian; but there are limits set to it by
nature and good taste; and supposing the Miser to be ever so much engrossed by
his jealousy and his suspicions, it is impossible to conceive any man in his
wits suspecting another of having more than two hands.
Characters in Comedy
ought to be clearly distinguished from one another; but the artificial
contrasting of Characters, and the introducing them always in pairs, and by
opposites, gives too theatrical and affected an air to the Piece. This is
become too common a resource of Comic Writers, in order to heighten their
Characters, and display them to more advantage. [Page 534] As soon as the
violent and impatient person arrives upon the Stage, the Spectator knows that,
in the next scene, he is to be contrasted with the mild and good-natured man;
or if one of the lovers introduced be remarkably gay and airy, we are sure that
his companion is to be a grave and serious lover; like Frankly and Bellamy,
Clarinda and Jacintha, in Dr. Hoadly’s Suspicious Husband. Such productions of
Characters by pairs, is like the employment of the figure Antithesis in
discourse, which, as I formerly observed, gives brilliancy indeed upon
occasions, but is too apparently a rhetorical artifice. In every fort of
Composition, the perfection of art is to conceal art. A masterly Writer will
therefore give us his characters, distinguished rather by such shades of
diversity as are commonly found in Society, than marked with such strong
oppositions, as are rarely brought into actual contrast, in any of the
circumstances of life.
The Style of Comedy
ought to be pure, elegant, and lively, very seldom rising higher than the
ordinary tone of polite conversation; and, upon no occasion, descending into
vulgar, mean, and gross expressions. Here the French rhyme, which in many of
their Comedies they have preserved, occurs as an unnatural bondage. Certainly,
if Prose belongs to any Composition whatever, it is to that which imitates the
conversation of men in ordinary life. One of the most difficult circumstances
in writing Comedy, and one too, upon which the success of it very much depends,
is to maintain, throughout, a current of easy, genteel, unaffected dialogue,
without pertness and flippancy; without too much studied and unseasonable wit;
without dullness and formality. Too few of our English Comedies [Page 535] are
distinguished 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 distinguished from Tragedy. But its nature and
spirit will be still better understood, by a short history of its progress; and
a view of the manner in which it has been carried on by Authors of different
nations.
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
peculiar to the feast of Bacchus, and from Thespis and his Cart; till, by
degrees, it diverged into an entertainment of a quite different nature from
solemn and Heroic Tragedy. Critics distinguish three stages of Comedy among the
Greeks; which they call, the Ancient, the Middle, and the New.
The Ancient Comedy
consisted in direct and avowed satire against particular known persons, who
were brought upon the Stage by name. Of this nature are the Plays of
Aristophanes, eleven of which are still extant; Plays of a very singular nature,
and wholly different from all Compositions which have, [Page 536] since that
age, born the name of Comedy. They show what a turbulent and licentious
Republic that of Athens was, and what unrestrained scope the Athenians gave to
ridicule, when they could suffer the most illustrious personages of their
state, their generals, and their magistrates, Cleon, Lamachus, Nicias,
Alcibiades, not to mention Socrates the Philosopher, and Euripides the Poet, to
be publicly made the subject of Comedy. Several of Aristophanes’s Plays are
wholly political satires, upon public management, and the conduct of generals
and statemen, during the Peloponnesian war. They are so full of political
allegories and allusions, that it is impossible to understand them without a
considerable knowledge of the history of those times. They abound too with
Parodies of the great Tragic Poets, particularly of Euripides; to whom the
Author was a great enemy and has written two Comedies, almost wholly in order
to ridicule him.
Vivacity, Satire, and
Buffoonry, are the characteristics of Aristophanes. Genius and force he
displays upon many occasions; but his performances, upon the whole, are not
calculated to give us any high opinion of the Attic taste of wit, in his age.
They seem, indeed, to have been composed for the mob. The Ridicule employed in
them in extravagant; the wit for the most part, buffoonish and farcical; the
personal raillery, biting and cruel; and the obscenity that reigns in them, is
gross and intolerable. The treatment given by this Comedian, to Socrates the
Philosopher, in his Play of "The Clouds," is well known; but however
it might tend to disparage Socrates in the public esteem, P. Brumoy, in his
Theatre Grec, makes it appear, that could not have been, as [Page 537] is commonly
supposed, the cause of decreeing the death of that Philosopher, which did not
happen till twenty-three years after the representation of Aristophanes’s
Clouds. There is a Chorus in Aristophanes’s Plays; but altogether of an
irregular kind. It is partly serious, partly comic; sometimes mingles in the
Action, sometimes addresses the Spectators, defends the Author, and attacks his
enemies.
Soon after the days of
Aristophanes, the liberty of attacking persons on the Stage by name, being
found of dangerous consequence to the public peace, was prohibited by law. The
Chorus also, was, at this period, banished from the Comic Theatre, as having
been an instrument of too much licence and abuse. Then, what is called the
Middle Comedy, took rise; which was no other than an elusion of the law.
Fictitious names, indeed, were employed; but living persons were still
attacked; and described in such a manner as to be sufficiently known. Of these
Comic Pieces, we have no remains. To them succeeded the New Comedy; when the
Stage being obliged to 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 the account given of him by
Plutarch, we have much reason to regret that his writings have perished; as he
appears to have reformed, in a very high degree, the public taste, and to have
set the model of correct, elegant, and moral Comedy.
The only remains which
we now have of the New Comedy, among the Ancients, are the Plays of Plautus and
Terence; [Page 538] both of whom were formed upon the Greek Writers. Plautus is
distinguished for very expressive language, and a great degree of the Vis
Comica. As he wrote in an early period, he bears several marks of the rudeness
of the Dramatic Art, among the Romans, in his time. He opens his Plays with
Prologues, which sometimes preoccupy the subject of the whole Piece. The
representation too, and the action of the Comedy, are sometimes confounded; the
Actor departing from his character, and addressing the Audience. There is too
much low wit and scurrility in Plautus; too much of quaint conceit, and play
upon words. But withal, he displays more variety, and more force than Terence.
His characters are always strongly marked, though sometimes coarsely. His
Amphytrion has been copied both by Moliere and by Dryden; and his Miser also
(in the Aulularia), is the foundation of a capital Play of Moliere’s, which has
been once and again imitated on the English Stage. Than Terence, nothing can be
more delicate, more polished and elegant. His style is a model of the purest
and most graceful Latinity. His dialogue is always decent and correct; and he
possesses, beyond most Writers, the art of relating with that beautiful
picturesque simplicity, which never fails to please. His morality is, in
general, unexceptionable. The situations which he introduces, are often tender
and interesting; and many of his sentiments touch the heart. Hence, he may be
considered as the founder of that serious Comedy, which has, of late years,
been revived, and of which I shall have occasion afterwards to speak. If he
fails in any thing, it is in springhtliness and strength. Both in his
Characters, and in his Plots, there is too much sameness and uniformity
throughout [Page 539] all his Plays; he copied Menander, and is said not to
have . In order to form a perfect Comic Author, an union would be requisite of
the spirit and fire of Plautus, with the grace and correctness of Terence.
When we enter on the
view of Modern Comedy, one of the first objects which presents itself, is, the
Spanish Theatre, which has been remarkably fertile in Dramatic Productions.
Lopez de Vega, Guillin, and Calderon, are the chief Spanish Comedians. Lopez de
Vega, who is by much the most famous of them, is said to have written above a
thousand Plays; and our surprise at the number of his Productions will be
diminished, by being informed of their nature. From the account which M. Perron
de Castera, a French Writer, gives of them, it would seem, that our Shakespeare
is perfectly a regular and methodical Author, in comparison of Lopez. He throws
aside all regard to the Three Unities, or to any of the established forms of
Dramatic Writing. One Play often includes many years, nay, the whole life of a
man. The Scene, during the first Act, is laid in Spain, the next in Italy, and
the third in Africa. His Plays are mostly of the historical kind, founded on
the annals of the country; and they are, [Page 540] generally, a sort of
Tragi-comedies; or a mixture of Heroie Speeches, Serious Incidents, War and
Slaughter, with much Ridicule and Buffoonry. Angels and Gods, Virtues and
Vices, Christian Religion and Pagan Mythology, are all frequently jumbled
together. In short, they are Plays like no other Dramatic Compositions; full of
the romantic and extravagant. At the same time, it is generally admitted, that
in the Works of Lopez de Vega, there are frequent marks of genius, and much
force of imagination; many well drawn characters, many happy situations; many
striking and interesting surprises; and, from the source of his rich invention,
the Dramatic Writers of other countries are said to have frequently drawn their
materials. He himself apologises for the extreme irregularity of his
Composition, from the prevailing taste of his countrymen, who delighted in a
variety of events, in strange and surprising adventures, and a labyrinth of
intrigues, much more than in a natural and regularly conducted Story.
The general characters
of the French Comic Theatre are, that it is correct, chaste, and decent.
Several Writers of considerable note it has produced, such as Regnard,
Dusresny, Dancourt, and Marivaux; but the Dramatic Author, in whom the French
glory most, and whom they justly place at the head of all their Comedians, is,
the famous Moliere. There is, indeed, no Author, in all the fruitful and
distinguished age of Louis XIV. who has attained a higher reputation than
Moliere; or who has more nearly reached the summit of perfection in his own
art, according to the judgment of all the French Critics. Voltaire boldly
pronounces him to be the most eminent Comic Poet, of any age or country; nor,
perhaps, is this the decision [Page 541] of mere partiality; for taking him,
upon the whole, I know none who deserves to be preferred to him. Moliere, is
always the Satirist only of vice or folly. He has selected a great variety of
ridiculous characters peculiar to the times in which he lived, and he has
generally placed the ridicule justly. He possessed strong Comic powers; he is
full of mirth and pleasantry; and his pleasantry is always innocent. His
Comedies in Verse, such as the Misanthrope and Tartuffe, are a kind of
dignified Comedy, in which vice is exposed, in the style of elegant and polite
Satire. In his Prose Comedies, though there is abundance of ridicule, yet there
is never any thing found to offend a modest ear, or to throw contempt on
sobriety and virtue. Together with those high qualities, Moliere has also some
defects which Voltaire, though his professed Panegyrist, candidly admits. He is
acknowledged not to be happy in the unravelling of his Plots. Attentive more to
the strong exhibition of characters, than to the conduct of the intrigue, his
unravelling is frequently brought on with too little preparation, and in an
improbable manner. In his Verse Comedies, he is sometimes not sufficiently
interesting, and too full of long speeches; and in his more risible pieces in
Prose, he is censured for being too farcical. Few Writers, however, if any,
ever possessed the spirit, or attained the true end of Comedy, so perfectly,
upon the whole, as Moliere. His Tartuffe, in the style of Grave Comedy, and his
Avare, in the Gay, are accounted his two capital productions.
From the English
Theatre, we are naturally led to expect a greater variety of original
characters in Comedy, and bolder strokes of wit and humour, than are to be
found on any other [Page 542] Modern Stage. Humour is, in a great measure, the
peculiar province of the English nation. The nature of such a free Government
as ours; and that unrestrained liberty which our manners allow to every man, of
living entirely after his own taste, afford full scope to the display of
singularity of character, and to the indulgence of humour in all its forms.
Whereas, in France, the influence of a despotic court, the more established
subordination of ranks, and the universal observance of the forms of politeness
and decorum, spread a much greater uniformity over the outward behaviour and
characters of men. Hence Comedy has a more ample field, and can flow with a
much freer vein in Britain, than in France. But it is extremely unfortunate,
that, together with the freedom and boldness of the Comic spirit in Britain,
there should have been joined such a spirit of indecency and licentiousness, as
has disgraced English Comedy beyond that of any nation, since the days of
Aristophanes.
The first age, however,
of English Comedy, was not infected by this spirit. Neither the Plays of
Shakespeare, nor those of Ben Johnson, can be accused of immoral tendency.
Shakespeare’s general character, which I gave in the last Lecture, appears with
as great advantage in his Comedies, as in his Tragedies; a strong, fertile, and
creative genius, irregular in conduct, employed too often in amusing the mob,
but singularly rich and happy in the description of characters and manners.
Johnson is more regular in the conduct of his pieces, but stiff and pedantic;
though not deftitute of Dramatic Genius. In the Plays of Beaumont and Fletcher,
much fancy and invention appear, and several beautiful passages may be found.
But, in [Page 543] general, they abound with romantic and improbable incidents,
with overcharged and unnatural characters, and with coarse and gross allusions.
Those Comedies of the last age, by the change of public manners, and of the
turn of conversation, since their time, are now become too obsolete to be very
agreeable. For we must observe, that Comedy depending much on the prevailing
modes of external behaviour, becomes sooner antiquated than any other species
of Writing; and, when antiquated, it seems harsh to us, and loses its power of
pleasing. This is especially the case with respect to the Comedies of our own
country, where the change of manners is more sensible and striking, than in any
foreign production. In our own country, the present mode of behaviour is always
the standard of politeness; and whatever departs from it appears uncouth;
whereas, in the Writings of foreigners, we are less acquainted with any
standard of this kind, and of course, are less hurt by the want of it. Plautus
appeared more antiquated to the Romans, in the age of Augustus, than he does
now to us. It is a high proof of Shakespeare’s uncommon genius, that,
notwithstanding these disadvantages, his character of Falstaff is to this day
admired, and his "Merry Wives of Windsor," read with pleasure.
It was not till the æra
of the Restoration of King Charles II. that the licentiousness which was
observed, at that period, to infect the court, and the nation in general,
seized, in a peculiar manner, upon Comedy as its province, and, for almost a
whole century, retained possession of it. It was then first, that the Rake
became the predominant character, and, with some exceptions, the Hero of every
Comedy. The ridicule was [Page 544] thrown, not upon vice and folly, but much
more commonly upon chastity and sobriety. At the end of the Play, indeed, the
Rake is commonly, in appearance, reformed, and professes that he is to become a
sober man; but throughout the play, he is set up as the model of a fine
gentleman; and the agreeable impression made by a sort of sprightly
licentiousness, is left upon the imagination, as a picture of the pleasurable
enjoyment of life; while the reformation passes slightly away, as a matter of
form merely. To what sort of moral conduct such public entertainments as these
tend to form the youth of both sexes, may be easily imagined. Yet this has been
the spirit which has prevailed upon the Comic Stage of Great Britain, not only
during the reign of Charles II. but throughout the reigns of King William and
Queen Anne, and down to the days of King George II.
Dryden was the first
considerable Dramatic Writer after the Restoration; in whose Comedies, as in
all his works, there are sound many strokes of genius, mixed with great
carelessness, and visible marks of hasty composition. As he sought to please
only, he went along with the manners of the times; and has carried through all
his Comedies that vein of dissolute licentiousness, which was then fashionable.
In some of them, the indecency was so gross as to occasion, even in that age, a
prohibition of being brought upon the Stage . Farquhar is a light and gay
Writer; less correct, and less sparkling than Congreve; but he has more ease,
and, perhaps, fully as great a share of the Vis Comica. The two best, and least
exceptionable of his Plays, are the "Recruiting Officer," and the
"Beaux Stratagem." I say the least exceptionable; for, in general,
the tendency of both Congreve and Farquhar’s Plays is immoral. Throughout them
all, the Rake, the loose intrigue, and the life of licentiousness, are the
objects continually held up to view; as if the assemblies of a great and
polished nation could be amused with none but vitious objects. The indelicacy
of these Writers, in the female characters which they introduce, is
particularly remarkable. Nothing can be more awkward than their representations
of a woman of virtue and honour. Indeed, there are hardly any female characters
in their Plays except two; women of loose principles, or women of affected
manners, when they attempt to draw a character of virtue.
The censure which I have
now passed upon these celebrated Comedians, is far from being overstrained or
severe. Accustomed to the indelicacy of our own Comedy, and amused with the wit
and humour of it, its immorality too easily escapes [Page 547] our observation.
But all foreigners, the French especially, who are accustomed to a better
regulated, and more decent State, speak of it with surprise and astonishment.
Voltaire, who is, assuredly, none of the most austere moralists, plumes himself
not a little upon the superior bienseance of the French Theatre; and says, that
the language of English Comedy is the language of debauchery, not of
politeness. M. Moralt, in his Letters upon the French and English Nations,
ascribes the corruption of manners in London to Comedy, as its chief cause.
Their Comedy, he says, is like that of no other country; it is the school in
which the youth of both sexes familiarise themselves with vice, which is never
represented there as vice, but as mere gaiety. As for Comedies, says the
ingenious M. Diderot, in his observations upon Dramatic Poetry, the English
have none; they have, in their place, satires, full, indeed, of gaiety and
force, but without morals, and without taste; sans moeurs et sans gout. There
is no wonder, therefore, that Lord Kaims, in his Elements of Criticism, should
have expressed himself, upon this subject, of the indelicay of English Comedy,
in terms much stronger than any that I have used; concluding his invective
against it in these words: "How odious ought those Writers to be, who thus
spread infection through their native country; employing the talents which they
have received from their Maker most traiterously against Himself, by
endeavouring to corrupt and disfigure his creatures. If the Comedies of
Congreve did not rack him with remorse, in his last moments, he must have been
lost to all sense of virtue."
Vol. II. 479.
I Am happy, however, to
have it in my power to observe, that, of late years, a sensible reformation has
begun to take [Page 548] place in English Comedy. We have, at last, become
ashamed of making our public entertainments rest wholly upon profligate
characters and scenes; and our later Comedies, of any reputation, are much
purified from the licentiousness of former times. If 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 still a graver turn than any
that I have yet mentioned. This, which is called the Serious, or Tender Comedy,
and was termed by its opposers, La Comedie Larmoyante, is not altogether a
modern invention. Several of Terence’s Plays, as the Andria, in particular,
partake of this character, and as we know that Terence copied Menander, we have
sufficient reason to believe that his Comedies, also, were of the same kind.
The nature of this Composition, does not by any means exclude gaiety and
ridicule; but it lays the chief stress upon tender and interesting situations;
it aims at being sentimental, and touching the heart by means of the capital
incidents; it makes our pleasure arise, not so much from the laughter which it
excites, as from the tears of affection and joy which it draws forth.
In English, Steele’s
Conscious Lovers, is a Comedy which approaches to this character, and it has
always been favourably received by the Public. In French, there are several
Dramatic [Page 549] Compositions of this kind, which possess considerable merit
and reputation; such as the "Melanide," and "Prejugé à la
Mode," of La Chaussee; the "Père 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 dangerous and unjustisiable innovation in
Composition. It is not Comedy, said they, for it is not founded on laughter and
ridicule. It is not Tragedy, for it does not involve us in sorrow. By what name
then can it be called? or what pretensions hath it to be comprehended under
Dramatic Writing? But this was trifling, in the most egregious manner, with
critical names and distinctions, as if these had invariably fixed the essence,
and ascertained the limits, of every sort of Composition. Assuredly, it is not
necessary that all Comedies should be formed on one precise model. Some may be
entirely light and gay; others may incline more to the serious; some may
partake of and all of them, properly executed, may furnish agreeable and useful
entertainment to the Public, by suiting the different tastes of men . Serious
and tender Comedy has no title to claim to itself the possession of the stage,
to the exclusion or ridicule and gaiety. 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 [Page 550] romantic and
unnatural situations, it may certainly prove both an interesting and an
agreeable species of Dramatic Writing. If it become insipid and drawling, this
must be imputed, to the fault of the Author, not to the nature of the
Composition, which may admit much liveliness and vivacity.
In general, whatever
form Comedy assumes, whether gay or serious, it may always be esteemed a mark
of Society advancing in true politeness, when those theatrical exhibitions,
which are designed for public amusement, are cleared from indelicate sentiment,
or immoral tendency. Though the licentious buffoonery of Aristophanes amused
the Greeks for a while, they advanced, by degrees, to a chaster and juster
taste; and the like progress of refinement may be concluded to take place among
us, when the Public receive with favour, Dramatic Compositions of such a strain
and spirit, as entertained the Greeks and Romans, in the days of Menander and
Terence.