l 
 
 - E= 
 
 O0 
 
 ^^* 3O 
 
 HI 
 
 a
 
 G? X*"N i r" 55 
 
 /\T?r"^ 
 
 = f Q U . g 
 
 J>^1 
 
 .lOS-ANCEtFj:
 
 HENRY HOME, LORD KAMES, 
 
 JUDGE OP THE COURT OP SESSIONS IN SCOTLAND, &c. &c. 
 
 ANALYSES, 
 
 TRANSLATIONS OF ANCIENT AND FOREIGN ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 EDITED BY ABRAHAM MILLS, A. M. 
 
 AUTHOB OF AN IMPROVED EDITION OF ALISON ON TASTE, ETC. 
 
 SECOND EDITION, CORRECTED. 
 
 I 
 
 Neto orft: 
 
 CONNER * COOKE, FRANKLIN BUILDINGS. 
 
 1833.
 
 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1833, by JAMES CONNER and 
 WILLIAM R. COOKE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern Dis- 
 
 trict of New York.
 
 Annex 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 PRINTING, by multiplying copies at will, affords to writers 
 great opportunity of receiving instruction from every quarter. 
 The author of this treatise, having always been of opinion that 
 the general taste is seldom wrong, was resolved, from the be- 
 ginning, to submit to it with entire resignation : its severest dis- 
 approbation might have incited him to do better, but never to 
 complain. Finding now the judgment of the public to be fa- 
 vorable, ought he not to draw satisfaction from it? He would 
 be devoid of sensibility were he not greatly satisfied. Many 
 criticisms have indeed reached his ear ; but they are candid and 
 benevolent, if not always just. Gratitude, therefore, had there 
 been no other motive, must have roused his utmost industry, 
 to clear this edition from all the defects of the former, so far 
 as suggested by others, or discovered by himself. In a work 
 containing many particulars, both new and abstruse, it was 
 difficult to express every article with sufficient perspicuity ; and, 
 after all the pains bestowed, there remained certain passages 
 which are generally thought obscure. The author, giving an 
 attentive ear to every censure of that kind, has, in the present 
 edition, renewed his efforts to correct every defect ; and he 
 would gladly hope that he has not been altogether unsuc- 
 cessful. The truth is, that a writer, who must be possessed of 
 
 9990771
 
 4 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 the thought before he can put it into words, is but ill quali- 
 fied to judge whether the expression be sufficiently clear to 
 others: in that particular, he cannot avoid the taking on him 
 to judge for the reader, who can much better judge for himself. 
 
 June, 1763.
 
 EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 THE present edition of Lord Kames' Criticisms was pre- 
 pared, and is now offered to the public, with a view of facili- 
 tating the use of the work, and of rendering it more acceptable 
 to general readers. To effect the former object, an analysis 
 has been placed at the head of each chapter ; and to effect the 
 latter, translations, either original or selected, have been affixed to 
 the numerous passages introduced as illustrations, from the La- 
 tin and Italian languages. 
 
 The editor deems it unnecessary to enter into any process of 
 argument, by which to justify the course he has pursued in the 
 preparation of the present work ; as in all matters of practical 
 utility, the only just judgment that can possibly be formed must 
 necessarily rest on practical effects : and though he would be 
 sorry to arrogate any superiority to himself, or to his own obser- 
 vation, yet there may, perhaps, be no impropriety in saying, 
 that the result of the experience of many years arduously devoted 
 to the business of instruction, is, a thorough conviction that only 
 by presenting a subject to the - mind in its leading features, and 
 as one whole, can students obtain a clear and comprehensive view 
 of it. Too much dependence however, in the use of the work, 
 must not be placed upon the analyses ; for it is by no means 
 
 intended that because of them is less of the work to be learned : 
 1*
 
 6 EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 their principal object is, as before stated, to render the instruc- 
 tion of classes less irksome, and less difficult. The editor would, 
 therefore, recommend to professors and teachers, uniformly to 
 insist that scholars, at the commencement of their recitations, 
 be prepared to repeat, with perfect clearness, the subject of each 
 chapter or section, by its respective analysis ; and from it to conduct 
 the recitation of the class. He is aware, however, that to teachers 
 not familiar with the subject, this would be impossible; but 
 where is the teacher to be found, determined to excel in his pro- 
 fession, who would not, from considerations, both of duty and of 
 interest, study to acquire that familiarity by which alone, he can 
 secure to himself, the confidence and respect of his scholars, and 
 ultimate success in his calling ! 
 
 That in works for general reading, and especially in text 
 books, translations should be uniformly affixed to passages intro- 
 duced from the ancient classics, as illustrations, the editor does 
 not hesitate to say must be the conviction of every candid and in- 
 telligent mind: as to scholars who may be familiar with those 
 languages, they can certainly be no hinderance ; while to those 
 who have not enjoyed the advantages of a classical education, 
 they are indispensably necessary. It is true that many persons 
 still seem to think it bordering almost on presumption for any 
 one to pretend to taste or elegant scholarship in the Belles Let- 
 tres, who can not read Latin and Greek ; but though the advan- 
 tages of a knowledge of these languages, in forming one's taste, 
 must ever be acknowledged to be immensely great, yet it by no 
 means follows, that those who may not understand them have not 
 it in their power to cultivate theirs. The principles of taste, and 
 the perception of the Sublime and the Beautiful, exist, in a 
 greater or less degree, in every mind ; and as every man fami-
 
 EDITOR S PREFACE. 7 
 
 liar with the subject, must be sensible that English literature is 
 enriched with its full share of the most exquisite productions, 
 both in poetry and prose; so it would seem to follow, that if 
 these be devotedly studied, their beauties will be properly ascer- 
 tained, and duly appreciated. 
 
 Besides, it must not be forgotten, that the pursuits of elegant 
 literature form the most important part of the course of instruc- 
 tion at the present time pursued in every well regulated female- 
 school, both in this country and in Great Britain; and as cases 
 very rarely occur, in which young ladies are to be found with 
 sufficient acquaintance with the ancient classics to study works 
 filled with illustrations taken from them, that their studies may 
 not be constantly interrupted, every beauty should be presented 
 in such a form that they may immediately perceive it. 
 
 It is by no means pretended, however, that the force and spirit 
 of the original poetry, is uniformly retained in the translations. 
 This, when the dissimilarity that exists between the two lan- 
 guages is borne in mind, will at once be perceived to be impos- 
 sible ; but as the greater part of the translations here introduced, 
 are from translators of acknowledged celebrity, the editor feels 
 confident that, though accuracy principally was aimed at in pre- 
 paring them, yet they will be found sufficiently elegant not to 
 mar, at least, the interest of the work. 
 
 With regard to the body of the work, the editor has been at 
 great pains to preserve it in as pure a state, and as nearly as it 
 originally came from the pen of the celebrated author, as possible. 
 To effect this purpose, the present edition is printed, with the ut- 
 most accuracy, from a copy of an edition published in Edinburgh 
 before the author's death, and which received his last revision. 
 
 Having thus briefly stated the character of the work, and the
 
 8 EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 improvements that are proposed to have been added to it, the 
 editor leaves the public to decide how far his labors may be con- 
 sidered commendable; and should the objects mentioned in the 
 commencement of these remarks, be found to have been attained, 
 he will feel himself abundantly compensated. 
 
 New-York, April, 1833.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Paga 
 
 INTRODUCTION, .11 
 
 Chap. I. Perceptions and Ideas in a train, 19 
 
 ~ Chap. II. Emotions end Passions, 26 
 
 Part 1. Causes unfolded of the Emotions and Passions : ... 
 
 Sect. 1. Difference between Emotion and Passion. Causes that are the 
 
 most common and the most general. Passion considered as 
 
 productive of Action, 27 
 
 Sect. 2. Power of Sounds to raise Emotions and Passions, . . 34 
 
 Sect. 3. Causes of the Emotions of Joy and Sorrow, ... 37 
 
 Sect. 4. Sympathetic Emotion of Virtue, and its cause, ... 38 
 Sect. 5. In many instances one Emotion is productive of another. The 
 
 same of Passions, .41 
 
 Sect. 6. Causes of the Passions of Fear and Anger, .... 47 
 
 Sect. 7. Emotions caused by Fiction, . . . . . . .50 
 
 Part 2. Emotions and Passions as pleasant and painful, agreeable and 
 
 disagreeable. Modification of these dualities, ... 58 
 Part 3. Interrupted Existence of Emotions and Passions. Their Growth 
 
 and Decay 63 
 
 Part 4. Coexistent Emotions and Passions, . . v .. . . 67 
 Part 5. Influence of Passion with respect to our Perceptions, Opinions, 
 
 and Belief, 82 
 
 Appendix. Methods that Nature hath afforded for computing Time 
 
 and Space, . . .88 
 
 Part 6. Resemblance of Emotions to their Causes, .... 94 
 
 Part 7. Final Causes of the more frequent Emotions and Passions, . 96 
 
 Chap. III. Beauty, 103 
 
 Chap. IV. Grandeur and Sublimity 109 
 
 Chap. V. Motion and Force, 127 
 
 Chap. VI. Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of Objects, . . 131 
 
 Chap. VII. Risible Objects, 137 
 
 Chap. VIII. Resemblance and Dissimilitude, . . . ' . . . 139 
 
 Chap. IX. Uniformity and Variety, . 151 
 
 Appendix. Concerning the Works of Nature, chiefly with tea pect 
 
 to Uniformity and Variety, 161 
 
 Chap. X. Congruity and Propriety, . 164 
 
 Chap. XI. Dignity and Grace, 172
 
 10 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Chap. XII. Ridicule 178 
 
 Chap. XIII. Wit, 185 
 
 Chap. XIV. Custom and Habit, . 193 
 
 Chap. XV. External Signs of Emotions and Passions, .... 204 
 
 Chap. XVI. Sentiments, 215 
 
 Chap. XVII. Language of Passion, . 235 
 
 Chap. XVIII. Beauty of Language, . 247 
 
 Sect. 1. Beauty of Language with respect to Sound, .... 248 
 
 Sect. 2. Beauty of Language with respect to Signification, . . 254 
 Sect. 3. Beauty of Language from a resemblance between Sound and 
 
 Signification, 282 
 
 Sect. 4. Versification, 289 
 
 Chap. XIX. Comparisons, . 325 
 
 Chap. XX. Figures, 347 
 
 Sect. 1. Personification, 347 
 
 Sect. 2. Apostrophe, 359 
 
 Sect. 3. Hyperbole .361 
 
 Sect. 4. The Means or Instrument conceived to be the agent, . . 365 
 Sect. 5. A figure which, among related Objects, extends the Properties 
 
 of one to another, ' 365 
 
 Sect. 6. Metaphor and Allegory, 368 
 
 Sect. 7. Figure of Speech, 379 
 
 Table 1. Subjects expressed figuratively, 382 
 
 Table 2. Attributes expressed figuratively, ..... 385 
 
 Chap. XXI. Narration and Description, 391 
 
 Chap. XXII. Epic and Dramatic Compositions, ..... 414 
 
 Chap. XXIII. The Three Unities, 429 
 
 Chap. XXIV. Gardening and Architecture, 441 
 
 Chap. XXV. Standard of Taste, 466 
 
 Appendix. Terms defined or explained, ....... 474 
 
 Index, .... . 489
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Nothing external perceived till it makes an impression on the organs of sense 
 A wide difference with respect to our knowledge of this impression Sensible 
 of the impression in touch, taste, and smell In seeing and hearing not sensible 
 of it The pleasures of the eye and the ear occupy a middle rank Other valu- 
 able properties of the pleasures of the eye and the ear besides those of elevation 
 and dignity Organic pleasures defective in three particulars Intellectual 
 pleasures fatigue, but are relieved by the pleasures of the eye and the ear-^ 
 - Taste in the fine arts nearly allied to moral sense The design of the author 
 The requisites to form a critic The effect of a thorough acquaintance with the 
 fine arts It affords an enticing sort of logic It furnishes pleasing topics for 
 conversation It moderates the selfish affections, and invigorates the social- 
 It contributes towards the support of morality Authority formerly prevailed 
 over reason ; latterly reason has prevailed over authority, except in criticism 
 The productions of Homer and Virgil the foundation of Bossu's rules of criti- 
 cism Nature the only proper foundation To censure works, not men, the 
 proper object of criticism Time the only true standard of taste. 
 
 THAT nothing external is perceived till it first makes an impression 
 upon the organ of sense, is an observation that holds equally true in 
 every one of the external senses. But there is a difference as to our 
 knowledge of that impression. In touching, tasting, and smelling, 
 we are sensible of the impression : that, for example, which is made 
 upon the hand by a stone, upon the palate by an apricot, and upon 
 the nostrils by a rose. It is otherwise in seeing and hearing ; for I 
 am not sensible of the impression made upon my eye, when I behold 
 a tree ; nor of the impression made upon my ear, when I listen to a 
 song.* That difference in the manner of perceiving external objects, 
 distinguishes, remarkably, hearing and seeing from the other senses ; 
 and I am ready to show, that it distinguishes, still more remarkably, 
 the feelings of the former from those of the latter. Every feeling, 
 pleasant or painful, must be in the mind; and yet, because in tasting, 
 touching, and smelling, we are sensible of the impression made upon 
 the organ, we are led to place there also the pleasant or painful 
 feeling caused by that impression.! But, with respect to seeing and 
 
 * See the Appendix, 13. 
 
 t After the utmost efforts, we find it beyond our power to conceive the flavor 
 of a rose to exist in the mind; we are necessarily led to conceive that pleasure as 
 existing in the nostrils along with the impression made by the rose upon that 
 organ. And the same will be the result of experiments with respect to every 
 feeling of taste, touch, and smell. Touch affords the most satisfactory experi- 
 ments. Were it not that the delusion is detected by philosophy, no person would 
 hesitate to pronounce, that the pleasure arising from touching a smooth, soft, and 
 velvet surface, has its existence at the ends of the fingers, without once dreaming 
 of its existing any where else.
 
 12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 hearing, being insensible of the organic impression, we are not mis- 
 led to assign a wrong place to the pleasant or painful feelings caused 
 by that impression ; and therefore we naturally place them in the 
 mind, where they really are. Upon that account, they are conceived 
 to be more refined and spiritual, than what are derived from tasting, 
 touching, and smelling; for the latter feelings, seeming to exist 
 externally at the organ of sense, are conceived to be merely cor- 
 poreal. 
 
 The pleasures of the eye and the ear, being thus elevated above 
 those of the other external senses, acquire so much dignity as to 
 become a laudable entertainment. They are not, however, set on a 
 level with the purely intellectual ; being no less inferior in dignity 
 to intellectual pleasures, than superior to the organic, or corporeal. 
 They indeed resemble the latter, being, like them, produced by exter- 
 nal objects ; but they also resemble the former, being, like them, 
 produced without any sensible organic impression. Their mixt 
 nature, and middle place between organic and intellectual pleasures, 
 qualify them to associate with both. Beauty heightens all the 
 organic feelings, as well as the intellectual: harmony, though it 
 aspires to inflame devotion, disdains not to improve the relish of a 
 banquet. 
 
 The pleasures of the eye and the ear have other valuable proper- 
 ties beside those of dignity and elevation. Being sweet and mode- 
 rately exhilarating, they are, in their tone, equally distant from the 
 turbulence of passion, and the languor of indolence: and by that 
 tone are perfectly well qualified, not only to revive the spirits when 
 sunk by sensual gratification, but also to relax them when over- 
 strained 'n any violent pursuit. Here is a remedy provided for 
 many distresses ; and, to be convinced of its salutary effects, it will 
 be sufficient to run over the following particulars. Organic pleasures 
 have naturally a short duration : when prolonged, they lose their 
 relish; when indulged to excess, they beget satiety and disgust: 
 and, to restore a proper tone of mind, nothing can be more happily 
 contrived than the exhilarating pleasures of the eye and ear. On 
 the other hand, any intense exercise of intellectual powers, becomes 
 painful by overstraining the mind. Cessation from such exercise 
 gives not instant relief: it is necessary that the void be filled with 
 some amusement, gently relaxing the spirits.* Organic pleasure, 
 which has no relish but while we .are in vigor, is ill qualified for 
 that office ; but the finer pleasures of sense, which occupy without 
 exhausting the mind, are finely qualified to restore its usual tone 
 after severe application to study or business, as well as after satiety 
 from sensual gratification. 
 
 Our first perceptions are of external objects, and our first attach- 
 ments are to them. Organic pleasures take the lead : but the mind, 
 gradually ripening, relishes more and more the pleasures of the eye 
 and ear ; which approach the purely mental, without exhausting the 
 
 * Du Bos judiciously observes, that silence does not tend to calm an agitated 
 mind ; but that soft and slow music has a fine effect.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 spirits ; and exceed the purely sensual, without danger of satiety. 
 The pleasures of the eye and ear have, accordingly, a natural apti- 
 tude to draw us from the immoderate gratification of sensual appetite ; 
 and the mind, once accustomed to enjoy a variety of external objects 
 without being sensible of the organic impression, is prepared for 
 enjoying internal objects where there cannot be an organic impres- 
 sion. Thus the Author of nature, by qualifying the human mind 
 for a succession of enjoyments from low to high, leads it, by gentle 
 steps, from the most grovelling corporeal pleasures, for which only 
 it is fitted in the beginning of life, to those refined and sublime plea- 
 sures that are suited to its maturity. 
 
 But we are not bound down to this succession by any law of 
 necessity. The God of nature offers it to us, in order to advance 
 our happiness ; and it is sufficient, that he has enabled us to carry it 
 on in a natural course. Nor has he made our task either disagree- 
 able or difficult : on the contrary, the transition is sweet and easy, 
 -from corporeal pleasures to the more refined pleasures of sense ; and 
 no less so, from these, to the exalted pleasures of morality and reli- 
 gion. We stand, therefore, engaged in honor, as well as interest, 
 to second the purposes of nature, by cultivating the pleasures of the 
 eye and ear ; those, especially, that require extraordinary culture* 
 such as arise from poetry, painting, sculpture, music, gardening, and 
 architecture. This, especially, is the duty of the opulent, who have 
 leisure to improve their minds and their feelings. The fine arts are 
 contrived to give pleasure to the eye and the ear, disregarding the 
 inferior senses. A taste for these arts is a plant that grows natu- 
 rally in many soils ; but, without culture, scarcely to perfection in 
 any soil. It is susceptible of much refinement ; and is, by proper 
 care, greatly improved. In this respect, a taste in the fine arts goes 
 hand in hand with the moral sense, to which indeed it is nearly 
 allied. Both of them discover what is right and what is wrong : 
 fashion, temper, and education, have an influence to vitiate both, or 
 to preserve them pure and untainted : neither of them are arbitrary 
 nor local ; being rooted in human nature, and governed by princi- 
 ples common to all men. The design of the present undertaking, 
 which aspires not to morality, is, to examine the sensitive branch of 
 human nature, to trace the objects that are naturally agreeable, as 
 well as those that are naturally disagreeable ; and by these means 
 to discover, if we can, what are the genuine principles of the fine 
 arts. The man who aspires to be a critic in these arts must pierce 
 still deeper. He must acquire a clear perception of what objects are 
 lofty, what low, what proper or improper, what manly, and what 
 mean or trivial. Hence a foundation for reasoning upon the taste 
 
 * A taste for natural objects is born with us in perfection ; for relishing a fine 
 countenance, a rich landscape, or a vivid colour, culture is unnecessary. The 
 observation holds equally in natural sounds ; such as. the singing of birds, or the 
 murmuring of a brook. Nature here, the artificer of the object as well as of the 
 percipient, has accurately suited them to each other. But of a poem, a cantata, 
 a picture, or other artificial production, a true relish is not commonly attained, 
 without some study and much practice. 
 2
 
 14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of any individual, and for passing sentence upon it. Where it is 
 conformable to principles, \ve can pronounce with certainty that it is 
 correct ; otherwise, that it is incorrect, and perhaps whimsical. 
 Thus the fine arts, like morals, become a rational science ; and, like 
 morals, may be cultivated to a high degree of refinement. 
 
 Manifold are the advantages of criticism, when thus studied as a 
 rational science. In the first place, a thorough acquaintance with the 
 principles of the fine arts, redoubles the pleasure we derive from 
 them. To the man who resigns himself to feeling without inter- 
 posing any judgment, poetry, music, painting, are mere pastime. In 
 the prime of life, indeed, they are delightful, being supported by the 
 force of novelty, and the heat of imagination : but in time they lose 
 their relish ; and are generally neglected in the maturity of life, 
 which disposes to more serious and more important occupations. 
 To those who deal in criticism as a regular science, governed by 
 just principles, and giving scope to judgment as well as to fancy, the 
 fine arts are a favorite entertainment; and in old age mui 
 relish which they produce in the morning of life.* 
 
 In the next place, a philosophic inquiry into the principles of the 
 fine arts, inures the reflecting mind to the most enticing sort of logic. 
 The practice of reasoning upon subjects so agreeable, tends to a habit ; 
 and a habit, strengthening the reasoning faculties, prepares the mind 
 for entering into subjects more intricate and abstract. To have, in 
 that respect, a just conception of the importance of criticism, we need 
 but reflect upon the ordinary method of education : which, after some 
 years spent in acquiring languages, hurries us, without the least pre- 
 paratory discipline, into the most profound philosophy. A more ef- 
 fectual method to alienate the tender mind from abstract science, is 
 beyond the reach of invention ; and accordingly, with respect to such 
 speculations, our youth generally contract a sort of hobgoblin terror, 
 seldom if ever subdued. Those who apply to the arts, are trained in 
 a very different manner. They are led, step by step, from the easier 
 parts of the operation, to what are more difficult ; and are not per- 
 mitted to make a new motion, till they are perfected in those which 
 go before. Thus the science of criticism may be considered as a 
 middle link, connecting the different parts of education into a regular 
 chain. This science furnishes an inviting opportunity to exercise 
 the judgment. We delight to reason upon subjects that are equally 
 pleasant and familiar : we proceed gradually from the simpler to the 
 more involved cases ; and in a due course of discipline, custom, which 
 improves all our faculties, bestows acuteness on that of reason, suf- 
 ficient to unravel all the intricacies of philosophy. 
 
 Nor ought it to be overlooked, that the reasonings employed on 
 
 the fine arts are of the same kind with those which regulate our con- 
 
 ' duct. Mathematical and metaphysical reasonings have no tendency 
 
 to improve our knowledge of man ; nor are they applicable to the 
 
 common affairs of life : but a just taste of the fine arts, derived from 
 
 * " Though logic may subsist without rhetoric or poetry, yet so necessary 
 to these last is a sound and correct logic, that without it they are no better than 
 warbling trifles." Hermes, p. 6.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 rational principles, furnishes elegant subjects for conversation, and 
 prepares us for acting in the social state with dignity and propriety. 
 
 The science of rational criticism tends to improve the heart no 
 less than the understanding. It tends, in the first place, to moderate 
 the selfish affections. By sweetening and harmonizing the temper, 
 it is a strong antidote to the turbulence of passion, and violence of 
 pursuit. It procures, to a man, so much mental enjoyment, that, in 
 order to be occupied, he is not tempted to deliver up his youth to 
 hunting, gaming, drinking; nor his middle age to ambition; nor 
 his old age to avarice. Pride and envy, two disgustful passions, find 
 in the constitution no enemy more formidable than a delicate and 
 discerning taste. The man upon whom nature and culture have be- 
 stowed this blessing, delights in the virtuous dispositions and actions 
 of others : he loves to cherish them, and to publish them to the world. 
 Faults and failings, it is true, are to him no less obvious ; but these 
 he avoids, or removes out of sight, because they give him pain. On 
 "*the other hand, a man void of taste, upon whom even striking beau- 
 ties make but a faint impression, indulges pride or envy without con- 
 trol, and ]oves to brood over errors and blemishes. In a word, there 
 are other passions, that, upon occasion, may disturb the peace of so- 
 ciety more than those mentioned ; but not another passion is so un- 
 wearied an antagonist to the sweets of social intercourse. Pride and 
 envy put a man perpetually in opposition to others ; and dispose him 
 to relish bad more than good qualities, even in a companion. How 
 different that disposition of mind, where every virtue in a companion 
 or neighbor is, by refinement of taste, set in its strongest light ; and 
 defects or blemishes, natural to all, are suppressed, or kept out of 
 view ! 
 
 In the next place, delicacy of taste tends no less to invigorate the 
 social affections, than to moderate those that are selfish. To be con- 
 vinced of that tendency, we need only reflect, that delicacy of taste 
 necessarily heightens our feeling of pain and pleasure ; and of course 
 - our sympathy, which is the capital branch of every social passion. 
 Sympathy invites a communication of joys and sorrows, hopes and 
 fears : such exercise, soothing and satisfactory in itself, is necessarily 
 productive of mutual good-will and affection. 
 
 One other advantage of rational criticism is reserved to the last 
 place, being of all the most important ; which is, that it is a great 
 support to morality. I insist on it with entire satisfaction, that no 
 occupation attaches a man more to his duty, than that of cultivating 
 a taste in the fine arts : a just relish of what is beautiful, proper, ele- 
 gant, and ornamental, in writing or painting, in architecture or gar- 
 dening, is a fine preparation for the same just relish of these qualities 
 in character and behavior. To the man who has acquired a taste 
 so acute and accomplished, every action, wrong or improper, must 
 be highly disgustful. If, in any instance, the overbearing power of 
 passion sway him from his duty, he returns to it with redoubled re- 
 solution never to be swayed a second time. He has now an addi- 
 tional motive to virtue, a conviction derived from experience, that 
 happiness depends on regularity and order, and that disregard tQ
 
 16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 justice or propriety never fails to be punished with shame and 
 remorse.* 
 
 Rude ages exhibit the triumph of authority over reason. Philo- 
 sophers anciently were divided into sects, being Epicureans, Plato- 
 nists, Stoics, Pythagoreans, or Sceptics. The speculative relied no 
 farther on their own judgment than to choose a leader, whom they 
 implicitly followed. In later times, happily, reason has obtained the 
 ascendant : men now assert their native privilege of thinking for 
 themselves ; and disdain to be ranked in any sect, whatever be the 
 science. I am forced to except criticism, which, by what fatality I 
 know not, continues to be no less slavish in its principles, nor less 
 submissive to authority, than it was originally. Bossu, a celebrated 
 French critic, gives many rules ; but can discover no better founda- 
 tion for any of them, than the practice merely of Homer and Virgil, 
 supported by the authority of Aristotle. Strange ! that in so long a 
 work, he should never once have stumbled upon the question, 
 whether, and how far, do these rules agree with human nature. It 
 could not surely be his opinion, that these poets, however eminent 
 for genius, were entitled to give law to mankind ; and that nothing 
 now remains, but blind obedience to their arbitrary will. If in wri- 
 ting they followed no rule, why should they be imitated? If they 
 studied nature, and were obsequious to rational principles, why 
 should these be concealed from us ? 
 
 With respect to the present undertaking, it is not the author's 
 intention to compose a regular treatise upon each of the fine arts ; 
 but only, in general, to exhibit their fundamental principles, drawn 
 from human nature, the true source of criticism. The fine arts are 
 intended to entertain us, by making pleasant impressions ; and, by 
 that circumstance, are distinguished from the useful arts. But, in 
 order to make pleasant impressions, we ought, as above hinted, to 
 know what objects are naturally agreeable, and what naturally dis- 
 agreeable. That subject is here attempted, as far as necessary for 
 unfolding the genuine principles of the fine arts ; and the author 
 assumes no merit from his performance, but that of evincing, per- 
 haps mcTe distinctly than has hitherto been done, that these princi- 
 ples, as well as every just rule of criticism, are founded upon the 
 sensitive part of our nature. What the author has discovered or 
 collected upon that subject, he chooses to impart in the gay and 
 agreeable form of criticism ; imagining that, this form will be more 
 relished, and perhaps be no less instructive, than a regular and la- 
 bored disquisition. His plan is, to ascend gradually to principles, 
 from facts and experiments; instead of beginning with the former, 
 handled abstractedly, and descending to the latter. But, though 
 criticism is thus his only declared aim, he will not disown, that all 
 
 * Genius is allied to a warm and inflammable constitution, delicacy of taste to 
 calmness and sedateness. Hence it is common to find genius in one who is a prey 
 to every passion ; but seldom delicacy of taste. Upon a man possessed of that 
 blessing, the moral duties, no less than the fine arts, make a deep impression, and 
 counterbalance every irregular desire : at the same time, a temper calm and sedate 
 is not easily moved, evenly a strong temptation.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 17 
 
 along it has been his view, to explain the nature of Man, considered 
 as a sensitive being capable of pleasure and pain : and, though he 
 flatters himself with having made some progress in that important 
 science, he is, however, too sensible of its extent and difficulty, to 
 undertake it professedly, or to avow it as the chief purpose of the 
 present work. 
 
 To censure works, not men, is the just prerogative of criticism ; 
 and, accordingly, all personal censure is here avoided, unless where 
 necessary to illustrate some general proposition. No praise is 
 claimed on that account ; because censuring with a view merely to 
 find fault, cannot be entertaining to any person of humanity. Wri- 
 ters, one should imagine, ought, above all others, to be reserved on 
 that article, when they lie so open to retaliation. The author of this 
 treatise, far from being confident of deserving no censure, entertains 
 not even the slightest hope of such perfection. Amusement was at 
 first the sole aim of his inquiries. Proceeding from one particular 
 -to another, the subject grew under his hand; and he was far ad- 
 vanced before the thought struck him, that his private meditations 
 might be publicly useful. In public, however, he would not appear 
 in a slovenly dress ; and, therefore, he pretends not otherwise to 
 apologise for his errors, than by observing, that in a new subject, no 
 less nice than extensive, errors are, in some measure, unavoidable. 
 Neither pretends he to justify his taste in every particular. That 
 point must be extremely clear, which admits not variety of opinion ; 
 and in some matters susceptible of great refinement, time is perhaps 
 the only infallible touchstone of taste. To that he appeals, and to 
 that he cheerfully submits. 
 
 N. B. THE ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM, meaning the whole, is a 
 title too assuming for this work. A number of these elements or 
 principles are here unfolded : but, as the author is far from imagin- 
 ing that he has completed the list, a more humble title is proper, such 
 as may express any number of parts less than the whole. This he 
 thinks is signified by the title he has chosen, viz. ELEMENTS OF 
 CRITICISM.
 
 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A continued train of perceptions and ideas passing through the mind The influ- 
 ence of the relation of objects in directing the train of thought Connected 
 ideas varied by different causes The will accelerates our ideas by dismissing, 
 retards by dwelling upon, and raises by attending to their slighter connections 
 
 "* A melancholy tone of mind produces melancholy ideas ; a cheerful tone pro- 
 duces cheerful ideas Bluntness of the perceptive faculty prevents from distin- 
 guishing relations A great flow of ideas the consequence Accurate judg- 
 ment seldom connected with a great flow of ideas Wit and judgment seldom 
 connected Order as well as connection observable in the succession of our 
 ideas The order of nature The train of historical events, from cause to 
 effect The scientific train, from effect to cause The former the synthetic, 
 the latter the analytic method of reasoning Order a restraint upon great 
 geniuses Homer, Pindar, Virgil, and others, deficient in order and con- 
 nection An episode should be interesting It should relate to the subject It 
 should be short It should be introduced where the subject relents. 
 
 A MAN, while awake, is conscious of a continued train of percep- 
 tions and ideas passing in his mind. It requires no activity on his 
 part to carry on the train ; nor can he at will add any idea to the 
 train.* At the same time, we learn from daily experience, that the 
 train of our thoughts is not regulated by chance : and if it depend 
 not upon will, nor upon chance, by what law is it governed ? The 
 question is of importance in the science of human nature ; and I 
 promise beforehand, that it will be found of great importance in the 
 fine arts. 
 
 It appears, that the relations by which things are linked together, 
 have a great influence in directing the train of thought. Taking a 
 view of external objects, their inherent properties are not more 
 remarkable, than the various relations that connect them together : 
 cause and effect, contiguity in time or in place, high and low, prior 
 and posterior, resemblance, contrast, and a thousand other relations, 
 connect things together without end. Not a single thing appears 
 solitary and altogether devoid of connection : the only difference is, 
 
 * For how should this be done 1 what idea is it that we are to add 1 If we can 
 specify the idea, that idea is already in the mind, and there is no occasion for any 
 act of the will. If we cannot specify any idea, I next demand, how can a person 
 will, or to what purpose, if there be nothing in view 1 We cannot form a concep- 
 tion of such a thing. If this argument need confirmation, I urge experience : 
 whoever makes a trial will find, that ideas are linked together in the mind, form- 
 ing a connected chain ; and that we have not the command of any idea indepeu- 
 dent of the chain.
 
 20 PERCEPTIONS AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. [Ch. 1. 
 
 that some are intimately connected, some more slightly ; some near, 
 some at a distance. 
 
 Experience will satisfy us of Avhat reason makes probable, that 
 the train of our thoughts is, in a great measure, regulated by the 
 foregoing relations. An external object is no sooner presented to us 
 in idea, than it suggests, to the mind, other objects to which it is 
 related; and in that manner is a train of thoughts composed. Such 
 is the law of succession ; which must be natural, because it governs 
 all human beings. The law, however, seems not to be inviolable. 
 It sometimes happens that an idea arises in the mind, without any 
 perceived connection : as, for example, after a profound sleep. 
 
 But, though we cannot add to the train an unconnected idea, yet, 
 in a measure, we can attend to some ideas, and dismiss others. 
 There are few things but what are connected with many others ; and 
 when a thing thus connected becomes a subject of thought, it com- 
 monly suggests many of its connections. Among these a choice is 
 afforded : we can insist upon one, rejecting others ; and sometimes 
 we insist on what is commonly held the slighter connection. Where 
 ideas are left to their natural course, they are continued through the 
 strictest connections: the mind extends its view to a son more 
 readily than to a servant ; and more readily to a neighbor than to 
 one living at a distance. This order, as observed, may be varied by 
 will, but still within the limits of related objects ; for though we can 
 vary the order of a natural train, we cannot dissolve the train alto- 
 gether, by carrying on our thoughts in a loose manner without any 
 connection. So far does our power extend; and that power is suffi- 
 cient for all useful purposes : to have more power, would probably 
 be hurtful, instead of being salutary. 
 
 Will is not the only cause that prevents a train of thought from 
 being continued through the strictest connections : much depends on 
 the present tone of mind ; for a subject that accords with that tone 
 is always welcome. Thus, in good spirits, a cheerful subject will 
 be introduced by the slightest connection ; and one that is melan- 
 choly, no less readily in low spirits. An interesting subject is 
 recalled, from time to time, by any connection indifferently, strong or 
 weak; which is finely touched by Shakspeare, with relation to a 
 rich cargo at sea: 
 
 My wind, cooling my broth, 
 Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
 What harm a wind too great might do at sea 
 I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, 
 But I should think of shallows and of flats ; 
 And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand. 
 Vailing 'her high top lower than her ribs, 
 To kiss her burial. Should I go to church, 
 And see the holy edifice of stone, 
 And not bethink me strait of dangerous rocks ? 
 Which touching but my gentle vessel's side, 
 Would scatter all the spices on the stream, 
 Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks ; 
 And, in a word, but now worth this, 
 And now worth nothing. 
 
 Merchant of Venice, Act I. Sc. 1.
 
 Ch. 1.] PERCEPTIONS AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. 21 
 
 Another cause clearly distinguishable from that now mentioned, 
 has also a considerable influence to vary the natural train of ideas ; 
 which is, that, in the minds of some persons, thoughts and circum- 
 stances crowd upon each other by the slightest connections. I 
 ascribe this to a bluntness in the discerning faculty ; for a person 
 who cannot accurately distinguish between a slight connection and 
 one that is more intimate, is equally affected by each. Such a per- 
 son must necessarily have a great flow of ideas, because they are 
 introduced by any relation indifferently ; and the slighter relations, 
 being without number, furnish ideas without end. This doctrine is, 
 in a lively manner, illustrated by Shakspeare. 
 
 Fahtaff. What is the gross sum that I owe thee 1 
 
 Hostess. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and thy money too. 
 Thou didst swear to me on a parcel gilt-goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, 
 at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the 
 Prince broke thy head for likening him to a singing man of Windsor ; thou didst 
 HVear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my 
 Lady thy wife. Canst thou deny itl Did not Gootlwife, Keech, the butcher's 
 wife, come in then, and call me Gossip Quickly 1 coming in to borrow a mess of 
 Vinegar ; telling us she had a good dish of prawns ; whereby thou didst desire to 
 eat some ; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green wound. And didst not 
 thou, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with 
 such poor people, saying, that ere long they should call me Madam '? And didst 
 thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings 7 I put thee now to thy 
 book-oath, deny it if thou canst 1 
 
 Second Part, Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 2. 
 
 On the other hand, a man of accurate judgment cannot have a 
 great flow of ideas, because the slighter relations, making no figure 
 in his mind, have no power to introduce ideas. And hence it is 
 that accurate judgment is not friendly to declamation or copious elo- 
 quence. This reasoning is confirmed by experience; for it is a 
 noted observation, that a great or comprehensive memory is seldom 
 connected with a good judgment. 
 
 As an additional confirmation, I appeal to another noted observa- 
 tion, that wit and judgment are seldom united. Wit consists chiefly 
 in joining things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise 
 because they are unexpected : such relations, being of the slightest 
 kind, readily occur to those only who make every relation equally 
 welcome. Wit, upon that account, is, in a good measure, incompati- 
 ble with solid judgment ; which, neglecting trivial relations, adheres 
 to what are substantial and permanent. Thus memory and wit are 
 often conjoined: solid judgment seldom with either. 
 
 Every man who attends to his own ideas, will discover order as 
 well as connection in their succession. There is implanted in the 
 breast of every man a principle of order, which governs the arrange- 
 ment of his perceptions, of his ideas, and of his actions. With re- 
 gard to perceptions, I observe that, in things of equal rank, such as 
 sheep in a fold, or trees in a wood, it must be indifferent in what 
 order they be surveyed. But, in things of unequal rank, our ten- 
 dency is, to view the principal subject before we descend to its ac- 
 cessories or ornaments, and the superior before the inferior or de- 
 pendant : we are equally averse to enter into a minute consideration
 
 22 PERCEPTIONS AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. [Ch. 1. 
 
 of constituent parts, till the thing be first surveyed as a whole. It 
 need scarcely be added, that our ideas are governed by the same 
 principle ; and that, in thinking or reflecting upon a number of 
 objects, we naturally follow the same order as when we actually 
 survey them. 
 
 The principle of order is conspicuous with respect to natural 
 operations ; for it always directs our ideas in the order of nature. 
 Thinking upon a body in motion, we follow its natural course : the 
 mind falls with a heavy body, descends with a river, and ascends 
 with flame and smoke. In tracing out a family, we incline to begin 
 at the founder, and to descend gradually to his latest posterity : on 
 the contrary, musing on a lofty oak, we begin at the trunk, and 
 mount from it to the branches. As to historical facts, we love to 
 proceed in the order of time ; or, which is the same thing, to proceed 
 along the chain of causes and effects. 
 
 But though, in following out an historical chain, our bent is to pro- 
 ceed orderly from causes to their effects, we find not the same bent 
 in matters of science. There we seem rather disposed to proceed 
 from effects to their causes, and from particular propositions to those 
 which are more general. Why this difference in matters that ap- 
 pear so nearly related ? I answer, that the cases- are similar in ap- 
 pearance only, not in reality. In an historical chain, every event is 
 particular, the effect of some former event, and the cause of others 
 that follow : in such a chain, there is nothing to bias the mind from 
 the order of nature. Widely different is science, when we endea- 
 vor to trace out causes and their effects. Many experiments are 
 commonly reduced under one cause ; and again, many of these 
 causes under one still more general and comprehensive. In our 
 progress from particular effects to general causes, and from particu- 
 lar propositions to the more comprejiensive, we feel a gradual dila- 
 tation or expansion of mind, like what is felt in an ascending series, 
 which is extremely pleasing. The pleasure here exceeds that 
 which arises from following the course of nature; and it is that 
 pleasure which regulates our train of thought in the case now men- 
 tioned, and in others that are similar. These observations, by the 
 way, furnish materials for instituting a comparison between the 
 synthetic and analytic methods of reasoning. The synthetic method, 
 descending regularly from principles to their consequences, is more 
 agreeable to the strictness of order ; but in following the opposite 
 course in the analytic method, we have a sensible pleasure, like 
 mounting upward, which is not felt in the other. The analytic 
 method is more agreeable to the imagination ; the other method will 
 be preferred by those only, who, with rigidity, adhere to order, and 
 give no indulgence to natural emotions.* 
 
 It now appears that we are framed by nature to relish order and 
 connection. When an object is introduced by a proper connection, 
 we are conscious of a certain pleasure arising from that circum- 
 stance. Among objects of equal rank, the pleasure is proportioned 
 
 * A train of perceptions or ideas, with respect to its uniformity and variety, is 
 handled afterwards, chap. 9.
 
 Ch. 1 ] PERCEPTIONS AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. 23 
 
 to the degree of connection ; but among unequal objects, where we 
 require a certain order, the pleasure arises chiefly from an orderly 
 arrangement ; of which one is sensible, in tracing objects contrary 
 to the course of nature, or contrary to our sense of order. Thw 
 mind proceeds with alacrity down a flowing river, and with th* 
 same alacrity from a whole to its parts, or from a principal to its ac- 
 cessories; but in the contrary direction, it is sensible of a sort of re- 
 trograde motion, which is unpleasant. And here may be remarked 
 the great influence of order upon the mind of man. Grandeur 
 which makes a deep impression, inclines us, in running over any 
 series, to proceed from small to great, rather than from great to 
 small ; but order prevails over that tendency, and affords pleasure 
 as well as facility in passing from a whole to its parts, and from a 
 subject to its ornaments, which are not felt in the opposite course. 
 Elevation touches the mind no less than grandeur ; and in raising 
 the mind to elevated objects, there is a sensible pleasure. The 
 course of nature, however, has still a greater influence than eleva- 
 tion : and therefore, the pleasure of falling with rain, and descending 
 gradually with a river, prevails over that of mounting upward. But 
 where the course of nature is joined with elevation, the effect must 
 be delightful ; and hence the singular beauty of smoke ascending 
 in a calm morning. 
 
 I am extremely sensible of the disgust men generally have to 
 abstract speculation ; and I would avoid it altogether, if it could be 
 done in a work that professes to draw the rules of criticism from 
 human nature, their true source. We have but a single choice, 
 which is, to continue a little longer in the same train, or to abandon 
 the undertaking altogether. Candor obliges me to intimate this to 
 my readers, that such of them as have an invincible aversion to 
 abstract speculation, may stop short here ; for till principles be un- 
 folded, I can promise no entertainment to those who shun thinking. 
 But I flatter myself with a different bent in the generality of readers : 
 some few, I imagine, will relish the abstract part for its own sake; 
 and many for the useful purposes to which it may be applied. For 
 encouraging the latter to proceed with alacrity, I assure them 
 beforehand, that the foregoing speculation leads to many important 
 rules of criticism, which shall be unfolded in the course of this 
 work. In the meantime, for instant satisfaction in part, they will 
 be pleased to accept the following specimen. 
 
 Every work of art that is conformable to the natural course of our 
 ideas, is so far agreeable ; and every work of art that reverses that 
 course, is so far disagreeable. Hence it is required in every such 
 work, that, like an organic system, its parts be orderly arranged and 
 mutually connected, bearing each of them a relation to the whole, 
 some more intimate, some less, according to their destination. When 
 due regard is had to these particulars, we have a sense of just com- 
 position, and so far are pleased with the performance. Homer is 
 defective in order and connection ; and Pindar is more remarkably 
 so. Regularity, order, and connection, are painful restraints on a 
 bold and fertile imagination ; and are patiently submitted to, only
 
 24 PERCEPTIONS AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. , [Ch. I. 
 
 after much culture and discipline. In Horace there is no fault more 
 eminent than want of connection : instances are without number. 
 In the first fourteen lines of ode 7. lib. i. he mentions several towns 
 and districts, more to the taste of some than of others : in the remain- 
 der of the ode, Plancus is exhorted to drown his cares in wine. 
 Having narrowly escaped death by the fall of a tree, this poet* takes 
 occasion to observe justly, that while we guard against some dan- 
 gers, we are exposed to others we cannot foresee : he ends with dis- 
 playing the power of music. The parts of ode 16. lib. 2. are so 
 loosely connected as to disfigure a poem otherwise extremely beau- 
 tiful. The 1st, 2d, 3d, 4th, llth, 24th, 27th odes of the 3d book, all 
 lie open to the same censure. The first satire, book I. is so deformed 
 by want of connection, as upon the whole to be scarcely agreeable. 
 It commences with the important question, how it happens that peo- 
 ple, though much satisfied with themselves, are seldom so with their 
 rank or condition. After illustrating the observation in a sprightly 
 manner by several examples, the author, forgetting his subject, enters 
 upon a declamation against avarice, which he pursues till the 108th 
 line. There he makes an apology for wandering, and promises to 
 return to his subject; but avarice having got possession of his mind, 
 he follows out that theme to the end, and never returns to the ques- 
 tion proposed in the beginning. 
 
 Of Virgil's Georgics, though esteemed the most complete work 
 of that author, the parts are ill connected, and the transitions far from 
 being sweet and easy. In the first bookf he deviates from his sub- 
 ject to give a description of the five zones. The want of connection 
 here, as well as in the description of the prodigies that accompanied 
 the death of Caesar, are scarcely pardonable. A digression on the 
 praises of Italy in the second book,| is not more happily introduced : 
 and in the midst of a declamation upon the pleasures of husbandry, 
 which makes part of the same book, the author introduces himself 
 into the poem without the slightest connection. In the Lutrin, the 
 Goddess of Discord is introduced without any connection. She is 
 of no consequence in the poem ; and acts no part except that of lavish- 
 ing praise upon Louis XIV. The two prefaces of Sallust look as 
 if by some blunder they had been prefixed to his two histories : they 
 will suit any other history as well, or any subject as Avell as history. 
 Even the members of these prefaces are but loosely connected : they 
 look more like a number of maxims or observations than a connected 
 discourse. 
 
 An episode, in a narrative poem, being in effect an accessory, 
 demands not that strict union with the principal subject, which is 
 requisite between a whole and its constituent parts : it demands, how- 
 ever, a degree of union, such as ought to subsist between a principal 
 and accessory ; and therefore will not be graceful if it be loosely con- 
 nected with the principal subject. I give, for an example, the descent 
 of ^neas into hell, which employs the sixth book of the JEneid. 
 The reader is not prepared for that important event : no cause is 
 assigned that can make it appear necessary, or even natural, to sus- 
 * Lib. ii. ode 13. t Lin. 231. t Lin. 136. Lin. 475.
 
 Ch. 1.] PERCEPTIONS AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. 25 
 
 pend, for so long a time, the principal action in its most interesting 
 period : the poet can find no pretext for an adventure so extraordi- 
 nary, but the hero's longing to visit the ghost of his father, recently 
 dead : in the mean time the story is interrupted, and the reader loses 
 his ardor. Pity it is that an episode so extremely beautiful, were 
 not more happily introduced. I must observe, at the same time, that 
 full justice is done to this incident, by considering it to be an episode ; 
 for if it be a constituent part of the principal action, the connection 
 ought to be still more intimate. The same objection lies against that 
 elaborate description of Fame in the ^-Eneid:* any other book of 
 that heroic poem, or of any heroic poem, has as good a title to that 
 description as the book where it is placed. 
 
 In a natural landscape, we every day perceive a multitude of 
 objects connected by contiguity solely; which is not unpleasant, 
 because objects of sight make an impression so lively, that a relation 
 .gven of the slightest kind is relished. This, however, ought not to 
 be imitated in description. Words are so far short of the eye in 
 liveliness of impression, that in a description connection ought to be 
 carefully studied ; for new objects introduced in description are made 
 more or less welcome in proportion to the degree of their connection 
 with the principal subject. In the following passage, different things 
 are brought together without the slightest connection, if it be not 
 what may be called verbal, i. e. taking the same word in different 
 meanings. 
 
 Surgamus : solet esse gravis cantantibus umbra. 
 Juniper! gravis umbra : nocent et frugibus umbrse. 
 Ite domum saturse, venit Hesperus, ite capellse. 
 
 Virg. Buc. x. 75. 
 
 Now let us rise, for hoarseness oft invades 
 The singer's voice, who sings beneath the shades ; 
 From juniper unwholesome dews distil 
 That blast the sooty corn, the withering herbage kill 
 Away, my goats, away, for you have browzed your fill. 
 
 The introduction of an object metaphorically or figuratively, will 
 not justify the introduction of it in its natural appearance : a relation 
 so slight can never be relished : 
 
 Distrust in lovers is too warm a sun ; 
 
 But yet 'tis night in love when that is gone. 
 
 And in those climes which most his scorching know, 
 
 He makes the noblest fruits and metals grow. 
 
 Part 2. Conquest of Granada, Act III. 
 
 The relations among objects have a considerable influence in the 
 gratification of our passions, and even in their production. But that 
 subject is reserved to be treated in the chapter of emotions and pas- 
 sions, f 
 
 There is not, perhaps, another instance of a building so great, 
 erected upon a foundation so slight in appearance, as the relations of 
 objects and their arrangement. Relations make no capital figure in 
 the mind, the bulk of them being transitory, and some extremely 
 trivial. They are, however, the links that, by uniting our percep- 
 tions into one connected chain, produce connection of action, because 
 * Lib. iv. lin. 173. t Chap. 2. part I. sect. 4. 
 
 3
 
 26 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [CL 2. 
 
 perception and action have an intimate correspondence. But it is 
 not sufficient for the conduct of life, that our actions be linked 
 together, however intimately : it is beside necessary that they pro- 
 ceed in a certain order ; and this also is provided for by an original 
 propensity. Thus order and connection, while they admit sufficient 
 variety, introduce a method in the management of affairs: without 
 them our conduct would be fluctuating and desultory ; and we should 
 be hurried from thought to thought, and from action to action, 
 entirely at the mercy of chance 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 The feelings excited by the eye and ear only, called emotions or passions The 
 connection between the fine arts and emotions and passions, the design of this 
 chapter The principles of the fine arts open a direct avenue to the heart A 
 general or slight survey all that can be expected. 
 
 OF all the feelings raised in us by external objects, those only of 
 the eye and the ear are honored with the name of passion or emo- 
 tion: the most pleasing feelings of taste, or touch, or smell, aspire not 
 to that honor. From this observation appears the connection of emo- 
 tions and passions with the fine arts, which, as observed in the intro- 
 duction, are all calculated to give pleasure to the eye or the ear ; 
 never once descending to gratify any of the inferior senses. The 
 design, accordingly, of this chapter, is to delineate that connection, 
 with the view chiefly to ascertain what power the fine arts have to 
 raise emotions and passions. To those who would excel in the fine 
 arts, that branch of knowledge is indispensable ; for without it the 
 critic, as well as the undertaker, ignorant of any rule, has nothing 
 left but to abandon himself to chance. Destitute of that branch of 
 knowledge, in vain will either pretend to foretell what effect his work 
 will have upon the heart. 
 
 The principles of the fine arts, appear, in this view, to open a direct 
 avenue to the heart of man. The inquisitive mind beginning with cri- 
 ticism, the most agreeable of all amusements, and finding no obstruc- 
 tion in its progress, advances far into the sensitive part of our nature; 
 and gains imperceptibly a thorough knowledge of the human heart, 
 of its desires, and of every motive to action a science, which of all 
 that can be reached by man, is to him of the greatest importance. 
 
 Upon a subject so comprehensive, all that can be expected in this 
 chapter, is a general or slight survey; and to shorten that survey, I 
 propose to handle separately some emotions more peculiarly con- 
 nected with the fine arts. Even after that circumscription, so much 
 matter comes under the present chapter, that, to avoid confusion, I 
 find it necessary to divide it into many parts : and though the first of 
 these is confined to such causes of emotion or passion as are the 
 most common and the most general, yet upon examination I find this
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 27 
 
 single part so extensive, as to require a subdivision into several sec- 
 tions. Human nature is a complicated machine, and is unavoidably 
 so, in order to answer its various purposes. The public indeed have 
 been entertained with many systems of human nature that flatter the 
 mind by their simplicity. According to some writers, man is entirely 
 a selfish being : according to others, universal benevolence is his 
 duty: one founds morality upon sympathy solely, and one upon 
 utility. If any of these systems were copied from nature, the present 
 subject might be soon discussed. But the variety of nature is not so 
 easily reached, and for confuting such Utopian systems without the 
 fatigue of reasoning, it appears the best method to take a survey of 
 human nature, and to set before the eye, plainly and candidly, facts 
 as they really exist. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 CAUSES UNFOLDED OF THE EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 SECTION I. 
 
 No passion or emotion exists without an antecedent cause We love what is 
 agreeable, and hate what is disagreeable Sources of emotions External qua- 
 lities of objects Internal qualities of objects Actions of sensible beings ; with, 
 or without reflection The intention of actions, not the event, to be considered 
 The feelings of others Recollected ideas Desire follows some emotions 
 and not others Passions always accompanied with desire; emotions, 
 not Passion is productive of action : we do nothing without an antecedent 
 cause The objects of our passions are general, and particular Passions 
 directed to general objects, called appetites ; and those retain their name An 
 appetite precedes the object; a passion follows it Actions are instinctive and 
 deliberative Passions and actions are social, selfish, mixed, or dissocial 
 Slight impediments increase desire; insurmountable ones overcome it Dif- 
 ferent objects equally attainable, produce different degrees of emotion Ra- 
 tional beings raise the strongest emotions ; animate next ; and inanimate the 
 weakest. 
 
 THESE branches are so interwoven that they cannot be handled 
 separately. It is a fact universally admitted, that no emotion or pas- 
 sion ever starts up in the mind without a cause. If I love a person, 
 it is for good qualities or good offices : if I have resentment against a 
 man, it must be for some injury he has done me : and I cannot pity 
 any one who is under no distress of body nor of mind. 
 
 The circumstances now mentioned, if they raise an emotion or 
 passion, cannot be entirely indifferent ; for if so, they could not make 
 any impression. And we find upon examination, that they are not 
 indifferent. Looking back upon the fpregoing examples, the good 
 qualities or good offices that attract my love, are antecedently agree- 
 able : if an injury did not give uneasiness, it would not occasion 
 resentment against the author; nor would the passion of pity be raised 
 by an object in distress, if that object did not give pain. 
 
 What is now said about the production of emotion or passion, 
 resolves itself into a very simple proposition that we love what is 
 agreeable, and hate what is disagreeable And indeed it is evident,
 
 28 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [CH. 2. 
 
 that a thing must be agreeable or disagreeable, before it can be the 
 object either of love or of hatred. 
 
 This short hint about the causes of passion and emotion, leads to a 
 more extensive view of the subject. Such is our nature, that upon 
 perceiving certain external objects, we are instantaneously conscious 
 of pleasure or pain : a gently-flowing river a smooth extended plain 
 a spreading oak a towering hill, are objects of sight that raise 
 pleasant emotions : a barren heath a dirty marsh a rotten carcass, 
 raise painful emotions. Of the emotions thus produced, we inquire 
 for no other cause than merely the presence of the object. 
 
 The things now mentioned, raise emotions by means of their pro- 
 perties and qualities. To the emotion raised by a large river, its 
 size, its force, and its fluency, contributes each a share : the regu- 
 larity, propriety, and convenience, of a fine building, contribute each 
 to the emotion raised by the building. 
 
 If external properties be agreeable, we have reason to expect the 
 same from those which are internal ; and, accordingly, power, dis- 
 cernment, wit, mildness, sympathy, courage, benevolence, are agree- 
 able in a high degree. Upon perceiving these qualities in others, 
 we instantaneously feel pleasant emotions, without the slightest act 
 of reflection, or of attention to consequences. It is almost unneces- 
 sary to add, that certain qualities opposite to the former, such as dull- 
 ness, peevishness, inhumanity, cowardice, occasion, in the same man- 
 ner, painful emotions. 
 
 Sensible beings affect us remarkably by their actions. Some actions 
 raise pleasant emotions in the spectator, without the least reflection ; 
 such as graceful motion, and genteel behavior. But as intention, a 
 capital circumstance in human actions, is not visible, it requires 
 reflection to discover their true character. I see one delivering a 
 purse of money to another, but I can make nothing of that action, till 
 I learn with what intention the money is given. If it be given to dis- 
 charge a debt, the action pleases me in a slight degree ; if it be a 
 grateful return, I feel a stronger emotion ; and the pleasant emotion 
 rises to a great height, when it is the intention of the giver to relieve 
 a virtuous family from want. Thus actions are qualified by inten- 
 tion : but they are not qualified by the event ; for an action well 
 intended gives pleasure, whatever the event may be. Farther, 
 human actions are perceived to be right or wrong; and that percep- 
 tion qualifies the pleasure or pain that results from them.* 
 
 * In tracing our emotions and passions to their origin, my first thought was ; 
 that qualities and actions are the primary causes of emotions ; and that these emo- 
 tions are afterwards expanded upon the being to which these qualities and actions 
 belong. But I am now convinced, that this opinion is erroneous. An attribute 
 is not, even in imagination, separable from the being to which it belongs ; and, 
 for that reason, cannot, of itself, be the cause of any emotion. We have, it is 
 true, no knowledge of any being or substance but by means of its attributes ; and 
 therefore no being can be agreeable to us otherwise than by their means. But 
 still, when an emotion is raised, it is the being itself, as we apprehend the matter, 
 that raises the emotion ; and it raises it by means of one or other of its attributes. If 
 it be urged, that we can in idea abstract a quality from the thing to which it 
 belongs ; it might be answered, that such abstraction may serve the purposes of 
 reasoning, but is too faint to produce- any sort of emotion. But it is sufficient for
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 29 
 
 Emotions are raised in us, not only by the qualities and actions of 
 others, but also by their feelings. I cannot behold a man in distress, 
 without partaking of his pain ; nor in joy, without partaking of his 
 pleasure. 
 
 The beings or things above described, occasion emotions in us, 
 not only in the original survey, but also when recalled to the memory 
 in idea. A field laid out with taste, is pleasant in the recollection, 
 as well as when under our eye : a generous action described in 
 words or colors, occasions a sensible emotion, as well as when we 
 see it performed; and when we reflect upon the distress of any 
 person, our pain is of the same kind with what we felt when eye- 
 witnesses. In a word, an agreeable or disagreeable object recalled 
 to the mind in idea, is the occasion of a pleasant or painful emotion, 
 of the same kind with that produced when the object was present : 
 the only difference is, that an idea being fainter than an original per- 
 ception, the pleasure or pain produced by the former, is proportion- 
 ally fainter than that produced by the latter. 
 
 Having explained the nature of an emotion, and mentioned several 
 causes by which it is produced, we proceed to an observation of con- 
 siderable importance in the science of human nature, which is, that 
 desire follows some emotions, and not others. The emotions raised 
 by a beautiful garden, a magnificent building, or a number of fine 
 faces in a crowded assembly, is seldom accompanied with desire. 
 Other emotions are accompanied with desire : emotions, for example, 
 raised by human actions and qualities. A virtuous action raises in 
 every spectator a pleasant emotion, which is commonly attended 
 with desire to reward the author of the action : a vicious action, on 
 the contrary, produces a painful emotion, attended with desire to 
 punish the delinquent. Even things inanimate often raise emotions 
 accompanied with desire. Witness the goods of fortune, which are 
 objects of desire almost universally; and the desire, when immo- 
 derate, obtains the name of avarice. The pleasant emotion produced 
 in a spectator by a capital picture in the possession of a prince, is 
 seldom accompanied with desire ; but if such a picture be exposed 
 to sale, desire of having or possessing is the natural consequence of 
 a strong emotion. 
 
 It is a truth verified by induction, that every passion is accompa- 
 nied with desire ; and if an emotion be sometimes accompanied 
 with desire, and sometimes not, it comes to be a material inquiry, 
 in what respect a passion differs from an emotion. Is passion in its 
 nature or feeling distinguishable from emotion ? I have been apt to 
 think that there must be such a distinction ; but, after the strictest 
 
 the present purpose to answer, that the eye never abstracts ; by that organ we per- 
 ceive things as they really exist, and never perceive a quality as separated from 
 the subject. Hence it must be evident, that emotions are raised, not by qualities 
 abstractly considered, but by the substance or body so and so qualified. Thus, 
 a spreading oak raises a pleasant emotion, by means of its color, figure, umbrage, 
 &c It is not the color, strictly speaking, that produces the emotion, but the tree 
 co.:-.od: it is not the figure abstractly considered that produces the emotion, but 
 the tree of a certain figure. And hence, by the way, it appears, that the beauty 
 of such an object is complex, resolvable into several beauties more simple. 
 3*
 
 30 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [CL 2. 
 
 examination, I cannot perceive any. What is love, for example, but 
 a pleasant emotion raised by a sight or idea of the beloved female, 
 joined with desire of enjoyment? In what else consists the passion 
 of resentment, but in a painful emotion occasioned by the injury, 
 accompanied with desire to chastise the guilty person ? In general, 
 as to passion of every kind, we find no more in its composition, than 
 the particulars now mentioned an emotion pleasant or painful, 
 accompanied with desire. What then shall we say 2 Are passion 
 and emotion synonymous terms? That cannot be averred ; because 
 no feeling nor agitation of the mind void of desire, is termed a pas- 
 sion ; and we have discovered, that there are many emotions which 
 pass away without raising desire of any kind. How is the difficulty 
 to be solved ? There appears to me but one solution, which I relish 
 the more, as it renders the doctrine of the passions and emotions 
 simple and perspicuous. The solution follows. An internal motion 
 or agitation of the mind, when it passes away without desire, is 
 denominated an emotion : when desire follows, the motion or agita- 
 tion is denominated a passion. A fine face, for example, raises in 
 me a pleasant feeling. If that feeling vanish without producing any 
 effect, it is in proper language an emotion ; but if the feeling, by 
 reiterated views of the object, become sufficiently strong to occa- 
 sion desire, it loses its name of emotion, and acquires that of passion. 
 The same holds in all the other passions. The painful feeling raised 
 in a spectator by a slight injury done to a stranger, being accompa- 
 nied with no desire of revenge, is termed an emotion ; but that injury 
 raises in the stranger a stronger emotion, which being accompanied 
 with desire of revenge, is a passion. External expressions of dis- 
 tress produce, in the spectator, a painful feeling, which being some- 
 times so slight as to pass away without any effect, is an emotion ; but 
 if the feeling be so strong as to prompt desire of affording relief, it 
 is a passion, and is termed pity : envy is emulation in excess ; if the 
 exaltation of a competitor be barely disagreeable, the painful feeling 
 is an emotion ; if it produce desire to depress him, it is a passion. 
 
 To prevent mistakes, it must be observed, that desire here is taken 
 in its proper sense ; namely, that internal act, which, by influencing 
 the will, makes us proceed to action. Desire in a lax sense respects 
 also actions and events that depend not on us ; as when I desire that 
 my friend may have a son to represent him, or that my country may 
 flourish in arts and sciences : but such internal act is more properly 
 termed a wish than a desire. 
 
 Having distinguished passion from emotion, we proceed to con- 
 sider passion more at large, with respect, especially, to its power of 
 producing action. 
 
 We have daily and constant experience for our authority, that no 
 man ever proceeds to action but by means of an antecedent desire or 
 impulse. So well established is this observation, and so deeply rooted 
 in the mind, that we can scarcely imagine a different system of 
 action : even a child will say familiarly, what should make me do this 
 or that, when I have no desire to do it? Taking it then for granted, that 
 the existence of action depends on antecedent desire, it follows, that
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 31 
 
 where there is no desire there can be no action. This opens another 
 shining distinction between emotions and passions. The former, 
 being without desire, are in their nature quiescent: the desire included 
 in the latter, prompts one to act in order to fulfil that desire, or, in 
 other words, to gratify the passion. 
 
 The cause of a passion is sufficiently explained above: it is that 
 being or thing, which, by raising desire, converts an emotion into a 
 passion. When we consider a passion with respect to its power of 
 prompting action, that same being or thing is termed its object. A 
 fine woman, for example, raises the passion of love, which is directed 
 to her as its object : a man, by injuring me, raises my resentment, 
 and becomes thereby the object of my resentment. Thus the cause 
 of a passion, and its object, are the same in different respects. An 
 emotion, on the other hand, being in its nature quiescent, and merely 
 a passive feeling, must have a cause ; but cannot be said, properly 
 speaking, to have an object. 
 
 * The objects of our passions may be distinguished into two kinds, 
 general and particular. A man, a house, a garden, is a particular 
 object : fame, esteem, opulence, honor, are general objects, because 
 each of them comprehends many particulars. The passions directed 
 to general objects, are commonly termed appetites, in contradistinc- 
 tion to passions directed to particular objects, which retain their pro- 
 per name. Thus we say an appetite for fame, for glory, for conquest, 
 for riches ; but we say the passion of friendship, of love, of grati- 
 tude, of envy, of resentment. And there is a material difference 
 between appetitps and passions, which makes it proper to distinguish 
 them by different names. The latter have no existence till a proper 
 object be presented ; whereas the former exist first, and then are 
 directed to an object. A passion comes after its object ; an appetite 
 goes before it, which is obvious in the appetites of hunger, thirst, and 
 animal love, and is the same in the other appetites above mentioned. 
 
 By an object so powerful as to make a deep impression, the mind 
 is inflamed, and hurried to action with a strong impulse. Where 
 the object is less powerful, so as not to inflame the mind, nothing is 
 felt but desire without any sensible perturbation. The principle of 
 duty affords one instance : the desire generated by an object of duty, 
 being commonly moderate, moves us to act calmly, without any violent 
 impulse ; but if the mind happen to be inflamed with the importance 
 of the object, in that case desire of doing our duty becomes a warm 
 passion. 
 
 The actions of brute creatures are generally directed by instinct, 
 meaning blind impulse or desire, without any view to consequences. 
 Man is framed to be governed by reason : he commonly acts with 
 deliberation, in order 10 bring about some desirable end ; and in that 
 case his actions are means employed to bring about the end desired. 
 Thus I give charity in order to relieve a person from want ; I per- 
 form a grateful action as a duty incumbent on me ; and I fight for 
 my country in order to repel its enemies. At the same time, there 
 are human actions that are not governed by reason, nor are done 
 with any view to consequences. Infants, like brutes, are mostly
 
 32 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 governed by instinct, without the least view to any end, good or ill. 
 And even adult persons act sometimes instinctively. Thus one in 
 extreme hunger snatches at food, without the slightest consideration 
 whether it be salutary : avarice prompts to accumulate wealth, with- 
 out the least view of use ; and thereby absurdly converts means into 
 an end : and animal love often hurries to fruition, without a thought 
 even of gratification. 
 
 A passion when it flames so high as to impel us to act blindly 
 without any view to consequences, good or ill, may in that state be 
 termed instinctive ; and when it is so moderate as to admit reason, 
 and to prompt actions with a view to an end, it may, in that state, be 
 termed deliberative. 
 
 With respect to actions exerted as means to an end, desire to 
 bring about the end is what determines one to exert the action ; and 
 desire considered in that view is termed a motive. Thus the same 
 mental act that is termed desire with respect to an end in view, is 
 termed a motive with respect to its power of determining one to act. 
 Instinctive actions have a cause ; namely, the impulse of the passion ; 
 but they cannot be said to have a motive, because they are not done 
 with any view to consequences. 
 
 We learn from experience, that the gratification of desire is plea- 
 sant ; and the foresight of that pleasure becomes often an additional 
 motive for acting. Thus a child eats by the mere impulse of hunger: 
 a young man thinks of the pleasure of gratification, which being a 
 motive for him to eat, fortifies the original impulse : and a man far- 
 ther advanced in life, has the additional motive, that it will contri- 
 bute to his health.* 
 
 From these premises, it is easy to determine with accuracy, what 
 passions and actions are selfish, and what social. It is the end in 
 view that ascertains the class to which they belong : where the end 
 in view is my own good, they are selfish : where the end in view is 
 the good of another, they are social. Hence it follows, that instinc- 
 tive actions, where we act blindly and merely by impulse, cannot be 
 reckoned either social or selfish. Thus eating, when prompted by 
 an impulse merely of nature, is neither social nor selfish ; but add a 
 motive, that it will contribute to my pleasure or my health, and it 
 becomes in a measure selfish. On the other hand, when affection 
 moves me to exert an action to the end solely of advancing my 
 friend's happiness, without regard to my own gratification, the action 
 is justly denominated social ; and so is also the affection that is its 
 cause: if another motive be added, that gratifying the affection will 
 also contribute to my own happiness, the action becomes partly self- 
 ish. If charity be given with the single view of relieving a person 
 from distress, the action is purely social ; but if it be partly in view to 
 enjoy the pleasure of a virtuous act, the action is so far selfish. f 
 
 * One exception there is, and that is remorse, when it is so violent as to make 
 a man desire to punish himself. The gratification here is far from being pleasant. 
 Seep. 99 of this volume. But a single exception, instead of overturning a gene- 
 ral rule, is rather a confirmation of it. 
 
 t A selfish motive proceeding from a social principle, such as that mentioned, 
 is the most respectable of all selfish motives. To enjoy the pleasure of a virtuous
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 33 
 
 Animal love when carried into action by natural impulse singly, is 
 neither social nor selfish : when exerted with a view to gratification, 
 it is selfish : when the motive of giving pleasure to its object is su- 
 peradded, it is partly social, partly selfish. A just action, when 
 prompted by the principle of duty solely, is neither social nor selfish. 
 When I perform an act of justice with a view to the pleasure of gra- 
 tification, the action is selfish : I pay debt for my own sake, not with 
 a view to benefit my creditor. But suppose the money has been 
 advanced by a friend Avithout interest, purely to oblige me : in that 
 case, together with the motive of gratification, there arises a motive 
 of gratitude, which respects the creditor solely, and prompts me to 
 act in order to do him good ; and the action is partly social, partly 
 selfish. Suppose again I meet with a surprising and unexpected act 
 of generosity, that inspires me with love to my benefactor, and the 
 utmost gratitude. I burn to do him good : he is the sole object of 
 m.y desire ; and my own pleasure in gratifying the desire, vanishes 
 out of sight. In this case, the action I perform is purely social. 
 Thus it happens, that when a social motive becomes strong, the 
 action is exerted with a view singly to the object of the passion, and 
 self never comes in view. The same effect of stifling selfish motives, 
 is equally remarkable in other passions that are in no view social. 
 An action, for example, done to gratify my ambitious views, is selfish ; 
 but if my ambition become headstrong, and blindly impel me to 
 action, the action is neither selfish nor social. A slight degree of 
 resentment, where my chief view in acting is the pleasure arising to 
 myself from gratifying the passion, is justly denominated selfish. 
 Where revenge flames so high as to have no other aim but the des- 
 truction of its object, it is no longer selfish ; but, in opposition to a 
 social passion, may be termed dissocial* 
 
 When this analysis of human nature is considered, not one article 
 of which can with truth be controverted, there is reason to be sur- 
 prised at the blindness of some philosophers, who, by dark and con- 
 fused notions, are led to deny all motives to action but what arise 
 from self-love. Man, for aught appears, might possibly have been so 
 framed, as to be susceptible of no passions but what have self for their 
 object : but man thus framed would be ill fitted for society : his con- 
 stitution partly selfish, partly social, fits him much better for his 
 present situation,! 
 
 action, one must be virtuous ; and to enjoy the pleasure of a charitable action, one 
 must think charity laudable at least, if not a duty. It is otherwise where a man 
 gives charity merely for the sake of ostentation ; for this he may do without having 
 any pity or benevolence in his temper. 
 
 * This word, hitherto not in use, seems to fulfil all that is required by Demetrius 
 Phalereus {Of Elocution, sect. 96.) in coining a new word : first, that it be per- 
 spicuous ; and next, thijit it be in the tone of the language ; that we may not, says 
 our author, introduce among the Grecian vocables, words that sound like those of 
 Phrygia or Scythia. 
 
 t As the benevolence of many human actions is beyond the possibility of doubt, 
 the argument commonly insisted on for reconciling such actions to the selfish sys- 
 tem, is, that the only motive I can have to perform a benevolent action, or an action 
 of any kind, is the pleasure that it affords me. So much then is yielded, that we 
 are pleased when we do good to others : which is a fair admission of the princi- 
 ple of benevolence ; for without that principle, what pleasure could one have in
 
 34 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2, 
 
 Of self, every one has a direct perception ; of other things we 
 have no knowledge but by means of their attributes : and hence it is, 
 that of self the perception is more lively than of any other thing. 
 Self is an agreeable object : and for the reason now given, must be 
 more agreeable than any other object. Is this sufficient to accoilht 
 for the prevalence of self-love? 
 
 In the foregoing part of this chapter it is suggested, that some 
 circumstances make beings or things fit objects for desire, others 
 not. This hint ought to be pursued. It is a truth ascertained by 
 universal experience, that a thing which in our apprehension is 
 beyond reach, never is the object of desire. No man in his right 
 senses desires to walk on the clouds, or to descend to the centre of 
 the earth : we may amuse ourselves in a reverie, with building 
 castles in the air, and wishing for what can never happen : but such 
 things never move desire. And indeed a desire to do what we are 
 sensible is beyond our power, would be altogether absurd. In the 
 next place, though the difficulty of attainment, with respect to things 
 within reach, often inflames desire ; yet, where the prospect of attain- 
 ment is faint, and the event extremely uncertain, the object, however 
 agreeable, seldom raises any strong desire. Thus beauty, or any 
 other good quality, in a woman of rank, seldom raises love in a man 
 greatly her inferior. In the third place, different objects, equally 
 within reach, raise emotions in different degrees ; and when desire 
 accompanies any of these emotions, its strength, as is natural, is pro- 
 portioned to that of its cause. Hence the remarkable difference 
 among desires, directed to beings inanimate, animate, and rational. 
 The emotion caused by a rational being, is out of measure stronger 
 than any caused by an animal without reason ; and an emotion raised 
 by such an animal, is stronger than what is caused by any thing 
 inanimate. There is a separate reason why desire of which a 
 rational being is the object, should be the strongest : our desires 
 swell by partial gratification ; and the means we have of gratifying 
 desire, by benefiting or harming a rational being, are without end. 
 Desire directed to an inanimate being, susceptible neither of pleasure 
 nor pain, is not capable of a higher gratification than that of acquir- 
 ing the property. Hence it is, that though every emotion accom- 
 panied with desire, is strictly speaking a passion : yet commonly 
 none of these are denominated passions, but where a sensible being, 
 capable of pleasure and pain, is the object. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 Speech the most powerful means by which one being can display himself to 
 another Music may be rendered the means of promoting effeminacy and 
 luxury ; but its refined pleasures humanize and polish the mind The effect 
 of music on the Arcadians, an example The pernicious effect of English 
 comedy. 
 
 UPON a review I find the foregoing section almost wholly em- 
 ployed upon emotions and passions raised by objects of sight, though 
 
 doing good to others ? And admitting a principle of benevolence, why may it 
 not be a motive to action, as well as selfishness is, or any other principle *?
 
 Part I.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 35 
 
 they are also raised by objects of hearing. As this happened with- 
 out intention, merely because such objects are more familiar than 
 others, I find it proper to add a short section upon the power of 
 sounds to raise emotions and passions. 
 
 I begin with comparing sounds and visible objects with respect 
 to their influence upon the mind. It has already been observed that of 
 all external objects, rational beings, especially of our own species, have 
 the most powerful influence in raising emotions and passions ; and, 
 as speech is the most powerful of all the means by which one human 
 being can display itself to another, the objects of the eye must so far 
 yield preference to those of the ear. With respect to inanimate 
 objects of sight, sounds may be so contrived as to raise both terror 
 and mirth beyond what can be done by any such object. Music has 
 a commanding influence over the mind, especially in conjunction 
 with words. Objects of sight may indeed contribute to the same 
 en4, but more faintly; as where a love poem is rehearsed in a 
 shady grove, or on the bank of a purling stream. But sounds, 
 which are vastly more ductile and various, readily accompany all 
 the social affections expressed in a poem, especially emotions of 
 love and pity. 
 
 Music having at command a great variety of emotions, may, like 
 many objects of sight, be made to promote luxury and effeminacy ; 
 of which we have instances without number, especially in vocal 
 music. But, with respect to its pure and refined pleasures, music 
 goes hand in hand with gardening and architecture, her sister-arts, 
 in humanizing and polishing the mind ;* of which none can doubt 
 who have felt the charms of music. But, if authority be required, 
 the following passage from a grave historian, eminent for solidity of 
 judgment, must have the greatest weight. Polybius, speaking of 
 the people of Cynoetha, an Arcadian tribe, has the following train of 
 reflections. " As the Arcadians have always been celebrated for 
 their piety, humanity, and hospitality, we are naturally led to in- 
 quire, how it has happened that the Cynsetheans are distinguished 
 from the other Arcadians, by savage manners, wickedness, and cru- 
 elty. I can attribute this difference to no other cause, but a total 
 neglect among the people of Cynsetha, of an institution established 
 among the ancient Arcadians with a nice regard to their manners 
 and their climate : I mean the discipline and exercise of that genuine 
 and perfect music, which is useful in every state, but necessary to 
 the Arcadians ; whose manners, originally rigid and austere, made 
 it of the greatest importance to incorporate this art into the very 
 essence of their government. All men know that, in Arcadia, the 
 children are early taught to perform hymns and songs composed in 
 honor of their gods and heroes ; and that, when they have learned 
 the music of Timotheus and Philoxenus, they assemble yearly in 
 the public theatres, dancing with emulation to the sound of flutes, 
 and acting in games adapted to their tender years. The Arcadians, 
 even in their private feasts, never employ hirelings, but each man 
 sings in his turn. They are also taught all the military steps and 
 * See Chapter 24.
 
 36 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [CL 2. 
 
 motions to the sound of instruments, which they perform yearly in 
 the theatres, at the public charge. To me it is evident, that these 
 solemnities were introduced, not for idle pleasure, but to soften the 
 rough and stubborn temper of the Arcadians, occasioned by the 
 coldness of a high country. But the Cynsetheans, neglecting these 
 arts, have become so fierce and savage, that there is not another city 
 in Greece so remarkable for frequent and great enormities. This 
 consideration ought to engage the Arcadians never to relax, in any 
 degree, their musical discipline ; and it ought to open the eyes of 
 the Cynaetheans, and make them sensible of what importance it 
 would be to restore music to their city, and every discipline that 
 may soften their manners ; for otherwise they can never hope to 
 subdue their brutal ferocity."* 
 
 No one will be surprised to hear such influence attributed to music, 
 when, with respect to another of the fine arts, he finds a living in- 
 stance of an influence no less powerful. It is unhappily indeed the 
 reverse of the former ; for it has done more mischief by corrupting 
 British manners, than music ever did good by purifying those of 
 Arcadia. 
 
 The licentious court of Charles II., among its many disorders, 
 engendered a pest, the virulence of which subsists to this day. The 
 English comedy, copying the manners of the court, became abomi- 
 nably licentious ; and continues so with very little softening. It is 
 there an established rule, to deck out the chief characters with every 
 vice in fashion, however gross. But, as such characters viewed in 
 a true light would be disgustful, care is taken to disguise their de- 
 formity under the embellishments of wit, sprightliness, and good 
 humor, which in mixed company makes a capital figure. It requires 
 not much thought to discover the poisonous influence of such plays. 
 A young man of figure, emancipated, at last, from the severity and 
 restraint of a college education, repairs to the capital disposed to 
 every sort of excess. The playhouse becomes his favorite amuse- 
 ment ; and he is enchanted with the gayety and splendor of the chief 
 personages. The disgust which vice gives him at first, soon wears 
 off", to make way for new notions, more liberal in his opinion ; by 
 which a sovereign contempt of religion, and a declared war upon the 
 chastity of wives, maids, and widows, are converted from being in- 
 famous vices to be fashionable virtues. The infection spreads gra- 
 dually through all ranks, and becomes universal. How gladly 
 would I listen to any one who should undertake to prove, that what 
 I have been describing is chimerical ! but the dissoluteness of our 
 young men of birth will not suffer me to doubt its reality. Sir 
 Harry Wildair has completed many a rake ; and in the Suspicious 
 Husband, Ranger, the humble imitator of Sir Harry, has had no 
 slight influence in spreading that character. What woman, tinc- 
 tured with the playhouse morals, would not be the sprightly, the 
 witty, though dissolute Lady Townly, rather than the cold, the 
 sober, though virtuous Lady Grace ? How odious ought writers to 
 be, who thus employ the talents they have received from their Maker 
 * Polybius, Lib. 4. cap. 3.
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 37 
 
 most traitorously against himself, by endeavoring to corrupt and dis- 
 figure 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. Nor will it afford any excuse to such writers, that 
 their comedies are entertaining; unless it could be maintained, that 
 wit and sprightliness are better suited to a vicious than a virtuous 
 character. It would grieve me to think so ; and the direct contrary 
 is exemplified in the Merry Wives of Windsor, where we are 
 highly entertained with the conduct of two ladies, not more remark- 
 able for mirth and spirit than for the strictest purity of manners. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 An emotion followed by desire termed a passion The joy of gratification, an emo- 
 tion An event contrary to our desire, produces pain An unexpected event, 
 fortunate, or unfortunate, produces joy or sorrow A sudden removal of great 
 
 ""pain, the highest source of joy Why this is the case The difficulty of 
 accounting for the extreme pleasure that follows a cessation of bodily pain 
 The effect of the gradual diminution of pain. 
 
 THIS subject was purposely reserved for a separate section, be- 
 cause it could not, with perspicuity, be handled under the general 
 head. An emotion accompanied with desire is termed a passion ; 
 and when the desire is fulfilled, the passion is said to be gratified. 
 Now, the gratification of every passion must be pleasant; for nothing 
 can be more natural than that the accomplishment of any wish or 
 desire should affect us with joy. I know of no exception but when 
 a man, stung with remorse, desires to chastise and punish himself. 
 The joy of gratification is properly called an emotion ; because it 
 makes us happy in our present situation, and is ultimate in its 
 nature, not having a tendency to any thing beyond. On the other 
 hand, sorrow must be the result of an event contrary to what we 
 desire ; for if the accomplishment of desire produce joy, it is equally 
 natural that disappointment should produce sorrow. 
 
 An event, fortunate or unfortunate, that falls out by accident, with- 
 out being foreseen or thought of, and which, therefore, could not be 
 the object of desire, raises an emotion of the same kind as that now 
 mentioned : but the cause must be different ; for there can be no gra- 
 tification where there is no desire. We have not, however, far to 
 seek for a cause : it is involved in the nature of man, that he cannot 
 be indifferent to an event that concerns him or any of his connec- 
 tions : if it be fortunate, it gives him joy ; if unfortunate, it gives 
 him sorrow. 
 
 In no situation does joy rise to a greater height, than upon the 
 removal of any violent distress of mind or body ; and in no situation 
 does sorrow rise to a greater height, than upon the removal of what 
 makes us happy. The sensibility of our nature serves, in part, to 
 account for these effects. Other causes concur. One is, that violent 
 distress always raises an anxious desire to be free from it; and 
 therefore its removal is a high gratification : nor can we be pos- 
 sessed of any thing that makes us happy without wishing its con- 
 4
 
 38 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 tinuance ; and therefore its removal, by crossing our wishes, must 
 create sorrow. The principle of contrast is another cause: an 
 emotion of joy arising upon the removal of pain, is increased by 
 contrast when we reflect upon our former distress : an emotion of 
 sorrow, upon being deprived of any good, is increased by contrast 
 when we reflect upon our former happiness : 
 
 Jaffier. There's not a wretch that lives on common charity, 
 But's happier than me. For I have known 
 The luscious sweets of plenty : every night 
 Have slept with soft content about my head, 
 And never wak'd but to a joyful morning. 
 Yet now must fall like a full ear of corn, 
 Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's withered in the ripening. 
 
 Venice Preserved, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 It has always been reckoned difficult to account for the extreme 
 pleasure that follows a cessation of bodily pain ; as when one, for 
 instance, is relieved from the rack. What is said explains this diffi- 
 culty, in the easiest and simplest manner : cessation of bodily pain 
 is not of itself a pleasure, for a non-ens or a negative can neither 
 give pleasure nor pain ; but man is so framed by nature as to rejoice 
 when he is eased of pain, as well as to be sorrowful when deprived 
 of any enjoyment. This branch of our constitution is chiefly the 
 cause of the pleasure. The gratification of desire comes in as an 
 accessory cause : and contrast joins its force, by increasing the sense 
 of our present happiness. In the case of an acute pain, a peculiar 
 circumstance contributes its part : the brisk circulation of the animal 
 spirits occasioned by acute pain, continues after the pain is gone, and 
 produces a very pleasant emotion. Sickness has not that effect, 
 because it is always attended with a depression of spirits. 
 
 Hence it is, that the gradual diminution of acute pain, occasions 
 a mixt emotion, partly pleasant, partly painful : the partial diminution 
 produces joy in proportion ; but the remaining pain balances the 
 joy. This mixt emotion, however, has no long endurance ; for the 
 joy that arises upon the diminution of pain, soon vanishes, and 
 leaves in the undisturbed possession, that degree of pain which 
 remains. 
 
 What is above observed about bodily pain, is equally applicable to 
 the distresses of the mind ; and, accordingly, it is a common artifice, 
 to prepare us for the reception of good news by alarming our fears. 
 
 SECT. IV. 
 
 A feeling that can neither be called an emotion nor a passion Instances of illus- 
 tration This feeling resembles the appetites It is raised by virtuous actions 
 only The effect of it in promoting virtue. 
 
 ONE feeling there is that merits a deliberate view, for its singu- 
 larity as well as utility. Whether to call it an emotion or a passion, 
 seems uncertain : the former it can scarcely be, because it involves 
 desire ; the latter it can scarcely be, because it has no object. But 
 this feeling, and its nature, will be best understood from examples. 
 A signal act of gratitude produces in the spectator or reader, not
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 39 
 
 only love or esteem for the author, but also a separate feeling, being 
 a vague feeling of gratitude, without an object a feeling, however, 
 that disposes the spectator or reader to acts of gratitude, more than 
 upon an ordinary occasion. This feeling is overlooked by writers 
 upon ethics ; but a man may be convinced of its reality, by attentive- 
 ly watching his own heart when he thinks warmly of any signal 
 act of gratitude : he will be conscious of the feeling, as distinct from 
 the esteem or admiration he has for the grateful person. The feel- 
 ing is singular in the following respect that it is accompanied with 
 a desire to perform acts of gratitude, without having any object; 
 though in that state, the mind, wonderfully bent on an object, 
 neglects no opportunity to vent itself: any act of kindness or good 
 will, that would pass unregarded upon another occasion, is greedily 
 seized ; and the vague feeling is converted into a real passion of 
 gratitude : in such a state, favors are returned double. 
 ^, In like manner, a courageous action produces in a spectator the 
 passion of admiration directed to the author : and beside this well- 
 known passion, a separate feeling is raised in the spectator, which 
 may be called an emotion of courage ; because, while under its in- 
 fluence, he is conscious of a boldness and intrepidity beyond what is 
 usual, and longs for proper objects upon which to exert this motion 
 
 Spumantemque dari, pecora inter inertia, votis 
 Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem. 
 
 jEneid, iv. 158. 
 
 And rather would the tusky boar attend, 
 Or see the tawny lion downward bend. 
 
 Non altramente il tauro, oue 1'irriti 
 Geloso amor con stimoli pungenti, 
 Horribilmente mugge, e co'muggiti 
 Gli spirti in se risueglia, e 1'ire ardenti : 
 E'l corno aguzza a i tronchi, e par ch' inuiti 
 Con vani colpi a'la battaglia i venti. 
 Sparge col pie 1'arena ; e'l suo rivale 
 La lunge sfida a guerra aspra e mortale. 
 
 Tasso, Canto 7. st. 55. 
 
 Like as a bull when prickt with iealousie 
 
 He spies the rivall of his hot desire 
 
 Through all the fields both bellow, rore and crie, 
 , And with his thund'ring voice augments his ire, 
 
 And threat'ning battaile to the emptie skie, 
 
 Teares with his home, each tree, plant, bush and brire, 
 And with his foot casts up the sand oa hight, 
 Defying his strong foe to deadly fight. Fairfax. 
 
 So full of valor that they smote the air 
 For breathing in their faces. 
 
 Tempest, Act IV. Sc. 4. 
 
 The emotions raised by music, independent of words, must be all 
 of this nature : courage roused by martial music performed upon in- 
 struments without a voice, cannot be directed to any object ; nor can 
 grief or pity raised by melancholy music of the same kind have 
 an object. 
 
 For another example, let us figure some grand and heroic action,
 
 40 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 highly agreeable to the spectator : beside veneration for the author, 
 the spectator feels in himself an unusual dignity of character, which 
 disposes him to great and noble actions : and herein chiefly consists 
 the extreme delight every one takes in the histories of conquerors 
 and heroes. 
 
 This singular feeling, which may be termed the sympathetic emo- 
 tion of virtue, resembles, in one respect, the well-known appetites 
 that lead to the propagation and preservation of the species. The 
 appetites of hunger, thirst, and animal love, arise in the mind before 
 they are directed to any object ; and in no case whatever is the mind 
 more solicitous for a proper object, than when under the influence 
 of any of these appetites. 
 
 The feeling which I have endeavored to unfold, may well be 
 termed the sympathetic emotion of virtue ; for it is raised in the 
 spectator, or in a reader, by virtuous actions of every kind, and by no 
 others. When we contemplate a virtuous action, which fails not to 
 prompt our love for the author, our propensity, at the same time, to 
 such actions, is so much enlivened, as to become for a time an actual 
 emotion. But no man has a propensity to vice as such : on the con- 
 trary, a wicked deed disgusts him, and makes him abhor the author : 
 and this abhorrence is a strong antidote against vice, as long as any 
 impression remains of the wicked action. 
 
 In a rough road, a halt to view a fine country is refreshing : and 
 here a delightful prospect opens upon us. It is indeed wonderful to 
 observe what incitements there are to virtue in the human frame : 
 justice is perceived to be our duty ; and it is guarded by natural pun- 
 ishments, from which the guilty never escape ; to perform noble and 
 generous actions, a warm sense of their dignity and superior excel- 
 lence is a most efficacious incitement.* And to leave virtue in no 
 quarter unsupported, here is unfolded an admirable contrivance, by 
 which good example commands the heart, and adds to virtue, the 
 force of habit. We approve every virtuous action, and bestow our 
 affection on the author ; but if virtuous actions produced no other 
 effect upon us, good example would not have great influence : the 
 sympathetic emotion under consideration bestows upon good exam- 
 ple the utmost influence, by prompting us to imitate what we 
 admire. This singular emotion will readily find an object upon 
 which to exert itself: and at any rate, it never exists without produc- 
 ing some effect ; because virtuous emotions of that sort are, in some 
 degree, an exercise of virtue ; they are a mental exercise at least, if 
 they appear not externally. And every exercise of virtue, internal 
 and external, leads to habit; for a disposition or propensity of the 
 mind, like a limb of the body, becomes stronger by exercise. Pro- 
 per means, at the same time, being ever at hand, to raise this sym- 
 pathetic emotion, its frequent reiteration may, in a good measure, 
 supply the want of a more complete exercise. Thus, by proper dis- 
 cipline, every person may acquire a settled habit of virtue : inter- 
 course with men of worth, histories of generous and disinterested 
 actions, and frequent meditation upon them, keep the sympathetic 
 * See Essays on Morality and Natural Religion, part 1. ess. 2. ch. 4.
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 41 
 
 emotion in constant exercise, which by degrees introduces a habit, 
 and confirms the authority of virtue : with respect to education in 
 particular, what a spacious and commodious avenue to the heart of 
 a young person is here opened ! 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 The relations between objects productive of emotions and passions The relation 
 between a being and its qualities The relation between a principal and its 
 accessories The effect of veneration for relics The respect and esteem which 
 great men command, transferred to their dress, &c. Hatred extends to all con- 
 nections These emotions properly termed secondary, being produced by pri- 
 mary antecedent emotions The power of self-love Family connections 
 Friendship produces hatred towards the enemy of our friend Slight connec- 
 tions not favorable to the communication of passion Exceptions to this The 
 influence of order in the communication of passion The two exceptions The 
 effect of marriage in obstructing the affections One passion generated by ano- 
 ther without a change of the object. 
 
 . IN the first chapter it is observed, that the relations by which 
 things are connected, have a remarkable influence on the train of 
 our ideas. I here add, that they have an influence, no less remark- 
 able, in the production of emotions and passions. Beginning with 
 the former, an agreeable object makes every thing connected with it 
 appear agreeable ; for the mind, gliding sweetly and easily through 
 related objects, carries along the agreeable properties it meets with 
 in its passage, and bestows them on the present object, which there- 
 by appears more agreeable than when considered apart.* This rea- 
 son may appear obscure and metaphysical, but the fact is beyond all 
 dispute. No relation is more intimate than the relation between a 
 being and its qualities : and accordingly, every quality in a hero, 
 even the slightest, makes a greater figure than more substantial qua- 
 lities in others. The propensity of carrying along agreeable pro- 
 perties from one object to another? is sometimes so vigorous as to 
 convert defects into properties : the wry neck of Alexander was imi- 
 tated by his courtiers as a real beauty, without intention to flatter : 
 Lady Piercy, speaking of her husband Hotspur, 
 
 -By his light 
 
 Did all the chivalry of England move, 
 
 To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass, . 
 
 Wherein the noble youths did dress themselves. 
 
 He had no legs that practis'd not his gait : 
 
 And speaking thick, which Nature made his blemish, 
 
 * Such proneness has the mind to this communication of properties, that we 
 often find a property ascribed to a related object, of which naturally it is not sus- 
 ceptible. Sir Richard Grenville in a single ship, being surprised by the Spanish 
 fleet, was advised to retire. He utterly refused to turn from the enemy ; declar- 
 ing, " he would rather die, than dishonor himself, his country, and her Majesty's 
 
 ties in 
 tion : 
 
 or dishonor. In the battle of Mantinea, Epaminondas being mortally wounded, 
 was carried to his tent in a manner dead : recovering his senses, the first thing 
 he inquired about was his shield ; which being brought, he kissed it as the com- 
 panion of his valor and glory. It must be remarked, that among the Greeks and 
 Romans it was deemed infamous for a soldier to return from battle without his 
 shield. 
 
 4*
 
 42 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 Became the accents of the valiant : 
 
 For those who could speak slow and tardily, 
 
 Would turn their own perfection to abuse, 
 
 To seem like him. Second Part, Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 6. 
 
 The same communication of passion obtains in the relation of prin- 
 cipal and accessory. Pride, of which self is the object, expands itself 
 upon a house, a garden, servants, equipage, and every accessory. 
 A lover addresses his mistress's glove in the following terms : 
 Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine. 
 
 Veneration for relics has the same natural foundation ; and that 
 foundation with the superstructure of superstition, has occasioned much 
 blind devotion to the most ridiculous objects to the supposed milk, 
 for example, of the Virgin Mary, or the supposed blood of St. Jani- 
 varius.* A temple is in a proper sense an accessory of the deity to 
 which it is dedicated : Diana is chaste, and not only her temple, but 
 the very icicle which hangs on it, must partake of that property : 
 
 The noble sister of Poplicola, 
 
 The rnoon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle 
 
 That's curdled by the frost from purest snow, 
 
 And hangs on Dian's temple. Coriolanus, Act V. Sc. 3. 
 
 Thus it is, that the respect and esteem, which the great, the power- 
 ful, the opulent, naturally command, are, in some measure, communi- 
 cated to their dress, to their manners, and to all their connections : and 
 it is this communication of properties, which, prevailing, even over 
 the natural taste of beauty, helps to give currency to what is called 
 the fashion. 
 
 By means of the same easiness of communication, every bad qua- 
 lity in an enemy is spread upon all his connections. The sentence 
 pronounced against Ravaillac for the assassination of Henry IV. of 
 France, ordains, that the house in which he was born should be 
 razed to the ground, and that no other building should ever be erected 
 on that spot. Enmity will extend passion to objects still less con- 
 nected. The Swiss suffer no peacocks to live, because the Duke of 
 Austria, their ancient enemy, wears a peacock's tail in his crest. 
 A relation more slight and transitory than that of enmity, may have 
 the same effect : thus the bearer of bad tidings becomes an object of 
 aversion : 
 
 Fellow, begone ; I cannot brook thy sight ; 
 
 This news hath made thee a most uarly man. 
 
 King John, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news 
 Hath but a losing office : and his tongue 
 Sounds ever after, as a sullen bell 
 Remember'd, tolling a departed friend. 
 
 Secand Part, Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 In borrowing thus properties from one object to bestow them on 
 another, it is not any object indifferently that will answer. The 
 
 * But why worship the cross which is supposed to be that upon which our Sa- 
 vior suffered 1 That cross ought to be the object of hatred, not of veneration. 
 If it be urged, that as an instrument of Christ's suffering it was salutary to man- 
 kind, I answer, Why is not also Pontius Pilate reverenced, Caiphas the high 
 priest, and Judas Iscariotl
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 43 
 
 object from which properties are borrowed, must be such as to warm 
 the mind and enliven the imagination. Thus the beauty of a mis- 
 tress, which inflames the imagination, is readily communicated to a 
 glove, as above mentioned ; but the greatest beauty of which a glove 
 is susceptible, touches the mind so little, as to be entirely dropped 
 in passing from it to the owner. In general, it may be observed, 
 that any dress upon a fine woman is becoming ; but that ornaments 
 upon one who is homely, must be elegant indeed to have any remark- 
 able effect in improving her appearance.* 
 
 The emotions produced as above may properly be termed secondary, 
 being occasioned either by antecedent emotions or antecedent passions, 
 which in that respect may be termed primary. And to complete the 
 present theory, I must add, that a secondary emotion may readily 
 swell into a passion for the accessory object, provided the accessory 
 be a proper object for desire. Thus it happens that one passion is 
 often productive of another : examples are without number ; the sole 
 difficulty is a proper choice. I begin with self-love, and the power 
 it has to generate 'love to children. Every man, beside making part 
 of a greater system, like a comet, a planet, or a satellite only, has a 
 less system of his own, in the centre of which he represents the sun 
 darting his fire and heat all around ; especially upon his nearest 
 connections : the connection between a man and his children, funda- 
 mentally that of cause and effect, becomes, by the addition of other 
 circumstances, the completest that can be among individuals ; and 
 therefore self-love, the most vigorous of all passions, is readily ex- 
 panded upon children. The secondary emotion they produce by 
 means of their connection, is sufficiently strong to move desire, even 
 from the beginning ; and the new passion swells by degrees, till it 
 rivals, in some measure, self-love, the primary passion. To demon- 
 strate the truth of this theory, I urge the following argument. 
 Remorse for betraying a friend, or murdering an enemy in cold 
 blood, makes a man even hate himself: in that state, he is not con- 
 scious of affection to his children, but rather of disgust or ill-will. 
 What cause can be assigned for that change, other than the hatred 
 he has to himself, which is expanded upon his children. And if so, 
 may we not, with equal reason, derive from self-love, some part, at 
 least, of the affection a man generally has to them ? 
 
 The affection a man bears to his blood-relations, depends partly 
 on the same principle : self-love is also expanded upon them; and 
 the communicated passion is more or less vigorous in proportion to 
 the degree of connection. Nor does self-love rest here : it is, by the 
 force of connection, communicated even to things inanimate: and 
 hence the affection a man bears to his property, and to every thing 
 he calls his own. 
 
 Friendship, less vigorous than self-love, is. for that reason, less 
 
 * A house and gardens surrounded with pleasant fields, all in good order, 
 bestow greater lustre upon the owner than at first will be imagined. The beauties 
 of the former are, by intimacy of connection, readily communicated to the latter; 
 and if it have been done at the expense of the owner himself, we naturally transfer 
 to him whatever of design, art, or taste, appears in the performance. Should not 
 this be a strong motive with proprietors to embellish and improve their fields'?
 
 44 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 apt to communicate itself to the friend's children, or other relations. 
 Instances, however, are not wanting of such communicated passion, 
 arising from friendship when it is strong. Friendship may go higher 
 in the matrimonial state than in any other condition ; and Otway, in 
 Venice Preserved, takes advantage of that circumstance : in the scene 
 where Belvidera sues to her father for pardon, she is represented as 
 pleading her mother's merits, and the resemblance she bore to her 
 mother : 
 
 Priuli. My daughter ! 
 
 Belvidera. Yes, your daughter by a mother 
 
 Virtuous and noble, faithful to your honor, 
 
 Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes, 
 
 Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you 
 
 When in her blooming years she was your treasure, 
 
 Look kindly on me ; in my face behold 
 
 The lineaments of hers y'have kiss'd so often, 
 
 Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child. 
 
 And again, 
 
 Belvidera. Lay me, I beg you, lay me 
 By the dear ashes of my tender mother : 
 She would have pitied me, had fate yet spar'd her. 
 
 Venice Preserved, Act V. Sc. I. 
 
 This explains why any meritorious action, or any illustrious quali- 
 fication, in my son or my friend, is apt to make me over-value my- 
 self: if I value my friend's wife or son upon account of their con- 
 nection with him, it is still more natural that I should value myself 
 upon account of my connection with him. 
 
 Friendship, or any other social affection, may, by changing the 
 object, produce opposite effects. Pity, by interesting us strongly for 
 the person in distress, must consequently inflame our resentment 
 against the author of the distress :' for, in general, the affection we 
 have for any man, generates in us good-will to his friends, and ill- 
 will to his enemies. Shakspeare shows great art in the funeral ora- 
 tion pronounced by Antony over the body of Csesar. He first en- 
 deavors to excite grief in the hearers, by dwelling upon the deplo- 
 rable loss of so great a man : this passion, interesting them strongly 
 in Caesar's fate, could not fail to produce a lively sense of the treach- 
 ery and cruelty of the conspirators an infallible method to inflame 
 the resentment of the people beyond all bounds : 
 
 Antony. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
 You all do know this mantle. I remember 
 The first time ever Csesar put it on ; 
 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, 
 
 That day he overcame the Nervii 
 
 Look ! in this place ran Cassius's dagger through ; 
 
 See what a rent the envious Casca made. 
 
 Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ; 
 
 And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, 
 
 Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it ! 
 
 As rushing out of dors, to be resolv'd, 
 
 If Brutus so unkindly knock'd or no : 
 
 For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel. 
 
 Judge, oh you Gods ! how dearly Caesar lov'd him 
 
 This, this, was the unkindest cut of all ; 
 
 For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 45 
 
 Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, 
 
 duite vanquish'd him ; then burst his mighty heart ; 
 
 And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 
 
 Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell, 
 
 Even at the base of Pompey's statue. 
 
 O what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
 
 Then I and you, and all of us, fell down, 
 
 Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. 
 
 O, now you weep ; and I perceive you feel 
 
 The dint of pity ; these are gracious drops. 
 
 Kind souls ! what ! weep you when you but behold 
 
 Our Caesar's vesture wounded 1 look you here ! 
 
 Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, by traitors. 
 
 Julius Ccesar, Act III. Sc. 6. 
 
 Had Antony endeavored to excite his audience to vengeance, with- 
 out paving the way by raising their grief, his speech would not have 
 made the same impression. 
 
 Hatred, and other dissocial passions, produce effects directly op- 
 posite to those above mentioned. If I hate a man, his children, his 
 relations, nay his property, become to me objects of aversion : his 
 enemies, on the other hand, I am disposed to esteem. 
 
 The more slight and transitory relations are not favorable to the 
 communication of passion. Anger, when sudden and violent, is one 
 exception ; for, if the person who did the injury be removed out of 
 reach, that passion will vent itseif against any related object, how- 
 ever slight the relation be. Another exception makes a greater 
 figure : a group of beings or things, becomes often the object of a 
 communicated passion, even where the relation of the individuals 
 to the percipient is but slight. Thus, though I put no value upon 
 a single man for living in the same town with myself; my towns- 
 men, however, considered in a .body, are preferred before others. 
 This is still more remarkable with respect to my countrymen in gene- 
 ral: the grandeur of the complex objects swells the passion of self- 
 love by the relation I have to my native country ; and every pas- 
 sion, when it swells beyond its ordinary bounds, has a peculiar ten- 
 dency to expand itself along related objects. In fact, instances are 
 not rare, of persons, who upon all occasions are willing to sacrifice 
 their lives and fortunes for their country. Such influence upon the 
 mind of man has a complex object, or, more properly speaking, a 
 general term.* 
 
 The sense of order has influence in the communication of passion, 
 It is a common observation, that a man's affection to his parents is 
 less vigorous than to his children : the order of nature in descending 
 to children, aids the transition of the affection : the ascent to a pa- 
 rent, contrary to that order, makes the transition more difficult. 
 Gratitude to a benefactor is readily extended to his children ; but 
 not so readily to his parents. The difference, however, between the 
 natural and inverted order, is not so considerable, but that it may 
 be balanced by other circumstances. Pliny t gives an account of a 
 woman of rank condemned to die for a crime ; and, to avoid public 
 shame, detained in prison to die of hunger : her life being prolong- 
 
 * See Essays on Morality and Natural Religion, part 1. ess. 2. ch. 5. 
 t Lib. 7. cap. 36.
 
 46 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 ed beyond expectation, it was discovered, that she was nourished by 
 sucking- milk from the breasts of her daughter. This instance of 
 filial piety, which aided the transition, and made ascent no less easy 
 than descent is commonly, procured a pardon to the mother, and a 
 pension to both. The story of Androcles and the lion,* may be ac- 
 counted for in the same manner : the admiration, of which the lion 
 was the object, for his kindness and gratitude to Androcles, produ- 
 ced good will to Androcles, and a pardon of his crime. 
 
 And this leads to other observations upon communicated passions. 
 I love my daughter less after she is married, and my mother less 
 after a second marriage : the marriage of my son or of my father 
 diminishes not my affection so remarkably. The same observation 
 holds with respect to friendship, gratitude, and other passions. The 
 love I bear my friend, is but faintly extended to his married daughter: 
 the resentment I have against a man is readily extended against chil- 
 dren who make part of his family; not so readily against children 
 who are foris-familiated, especially by marriage. This difference is 
 also more remarkable in daughters than in sons. These are curious 
 facts ; and, in order to discover the cause, we must examine minutely 
 that operation of the mind by which a passion is extended to a related 
 object. In considering two things as related, the mind is not sta- 
 tionary, but passes and repasses from the one to the other, viewing 
 the relation from each of them perhaps oftener than once; which 
 holds more especially in considering a relation between things of 
 unequal rank ; as between the cause and the effect, or between a prin- 
 cipal and an accessory. In contemplating, for example, the relation 
 between a building and its ornaments, the mind is not satisfied with 
 a single transition from the former to the latter ; it must also view the 
 relation, beginning at the latter, and passing from it to the former. 
 This vibration of the mind in passing and repassing between things 
 related, explains the facts above mentioned : the mind passes easily 
 from the father to the daughter : but where the daughter is married, 
 this new relation attracts the mind, and obstructs, in some measure, 
 the return from the daughter to the father ; and any circumstance 
 that obstructs the mind in passing and repassing between its objects, 
 occasions a like obstruction in the communication of passion. The 
 marriage of a male obstructs less the easiness of transition ; because a 
 male is less sunk by the relation of marriage than a female. 
 
 The foregoing instances are of passion communicated from one 
 object to another. But one passion may be generated by another, 
 without change of object. It in general is observable, that a passion 
 paves the way to others similar in their tone, whether directed to the 
 same or to a different object ; for the mind, heated by any passion, 
 is, in that state, more susceptible of a new impression in a similar 
 tone, than when cool and quiescent. It is a common observation, 
 that pity generally produces friendship for a person in distress. One 
 reason is, that pity interests us in its object, and recommends all its 
 virtuous qualities : female beauty accordingly shows best in distress; 
 being more apt to inspire love, than upon an ordinary occasion. But 
 * Aulus Gellius, lib. 5. cap. 14.
 
 Part I.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 47 
 
 the chief reason is, that pity, warming and melting the spectator, 
 prepares him for the reception of other tender affections ; and pity 
 is readily improved into love or friendship, by a certain tenderness 
 and concern for the object, which is the tone of both passions. The 
 aptitude of pity to produce love, is beautifully illustrated by Shak- 
 speare : 
 
 Othello. Her father lov'd me ; oft invited me ; 
 
 Still questioned me the story of my life, 
 
 From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
 
 That I have past. 
 
 I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days, 
 
 To th' very moment that he bade me tell it : 
 
 Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, 
 
 Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 
 
 Of hair-breadth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach 
 
 Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
 
 And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, 
 
 And with it all my travel's history. 
 
 All these to hear 
 
 Would Desdemona seriously incline ; 
 
 But still the house-affairs would draw her thence, 
 
 Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
 
 She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 
 
 Devour up my discourse ; which I observing, 
 
 Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 
 
 To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, 
 
 That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, 
 
 Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
 
 But not distinctively. I did consent, 
 
 And often did beguile her of her tears, 
 
 When I did speak of some distressful stroke 
 
 That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, 
 
 She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 
 
 She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange 
 
 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful 
 
 She wish'd she had not heard it : yet she wish'd 
 
 That Heaven had made her such a man : she thank'd me, 
 
 And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, 
 
 I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
 
 And that would woo her. On this hint I spake : 
 
 She lov'd me for the dangers I had past, 
 
 And I lov'd her, that she did pity them : 
 
 This only is the witchcraft I have us'd. 
 
 Othello, Act I. Sc. 8. 
 
 In this instance it will be observed that admiration concurred with 
 pity to produce love. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 Fear and anger, instinctive and deliberative Fear provides for self-preservation 
 by flight ; anger, by resistance Instinctive anger frequently raised by bodily 
 pain and internal distress Anger exhibited in its rare appearances only. 
 
 FEAR and anger, to answer the purposes of nature, are happily so 
 contrived as to operate sometimes instinctively, sometimes deliber- 
 ately, according to circumstances. As far as they are deliberate, 
 they fall in with the general system, and require no particular expla- 
 nation. If any object have a threatening appearance, reason sug-
 
 48 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 gests means to avoid the danger : if a man be injured, the first thing 
 he thinks of, is what revenge he shall take, and what means he shall 
 employ. These particulars are no less obvious than natural. But, 
 as the passions of fear and anger in their instinctive state, are less 
 familiar to us, it may be acceptable to the reader to have them accu- 
 rately delineated. He may also possibly be glad of an opportunity 
 to have the nature of instinctive passions more fully explained, than 
 there was formerly opportunity to do. I begin with fear. 
 
 Self-preservation is a matter of too great importance to be left 
 entirely to the conduct of reason. Nature has acted here with her 
 usual foresight. Fear and anger are passions that move us to act, 
 sometimes deliberately, sometimes instinctively, according to circum- 
 stances ; and by operating in the latter manner, they frequently 
 afford security, when the slower operations of deliberate reason would 
 be too late. We take nourishment commonly, not by the direction of 
 reason, but by the impulse of hunger and thirst ; and, in the same 
 manner, we avoid danger by the impulse of fear, which often, before 
 there is time for reflection, places us in safety. Here we have an 
 illustrious instance of wisdom in the formation of man ; for it is not 
 within the reach of fancy to conceive any thing more artfully con- 
 trived to answer its purpose, than the instinctive passion of fear, 
 which, upon the first surmise of danger, operates instantaneously. 
 So little does the passion, in such instances, depend on reason, that 
 it frequently operates in contradiction to it: a man who is not upon 
 his guard cannot avoid shrinking at a blow, though he knows it to 
 be aimed in sport; nor avoid closing his eyes at the approach of 
 what may hurt them, though conscious that he is in no danger. And 
 it also operates by impelling us to act even where we are conscious 
 that our interposition can be of no service : if a passage boat, in a 
 brisk gale, bear much to one side, I cannot avoid applying the 
 whole force of my shoulders to set it upright ; and, if my horse stum- 
 ble, my hands and knees are instantly at work to prevent him from 
 falling. 
 
 Fear provides for self-preservation by flying from harm ; anger, 
 by repelling it. Nothing, indeed, can be better contrived to repel or 
 prevent injury, than anger or resentment: destitute of that passion, 
 men, like defenceless lambs, would lie constantly open to mischief* 
 Deliberate anger caused by a voluntary injury, is too well known to 
 require any explanation. If my desire be to resent an affront, 1 
 must use means ; and these means must be discovered by reflection : 
 deliberation is here requisite ; and in that case the passion seldom 
 exceeds just bounds. But, where anger impels one suddenly to 
 return a blow, even without thinking of doing mischief, the passion 
 .is instinctive ; and it is chiefly in such a case that it is rash and 
 ungovernable, because it operates blindly, without affording time for 
 deliberation or foresight. 
 
 Instinctive anger is frequently raised by bodily pain ; by a stroke, 
 
 * Brasidas being bit by a mouse he had caught, let it slip out of his fingers : 
 " No creature (says he) is so contemptible, but what may provide for its, own 
 safety, if it have courage." Plutarch, Apothegmata.
 
 Part l.J EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 49 
 
 for example, on a tender part, which, ruffling the temper, and unhing- 
 ing the mind, is in its tone similar to anger : and when a man is thus 
 beforehand disposed to anger, he is not nice nor scrupulous about an 
 object ; the person who gave the stroke, however accidentally, is by 
 an inflammable temper held a proper object, merely for having occa- 
 sioned the pain. It is still more remarkable, that a stock or a stone 
 by which. I am hurt, becomes an object for my resentment: I am 
 violently excited to crush it to atoms. The passion, indeed, in that 
 case, can be but a single flash ; for being entirely irrational, it must 
 vanish with the first reflection. Nor is that irrational effect confined 
 to bodily pain : internal distress, when excessive, may be the occasion 
 of effects equally irrational : perturbation of mind occasioned by the 
 apprehension of having lost a dear friend, will, in a fiery temper, 
 produce momentary sparks of anger against that very friend, how- 
 ever innocent : thus Shakspeare, in the Tempest, 
 
 Alonzo. Sit clown and rest 
 
 Ev'n here I will put off my hope, and keep it 
 No longer for my flatterer ; he is drown'd 
 Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks 
 Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. 
 
 Act III. Sc. 3. 
 
 The final words, Well, let him go, are an expression of impatience 
 and anger at Ferdinand, whose absence greatly distressed his father, 
 dreading that he was lost in the storm. This nice operation of the 
 human mind, is by Shakspeare exhibited upon another occasion, and 
 finely painted in the tragedy of Othello : lago, by dark hints and 
 suspicious circumstances, had roused Othello's jealousy; which, 
 however, appeared too slightly founded to be vented upon Desde- 
 mona, its proper object. The perturbation and distress of mind 
 thereby occasioned, produced a momentary resentment against lago, 
 considered as occasioning the jealousy, though innocent : 
 
 Othello. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore ; 
 Be sure of it : give me the ocular proof, 
 Or by the wrath of man's eternal soul 
 Thou hadst been better have been born a dog, 
 Than answer my wak'd wrath. 
 
 Iar). Is't come to this 1 
 
 Othello. Make me see't ; or, at the least, to prove it, 
 That the probation bear no hinge or loop 
 To hang a doubt on : or wo upon thy life ! 
 
 lago. My noble Lord 
 
 Othello. If tbou dost slander her, and torture me, 
 Never pray more ; abandon all remorse ; 
 On horrors head horrors accumulate; 
 Do deeds to make heav'n weep, all earth amaz'd : 
 For nothing canst thou to damnation add 
 Greater than that. 
 
 Othello, Act II. Sc. 8. 
 
 This blind and absurd effect of anger is more gayly illustrated by 
 Addison, in a story, the dramatis persona of which are, a cardinal, 
 and a spy retained in pay for intelligence. The cardinal is repre- 
 sented as minuting down the particulars. The spy begins with a 
 low voice, " Such an one the advocate whispered to one of his friends 
 within my hearing, that your Eminence was a very great poltroon;" 
 5
 
 50 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 and after having given his patron time to take it down, aads, " That 
 another called him a mercenary rascal in a public conversation." 
 The cardinal replies, " Very well," and bids him go on. The spy 
 proceeds, and loads him with reports of the same nature, till the car- 
 dinal rises in a fury, calls him an impudent scoundrel, and kicks him. 
 out of the room.* 
 
 We meet with instances every day of resentment raised by loss at 
 play, and wreaked on the cards or dice. But anger, a furious pas- 
 sion, is satisfied with a connection still slighter than that of cause 
 and effect ; of which Congreve, in the Mourning Bride, gives one 
 beautiful example: 
 
 Gonsales. Have comfort. 
 
 Almeria. Curs'd be that tongue that bids me be of comfort, 
 Curs'd my own tongue that could not move his pity, 
 Curs'd these weak hands that could not hold him here, 
 For he is gone to doom Alphonso's death. Act IV. Sc. 8. 
 
 I have chosen to exhibit anger in its more rare appearances, for in 
 these we can best trace its nature and extent. In the examples above 
 given, it appears to be an absurd passion, and altogether irrational. 
 But we ought to consider, that it is not the intention of nature to sub- 
 ject this passion, in every instance, to reason and reflection : it was 
 given us to prevent or to repel injuries: and, like fear, it often ope- 
 rates blindly and instinctively, without the least view to consequen- 
 ces : the very first apprehension of harm, sets it in motion to repel 
 injury by punishment. Were it more cool and deliberate, it would 
 lose its threatening appearance, and be insufficient to guard us against 
 violence. When such is, and ought to be the nature of the passion, 
 it is not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly and capriciously, as 
 it sometimes is where the mischief is sudden and unforeseen. All 
 the harm that can be done by the passion in that state is instantane- 
 ous ; for the shortest delay sets all to rights ; and circumstances are 
 seldom so unlucky as to put it in the power of a passionate man to 
 do much harm in an instant. 
 
 Social passions, like the selfish, sometimes drop their character, 
 and become instinctive. It is not unusual to find anger and fear 
 respecting others so excessive, as to operate blindly and impetuously, 
 precisely as where they are selfish. 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 Passions excited by fiction That things exist as we behold them is a branch of 
 intuitive knowledge Difference between ideal presence and reflective remem- 
 brance Ideal presence, as distinguished from real presence, called a waking 
 dream As distinguished from reflective remembrance, it has no regard to time 
 In reading, truth and fiction equally excite emotions History capable of excit- 
 ing emotions by ideal presence only Theatrical representations the most suc- 
 cessful in raising emotions Painting Reading The effect of describing a 
 past event as present Not to go backwards and forwards Nothing improba- 
 ble to be introduced in an epic poem No machinery to be employed The final 
 cause of the excitement of our passions by fiction. 
 
 THE attentive reader will observe, that hitherto no fiction has 
 been assigned as the cause of any passion or emotion ; whether it be 
 * Spectator, No. 439.
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 51 
 
 a being, action, or quality, that moves us, it is supposed to be really 
 existing. This observation shows that we have not yet completed 
 our task ; because passions, as all the world know, are moved by 
 fiction as well as by truth. In judging beforehand of man, so 
 remarkably addicted to truth and reality, one should little dream that 
 fiction can have any effect upon him ; but man's intellectual faculties 
 are not sufficiently perfect to dive far, even into his own nature. 
 I shall take occasion afterward to show, that the power of fiction to 
 generate passion is an admirable contrivance^ subservient to excel- 
 lent purposes : in the mean time, we must try to unfold the means 
 that give fiction such influence over the mind. 
 
 That the objects of our external senses really exist in the way and 
 manner we perceive, is a branch of intuitive knowledge : when I see 
 a man walking, a tree growing, or cattle grazing, I cannot doubt that 
 these objects are really what they appear to be : if I be a spectator 
 of any transaction or event, I have a conviction of the real existence 
 of the persons engaged, of their words, and of their actions. Nature 
 determines us to rely on the veracity of our senses ; for otherwise 
 they could not, in any degree, answer their end that of laying open 
 things existing and passing around us. 
 
 By the power of memory, a thing formerly seen, may be recalled 
 to the mind with different degrees of accuracy. We are commonly 
 satisfied with a slight recollection of the capital circumstances ; and, 
 in such recollection, the thing is not figured as in our view, nor any 
 image formed : we retain the consciousness of our present situation, 
 and barely remember that formerly we saw that thing. But with 
 respect to an interesting object or event that made a strong impres- 
 sion, I am not satisfied with a cursory review, but must dwell upon 
 every circumstance. I am imperceptibly converted into a spectator, 
 and perceive every particular passing in my presence, as when I 
 was in reality a spectator. For example, I saw, yesterday, a beau- 
 tiful woman in tears for the loss of an only child, and was greatly 
 moved with her distress : not satisfied with a slight recollection or 
 oare remembrance, I ponder upon the melancholy scene : conceiving 
 myself to be in the place where I was an eye-witness, every circum- 
 stance appears to me as at first : I think I see the woman in tears, 
 and hear her moans. Hence it may be justly said, that in a com- 
 plete idea of memory there is no past nor future : a thing recalled to 
 the mind with the accuracy I have been describing, is perceived as 
 in our view, and, consequently, as existing at present. Past time 
 makes part of an incomplete idea only : I remember or reflect, that 
 some years ago I was at Oxford, and saw the first stone laid of the 
 Ratcliff library ; and I remember that, at a still greater distance of 
 time, I heard a debate in the House of Commons about a standing 
 army. 
 
 Lamentable is the imperfection of language, almost in every par- 
 ticular that falls not under external sense. I am talking of a matter 
 exceedingly clear in the perception, and yet I find no small difficulty 
 to express it clearly in words ; for it is not accurate to talk of inci- 
 dents long past as passing in our sight, nor of hearing at. present
 
 52 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [CL 2, 
 
 what we really heard yesterday, or at a more distant time. And 
 yet the want of proper words to describe ideal presence, and to dis- 
 tinguish it from real presence, makes this inaccuracy unavoidable. 
 When I recall any thing to my mind in a manner so distinct as to 
 form an idea or image of it as present, I have not words to describe 
 that act, but that I perceive the thing as a spectator, and as existing 
 in my presence ; which means not that I am really a spectator, but 
 only that I conceive myself to be a spectator, and have a perception 
 of the object similar to what a real spectator has. 
 
 As many rules of criticism depend on ideal presence, the reader, 
 it is hoped, will take some pains to form an exact notion of it, as dis- 
 tinguished, on the one hand, from real presence, and on the other, 
 from a superficial or reflective remembrance. In contradistinction 
 to real presence, ideal presence may properly be termed a waking 
 dream ; because, like a dream, it vanishes the moment we reflect 
 upon our present situation : real presence, on the contrary, vouched 
 by eye-sight, commands our belief, not only during the direct per- 
 ception, but in reflecting afterward on the object. To distinguish 
 ideal presence from reflective remembrance, I give the following 
 illustration : when I think of an event as past, without forming any 
 image, it is barely reflecting or remembering that I was an eye- 
 witness : but when I recall the event so distinctly as to form a com- 
 plete image of it, I perceive it as passing in my presence ; and this 
 perception is an act of intuition, into which reflection enters not, more 
 than into an act of sight. 
 
 Though ideal presence is thus distinguished from real presence 
 on the one side, and from reflective remembrance on the other, it is, 
 however, variable without any precise limits ; rising sometimes 
 toward the former, and often sinking toward the latter. In a vigor- 
 ous exertion of memory, ideal presence is extremely distinct. Thus, 
 when a man, entirely occupied with some event that made a deep 
 impression, forgets himself, he perceives every thing as passing 
 before him, and has a consciousness of presence similar to that of a 
 spectator ; with no difference but that in the former the perception 
 of presence is less firm and clear than in the latter. But such vigor- 
 ous exertion of memory is rare : ideal presence is oftener faint, and 
 the image so obscure as not to differ widely from reflective remem- 
 brance. 
 
 Hitherto I have spoken of an idea of memory. I proceed to con- 
 sider the idea of a thing I never saw, raised in me by speech, by 
 writing, or by painting. That idea, with respect to the present sub- 
 ject, is of the same nature with an idea of memory, being either com- 
 plete or incomplete. A lively and accurate description of an import- 
 ant event, raises in me ideas no less distinct than if I had been 
 originally an eye-witness : I am insensibly transformed into a spec- 
 tator ; and have an impression that every incident is passing in my 
 presence. On the other hand, a slight or superficial narrative pro- 
 duces but a faint and incomplete idea, of which ideal presence makes 
 no part. Past time is a circumstance that enters into this idea, as it 
 does into an incomplete idea of memory : I believe that Scipio existed
 
 Part l.j EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 53 
 
 about 2000 years ago, and that he overcame Hannibal in the famous 
 battle of Zama. When I reflect so slightly upon that memorable 
 event, I consider it as long past. But let it be spread out in a lively 
 and beautiful description, I am insensibly transformed into a specta- 
 tor : I perceive these two heroes in act to engage : I perceive them 
 brandishing their swords, and cheering their troops ; and in that 
 manner I attend them through the battle, every incident of which 
 appears to be passing in my sight. 
 
 I have had occasion to observe,* that ideas, both of memory and 
 of speech, produce emotions of the same kind with what are pro- 
 duced by an immediate view of the object : only fainter, in proportion 
 as an idea is fainter than an original perception. The insight we 
 now have, unfolds that mystery : ideal presence supplies the want of 
 real presence; and in idea we perceive persons acting and suffering, 
 precisely as in an original survey : if our sympathy be engaged by 
 the latter, it must also, in some degree, be engaged by the former, 
 especially if the distinctness of ideal presence approach to that of 
 real presence. Hence the pleasure of a reverie, where a man, for- 
 getting himself, is totally occupied with the ideas passing in his 
 mind, the objects of which he conceives to be really existing in his 
 presence. The power of language to raise emotions, depends en- 
 tirely on the raising of such lively and distinct images as are here 
 described : the reader's passions are never sensibly moved, till he is 
 thrown into a kind of reverie ; in which state, forgetting that he is 
 reading, he conceives every incident as passing in his presence, pre- 
 cisely as if he were an eye-witness. A general or reflective remem- 
 brance cannot warm us into any emotion : it may be agreeable in 
 some slight degree ; but its ideas are too faint and obscure to raise 
 any thing like an emotion ; and were they ever so lively, they pass 
 with too much precipitation to have that effect : our emotions are 
 never instantaneous ; even such as come the soonest to their height, 
 have different periods of birth and increment ; and to give opportu- 
 nity for these different periods, it is necessary that the cause of every 
 emotion be present to the mind a due time ; for an emotion is not 
 carried to its height by reiterated impressions only. We know that 
 to be the case of emotions arising from objects of sight ; a quick 
 succession, even of the most beautiful objects, scarcely making any 
 impression ; and if this hold in the succession of original percep- 
 tions, how much more in the succession of ideas ? 
 
 Though all this while I have been only describing what passes in 
 the mind of every one, and of what every one must be conscious, it 
 was necessary to enlarge upon the subject ; because, however clear 
 in the internal conception, it is far from being so when described in 
 words. Ideal presence, though of general importance, has scarcely 
 ever been touched by any writer ; and however difficult the explica- 
 tion, it could not be avoided in accounting for the effects produced by 
 fiction. Upon that point, the reader, I presume, has anticipated me: 
 it already must have occurred to him, that if, in reading, ideal pre- 
 sence be the means by which our passions are moved, it makes no 
 
 * Part I. sect. 1. of the present chapter. 
 5*
 
 54 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [CL 2. 
 
 difference whether the subject be a fable or a true history: when 
 ideal presence is complete, we perceive every object as in our sight ; 
 and the mind, totally occupied with an interesting event, finds no 
 leisure for reflection. This reasoning is confirmed by constant and 
 universal experience. Let us take under consideration the meeting 
 of Hector and Andromache, in the sixth book of the Iliad ; or some 
 of the passionate scenes in King Lear: these pictures of human 
 life, when we are sufficiently engaged, give an impression of reality 
 not less distinct than that given by Tacitus, in his description of the 
 death of Otho : we never once reflect whether the story be true or 
 feigned ; reflection comes afterward, when we have the scene no 
 longer before our eyes. This reasoning will appear in a still clearer 
 light, by opposing. ideal presence to ideas raised by a cursory nar- 
 rative; which ideas being faint, obscure, and imperfect, leave a va- 
 cuity in the mind, which solicits reflection. And accordingly, a curt 
 narrative of feigned incidents is never relished : any slight pleasure 
 it affords, is more than counterbalanced by the disgust it inspires for 
 want of truth. 
 
 To support the foregoing theory, I add what I reckon a decisive 
 argument; which is, that even genuine history has no command 
 over our passions but by ideal presence only ; and consequently, that 
 in this respect it stands upon the same footing with fable. To me it 
 appears clear, that in neither can our sympathy hold firm against 
 reflection : for if the reflection that a story is a pure fiction prevent 
 our sympathy, so will equally the reflection that the persons de- 
 scribed are no longer existing. What effect, for example, can the 
 belief of the rape of Lucretia have to raise our sympathy, when she 
 died above 2000 years ago, and has at present no painful feeling of 
 the injury done her? The effect of history, in point of instruction, 
 depends, in some measure, upon its veracity. But history cannot 
 reach the heart, while we indulge any reflection upon the facts : such 
 reflection, if it engage our belief, never fails, at the same time, to 
 poison our pleasure, by convincing us that our sympathy for those 
 who are dead and gone is absurd. And if reflection be laid aside, 
 history stands upon the same footing with fable : what effect either 
 may have to raise our sympathy, depends on the vivacity of the ideas 
 they raise ; and, with respect to that circumstance, fable is generally 
 more successful than history. 
 
 Of all the means for making an impression of ideal presence, 
 theatrical representation is the most powerful. That words, inde- 
 pendent of action, have the same power in a less degree, every one of 
 sensibility must have felt: a good tragedy will extort tears in pri- 
 vate, though not so forcibly as upon the stage. That power 'belongs 
 also to painting : a good historical picture makes a deeper impres- 
 sion than words can, though not equal to that of theatrical action. 
 Painting seems to possess a middle place between reading and acting : 
 in making an impression of ideal presence, it is not less superior to 
 the former than inferior to the latter. 
 
 It must not, however, be thought, that our passions can be raised 
 by painting, to such a height as by words : a picture is confined to a
 
 Part 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 55 
 
 single instant of time, and cannot take in a succession of incidents : 
 its impression indeed is the deepest that can be made instantane- 
 ously; but seldom is a passion raised to any height in an instant, or 
 by a single impression. It was observed above, that our passions, 
 those especially of the sympathetic kind, require a succession of im- 
 pressions ; and for that reason, reading and acting have greatly the 
 advantage, by reiterating impressions without end. 
 
 Upon the whole, it is by means of ideal presence that our passions 
 are excited ; and till words produce that charm, they avail nothing : 
 even real events entitled to our belief, must be conceived present and 
 passing in our sight, before they can move us. And this theory 
 serves to explain several phenomena otherwise unaccountable. A 
 misfortune happening to a stranger, makes a less impression than 
 one happening to a man we know, even where we are no way inter- 
 ested in him: our acquaintance with this man, however slight, aids 
 the conception of his suffering in our presence. For the same 
 reason, we are little moved by any distant event ; because we have 
 more difficulty to conceive it present, than an event that happened in 
 our neighborhood. 
 
 Every one is sensible, that describing a past event as present, has 
 a fine effect in language : for what other reason than that it aids the 
 conception of ideal presence? Take the following example. 
 
 And now with shouts the shocking armies clos'd, 
 To lances lances, shields to shields oppos'd ; 
 Host against host the shadowy legions drew, 
 The sounding darts, an iron tempest, flew ; 
 Victors and vanquished join promiscuous cries, 
 Triumphing shouts and dying groans arise, 
 With streaming blood the slipp'ry field is dy'd, 
 And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide. 
 
 In this passage we may observe how the writer, inflamed with the 
 subject, insensibly advances from the past time to the present ; led to 
 that form of narration by conceiving every circumstance as passing 
 in his own sight: which, at the same time, has a fine effect upon 
 the reader, by presenting things to him as a spectator. But change 
 from the past to the present requires some preparation, and is not 
 sweet where there is no stop in the sense : witness the following 
 passage. 
 
 Thy fate was next, O Phsestus ! doom'd to feel 
 
 The great Idomeneus' protended steel ; 
 
 Whom Boms sent (his son and only joy) 
 
 From fruitful Tarne to the fields of Troy. 
 
 The Cretan jav'lin reach'd him from afar, 
 
 And pierc'd his shoulder as he mounts his car. 
 
 Iliad, v. '57. 
 
 It is still worse to fall back to the past in the same period ; for that 
 is an anticlimax in description : 
 
 Through breaking ranks his furious course he bends, 
 
 And at the goddess his broad lance extends ; 
 
 Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove, 
 
 Th' ambrosial veil, which all the graces wove : 
 
 Her snowy hand the razing steel profan'd, 
 
 And the transparent skin with crimson stain'd. Iliad, v. 415.
 
 56 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2 
 
 Again, describing the shield of Jupiter : 
 
 Here all the terrors of grim War appear, 
 Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear, 
 Here storm'd Contention, and here Fury frown'd, 
 And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown'd. 
 
 Iliad, v. 914. 
 
 Nor is it pleasant to be carried backward and forward alternately in 
 a rapid succession : 
 
 Then dy'd Scamandrius, expert in the chace, 
 In woods and wilds to wound the savage race ; 
 Diana taught him all her sylvan arts, 
 To bend the bow and aim unerring darts : 
 But vainly here Diana's arts he tries, 
 The fatal lance arrests him as he flies ; 
 From Menelaus' arm the weapon sent, 
 Through his broad back and heaving bosom went 
 Down sinks the warrior with a thund'ring sound, 
 His brazen armor rings against the ground. 
 
 Iliad, v. 65. 
 
 It is wonderful to observe, upon what slight foundations Nature 
 erects some of her most solid and magnificent works. In appear- 
 ance at least, what can be more slight than ideal presence ; and yet 
 from it is derived that extensive influence which language has over 
 the heart ; an influence which, more than any other means, strength- 
 ens the bond of society, and attracts individuals from their private 
 system to perform acts of generosity and benevolence. Matters of 
 fact, it is true, and truth in general, may be inculcated without taking 
 advantage of ideal presence ; but without it, the finest speaker or 
 writer would in vain attempt to move any passion : our sympathy 
 would be confined to objects that are really present ; and language 
 would lose entirely its signal power of making us sympathize with 
 beings removed at the greatest distance of time as well as of place. 
 Nor is the influence of language, by means of ideal presence, con- 
 fined to the heart ; it reaches also the understanding, and contributes 
 to belief. For when events are related in a lively manner, and every 
 circumstance appears to be passing before us, we suffer not patiently 
 the truth of the facts to be questioned. An historian, accordingly, 
 who has a genius for narration, seldom fails to engage our belief. 
 The same facts related in a manner cold and indistinct, are not suf- 
 fered to pass without examination : a thing ill described is like an 
 object seen at a distance, or through a mist ; we doubt whether it be a 
 reality or a fiction. Cicero says, that to relate the manner in which 
 an event passed, not only enlivens the story, but makes it appear 
 more credible.* For that reason, a poet who can warm and ani- 
 mate his reader, may employ bolder fictions than ought to be ven- 
 tured by an inferior genius : the reader, once thoroughly engaged, 
 is susceptible of the strongest impressions : 
 
 Veraque constituunt, quce belle tangere possunt 
 Aureis, et lepido quse sunt fucata sonore. 
 
 Ducretius, lib. 1.1. 644. 
 
 And most believing true 
 
 The silver sounds that charm th' enchanted ear. 
 * De Oratore, lib. 2. sect. 81.
 
 Part I.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 57 
 
 A masterly vainting has the same effect. Le Brun is no small sup- 
 port to Quintus Curtius : and among the vulgar in Italy, the belief 
 of scripture-history is, perhaps, founded as much upon the authority 
 of Raphael, Michael Angelo, and other celebrated painters, as upon 
 that of the sacred writers.* 
 
 The foregoing theory must have fatigued the reader with much 
 dry reasoning ; but his labor will not be fruitless ; because from 
 that theory are derived many useful rules in criticism, which shall 
 be mentioned in their proper places. One specimen shall be our 
 present entertainment. Events that surprise by being unexpected, 
 and yet are natural, enliven greatly an epic poem : but in such a 
 poem! if it pretend to copy human manners and actions, no impro- 
 bable incident ought to be admitted : that is, no incident contrary to 
 the order and course of nature. A chain of imagined incidents, 
 linked together according to the order of nature, finds easy admit- 
 tance into the mind ; and a lively narrative of such incidents occa- 
 sions complete images, or, in other words, ideal presence : but our 
 judgment revolts against an improbable incident ; and, if we once 
 begin to doubt of its reality, farewell relish and concern an un- 
 happy effect ; for it will require more than an ordinary effort, to 
 restore the waking dream, and to make the reader conceive, even 
 the more probable incidents as passing in his presence. 
 
 I never was an admirer of machinery in an epic poem, and I now 
 find my taste justified by reason ; the foregoing argument concluding 
 still more strongly against imaginary beings, than against improba- 
 ble facts. Fictions of that nature may amuse by their novelty and 
 singularity ; but they never move the sympathetic passions, because 
 they cannot impose on the mind any perception of reality. I appeal 
 to the discerning reader, whether that observation be not applicable 
 to the machinery of Tasso and of Voltaire : such machinery is not 
 only, in itself, cold and uninteresting, but gives an air of fiction to 
 the whole composition. A burlesque poem, such as the Lutrin or 
 the Dispensary, may employ machinery with success ; for these 
 poems, though they assume the air of history, give entertainment 
 chiefly by their pleasant and ludicrous pictures, to which machinery 
 contributes. It is not the aim of such a poem, to raise our sympa- 
 thy ; and for that reason a strict imitation of nature is not required. 
 A poem professedly ludicrous, may employ machinery to great ad- 
 vantage ; and the more extravagant the better. 
 
 Having assigned the means by which fiction commands our pas- 
 sions, what only remains for accomplishing our present task, is to 
 
 * At quae Polycleto defuerunt, Phidiae atque Alcameni dantur. Phidias tamen 
 diis quam hominibus efficiendis melior artifex traditur : in ebore vero longe citra 
 acmulum, vel si nihil nisi Minervam Athenis, aut Olympium in Elide Jovem 
 fecisset, cujus pulchritudo adjecisse aliquid etiam receptae religioni videtur; adeo 
 maiestas operis Deum sequavit. 
 
 cut Phidias and Alcamenes possess those qualities which were denied to Poly- 
 cletus. Phidias, however, is said to be a better artificer of gods than of men in 
 ivory, indeed, he is far beyond his rival, even if he had made nothing except his 
 Minerva at Athens, or his Olympian Jove in Elis, whose beauty seems to have 
 even added something to the received religion, so much has the majesty of the 
 work represented a god. Quintilian, lib. 12. cap. 10. 1.
 
 58 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 assign the final cause. I have already mentioned, that fiction, by 
 means of language, has the command of our sympathy for the good 
 of others. By the same means, our sympathy may also be raised 
 for our own good. In the fourth section of the present chapter, it 
 is observed, that examples, both of virtue and of vice, raise virtuous 
 emotions ; which becoming stronger by exercise, tend to make us 
 virtuous by habit, as well as by principle. I now farther observe, 
 that examples confined to real events are not so frequent as without 
 other means to produce a habit of virtue : if they be, they are not 
 recorded by historians. It therefore shows great wisdom, to form 
 us in such a manner, as to be susceptible of the same improvement 
 from fable that we receive from genuine history. By that contri- 
 vance, examples to improve us in. virtue may be multiplied without 
 end : no other sort of discipline contributes more to make virtue 
 habitual, and no other sort is so agreeable in the application. I add 
 another final cause with thorough satisfaction ; because it shows, 
 that the Author of our nature is not less kindly provident for the 
 happiness of his creatures, than for the regularity of their conduct. 
 The power that fiction has over the mind affords an endless variety 
 of refined amusements always at hand to employ a vacant hour: 
 such amusements are a fine resource in solitude-; and, by cheer- 
 ing and sweetening the mind, contribute mightily to social hap- 
 piness. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS AS PLEASANT AND PAINFUL, AGREEABLE 
 AND DISAGREEABLE. MODIFICATIONS OF THESE QUALITIES. 
 
 The difference between agreeable and pleasant, and painful and disagreeable 
 Agreeable and disagreeable, tjualities of the object Pleasant and painful, quali- 
 ties of our emotions A passion or emotion becomes either agreeable or disagree- 
 able, when made the object of thought Emotions pleasant or painful according 
 to their cause Nature and desire, the rules for determining the agreeableness 
 or disagreeableness of emotions Agreeable emotions follow good actions, and 
 disagreeable emotions, bad A passion becoming the object of thought, may 
 produce a passion or emotion Instances of pleasant passions that are disagree- 
 able, and painful passions that are agreeable Modifications of these passions 
 are without limit The delicacy of discriminating between them Of pleasant 
 emotions, some are gross and others refined Of painful passions, some are 
 voluntary, and others involuntary Ridicule considered a gross pleasure. 
 
 IT will naturally occur at first, that a discourse upon the passions 
 ought to commence with explaining the qualities now mentioned; 
 but upon trial, I found that this explanation could not be made dis- 
 tinctly, till the difference should first be ascertained between an 
 emotion and a passion, and their causes unfolded. 
 
 Great obscurity may be observed among writers with regard to 
 the present point : particularly no care is taken to distinguish agree- 
 able from pleasant, disagreeable from painful ; or rather, these terms 
 are deemed synonymous. This is an error not at all venial in the 
 science of ethics ; as instances can and shall be given, of painful
 
 PartS.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 59 
 
 passions that are agreeable, and of pleasant passions that are dis- 
 agreeable. These terms, it is true, are used indifferently in familiar 
 conversation, and in compositions for amusement ; but more accu- 
 racy is required from those who profess to explain the passions. In 
 writing upon the critical art, I would avoid every refinement that 
 may seem more curious than useful ; but the proper meaning of the 
 terms under consideration must be ascertained, in order to under- 
 stand the passions, and some of their effects that are intimately 
 connected with criticism. 
 
 I shall endeavor to explain these terms by familiar examples. 
 Viewing a fine garden, I perceive it to be beautiful or agreeable ; 
 and I consider the beauty or agreeableness as belonging to the object, 
 or as one of its qualities. When I turn my attention from the gar- 
 den to what passes in my mind, I am conscious of a pleasant emo- 
 tion, of which the garden is the cause : the pleasure here is felt, as 
 a quality, not of the garden, but of the emotion produced by it. I 
 give an opposite example. A rotten carcass is disagreeable, and 
 .raises in the spectator a painful emotion: the disagreeableness is a 
 quality of the object ; the pain is a quality of the emotion produced 
 by it. In a word, agreeable and disagreeable are qualities of the 
 objects we perceive ; pleasant and painful are qualities of the emo- 
 tions we feel: the former qualities are perceived as adhering to 
 objects ; the latter, are felt as existing within us. 
 
 But a passion or emotion, beside being felt, is frequently made an 
 object of thought or reflection: we examine it; we inquire into its 
 nature, its cause, and its effects. In that view, like other objects, it 
 is either agreeable or disagreeable. Hence clearly appear the 
 different significations of the terms under consideration, as applied 
 to passion : when a passion is termed pleasant or painful, we refer 
 to the actual feeling; when termed agreeable or disagreeable, we 
 refer to it as an object of thought or reflection; a passion is pleasant 
 or painful to the person in whom it exists ; it is agreeable or dis- 
 agreeable to the person who makes it a subject of contemplation. 
 
 In the description of emotions and passions, these terms do not 
 always coincide : to make which evident, we must endeavor to ascer- 
 tain, first, what passions and emotions are pleasant, and what painful ; 
 and next, what are agreeable, and what disagreeable. With respect 
 to both, there are general rules, which, if I can trust to induction, 
 admit not a single exception. The nature of an emotion or passion, 
 as pleasant or painful, depends entirely on its cause : the emotion 
 produced by an agreeable, object is invariably pleasant; and the 
 emotion produced by a disagreeable object is invariably painful.* 
 Thus, a lofty oak, a generous action, a valuable discovery in art or 
 science, are agreeable objects that invariably produce pleasant emo- 
 tions. A stinking puddle, a treacherous action, an irregular, ill- 
 contrived edifice, being disagreeable objects, produce painful emotions. 
 Selfish passions are pleasant ; for they arise from self, an agreeable 
 object or cause. A social passion directed upon an agreeable object 
 is always pleasant; directed upon an object in distress it is painful. f 
 * See Part 7. of this chapter. t Ibid.
 
 60 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 Lastly, all dissocial passions, such as envy, resentment, malice, being 
 caused by disagreeable objects, cannot fail to be painful. 
 
 A general rule for the agreeableness or disagreeableness of emo- 
 tions and passions is a more difficult enterprise: it must, however, 
 be attempted. We have a sense of a common nature in every 
 species of animals, particularly in our own ; and we have a convic- 
 tion that this common nature is right, or perfect, and that individuals 
 ought to be made conformable to it.* To every faculty, to every 
 passion, and to every bodily member, is assigned a proper office 
 and a due proportion: if one limb be longer than the other, or be 
 disproportioned to the whole, it is wrong and disagreeable: if a 
 passion deviate from the common nature, by being too strong or too 
 weak, it is also wrong and disagreeable : but as far as conformable 
 to common nature, every emotion and every passion is perceived by 
 us to be right, and as it ought to be ; and upon that account it must 
 appear agreeable. That this holds true in pleasant emotions and 
 passions, will readily be admitted : but the painful are no less natural 
 than the other ; and therefore ought not to be an exception. Thus 
 the painful emotion raised by a monstrous birth or brutal action, is 
 no less agreeable upon reflection, than the pleasant emotion raised 
 by a flowing river or a lofty dome ; and the painful passions of grief 
 and pity are agreeable, and applauded by all the world. 
 
 Another rule more simple and direct for ascertaining the agree- 
 ableness or disagreeableness of a passion as opposed to an emotion, 
 is derived from the desire that accompanies it. If the desire be to 
 perform a right action in order to produce a good effect, the passion 
 is agreeable: If the desire be, to do a wrong action in order to 
 produce an ill effect, the passion is disagreeable. Thus, passions 
 as well as actions are governed by the moral sense. These rules 
 by the wisdom of Providence coincide : a passion that is conformable 
 to our common nature must tend to good ; and a passion that deviates 
 from our common nature must tend to ill. 
 
 This deduction may be carried a great way farther : but to avoid 
 intricacy and obscurity, I make but one other step. A passion 
 which, as aforesaid, becomes an object of thought to a spectator, 
 may have the effect to produce a passion or emotion in him ; for it 
 is natural, that a social being should be affected with the passions 
 of others. Passions or emotions thus generated, submit, in common 
 with others, to the general law above mentioned, namely, that an 
 agreeable object produces a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable 
 object a painful emotion. Thus the passion of gratitude, being to 
 a spectator an agreeable object, produces in him the pleasant passion 
 of love to the grateful person : and malice being to a spectator a 
 disagreeable object, produces in him the painful passion of hatred 
 to the malicious person. 
 
 We are now prepared for examples of pleasant passions that are 
 
 disagreeable, and of painful passions that are agreeable. Self-love, 
 
 as long as confined within just bounds, is a passion both pleasant 
 
 and agreeable : in excess it is disagreeable, though it continues to 
 
 * See this doctrine fully explained, chap. 25. Standard of Taste.
 
 Part 2.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 61 
 
 be still pleasant. Our appetites are precisely in the same condition. 
 Resentment, on the other hand, is, in every stage of the passion, 
 painful ; but it is not disagreeable unless in excess. Pity is always 
 painful, yet always agreeable. Vanity, on the contrary, is always 
 pleasant, yet always disagreeable. But however distinct these quali- 
 ties are, they coincide, I acknowledge, in one class of passions : all 
 vicious passions tending to the hurt of others, are equally painful 
 and disagreeable. 
 
 The foregoing qualities of pleasant and painful, may be sufficient 
 for ordinary subjects: but with respect to the science of criticism, it 
 is necessary, that AVC also be made acquainted with the several modi- 
 fications of these qualities ; with the modifications, at least, that make 
 the greatest figure. Even at first view one is sensible, that the 
 pleasure or pain of one passion differs from that of another : how 
 distant the pleasure of revenge gratified from that of love? so distant, 
 as that we cannot without reluctance admit them to be any way 
 related. That the same quality of pleasure should be so differently 
 modified in different passions, will not be surprising, when we reflect 
 oij the boundless variety of agreeable sounds, tastes, and smells, 
 daily perceived. Our discernment reaches differences still more 
 minute, in objects even of the same sense : we have no difficulty to 
 distinguish different sweets, different sours, and different bitters; 
 honey is s\veet, so is sugar, and yet the one never is mistaken for 
 the other : our sense of smelling is sufficiently acute, to distinguish 
 varieties in sweet-smelling flowers without end. With respect to 
 passions and emotions, their differences as to pleasant and painful 
 have no limits ; though we want acuteness of feeling for the more 
 delicate modifications. There is here an analogy between our inter- 
 nal and external senses : the latter are sufficiently acute for all the 
 useful purposes of life, and so are the former. Some persons, indeed, 
 Nature's favorites, have a wonderful acuteness of sense, which to 
 them unfolds many a delightful scene, totally hid from vulgar eyes. 
 But if such refined pleasure be confined to a small number, it is, 
 however, wisely ordered that others are not sensible of the defect ; 
 nor detracts it from their happiness that others secretly are more 
 happy. With relation to the fine- arts only, that qualification seems 
 essential ; and there it is termed delicacy of taste. 
 
 Should an author of such a taste attempt to describe all those 
 varieties in pleasant and painful emotions which he himself feels, 
 he would soon meet an invincible obstacle in the poverty of language : 
 a. people must be thoroughly refined, before they invent words for 
 expressing the more delicate feelings; and for that reason, no 
 known tongue has hitherto reached that perfection. We must, 
 therefore, rest satisfied with an explanation of the more obvious 
 modifications. 
 
 In forming a comparison between pleasant passions of different 
 kinds, we conceive some of them to be gross, some refined. Those 
 pleasures of external sense that are felt as at the organ of sense, are 
 conceived to be corporeal, or gross :* the pleasure of the eye and 
 
 * See the Introduction. , 
 
 6
 
 62 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 the ear are felt to be internal ; and for that reason are conceived to 
 be more pure and refined. 
 
 The social affections are conceived by all to be more refined than 
 the selfish. Sympathy and humanity are universally esteemed the 
 finest temper of mind ; and for that reason, the prevalence of the 
 social affections in the progress of society, is held to be a refinement 
 in our nature. A savage knows little of social affection, and there- 
 fore is not qualified to compare selfish and social pleasure ; but a 
 man, after acquiring a high relish for the latter, loses not thereby 
 a taste for the former : he is qualified to judge, and he will give 
 preference to social pleasures, as more sweet and refined. In fact 
 they maintain that character, not only in the direct feeling, but also 
 when we make them the subject of reflection : the social passions 
 are far more agreeable than the selfish, and rise much higher in 
 our esteem. 
 
 There are differences not less remarkable among the painful pas- 
 sions. Some are voluntary, spme involuntary : the pain of the gout 
 is an example of the latter ; grief, of the former, which in some cases 
 is so voluntary as to reject all consolation. One pain softens the 
 temper ; pity is an instance : one tends to render us savage and cruel, 
 which is the case of revenge. I value myself upon sympathy : I 
 hate and despise myself for envy. 
 
 Social affections have an advantage over the selfish, not only with 
 respect to pleasure, as above explained, but also with respect to pain. 
 The pain of an affront, the pain of want, the pain of disappointment, 
 and a thousand other selfish pains, are cruciating and tormenting, 
 and tend to a habit of peevishness and discontent. Social pains have 
 a very different tendency : the pain of sympathy, for example, is not 
 only voluntary, but softens my temper, and raises me in my own 
 esteem. 
 
 Refined manners, and polite behavior, must not be deemed altoge- 
 ther artificial : men who, inured to the sweets of society, cultivate 
 humanity, find an elegant pleasure in preferring others, and making 
 them happy, of which the proud, the selfish, scarcely have a con- 
 ception. 
 
 Ridicule, which chiefly arises from pride, a selfish passion, is at 
 best but a gross pleasure : a people, it is true, must have emerged 
 out of barbarity before they can have a taste for ridicule ; but it is 
 too rough an entertainment for the polished and refined. Cicero 
 discovers in Plautus a happy talent for ridicule, and a peculiar deli- 
 cacy of wit : but Horace, who made a figure in the court of Augustus, 
 where taste was considerably purified, declares against the lowness 
 and roughness of that author's raillery. Ridicule is banished from 
 France, and is losing ground in England. 
 
 Other modifications of pleasant passions will be occasionally 
 mentioned hereafter. Particularly the modifications of high and 
 low are to be handled in the chapter of grandeur and sublimity; 
 and the modifications of dignified and mean, in the chapter of dig- 
 nity and grace.
 
 Part 3.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 63 
 
 PART III. 
 
 INTERRUPTED EXISTENCE OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. THEIR 
 GROWTH AND DECAY. 
 
 An emotion cannot exist without the cause be present, or by means of an idea 
 Growth and decay of emotions and passions Some emotions produced in their 
 utmost perfection, and of short continuance ; others of long duration A pas- 
 sion produced in perfection when nature requires it to be sudden A passion 
 founded on an original propensity, soon comes to maturity The growth of love 
 or hatred slow or quick, according to circumstances The tendency of passions 
 to excess The growth of some passions depends on occasional circumstances 
 The continuance and decay of passions Passions sudden in their growth, sud- 
 denly decay A passion founded on an original propensity, subsists for ever 
 A passion having obtained its ultimate end, subsides Particular and general 
 ends of passions Particular ends accomplished by a single act General ends 
 admit of repeated acts Difference between an original propensity, and one 
 
 "founded on custom The former never eradicated ; the latter may be. 
 
 WERE it the nature of an emotion to continue, like color and 
 figure, in its present state till varied by some operating cause, the 
 condition of man would be deplorable : it is ordered wisely, that 
 emotions should more resemble another attribute of matter, namely 
 motion, which requires the constant exertion of an operating cause, 
 and ceases when the cause is withdrawn. An emotion may subsist 
 while its cause is present; and when its cause is removed, may sub- 
 sist by means of an idea, though in a fainter manner : but the moment 
 another thought breaks in and engrosses the mind, the emotion is 
 gone, and is no longer felt ; if it return with its cause, or an idea of 
 its cause, it again vanishes with them when other thoughts crowd in. 
 The reason is, that an emotion or passion is connected with the per- 
 ception or idea of its cause, so intimately as not to have any indepen- 
 dent existence : a strong passion, it is true, has a mighty influence 
 to detain its cause in the mind ; but not so as to detain it for ever, 
 because a succession of perceptions or ideas is unavoidable.* Far- 
 ther, even while a passion subsists, it seldom continues long in the 
 same tone, but is successively vigorous and faint : the vigor of a 
 passion depends on the impression made by its cause ; and a cause 
 makes its deepest impression, when, happening to be the single 
 interesting object, it attracts our whole attention:! its impression is 
 slighter when our attention is divided between it and other objects: 
 and at that time the passion is fainter in proportion. 
 
 When emotions and passions are felt thus by intervals, and have 
 not a continued existence, it may be thought a nice problem to deter- 
 mine when they are the same, and when different. In a strict phi- 
 losophic view, every single impression made, even by the same 
 object, is distinguishable from what have gone before, and from what 
 succeed: neither is an emotion raised by an idea the same with 
 what is raised by a sight of the object. But such accuracy not 
 being found in common apprehension, is not necessary in common 
 
 * See this point explained afterwards, chap. 9. 
 
 t See the Appendix, cpntaining definitions and explanation of terms, Sect. 33.
 
 64 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [CL 2, 
 
 language : the emotions raised by a fine landscape in its successive 
 appearances are not distinguishable from each other, nor even from 
 those raised by successive ideas of the object : all of them being 
 held to be the same : a passion also is always reckoned the same as 
 long as it is fixed upon the same object ; and thus love and hatred 
 are said to continue the same for life. Nay, so loose are we in that 
 way of thinking, that many passions are reckoned the same, even 
 after a change of object ; which is the case of all passions that pro- 
 ceed from some peculiar propensity: envy, for example, is considered 
 to be the same passion, not only while it is directed to the same per- 
 son, but even where it comprehends many persons at once : pride and 
 malice are examples of the same. So much was necessary to be 
 said upon the identity of a passion and emotion, in order to prepare 
 for examining their growth and decay. 
 
 The growth and decay of passions and emotions, traced through 
 all their mazes, is a subject too extensive for an undertaking like the 
 present : I pretend only to give a cursory view of it, such as may be 
 necessary for the purposes of criticism. Some emotions are produced 
 in their utmost perfection, and have a very short endurance: which 
 is the case of surprise, of wonder, and sometimes of terror. Emo- 
 tions raised by inanimate objects, trees, rivers, buildings, pictures, 
 arrive at perfection almost instantaneously; and they have a long 
 endurance, a second view producing nearly the same pleasure as the 
 first. Love, hatred, and some other passions, swell gradually to a cer- 
 tain pitch ; after which they decay gradually. Envy, malice, pride, 
 scarcely ever decay. Some passions, such as gratitude and revenge, 
 are often exhausted by a single act of gratification : other passions, 
 such as pride, malice, envy, love, hatred, are not so exhausted ; but 
 having a long continuance, demand frequent gratification. 
 
 To handle every single passion and emotion with a view to these 
 differences, would be an endless work : we must be satisfied at pre- 
 sent with some general views. And with respect to emotions, which 
 are quiescent, because not productive of desire, their growth and decay 
 are easily explained: an emotion caused by an inanimate object, 
 cannot naturally take longer time to arrive at maturity, than is neces- 
 sary for a leisurely survey : such emotion also must continue long 
 stationary, without any sensible decay ; a second or third view of 
 the object being nearly as agreeable as the first : this is the case of 
 an emotion produced by a fine prospect, an impetuous river, or a 
 towering hill. While a man remains the same, such objects ought 
 to have the same effect upon him. Familiarity, however, has an 
 influence here, as it has every where : frequency of view, after short 
 intervals especially, weans the mind gradually from the object, which 
 at last loses all relish : the noblest object in the material world, a 
 clear and serene sky, is quite disregarded, unless perhaps after a 
 course of bad weather. An emotion raised by human virtues, quali- 
 ties, or actions, may, by reiterated views of the object, swell imper- 
 ceptibly till it becomes so vigorous as to generate desire: in that 
 condition it must be handled as a passion. 
 
 As to passion, I observe, first, that when nature requires a passion
 
 Part 3.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 65 
 
 to be sudden, it is commonly produced in perfection ; which is the 
 case of fear and of anger. Wonder and surprise are always produ- 
 ced in perfection: reiterated impressions made by their cause, exhaust 
 these passions instead of inflaming them. This will be explained 
 hereafter.* 
 
 In the next place, when a passion has for its foundation an original 
 propensity peculiar to some men, it generally comes soon to matur- 
 ity : the propensity, upon presenting a proper object, is immediately 
 enlivened into a passion ; which is the case of pride, of envy, and 
 of malice. 
 
 In the third place, the growth of love and of hatred is slow or 
 quick according to circumstances: the good qualities of a person 
 raise in me a pleasant emotion; which, by reiterated views, is swelled 
 into a passion involving desire of that person's happiness: this 
 desire being freely indulged, works gradually a change internally, 
 and at last produces in me a settled habit of affection for that person, 
 now my friend. Affection thus produced operates precisely like an 
 original propensity; for to enliven it into a passion, no more is 
 required than the real or ideal presence of the object. The habit of 
 aversion or of hatred is brought on in the same manner. And here 
 I must observe by the way, that love and hatred signify, commonly, 
 affection and aversion, not passion. The bulk of our passions are 
 indeed affection or aversion, inflamed into a passion by different cir- 
 cumstances : the affection I bear to my son, is inflamed into the pas- 
 sion of fear when he is in danger ; becomes hope when he has a 
 prospect of good fortune ; becomes admiration when he performs a 
 laudable action ; and shame when he commits any wrong : aversion 
 becomes fear when there is a prospect of good fortune to my enemy ; 
 becomes hope when he is in danger ; becomes joy when he is in 
 distress; and sorrow when a laudable action is performed by him. 
 
 Fourthly, passions generally have a tendency to excess, occasioned 
 by the following means. The mind affected by any passion, is not 
 in a proper state for distinct perception, nor for cool reflection : it 
 has always a strong bias to the object of an agreeable passion, and 
 a bias no less strong against the object of a disagreeable passion. 
 The object of love, for example, however indifferent to others, is to 
 the lover's conviction a paragon ; and of hatred, is vice itself with- 
 out alloy. What less can such delusion operate, than to swell the 
 passion beyond what it was at first ? for if seeing or conversing with 
 a fine woman, has had the effect to carry me from indifference to love ; 
 how much stronger must her influence be, when now, to my convic- 
 tion, she is an angel ? and hatred as well as other passions must run 
 the same course. Thus between a passion and its object there is 
 a natural operation, resembling action and reaction in physics : a 
 passion acting upon its object, magnifies it greatly in appearance ; 
 and this magnified object reacting upon the passion, swells and 
 inflames it mightily. 
 
 Fifthly, the growth of some passion depends often on occasional 
 circumstances : obstacles to gratification, for example, never fail to 
 
 * Chap. 6. 
 6*
 
 66 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 augment and inflame a passion ; because a constant endeavor to 
 remove an obstacle, preserves the object of the passion ever in view, 
 which swells the passion by impressions frequently reiterated. Thus 
 the restraint of conscience, when an obstacle to love, agitates the 
 mind and inflames the passion : 
 
 Quod licet, ingratum est: quod non licet, acrius urit. 
 Si nunquam Danae n habuisset ahenea turris, 
 Non esset Danae de Jove facta parens. 
 
 Ovid, Amor. I. 2. 
 
 Gross easy love does, like gross diet, pall, 
 
 In squeamy stomachs honey turns to gall, 
 
 Had Danae not been kept in brazen towers, 
 
 Jove had not thought her worth his golden showers. 
 
 At the same time, the mind, distressed with the obstacles, becomes 
 impatient for gratification, and consequently more desirous of it. 
 Shakspeare expresses this observation finely : 
 
 All impediments in fancy's course, 
 Are motives of more fancy. 
 
 We need no better example than a lover who has many rivals. 
 Even the caprices of a mistress have the effect to inflame love; 
 these occasioning uncertainty of success, tend naturally to make the 
 anxious lover overvalue the happiness of fruition. 
 
 So much upon the growth of passions : their continuance and 
 decay come next under consideration. And, first, it is a general 
 law of nature, that things sudden in their growth, are equally sud- 
 den in their decay. This is commonly the case of anger. And, 
 with respect to wonder and surprise, which also suddenly decay, 
 another reason concurs, that their causes are of short duration : 
 novelty soon degenerates into familiarity ; and the unexpectedness of 
 an object is soon sunk in the pleasure that the object affords. Fear, 
 which is a passion of greater importance as tending to self-preserva- 
 tion, is often instantaneous ; and yet is of equal duration with its 
 cause : nay, it frequently subsists after the cause is removed. 
 
 In the next place, a passion founded on a peculiar propensity, sub- 
 sists generally for ever ; which is the case of pride, envy, and 
 malice : objects are never wanting to inflame the propensity into a 
 passion. 
 
 Thirdly, it may be laid down as a general law of nature, that 
 every passion ceases upon attaining its ultimate end. To explain 
 that law, we must distinguish between a particular and a general end. 
 I call that a particular end which may be accomplished by a single 
 act: a general end, on the contrary, admits acts without number: 
 because it cannot be said, that a general end is ever fully accom- 
 plished, while the object of the passion subsists. Gratitude and 
 revenge are examples of the first kind : the ends they aim at may 
 be .accomplished by a single act ; and, when that act is performed, 
 the passions are necessarily at an end. Love and hatred are exam- 
 ples of the other kind ; desire of doing good or of doing mischief 
 to an individual, is a general end, which admits acts without number,
 
 Part 4.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 67 
 
 and which seldom is fully accomplished : therefore these passions 
 have frequently the same duration that their objects have. 
 
 Lastly, it will afford us another general view, to consider the dif- 
 ference between an original propensity, and affection or aversion pro- 
 duced by custom. The former adheres too closely to the constitu- 
 tion ever to be eradicated ; and for that reason, the passions to which 
 it gives birth, continue during life with no remarkable diminution. 
 The latter, which owe their birth and increment to time, owe their 
 decay to the same cause : affection and aversion decay gradually as 
 they grow ; and accordingly hatred as well as love are extinguished 
 by long absence. Affection decays more gradually between persons, 
 who, living together, have daily occasion to testify mutually their 
 good-will and kindness : and, when affection is decayed, habi sup- 
 plies its place ; for it makes these persons necessary to each other, 
 by the pain of separation.* Affection to children has a long endu- 
 rance, longer perhaps than any other affection: its growth keeps 
 pace with that of its objects : they display new beauties and qualifica- 
 tions daily, to feed and augment the affection. But whenever the affec- 
 tion becomes stationary, it must begin to decay ; with a slow pace, 
 indeed, in proportion to its increment. In short, man with respect 
 to this life is a temporary being: he grows, becomes stationary, 
 decays ; and so must all his powers and- passions. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 COEXISTENT EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 Concordant sounds An emotion raised by an object of sight, and its qualities, 
 similar to this Emotions, similar and dissimilar Similar emotions produce 
 the same tone of mind Dissimilar, produce different tones Perfectly similar 
 emotions readily unite Internal effects of emotions and passions Represented 
 by addition in number By hannony of sounds Directly as the resemblance 
 of the emotions, and inversely as the connection of the causes The effect when 
 both are united The effects of dissimilar emotions The opposite to the for- 
 mer, and distress the mind when the causes are similar Opposite emotions 
 never unite They exist by succession The stronger emotions overcome the 
 weaker Music Music resolved into harmony and melody The difference 
 between vocal and instrumental music Passions the cause of the external 
 effects of music Two external passions with the same tendency, if similar, have 
 a double effect Two passions with opposite tendencies, may proceed from the 
 same cause Difference of aim prevents the union of two passions, when the 
 objects are different Means ofiered to gratify the passions when the objects 
 are different. 
 
 FOR a thorough knowledge of the human passions and emotions, 
 it is not sufficient that they be examined singly and separately : as a 
 plurality of them are sometimes felt at the same instant, the manner of 
 their coexistence, and the effects thereby produced, ought also to be 
 examined. This subject is extensive ; and it will be difficult to trace 
 all the laws that govern its endless variety of cases : if such an 
 undertaking can be brought to perfection, it must be by degrees". 
 The following hints may suffice for a first attempt. 
 
 We begin with emotions raised by different sounds, as the simplest 
 * See Chap. 14.
 
 68 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 case. Two sounds that mix, and, as it were, incorporate before they 
 reach the ear, are said to be concordant. That each of the two 
 sounds, even after their union, produces an emotion of its own, must 
 be admitted : but these emotions, like the sounds that produce them, 
 mix so intimately, as to be rather one complex emotion than two 
 emotions in conjunction. Two sounds that refuse incorporation or 
 mixture, are said to be discordant: and when heard at the same 
 instant, the emotions produced by them are unpleasant in conjunc- 
 tion, however pleasant separately. 
 
 Similar to the emotion raised by mixed sounds is the emotion 
 raised by an object of sight with its several qualities : a tree, for 
 example, with its qualities of color, figure, size, &c. is perceived to 
 be one object; and the emotion it produces is rather one complex 
 emotion than different emotions combined. 
 
 With respect to coexistent emotions produced by different objects 
 of sight, it must be observed, that however intimately connected such 
 objects may be, there cannot be a concordance among them like 
 what is perceived in some sounds. Different objects of sight, mean- 
 ing objects that can exist each of them independent of the others, 
 never mix nor incorporate in the act of vision : each object is per- 
 ceived as it exists, separately from others ; and each raises an emo- 
 tion different from that raised by the other. And the same holds in 
 all the causes of emotion or passion that can exist independent of 
 each other, sounds only excepted. 
 
 To explain the manner in which such emotions exist, similar emo- 
 tions must be distinguished from those that are dissimilar. Two 
 emotions are said to be similar, when they tend, each of them, to 
 produce the same tone of mind : cheerful emotions, however differ- 
 ent their causes may be, are similar : and so are those which are 
 melancholy. Dissimilar emotions are easily explained by their 
 opposition to what are similar : pride and humility, gayety and 
 gloominess, are dissimilar emotions. 
 
 Emotions perfectly similar, readily combine and unite,* so as, in 
 a manner, to become one complex emotion ; witness the emotions 
 produced by a number of flowers in a parterre, or of trees in a 
 wood. Emotions that are opposite, or extremely dissimilar, never 
 combine or unite : the mind cannot simultaneously take on opposite 
 tones : it cannot at the same instant be both joyful and sad, angry and 
 satisfied, proud and humble : dissimilar emotions may succeed each 
 other with rapidity, but they cannot exist simultaneously. 
 
 Between these two extremes, emotions unite more or less, in pro- 
 portion to the degree of their resemblance, and the degree in which 
 their causes are connected. Thus the emotions produced by a fine 
 landscape and the singing of birds, being similar in a considerable 
 degree, readily unite, though their causes are little connected. And 
 
 * It is easier to conceive the manner of coexistence of similar emotions, than to 
 describe it. They cannot be said to mix or incorporate, like concordant sounds : 
 their union is rather of agreement or concord ; and therefore I have chosen the 
 words in the text, not as sufficient to express clearly the manner of their coexist- 
 ence, but only as less liable to exception than any other I can find.
 
 Part 4.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. . 69 
 
 the same happens where the causes are intimately connected, though 
 the emotions, themselves, have little resemblance to each other ; an 
 example of which is a mistress in distress, whose beauty gives plea- 
 sure, and her distress pain : these two emotions, proceeding from 
 different views of the object, have very little resemblance to each 
 other ; and yet so intimately connected are their causes, as to force 
 them into a sort of complex emotion, partly pleasant, partly painful. 
 This clearly explains some expressions common in poetry ; a sweet 
 distress, a pleasant pain. 
 
 It Avas necessary to describe, with some accuracy, in what manner 
 similar and dissimilar emotions coexist in the mind, in order to 
 explain their different effects, both internal and external. This sub- 
 ject, though obscure, is capable to be set in a clear light ; and it 
 merits attention, not only for its extensive use in criticism, but for 
 the nobler purpose of deciphering many intricacies in the actions of 
 men. Beginning with internal effects, I discover two, clearly dis- 
 tinguishable from each other, both of them produced by pleasant 
 emotions that are similar ; of which, the one may be represented by 
 addition in numbers, the other by harmony in sounds. Two plea- 
 sant emotions that are similar, readily unite when they are coexist- 
 ent ; and the pleasure felt in the union, is the sum of the two plea- 
 sures : the same emotions in succession, are far from making the 
 same figure ; because the mind at no instant of the succession, is 
 conscious of more than a single emotion. This doctrine may aptly 
 be illustrated by a landscape comprehending hills, valleys, plains, 
 rivers, trees, &c. : the emotions produced by these several objects, 
 being similar in a high degree, as falling in easily and sweetly with 
 the same tone of mind, are in conjunction extremely pleasant. This 
 multiplied effect is felt from objects even of different senses ; as 
 where a landscape is conjoined with the music of birds and odor of 
 flowers ; and results partly from the resemblance of the emotions 
 and partly from the connection of their causes : whence it follows, 
 that the effect must be the greatest, where the causes are intimately 
 connected and the emotions perfectly similar. The same rule is 
 obviously applicable to painful emotions that are similar and coex- 
 istent. 
 
 The other pleasure arising from pleasant emotions similar and 
 coexistent, cannot be better explained than by the foregoing example 
 of a landscape, where the sight, hearing, and smelling, are employed : 
 beside the accumulated pleasure above mentioned, of so many dif- 
 ferent similar emotions, a pleasure of a different kind is felt from the 
 concord of these emotions. As that pleasure resembles greatly the 
 pleasure of concordant sounds, it may be termed the harmony oj 
 emotions. This harmony is felt in the different emotions occasioned 
 by the visible objects ; but it is felt still more sensibly in the emotions 
 occasioned by the objects of different senses ; as where the emotions 
 of the eye are combined with those of the ear. The former pleasure 
 comes under the rule of addition : this comes under a different rule. 
 It is directly in proportion to the degree of resemblance between the 
 emotions, and inversely in proportion to the degree of connection
 
 70 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 between the causes : to feel this pleasure in perfection, the resem- 
 blance between the emotions cannot be too strong, nor the connec- 
 tion between their causes too slight. The former condition is self- 
 evident ; and the reason of the latter is, that the pleasure of harmony 
 is felt from various similar emotions, distinct from each other, and 
 yet sweetly combining in the mind ; which excludes causes inti- 
 mately connected, for the emotions produced by them are forced into 
 one complex emotion. This pleasure of concord or harmony, which 
 is the result of pleasing emotions, and cannot have place with res- 
 pect to those that are painful, will be farther illustrated, when the 
 emotions produced by the sound of words and their meaning are 
 taken under consideration.* 
 
 The pleasure of concord from conjoined emotions, is felt, even 
 where the emotions are not perfectly similar. Though love be a 
 pleasant passion, yet by its softness and tenderness it resembles, in a 
 considerable degree, the painful passion of pity or of grief; and for 
 that reason, love accords better with these passions than with what 
 are gay and sprightly. I give the following 'example from Catullus, 
 where the concord between love and grief has a fine effect, even in 
 so slight a subject as the death of a sparrow. 
 
 Lugete, 6 Veneres. Cupidinesque, 
 Et quantum est hominum venusiionmi 
 Passer mortuus est mefe paella:, 
 GLuem plus ilia oculis suis amabat. 
 Nam mellitus erat, suamque norat 
 Ipsam tarn bene, quam puella niatrem : 
 Nee sese a gremio illius movebat ; 
 Sed circumsiliens modo hue, modo illuc, 
 Ad solam dorninam usque pipilabat. 
 Glui nunc it per iter tenebricosum, 
 Illuc, unde negant redire quemquam. 
 At vobis male sit, malae tenebree 
 Orci, quse omnia bella devoratis ; 
 Tarn bellum mihi passerem abstulistis. 
 O factum male, 6 miselle passer. 
 Tua nunc opera, meae puella? 
 Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli. 
 
 Each Love, each Venus, mourn with me ! 
 
 Mourn, every son of gallantry ! 
 
 The Sparrow, my own nymph's delight, 
 
 The joy and apple of her sight ; 
 
 The honey-bird, the darling dies, 
 
 To Lesbia dearer than her eyes. 
 
 As the fair-one knew her mother, 
 
 So he knew her from another. 
 
 With his gentle lady wrestling ; 
 
 In her snowy bosom nestling ; 
 
 With a nutter, and a bound, 
 
 Gluiv'ring round her and around 
 
 Chirping, twitt'ring, ever near, 
 
 Notes meant only for her ear. 
 
 Now he skims the shadowy way. 
 
 Whence none return to cheerful day. 
 
 Beshrew the shades ! that thus devour 
 
 All that's pretty in an hour. 
 
 * Chap. 18. Sect, 3.
 
 Part 4.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 The pretty Sparrow, thus, is dead 
 The tiny fugitive is fled. 
 Deed of spite ! poor bird ! ah ! see, 
 For thy dear sake, alas ! for me ! 
 My nymph with brimful eyes appears. 
 Red from the flushing of her tears. 
 
 Next as to the effects of dissimilar emotions, which we may guess 
 will be opposite to what are above described. Dissimilar coexistent 
 emotions, as-said above, never fail to distress the mind by the differ- 
 ence of their tones ; from which situation a feeling of harmony never 
 can proceed; and this holds whether the causes be connected or not. 
 But it holds more remarkably where the causes are connected ; for 
 in that case the dissimilar emotions being forced into an unnatural 
 union, produce an actual feeling of discord. In the next place, if we 
 would estimate the force of dissimilar emotions coexistent, w.e must 
 distinguish between their causes as connected or unconnected : and 
 in order to compute their force in the former case, subtraction must 
 be used instead of addition ; which will be evident from what fol- 
 lows. Dissimilar emotions forced into union by the connection ot 
 their causes, are felt obscurely and imperfectly ; for each tends to 
 vary the tone of mind that is suited to the other ; and the mind thus 
 distracted between two objects, is at no instant in a condition to 
 receive a deep impression from either. Dissimilar emotions pro- 
 ceeding from unconnected causes, are in a very different condition ; 
 for as there is nothing to force them into union, they are never felt 
 but in succession ; by which means, each has an opportunity to make 
 a complete impression. 
 
 This curious theory requires to be illustrated by examples. In 
 reading the description of the dismal waste, book I. of Paradise 
 Lost, we are sensible of a confused feeling, arising from dissimilar 
 emotions forced into union ; to wit, the beauty of the description, and 
 the horror of the object described. 
 
 Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, 
 The seat of desolation, void of light, 
 Save what the glimmering of these livid flames 
 Casts pale and dreadful 1 
 
 And with respect to this and many similar passages in Paradise 
 Lost, we are sensible, that the emotions being obscured by each 
 other, make neither of them that figure they would make separately. 
 For the same reason, ascending smoke in a calm morning, which 
 inspires stillness and tranquillity, is improper in a picture full of 
 violent action. A parterre, partly ornamented, partly in disorder, 
 produces a mixt feeling of the same sort. Two great armies in act 
 to engage, mix the dissimilar emotions of grandeur and of terror. 
 
 Sembra d'alberi densi alta foresta j 
 
 L'un campo, e 1'altro ; di tant' aste abbonda. (.<#** 
 
 Son tesi gli archi, e son le lance in resta: 
 Vibransi i dardi, e rotasi ogni fionda. 
 Ogni cavallo in guerra anco s'appresta, 
 Gli odii, e '1 furor del suo signer seconda: 
 Raspa, batte, nitrisce, e si raggira, 
 Gonfia le nari ; e fumo, e fuoco spira.
 
 72 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2 
 
 Bello in si bella vista anco e 1' orrore 
 E di mezzo la tema esce il diletto. 
 ]Ne men le trombe orribili e canore, 
 Sono a gli orecchi, lieto e ferp oggetto. 
 Pur il campo fedel, benche* minore, 
 Par di suon piu mirabile, e d'aspeto. 
 E canta in piu guerriero e chiaro carme 
 Ogni sua tromba, e maggior luce ban 1'arme. 
 
 tHcrusalemme''Liberata, Cant. 20. st. 29, 30. 
 Of drie topt oakes. they seem'd two forrests tliicke: 
 So did each hoste with speares and pikes abound, 
 Bent were their bowes, in rests their lannces sticke, 
 Their hands shooke swords, their slings held cobles round : 
 Each steed to runne was readie, prest and quicke 
 At his commander's spurre, his hand, his sound ; 
 He chafes, he stampes, careers, and turnes about 
 Hefomes, snorts, neighs, and fire and smoake breaths out. 
 Horrour itselfe in that faire-sight seem'd faire, 
 And pleasure flew amid sad dreed and feare : 
 The trumpets shrill, that thundred in the aire. 
 Were musicke milde and sweete to everie eare: 
 The faithfule campe, though lesse, yet seem'd more raire 
 In that strange noise, more warlike, shrill and cleare, 
 In notes more sweete, the Pagan trumpets iarre, 
 Thess sung, their armours shined, these glistred farre. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Suppose a virtuous man has drawn on himself a great misfortune, 
 by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial : the remorse 
 ho feels aggravates his distress, and consequently raises our pity to 
 a high pitch : we at the same time blame the man ; and the indig- 
 nation raised by the fault he has committed, is dissimilar to pity : 
 these two passions, however, proceeding from the same object, are 
 forced into a sort of union ; but the indignation is so slight, as 
 scarcely to be felt in the mixture with pity. Subjects of this kind 
 are of all the fittest for tragedy ; but of that afterward.* 
 
 Opposite emotions are so dissimilar as not to admit any sort of 
 union, even where they proceed from causes the most intimately con- 
 nected. Love to a mistress, and resentment for her infidelity, are of 
 that nature : they cannot exist otherwise than in succession, which 
 by the connection of their causes is commonly rapid ; and these emo- 
 tions will govern alternately, till one of them obtain the ascendant, 
 or both be spent. A succession opens to me by the death of a wor- 
 thy man, who was my friend as well as my kinsman : when I think 
 of my friend I am grieved; but the succession gives me joy. These 
 two causes are intimately connected ; for the succession is the direct 
 consequence of my friend's death : the emotions however being oppo- 
 site, do not mix ; they prevail alternately, perhaps for a course of 
 time, till grief for my friend's death be banished by the pleasures of 
 opulence. A virtuous man suffering unjustly, is an example of the 
 same kind. I pity him, and have great indignation at the author of 
 the wrong. These emotions proceed from causes nearly connected ; 
 but being directed to different objects, they are not forced into union : 
 their opposition preserves them distinct ; and accordingly they are 
 found to prevail alternately. 
 
 * Chap. 22.
 
 Part 4.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 73 
 
 I proceed to examples of dissimilar emotions arising from uncon- 
 nected causes. Good and bad news of equal importance arriving at 
 the same instant from different quarters, produce opposite emotions, 
 the discordance of which is not felt, because they are not forced into 
 union : they govern alternately, commonly in a quick succession, till 
 their force be spent : 
 
 Shylock. How now, Tubal, what news from Genoa 1 ? hast thou found my 
 daughter 1 
 
 Tubal. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. 
 
 Sky. Why there, there, there, there ! a diamond gone, cost me two thousand 
 ducats in Francfort 1 the curse never fell upon our nation till now ; I never felt it 
 till now : two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels ! I would 
 my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear; O would she were 
 hears'd at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin. No news of them ; why, so ! and 
 I know not what's spent in the search: why, thou loss upon loss ! the thief gone 
 with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge, nor 
 no ill luck stirring but what lights o' my shoulders ; no sighs but o' my breathing, 
 no tears but o' my shedding. 
 
 "Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too ; Antonio, as I heard in Genoa 
 
 Shy. What, what, what 1 ill luck, ill luck 1 
 
 Tub. Hath an argosie cast away, coming from Tripolis. 
 
 Sky. I thank God, I thank God ; is it true 1 is it true 1 
 
 Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck. 
 
 Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal ; good news, good news, ha, ha ; where, in 
 Genoa 1 
 
 Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, fourscore ducats. 
 
 Sky. Thou stick'st a dagger in me ; I shall never see my gold again ; fourscore 
 ducats at a sitting, fourscore ducats ! 
 
 Tub. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to Venice, that 
 swear he cannot chuse but break. 
 
 Sky. I am glad of it, I'll plague him, I'll torture him ; I am glad of it. 
 
 Tub. One of them she w'd me a ring, that he had of your daughter for a monkey . 
 
 Sky. Out upon her ! thou torturest me. Tubal ; it was my Turquoise ; I had it 
 of Leah when I was a bachelor ; I would not have given it for a wilderness of 
 monkies. 
 
 Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone. 
 
 Sky. Nay, that's true, that's very true ; go see me an officer, bespeak him a fort- 
 night before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit ; for were he out of Venice, 
 I can make what merchandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our syna- 
 gogue ; go, good Tubal ; at our synagogue, Tubal. 
 
 Merchant of Venice, Act III. Sc. I. 
 
 In the same manner, good news arriving to a man laboring under 
 distress, occasions a vibration in his mind from the one to the other : 
 
 Osmyn. By Heav'n thou'st rous'd me from my lethargy. 
 The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs, 
 And the loud cries of my dead father's blood, 
 Deaf to revenge nay, which refus'd to hear 
 The piercing sighs and murmurs of my love 
 Yet unenjoy'd ; what not Almeira could 
 Revive, or raise, my people's voice has waken'd. 
 
 my Antonio, I am all on fire, 
 
 My soul is up in arms, ready to charge 
 
 And bear amidst the foe with conqu'ring troops. 
 
 1 hear em' call to lead 'em on to liberty, 
 
 To victory ; their shouts and clamours rend 
 My ears, and reach the heav'ns : where is the king ? 
 Where is Alphonso 1 ha ! where ! where indeed "? 
 O I could tear and burst the strings of life, 
 To break these chains. Off, off, ye stains of royalty 
 Off slavery ! O curse, that I alone 
 7
 
 74 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 Can beat and flutter in my cage, when I 
 Would soar, and stoop at victory beneath ! 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 If the emotions be unequal in force, the stronger, after a conflict, will 
 extinguish the weaker. Thus the loss of a house by fire, or of a sum 
 of money by bankruptcy, will make no figure in opposition to the 
 birth of a long-expected son, who is to inherit an opulent fortune : 
 after some slight vibrations, the mind settles in joy, and the loss is 
 forgotten. 
 
 The foregoing observations will be found of great use in the fine 
 arts. Many practical rules are derived from them, which shall after- 
 ward be mentioned ; but for instant gratification in part, the reader 
 will accept the following specimen, being an application of these 
 observations to music. It must be premised, that no disagreeable 
 combination of sounds is entitled to the name of music : for all music 
 is resolvable into melody and harmony, which imply agreeableness 
 in their very conception.* Secondly, the agreeableness of vocal 
 music differs from that of instrumental : the former, being intended 
 to accompany words, ought to be expressive of the sentiment that 
 they convey ; but the latter having no connection with words, may 
 be agreeable without relation to any sentiment: harmony, properly 
 so called, though delightful when in perfection, has no relation to 
 sentiment ; and we often find melody without the least tincture of 
 it.f Thirdly, in vocal music, the intimate connection of sense and 
 sound rejects dissimilar emotions, those especially that are opposite. 
 Similar emotions produced by the sense and the sound, go naturally 
 into union ; and at the same time are concordant or harmonious : 
 but dissimilar emotions, forced into union by these causes intimately 
 connected, obscure each other, and are also unpleasant by discord- 
 ance. 
 
 These premises make it easy to determine what sort of poetical 
 compositions are fitted for music. In general, as music in all its 
 various tones ought to be agreeable, it never can be concordant with 
 any composition in language expressing a disagreeable passion, or 
 describing a disagreeable object : for here the emotions raised by the 
 sense and by the sound, are not only dissimilar but opposite ; and 
 such emotions forced into union, always produce an unpleasant mix- 
 ture. Music, accordingly, is a very improper companion for senti- 
 ments of malice, cruelty, envy, peevishness, or of any other dissocial 
 passion ; witness among a thousand King John's speech in Shak- 
 speare, soliciting Hubert to murder Prince Arthur, which, even in 
 the most cursory view, will appear incompatible with any sort of 
 
 * Sounds may be so contrived as to produce horror, and several other painful 
 feelings, which in a tragedy, or in an opera, may be introduced with advantage to 
 accompany the representation of a dissocial or disagreeable passion. But such 
 sounds must in themselves be disagreeable ; and upon that account cannot be dig- 
 nified with the name of music. 
 
 t It is beyond the power of music to raise a passion or a sentiment : but it is in 
 the power of music to raise emotions similar to what are raised by sentiments 
 expressed in words pronounced with propriety and grace ; and such music may 
 justly be termed sentimental.
 
 Part 4.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 75 
 
 music. Music is a companion no less improper for the description 
 of any disagreeable object, such as that of Polyphemus in the third 
 book of the ^Eneid, or that of Sin in the second book of Paradise 
 Lost : the horror of the object described and the pleasure of the 
 music, would be highly discordant. 
 
 With regard to vocal music, there is an additional reason against 
 associating it with disagreeable passions. The external signs of such 
 passions are painful; the looks and gestures to the eye, and the tone 
 of pronunciation to the ear : such tones, therefore, can never be ex- 
 pressed musically, for music must be pleasant, or it is not music. 
 
 On the other hand, music associates finely with poems that tend 
 to inspire pleasant emotions : music for example in a cheerful tone, 
 is perfectly concordant with every motion in the same tone ; and 
 hence our taste for airs expressive of mirth and jollity. Sympa- 
 thetic joy associates finely with cheerful music ; and sympathetic 
 pain no less finely with music that is tender and melancholy. All 
 the different emotions of love, namely, tenderness, concern, anxiety, 
 pain of absence, hope, fear, accord delightfully with music : and 
 accordingly, a person in love, even when unkindly treated, is soothed 
 by music ; for the tenderness of love still prevailing, accords with a 
 melancholy strain. This is finely exemplified by Shakspeare in 
 the fourth act of Othello, where Desdemona calls for a song expres- 
 sive of her distress. Wonderful is the delicacy of that writer's 
 taste, which fails him not even in the most refined emotions of hu- 
 man nature. Melancholy music is suited to slight grief, which 
 requires or admits consolation : but deep grief, which refuses all 
 consolation, rejects, for that reason, even melancholy music. 
 
 Where the same person is both the actor and the singer, as in an 
 opera, there is a separate reason why music should not be associ- 
 ated with the sentiments of any disagreeable passion, nor the descrip- 
 tion of any disagreeable object ; which is, that such association is 
 altogether unnatural. The pain, for example, that a man feels who 
 is agitated with malice or unjust revenge, disqualifies him for relish- 
 ing music, or any thing that is pleasing ; and, therefore, to repre- 
 sent such a man, contrary to nature, expressing his sentiments in a 
 song, cannot be agreeable to any audience of taste. 
 
 For a different reason, music is improper for accompanying 
 pleasant emotions of the more important kind ; because these totally 
 engross the mind, and leave no place for music, nor for any sort of 
 amusement: in a perilous enterprise to dethrone a tyrant, music 
 would be impertinent, even where hope prevails, and the prospect of 
 success is great. Alexander attacking the Indian town, and mounting 
 the wall, had certainly no impulse to exert his prowess in a song. 
 
 It is true, that not the least regard is paid to these rules, either in 
 the French or Italian opera : and the attachment we have to operas, 
 may, at first, be considered as an argument against the foregoing 
 doctrine. But the general taste for operas is no argument : in these 
 compositions the passions are so imperfectly expressed, as to leave 
 the mind free for relishing music of any sort indifferently ; and it 
 cannot be disguised, that the pleasure of an opera is derived, chiefly,
 
 76 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 from the music, and scarcely at all from the sentiments : a happy 
 concordance of the emotions raised by the song and by the music, 
 is extremely rare ; and I venture to affirm, that there is no example 
 of it, unless where the emotion raised by the former is agreeable as 
 well as that raised by the latter.* 
 
 The subject we have run through appears not a little entertaining. 
 It is extremely curious to observe, in many instances, a plurality of 
 causes producing, in conjunction, a great pleasure: in other in- 
 stances, no less frequent, no conjunction, but each cause acting in 
 opposition. To enter bluntly upon a subject of such intricacy, might 
 gravel an acute philosopher ; but taking matters in a train, the in- 
 tricacy vanishes. 
 
 Next in order, according to the method proposed, come external 
 effects ; which lead us to passions as the causes of external effects. 
 Two coexistent passions that have the same tendency, must be simi- 
 lar : they accordingly readily unite, and in conjunction have double 
 force. This is verified by experience ; from which we learn, that 
 the mind receives not impulses alternately from such passions, but 
 one strong impulse from the whole in conjunction ; and, indeed, it is 
 not easy to conceive what should bar the union of passions that have 
 all of them the same tendency. 
 
 Two passions having opposite tendencies, may proceed from the 
 same cause considered in different views. Thus a mistress may at 
 once be the cause both of love and of resentment : her beauty in- 
 flames the passion of love ; her cruelty or inconstancy causes re- 
 sentment. When two such passions coexist in the same breast, the 
 opposition of their aim prevents any sort of union ; and accordingly, 
 they are not felt otherwise than in succession : the consequence of 
 which must be, either that the passions will balance each other and 
 prevent external action, or that one of them will prevail and accom- 
 plish its end. Guariai, in his Pastor Fido, describes beautifully 
 the struggle between love and resentment directed to the same 
 object : 
 
 Corisca. Chi vide mai, chi mai udi piu strana 
 E piu folle, e piu fera, e piu importuna 
 Passione amorosa 1 amore, ed odio 
 Con si mirabil tempre in un cor misti, 
 Che 1'un par 1'altro (e non so ben dir come) 
 E si strugge, e s'avanza, e nasce, e more. 
 S' i' miro alle bellezze di Mirtillo 
 Dal pie leggiadro al grazioso volto, 
 II vago portamento, il bel sembiante, 
 Gli atti, i costumi, e le parole, e '1 guardo; 
 M'assale Amore con si possente foco 
 Ch' i' ardo tutta, e par, ch' ogn' altro affetto 
 Da questo sol sia superato, e vinto : 
 Ma se poi penso all' ostinato amore, 
 
 * A censure of the same kind is pleasantly applied to the French ballettes by 
 a celebrated writer : " Si le Prince est joyeux, on prend part a sa joye, et Ton 
 danse : s'il est triste, on veut Pegayer, et Ton danse. Mais il y a bien d'autres 
 sujets de danses ; les plus graves actions de la vie se font en dansant. Les pre- 
 tres dansent, les soldats dansent, les dieux dansent, les diables dansent, on danse 
 jusques dans les enterremens, et tout danse a propros de tout."
 
 . 
 Part 4.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 77 
 
 Ch' ei porta ad altra donna, e che per lei 
 Di me non cura, e sprezza (il vo' pur dire) 
 La mia famosa, e da mill' alme, e mille, 
 Inchinata belta, bramata grazia ; 
 L' odio cosi, cosi 1'aborro, e schivo, 
 Che impossibil mi par, ch'unqua per lui 
 Mi s'accendesse al cor fiamma amorosa. 
 Tailor meco ragiono : o s'io potessi 
 Gioir del mio dol dolcissimo Mirtillo, 
 Sicche fosse mio tutto, e ch' altra mai 
 Posseder no '1 potesse, o piu d' ogn' altra 
 Beata, e felicissima Corisca ! 
 Ed in quel punto in me sorge un talento 
 Verso di lui si dolce, e si gentile, 
 Che di seguirlo, e di pregarlo ancora, 
 E di scoprirgli il cor prendo consiglio. 
 Che piu 1 cosi mi stimola il desio, 
 Che se potessi allor 1' adorerei. 
 DalF altra parte i' mi risento, e dico, 
 Unritroso'? unoschifo? unchenondegnal 
 Un, che pud d'altra donna esser amante 1 
 Un, ch'ardisce mirarmi, e non m'adora 1 
 E dal mio volto si difende in guisa, 
 Che per amor non more 1 ed 10, che lui 
 Dovrei veder, come molti altri i' veggio 
 Supplice, e lagrimoso a' piedi miei, 
 Supplice, e lagrimoso a piedi suoi 
 Sosterro di cadere 1 ah non fia mai. 
 Ed in questo pensier tant' ira accoglio 
 Contra di lui, contra di me, chevolsi 
 A seguirlo il pensier, gli occhi a mirarlo, 
 Che '1 nome di Mirtillo, e 1' amor mio 
 Odio piu che la morte ; e lui vorrei 
 Veder il piu dolente il piu infelice 
 Pastor, che viva ; e se potessi allora, 
 Con le mie proprie man 1'anciderei. 
 Cosi sdegno, desire, odio, ed amore 
 Mi fanno guerra, ed io, che stata sono 
 Sempre fin qui di mille cor la fiamma, 
 Di mill' alme ill tormento, ardo, e languisco : 
 E provo nel mio mai le pene altrui.* 
 
 Pastor Fido, Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 Ovid paints in lively colors the vibration of mind between two op- 
 posite passions directed to the same object. Althea had two brothers 
 much beloved, who were unjustly put to death by her son Meleager 
 in a fit of passion : she was strongly impelled to revenge ; but the 
 criminal was her own son. This ought to have withheld her hand ; 
 but the story is more interesting, by the violence of the struggle 
 between resentment and maternal love : 
 
 Dona Deum templis nato victore ferebat ; 
 Cum videt extinctos fratres Althaea referri. 
 duse plangore dato, moestis ululatibus urbem 
 Implet ; et auratas mutavit vestibus atris. 
 At simul est auctor necis editus ; excidit omnis 
 Luctus : et a lacrymis in poenae versus amorem est. 
 Stipes erat, quern, cum partus enixa jaceret 
 Thestias, in flammam triplices posuere sorores ; 
 
 * The editor did not think it necessary to introduce a translation of this pas- 
 sage, as the same principle is contained in the following illustration. 

 
 78 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 Staminaque impresso fatalia pollici nentes, 
 
 Tempera, dixerunt, eadem lignoque, tibique, 
 
 O modo nate, damus. Quo postquam carmine dicto 
 
 Excessere deae ; flagrantem mater ab igne 
 
 Eripuit torrem : sparsitque liquentibus undis. 
 
 Ille diu furat penetralibus abditus imis ; 
 
 Servatusque tuos, juvenis, servaverat annos. 
 
 Protulit hunc genitrix, tsedasque in fragmina poni 
 
 Imperat ; et posids inimicos admovet ignes. 
 
 Turn conata quater flammis imponere ramum, 
 
 Coepta quater tenuit. Pugnat materque, sororque, 
 
 Et diversa trahunt unum duo nomina pectus. 
 
 Ssepe metu sceleris pallebant ora futuri : 
 
 Ssepe suum fervens oculis dabat ira ruborem, 
 
 Et modo nescio quid similis crudcle minanti 
 
 Vultus erat ; modo quern misereri credere posses : 
 
 Cumque ferus lacrymas animi siccaverat ardor, 
 
 Invemebantur lacryma; tamen. Utque carina, 
 
 duam ventus, ventoque rapit contrarius sstus, 
 
 Vim geminam sentit, paretque incerta duobus : 
 
 Thestias baud alitur dubiis affectibus errat, 
 
 Inque vices ponit, positamque resuscitat iram. 
 
 Incipit esse tamen melior germana parente ; 
 
 Et, consanguineas ut sanguine leniat umbras, 
 
 Impietate pia est. Nam postquam pestifer ignis 
 
 Convaluit ; Rogus iste cremet mea viscera, dixit. 
 
 Utque manu dira lignum fatale tenebat ; 
 
 Ante sepulchrales infelix adstitit aras. 
 
 Pcenarumque deaa triplicis furialibus, inquit, 
 
 Eumenides, sacris vultus advertite vestros. 
 
 Ulciscor, facioque nefas. Mors morte pianda est ; 
 
 In scelus addendum scelus est, in funera funus : 
 
 Per coacervatos pereat domus impia luctus. 
 
 An felix Oeneus nato victore fruetur, 
 
 Thestius orbus erit 1 melius lugebitis ambo. 
 
 Vos modo, fraterni manes, animseque recentes, 
 
 Officium sentite meum ; magnoque paratas 
 
 Accipite inferias, uteri mala pignora nostri. 
 
 Hei mihi ! quorapior'? fratres ignoscite matri. 
 
 Deficiunt ad coepta manus. Meruisse fatemur 
 
 Ilium, cur pereat: mortis mihi displicet auctor. 
 
 Ergo impune feret ; vivusque, et victor, et ipso 
 
 Succcssu tumidus regnum Calydonis habebit? 
 
 Vos cinis fcxiguus, gelidaequejacebitis umbrae 1 
 
 Haud equidem patiar. Pereat sceleratus ; et ille 
 
 Spemqne patris, regnique trahat, patriseque ruinam, 
 
 Mens ubi materna est ; ubi sunt pia jura parentum 1 
 
 Et, quos sustinui, bis mensum quinque labores 1 ? 
 
 O utmam primis arsisses ignibus infans : 
 
 Idque ego passa forem ! vixisti munere nostro ; 
 
 Nunc merito moriere tuo. Cape preemia facti ; 
 
 Bisque datam, primum partu, mox stipite rapto, 
 
 Redde animam ; vel me fraternis adde sepulchris. 
 
 Et cupio, et nequeo. Gluid agam 1 modo vulnera fratrum 
 
 Ante oculos mihi sunt, et tantse caddis imago ; 
 
 Nunc animum pietas, maternaque nomina frangunt. 
 
 Me miseram ! male vincetis, sed vincite, fratres ; 
 
 Dummodo, quae dedero vobis solatia, vosque 
 
 Ipsa sequar, dixit : dextraque aversa trementi 
 
 Funereum torrem medios conjecit in ignes. 
 
 Aut dedit, aut visus gemitus est ille dedisse, 
 
 Stipes ; et invitis correptus ab ignibus arsit. 
 
 MstamorpL lib. 8. 1. 445.
 
 Part 4.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 79 
 
 Pleased with the first, unknown the second news ; 
 Althaea to the temples pays their dues 
 For her son's conquest ; when at length appear 
 Her grisly brethren stretched upon the bier ; 
 Pale at the sudden sight she changed her cheer, 
 And with her cheer, her robes : but hearing tell 
 The cause, the manner, and by whom they fell, 
 'Twas grief no more, or grief and rage were one 
 Within her soul ; at last, 'twas rage alone ; 
 Which bursting upwards in succession, dries 
 The tears, that stood consid'ring in her eyes. 
 There lay a log unlighted on the hearth, 
 When she was lab'ring in the throes of birth, 
 For the unborn chief; the fatal sisters came, 
 And raised it up, and toss'd it on the flame ; 
 Then on the rock a scanty measure place 
 Of vital flax, and turned the wheel apace ; 
 And turning sung ; To this red brand and thee, 
 O new-born babe, we give an equal destiny : 
 So vanished out of view ; The frighted dame 
 Sprang hasty from her bed, and quenched the flame : 
 The log, in secret locked, she kept with care; 
 And that, while thus preserved, preserved her heir. 
 This brand she now produced ; and first she strows 
 The hearth with heaps of chips, and after blows : 
 Thrice heaved her hand, and heaved, she thrice repressed : 
 The sister, and the mother long contest, 
 Two doubtful titles, in one tender breast. 
 And now her eyes and cheeks with fury glow, 
 Now pale her cheeks, her eyes with pity flow : 
 Now lowering looks presage approaching storms, 
 And now prevailing love her face reforms; 
 Resolved, she doubts again ; the tears she dried 
 With burning rage, are by new tears supplied ; 
 And as a ship, which winds and waves assail, 
 Now with the current drives, now with the gale, 
 Both opposite, and neither long prevail ; 
 She feels a double force, by turns obeys 
 The imperious tempest, and the impetuous seas : 
 So fares Althaea's mind ; she first relents 
 With pity ; of that pity then repents. 
 Sister, and mother, long the scales divide ; 
 But the beam nodded on the sister's side : 
 Sometimes she softly sighed, then roared aloud : 
 But sighs were stifled in the cries of blood. 
 The pious, impious wretch at length decreed, 
 To please lier brothers' ghost, her son should bleed : 
 And when the funeral flames began to rise, 
 Receive, she said, a sister's sacrifice ; 
 A mother's bowels burn : high in her hand, 
 Thus while she spoke, she held the fatal brand ; 
 Then thrice before the kindled pile she bowed, 
 And the three Furies thrice invoked aloud : 
 Come, come, revenging sisters ; come, and view 
 A sister paying her dead brothers' due : 
 A crime I punish, and a crime commit, 
 But blood for blood and death for death is fit : 
 Great crimes must be with greater crimes repaid, 
 And second funerals on the former laid. 
 Let the whole household in one ruin fall, 
 And may Diana's curse o'ertake us all ! 
 Shall fate to happy (Eneus still allow 
 One son, while Thestius stands deprived of two 7
 
 80 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. fCh. 2, 
 
 Better three lost, than one unpunished go. 
 
 Take, then, dear ghost, while yet admitted new 
 
 In hell, you wait my duty, take your due : 
 
 A costly offering on your tomb is laid, 
 
 When with my Hood the price of yours is paid. 
 
 Ah ! whither am I hurried 1 Ah ! forgive, 
 
 Ye shades, and let your sister's issue live : 
 
 A mother cannot give him death ; though he 
 
 Deserves it, he deserves it not from me : 
 
 Then shall the unpunished wretch insult the slain, 
 
 Triumphant live, nor only live, but reign, 
 
 While you, thin shades, the sport of winds are tossed 
 
 O'er dreary plains, or tread the burning coast. 
 
 I cannot, cannot bear ; 'tis past, 'tis done ; 
 
 Perish this impious, this detested son ; 
 
 Perish his sire, and perish I with all ; 
 
 And let the house's heir, and the hop'd kingdom fall ! 
 
 Where is the mother fled, her pious love, 
 
 And where the pains with which ten months I strove! 
 
 Ah ! hadst thou died, my son, in infant years, 
 
 Thy little hearse had been bedewed with tears. 
 
 Thou livedst by me ; to me thy breath resign ; 
 
 Mine is the merit, the demerit thine. 
 
 Thy life by double title I require ; 
 
 Once given at birth, and once preserved from fire ; 
 
 One murder pay, or add one murder more, 
 
 And me to them who fell by thee restore. 
 
 I would, but cannot : my son's image stands 
 
 Before my sight ; and now their angry hands 
 
 My brothers hold, and vengeance these exact, 
 
 This pleads compassion, and repents the fact. 
 
 He pleads in vain, and I pronounce his doom : 
 
 My brothers, though unjustly, shall o'ercome : 
 
 But having paid their injured ghosts their due, 
 
 My son requires my death, and mine shall his pursue. 
 
 At this, for the last time, she lifts her hand. 
 
 Averts her eyes, and, half unwilling, drops the brand. 
 
 The brand, amid the naming fuel thrown, 
 
 Or drew, or seemed to draw, a dying groan : 
 
 The fires themselves but faintly lick'd their prey, 
 
 Then loath'd their impious food, and would have shrunk away. 
 
 In cases of this kind, one circumstance always augments the fluc- 
 tuation: after balancing between two actions, a resolution to prefer 
 one of them is an inchoated gratification of the prevailing passion, 
 which moderates it in some degree ; and that circumstance tends to 
 give a superiority to the opposite passion : another circumstance also 
 concurs, that this opposite passion has, by restraint, acquired in the 
 interim some additional force. 
 
 Love and jealousy connected by a common object, occupy the 
 mind alternately : when the object is considered as beautiful, love 
 prevails ; when considered as possibly unfaithful, jealousy prevails. 
 A situation of that kind affords great scope for fluctuation of passion ; 
 which is painted to the life by several masterly hands in words as 
 well as in colors. Shakspeare handles the same subject, but in a 
 manner uncommon, and peculiar to himself: in Othello's soliloquy 
 before putting his wife to death, love and jealousy are represented, 
 each exerting its whole force, but without any struggle : Othello 
 was naturally inflexible ; and the tenderest love could not divert him
 
 Part 4.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 81 
 
 from a purpose he approved as right, not even for a moment : but 
 every thing consistent with such a character is done to reconcile the 
 two opposite passions ; he is resolved to put her to death, but he will 
 not shed her blood, nor so much as ruffle her skin : 
 
 Othello. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul ; 
 Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! 
 
 It is the cause Yet I'll not shed her blood, 
 
 Nor scar that whiter skin of her's than snow, 
 
 And smooth as monumental alabaster. [Lays down the sword. 
 
 Yet she must die ; else she'll betray more men. 
 
 Put out the light, and thea Put out the light ! 
 
 If I quench thee, thou naming minister, 
 
 I can again thy former light restore, 
 
 Should I repent : but once put out thy light, 
 
 Thou cunnmg'st pattern of excelling nature, 
 
 I know not where is that Promethean heat 
 
 That can thy life relumine. [Sets down the taper. 
 
 When I have pluck'd thy rose, 
 
 I cannot give it vital growth again ; 
 
 It needs must wither. I'll smell thee on the tree. [Kissing her. 
 
 O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade 
 
 Justice to break her sword ! One more ; one more ; 
 
 Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, 
 
 And love thee after. One more, that's the last ; 
 
 So sweet was ne'er so fatal ; I must weep, 
 
 But they are cruel tears ! this sorrow's heavenly ; 
 
 It strikes where it doth love. Othello, Act V. Sc. 6. 
 
 In Otway's Orphan, we have an illustrious example of the address 
 employed to gratify opposite passions directed to the same object. 
 Castalio and Polydore, brothers and rivals, had sworn mutual con- 
 fidence : Castalio broke his faith by a private marriage ; which un- 
 warily betrayed Polydore into a dismal deed, that of polluting his 
 brother's bed. Thus he had injured his brother, and was injured 
 by him : justice prompted him to make full atonement by his own 
 death ; resentment against his brother, required a full atonement 
 to be made to himself In coexistent passions so contradictory, one 
 of them commonly prevails after a struggle : but here happily an 
 expedient occurred to Polydore for gratifying both ; which was, that 
 he should provoke his brother to put him to death. Polydore's crime, 
 in his own opinion, merited that punishment; and justice was satis- 
 fied when he fell by the hand of the man he had injured : he wanted, 
 at the same time, to punish his brother for breach of faith ; and he 
 could not punish more effectually than by betraying his brother to 
 be his executioner. 
 
 If difference of aim prevent the union of two passions, though they 
 have the same object, much more will it prevent their union, when 
 their objects are also different : in both cases there is a fluctuation ; 
 but in the latter the fluctuation is slower than in the former. A beau- 
 tiful situation of that kind is exhibited in the Cid of Corneille. Don 
 Diegue, an old soldier worn out with age, having received a mortal 
 affront from the Count, father to Chimene, employs his son Don 
 Rodrigue, Chimene' s lover, to demand satisfaction. This situation 
 occasions in the breast of Don Rodrigue a cruel struggle between 
 love and honor, one of which must be sacrificed. The scene is
 
 82 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. "CL 2. 
 
 finely conducted, chiefly by making love, in some degree, take part 
 with honor, Don Rodrigue reflecting, that if he lost his honor he 
 could not deserve his mistress : honor triumphs ; and the Count 
 provoked to a single combat, falls by the hand of Don Rodrigue. 
 
 This produces another beautiful situation respecting Chimene, 
 which making part of the same story, is placed here, though it pro- 
 perly belongs to the foregoing head. It became the duty of that lady 
 to demand justice against her lover, for whose preservation, in other 
 circumstances, she would have cheerfully sacrificed her own life. 
 The struggle between these opposite passions directed to the same 
 object is finely expressed in the third scene of the third act : 
 
 Elvire. II vous prive d'un pere, et vous 1'aimez encore ! 
 
 Chimene. C'est peu de dire aimer, Elvire, je Fadore ; 
 Ma passion s'oppose a mon resentiment, 
 Dedans mon ennemi je trouve mon amant, 
 Et je sens qu'en depit de toute ma colere, 
 Rodrigue dans mon coeur combat encore mon pere. 
 II 1'attaque, il le presse, il cede, il se defend, 
 Tantot fort, tantot foible, en tantot triomphant ; 
 Mais en ce dur combat de colere et de flame, 
 II declare mon cceur sans partager mon ame, 
 Et quoique mon amour ait sur moi de pouvoir, 
 Je ne consulte point pour suivre mon devoir. 
 Je cours sans balancer ou mon honneur m'oblige ; 
 Rodrigue m'est bien cher, son interet m'afflige, 
 Mon coeur prend son parti ; mais malgre son effort, 
 Je sai que je suis, et que mon pere est mort. 
 
 Not less when the objects are different than when the same, are 
 means sometimes afforded to gratify both passions ; and such means 
 are greedily embraced. In Tasso's Gerusalemme, Edward and Gil- 
 dippe, husband and wife, are introduced fighting gallantly against 
 the Saracens. Gildippe receives a mortal wound by the hand of 
 Soliman : Edward inflamed with revenge, as well as concern for 
 Gildippe, is agitated between the two different objects. The poet* 
 describes him endeavoring to gratify both at once, applying his right 
 hand against Soliman, the object of his resentment, and his left hand 
 to support his wife, the object of his love. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF PASSION WITH RESPECT TO OUR PERCEPTIONS, 
 OPINIONS, AXD BELIEF. 
 
 The influence of passion upon our perceptions, opinions, and belief Tran- 
 quillity or sedateness, the proper state of mind for accurate perception and cool 
 deliberation Agreeable passions prepossess us in favor of their objects ; dis- 
 agreeable do not A strong propensity in our nature to justify our passions 
 and actions Arguments for a favorite opinion always at hand The mind 
 delighted and impressed by agreeable arguments, but not by disagreeable 
 Examples : Gratitude Envy Grief Resentment Anger Good news Bad 
 news Improbable events Future events Prosperity Affliction. 
 
 CONSIDERING how intimately our perceptions, passions, and ac- 
 tions, are mutually connected, it would be wonderful if they should 
 * Canto 20. st. 97.
 
 Part 5.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 83 
 
 have no mutual influence. That our actions are too much influenced 
 by passion, is a known truth ; but it is not less certain, though not 
 so well known, that passion has also an influence upon our percep- 
 tions, opinions, and belief. For example, the opinions we form of 
 men and things, are generally directed by affection : an advice given 
 by a man of figure, has great weight ; the same advice from one in 
 a low condition is despised or neglected : a man of courage under- 
 rates danger ; and to the indolent the slightest obstacle appears un- 
 surmountable. 
 
 This doctrine is of great use in logic ; and of still greater use in 
 criticism, by serving to explain several principles of the fine arts 
 that will be unfolded in the course of this work. A few general ob- 
 servations shall, at present, suffice, leaving the subject to be prose- 
 cuted more particularly afterward when occasion offers. 
 
 There is no truth more universally known, than that tranquillity 
 and^sedateness are the proper state of mind for accurate perception 
 and cool deliberation ; and for that reason, we never regard the opi- 
 nion, even of the wisest man, when we discover prejudice or passion 
 behind the curtain. Passion, as observed above,* has such influ- 
 ence over us, as to give a false light to all its objects. Agreeable 
 passions prepossess the mind in favor of their objects, and disagree- 
 able passions, no less against their objects : a woman is all perfec- 
 tion in her lover's opinion, while, in the eye of a rival beauty, she 
 is awkward and disagreeable : when the passion of love is gone, 
 beauty vanishes with it, nothing is left of that genteel motion, that 
 sprightly conversation, those numberless graces, which formerly, in 
 the lover's opinion, charmed all hearts. To a zealot every one of 
 his own sect is a saint, while the most upright of a different sect are, 
 to him, children of perdition : the talent of speaking in a friend, is 
 more regarded than prudent conduct in any other. Nor will this 
 surprise one acquainted with the world. Our opinions, the result, 
 frequently, of various and complicated views, are commonly so slight 
 and wavering, as readily to be susceptible of a bias from passion. 
 
 With that natural bias another circumstance concurs, to give pas- 
 sion an undue influence on our opinions and belief; and that is a 
 strong tendency in our nature to justify our passions as well as our 
 actions, not to others only, but even to ourselves. That tendency is 
 peculiarly remarkable with respect to disagreeable passions : by its 
 influence, objects are magnified or lessened, circumstances supplied 
 or suppressed, every thing colored and disguised, to answer the end 
 of justification. Hence the foundation of self-deceit, where a man 
 imposes upon himself innocently, and even without suspicion of a bias. 
 
 There are subordinate means that contribute to pervert the judg- 
 ment, and to make us form opinions contrary to truth ; of which I 
 shall mention two. First, it was formerly observed,! that though 
 ideas seldom start up in the mind without connection, yet that ideas 
 suited to the present tone of mind are readily suggested by any slight 
 connection : the arguments for a favorite opinion are always at hand, 
 while we often search in vain for those that cross our inclination. 
 * Page 68. t Chap. I.
 
 84 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 Second ; the mind, taking delight in agreeable circumstances or ar- 
 guments, is deeply impressed with them ; while those that are disa- 
 greeable are hurried over so as scarcely to make any impression : 
 the same argument, by being relished or not relished, weighs so 
 differently, as in truth to make conviction depend more on passion 
 than on reasoning. This observation is fully justified by experi- 
 ence : to confine myself to a single instance ; the numberless ab- 
 surd religious tenets that at different times have pestered the world, 
 would be altogether unaccountable but for that irregular bias of 
 passion. 
 
 We proceed to a more pleasant task, which is, to illustrate the 
 foregoing observations by proper examples. Gratitude, when warm, 
 is often exerted upon the children of the benefactor ; especially where 
 he is removed out of reach by death or absence.* The passion in this 
 case being exerted for the sake of the benefactor, requires no pecu- 
 liar excellence in his children : but the practice of doing good to 
 these children produces affection for them, which never fails to ad- 
 vance them in our esteem. By such means, strong connections of 
 affection are often formed among individuals, upon the slight found- 
 ation now mentioned. 
 
 Envy is a passion, which, being altogether unjustifiable, can only 
 be excused by disguising it under some plausible name. At the same 
 time, no passion is more eager than envy, to give its object a disa- 
 greeable appearance : it magnifies every bad quality, and fixes on 
 the most humbling circumstances : 
 
 Cassius. I cannot tell what you and other men 
 Think of this life ; but for my single self, 
 I had as lief not be, as live to be 
 In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
 I was born free as Caesar, so were you ; 
 We both have fed as well ; and we ca*h both 
 Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
 For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 
 The troubled Tyber chafing with his shores, 
 Csesar says to me, Dar'st thou, Cassius, now 
 Leap in with me into this angry flood, 
 And swim to yonder point ^ U pon the word, 
 Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 
 And bid him follow ; so indeed he did. 
 The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it, 
 With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside, 
 And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 
 But ere we could arrive the point propos'd, 
 Caesar cry'd, Help me, Cassius, or I sink. 
 I. as jEneas, our great ancestor, 
 Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 
 The old Anchises bear ; so from the waves of Tyber 
 Did I the tired Cassar: and this man 
 Is now become a god, and Cassius is 
 A wretched creature ; and must bend his body, 
 If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 
 He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
 And when the fit was on him, I did mark 
 How he did shake. 'Tis true, this god did shake; 
 
 * See part 1. sect. 1. of the present chapter.
 
 Parts.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 85 
 
 His coward lips did from their color fly, 
 
 And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world, 
 
 Did lose its lustre ; I did hear him groan ; 
 
 Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 
 
 Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 
 
 Alas ! it cry'd Give me some drink, Titinius, 
 
 As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 
 
 A man of such a feeble temper should 
 
 So get a start of the majestic world, 
 
 And bear the palm alone. Julius Ccesar, Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 Glo'ster, inflamed with resentment against his son Edgar, could 
 even force himself into a momentary conviction that they were not 
 related : 
 
 strange fasten'd villain ! 
 
 Would he deny his letter? I never got him. 
 
 King Lear v Act II. Sc. 3. 
 
 When by great sensibility of heart, or other means, grief becomes 
 immoderate, the mind, in order to justify itself, is prone to magnify 
 the cause : and if the real cause admit not of being magnified, the 
 mind seeks a cause for its grief in imagined future events : 
 
 Busby. Madam, your Majesty is much too sad : 
 You promis'd, when you parted with the King, 
 To lay aside self-harming heaviness, 
 And entertain a cheerful disposition. 
 
 Queen. To please the King, I did; to please myself, 
 
 1 cannot do it. Yet I know no cause 
 
 Why I should welcome such a guest as grief: 
 Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest 
 As my sweet Richard : yet again, methinks, 
 Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune's womb, 
 Is coming tow'rd me ; and my inward soul 
 With something trembles, yet at nothing grieves, 
 More than with parting from my lord the King. 
 
 Richard II. Act II. Sc. 5. 
 
 Resentment at first is vented on the relations of the offender, in 
 order to punish him : but as resentment, when so outrageous, is con- 
 trary to conscience, the mind, to justify its passion, is disposed to 
 paint these relations in the blackest colors ; and it comes, at last, to 
 be convinced, that they ought to be punished for their own demerits. 
 
 Anger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part of the 
 body, is sometimes vented upon the undesigning cause. But as the 
 passion in that case is absurd, and as there can be no solid gratifi- 
 cation in punishing the innocent, the mind, prone to justify as well 
 as to gratify its passion, deludes itself into a conviction that the ac- 
 tion is voluntary. The conviction, however, is but momentary: the 
 first reflection shows it to be erroneous ; and the passion vanishes 
 almost instantaneously with the conviction. But anger, the most vio- 
 lent of all passions, has still greater influence : it sometimes forces 
 the mind to personify a stock or a stone, if it happen to occasion 
 bodily pain, and even to believe it a voluntary agent, in order to be 
 a proper object of resentment. And that we have really a momen- 
 tary conviction of its being a voluntary agent, must be evident from 
 considering, that, without such conviction, the passion can neither 
 8
 
 86 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 be justified nor gratified : the imagination can give no aid ; for a 
 stock or a stone imagined sensible, cannot be an object of punishment, 
 if the mind be conscious that it is imagination merely, without any 
 reality. Of such personification, involving a conviction of reality, 
 there is one illustrious instance : when the first bridge of boats over 
 the Hellespont was destroyed by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport 
 of rage, so excessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished witl 
 300 stripes ; and a pair of fetters to be thrown into it, enjoining the 
 following words to be pronounced" O thou salt and bitter water ! 
 thy master hath condemned thee to this punishment for offending 
 him without cause ; and is resolved to pass over thee in despit* 
 thy insolence : with reason all men neglect to sacrifice to thee, b< 
 cause thou art both disagreeable and treacherous."* 
 
 Shakspeare exhibits beautiful examples of the irregular mflt 
 of passion in making us believe things to be otherwise than w 
 they are Kino- Lear, in his distress, personifies the rain, wind, 
 and thunder ; and, in order to justify his resentment, believes them 
 to be taking part with his daughters : 
 
 Lear. Rumble thy bellyful, spit fire, spout rain ! 
 
 Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. 
 
 I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; 
 
 I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children ; 
 
 You owe me no subscription. Then let fall 
 
 Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand, your slave; 
 
 A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man ! 
 
 But yet I call you servile ministers, 
 
 That have with two pernicious daughters join d 
 
 Your hi o-h-en sender 'd battles, 'gainst a head 
 
 So old and white as this. Oh ! oh ! 'tis foul ! 
 
 , Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 King Richard, full of indignation against his favorite horse for 
 carrying Bolingbroke, is led into the conviction of his being rational : 
 
 Groom. O, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld 
 In London streets, that coronation-day, 
 When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary, 
 That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, 
 That horse that I so carefully have dressed. 
 
 K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary 1 tell me, gentle friend, 
 How went he under him 1 
 
 Groom. So proudly as he had disdain'd the ground. 
 
 K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back ! 
 That jade had eat bread from my royal hand. 
 This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. 
 
 Would he not stumble 1 would he not fall down, 
 ' ' and break the necl 
 irp his back 1 
 Richard II. Act V. Sc. 5. 
 
 ('since*pride must have a fall,) and break the neck 
 Of that proud man that did usurp his back 1 
 
 Hamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother's second marriage, 
 was strongly inclined to lessen the time of her wu 
 shortness of the time being a violent circumstance against 
 he deludes himself, by degrees, into the opinion of an interval short* 
 than the real one : 
 
 Hamlet.' That it should come to this ! 
 
 But two months dead ! nay, not so much ; not two ; 
 * Herodotus, book 7.
 
 Part 5.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 87 
 
 So excellent a king, that was, to this, 
 Hyperion to a satyr : so loving to my mother, 
 That he pennitted not the winds of heav'n 
 Visit her face too roughly. Heav'n and earth 
 Must I remember why, she would hang on him, 
 As if increase of appetite had grown 
 
 By what it fed on ; yet, within a month, 
 
 Let me not think Frailty, thy name is Woman ! 
 A little month ; or ere these shoes were old, 
 With which she follow'd my poor father's body, 
 
 Like Niobe, all tears Why she, e'en she 
 
 (O heav'n ! a beast that wants discourse of reason, 
 Would have mourn 'd longer) married with mine uncle, 
 My father's brother ; but no more like my father, 
 
 Than I to Hercules. Within a month ! 
 
 Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 
 Had left the flushing in her gauled eyes, 
 
 She married Oh, most wicked speed, to post 
 
 With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 
 
 It is not, nor it cannot come to good. 
 
 But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue. 
 
 Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 The power of passion to falsify the computation of time is remarkable 
 in this instance ; because time, which has an accurate measure, is 
 less obsequious to our desires and wishes, than objects which have 
 no precise standard of less or more. 
 
 Good news are greedily swallowed upon very slender evidence : 
 our wishes magnify the probability of the event, as well as the vera- 
 city of the relater ; and AVC believe as certain, what at best is doubtful. 
 For the same reason, bad news gain also credit upon the slightest 
 evidence : fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect that hope has. 
 to magnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakspeare, 
 who shows more knowledge of human nature than any of our philo- 
 sophers, has in his Cymbeline* represented this bias of the mind ; 
 for he makes the person who alone was affected with the bad news, 
 yield to evidence that did not convince any of his companions. 
 And Othellof is convinced of his wife's infidelity from circumstances 
 too slight to move any person less interested. 
 
 If the news interest us in so low a degree as to give place to 
 reason, the effect will not be altogether the same : judging of the 
 probability or improbability of the story, the mind settles in a rational 
 conviction, either that it is true or not. But, even in that case, the 
 mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of conviction which is 
 produced by rational evidence : if the news be, in any degree, favor- 
 able, our belief is raised by hope to an improper height; and if 
 unfavorable, by fear. 
 
 This observation holds equally with respect to future events : if a 
 future event be either much wished or dreaded, the mind never fails 
 to augment the probability beyond truth. 
 
 That easiness of belief with respect to wonders and prodigies, 
 
 even the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon; 
 
 because nothing can be more evident than the following proposition, 
 
 that the more singular any event is, the more evidence is required 
 
 * Act II. Sc. 4. t Act III. Sc. 4.
 
 88 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2 
 
 to produce belief. A familiar event daily occurring, being in itselt 
 extremely probable, finds ready credit, and therefore is vouched by 
 the slightest evidence ; but to overcome the improbability of a strange 
 and rare event, contrary to the course of nature, the very strongest 
 evidence is required. It is certain, however, that wonders and 
 prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that would 
 not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It has 
 been reckoned difficult to explain that irregular bias of mind ; but 
 we are now made acquainted with the influence of passion upon 
 opinion and belief: a story of ghosts or fairies, told with an air of 
 gravity and truth, raises an emotion of wonder, and perhaps of 
 dread; and these emotions imposing upon a weak mind, impress 
 upon it a thorough conviction contrary to reason. 
 
 Opinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by 
 passion. An innate propensity is all we have to convince us, that 
 the operations of nature are uniform : influenced by that propensity, 
 we often rashly think, that good or bad weather will never have an 
 end; and in natural philosophy, writers, influenced by the same 
 propensity, stretch, commonly, their analogical reasonings beyond 
 just bounds. 
 
 Opinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by pro- 
 pensity. The noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the 
 moon through a telescope, is a pleasant illustration. I perceive, 
 says the lady, two shadows inclining to each other ; they are cer- 
 tainly two happy lovers. Not at all, replies the curate ; they are 
 two steeples of a cathedral. 
 
 APPENDIX TO PART V. 
 
 METHODS THAT NATURE HAS AFFORDED FOR COMPUTING TIME 
 AND SPACE. 
 
 The succession of our thoughts the only natural method of computing time; but 
 this is inaccurate Two periods of computing time, passing and past Exam- 
 ples of time passing : Absence appears long to lovers Time appears short to 
 a criminal between sentence and execution Time appears long when bodily 
 pain is fixed to one part of the body Examples of time past : Here we measure 
 by succession of thought To distinguish between a train of perception.- 
 a train of ideas here necessary Time employed on real objects appears loi 
 than that spent on ideas When passing through a populous country- 
 appears longer than when passing through a ban-en one Time appears 
 when travelling with agreeable company, or when engaged in agreeable work 
 Close thinking renders time short Grief has the same effect. 
 THIS subject is introduced, because it affords several curious 
 examples of the influence of passion to bias the mind in its concep- 
 tions and opinions a lesson that cannot be too frequently inculcated, 
 as there is not, perhaps, another bias in human nature that has an 
 influence, so universal, to make us wander from truth as well as 
 from justice. 
 
 I begin with time ; and the question is, what was the measure of 
 time before artificial measures were invented; and what is the mea- 
 sure at present when these are not at hand? I speak not of months
 
 Part 5.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 89 
 
 and days, which are computed by the moon and sun ; but of hours, 
 or in general of the time that passes between any two occurrences 
 when there is not access to the sun. The only natural measure is 
 the succession of our thoughts ; for we always judge the time to be 
 long or short, in proportion to the number of perceptions and ideas 
 that have passed during that interval. This measure is, indeed, far 
 from being accurate ; because in a quick and in a slow succession, 
 it must evidently produce different computations of the same time : 
 but, however inaccurate, it is the only measure by which we natu- 
 rally calculate time ; and that measure is applied on all occasions, 
 without regard to any casual variation in the rate of succession. 
 
 That measure would however be tolerable, did it labor under no 
 other imperfection beside that mentioned : but in many instances it 
 is much more fallacious ; in order to explain which distinctly, an 
 analysis will be necessary. Time is computed at two different 
 periods ; one while it is passing, another after it is past : these 
 computations shall be considered separately, with the errors to 
 which each of them is liable. Beginning with computation of time, 
 while it is passing, it is a common and trite observation, that to 
 lovers absence appears immeasurably long every minute an hour, 
 and every day a year : the same computation is made in every case 
 where we long for a distant event ; as where one is in expectation 
 of good news, or where a profligate heir watches for the death of an 
 old rich miser. Opposite to these are instances not fewer in number : 
 to a criminal the interval between sentence and execution appears 
 wofully short : and the same holds in every case where one dreads 
 an approaching event ; of which, even a school-boy can bear witness : 
 the hour allowed him for play, moves, in his apprehension, with a 
 very swift pace ; before he is thoroughly engaged, the hour is gone. 
 A computation founded on the number of ideas, will never produce 
 estimates so regularly opposite to each other ; for our wishes do not 
 produce a slow succession of ideas, nor our fears a quick succession. 
 What then moves nature, in the cases mentioned, to desert her ordi- 
 nary measure for one very different ? I know not that this question 
 ever has been resolved ; the false estimates I have suggested being 
 so common and familiar, that no writer has thought of their cause. 
 And, indeed, to enter upon this matter without preparation, might 
 occasion some difficulty; to encounter which we are luckily pre- 
 pared, by what is said upon the power of passion to bias the mind in 
 its perceptions and opinions. Among the circumstances that terrify 
 a condemned criminal, the short time he has to live is one ; which 
 time, by the influence of terror, is made to appear still shorter than 
 it is in reality. In the same manner, among the distresses of an 
 absent lover, the time of separation is a capital circumstance, which 
 for that reason is greatly magnified by his anxiety and impatience : 
 he imagines that the time of meeting comes on very slowly, or 
 rather that it will never come: every minute is thought of an intole- 
 rable length. Here is a fair, and, I hope, satisfactory reason, why 
 time is thought to be tedious when we long for a future event, and 
 not less fleet when we dread the event. The reason is confirmed 
 8*
 
 90 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 by other instances. Bodily pain, fixed to one part, produces a slow 
 train of perceptions, which, according to the common measure of 
 time, ought to make it appear short : yet we know, that, in such a 
 state, time has the opposite appearance ; and the reason is, that bodily 
 pain is always attended with a degree of impatience, which makes 
 us think every minute to be an hour. The same holds where the 
 pain shifts from place to place ; but not so remarkably, because such 
 a pain is not attended with the same degree of impatience. The 
 impatience a man has in travelling through a barren country, or in 
 a bad road, makes him think, during the journey, that time goes OH 
 with a very slow pace. We shall see afterward, that a very different 
 computation is made when the journey is over. 
 
 How ought it to stand with a person who apprehends bad news ? 
 It will probably be thought that the case of this person resembles 
 that of a criminal, who, terrified at his approaching execution, 
 believes every hour to be but a minute: yet the computation is 
 directly opposite. Reflecting upon the difficulty, there appears one 
 capital distinguishing circumstance : the fate of the criminal is de- 
 termined ; in the case under consideration, the person is still in sus- 
 pense. Every one has felt the distress that accompanies suspense : 
 we wish to get rid of it at any rate, even at the expense of bad news. 
 This ease, therefore, upon a more narrow inspection, resembles that 
 of bodily pain : the present distress, in both cases, makes the time 
 appear extremely tedious. 
 
 The reader, probably, will not be displeased, to have this branch 
 of the subject illustrated, by an author who is acquainted with every 
 maze of the human heart, and who bestows ineffable grace and orna- 
 ment upon every subject he handles : 
 
 Rosalinda. I pray you, what is't a-clock 1 
 
 Orlando. You should ask me, what time o'(iay; there's no clock in the forest. 
 Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest ; else, sighing every minute, and 
 groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time, as well as a clock. 
 
 rsons. 
 gallops 
 withal, and who he stands still withal. 
 
 Orla,. I pr'ythee whom doth he trot withal 7 
 
 Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her mar- 
 riage and the day it is solemnized : if the interim be but a se'ennight, Time's pace 
 is so hard, that it seems the length of seven years. 
 
 Orla. Who ambles Time withal 1 
 
 Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout : 
 for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study ; and the other lives merrily, 
 because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burthen of lean and wasteful learn- 
 ing: the other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury. These Times 
 ambles withal. 
 
 Orla. Whom doth he gallop withal 7 
 
 Ros. With a thief to the gallows: for, tho' he go as softly as foot can fall, he 
 thinks himself too soon there. 
 
 Orla. Whom stays it still withal 1 
 
 Ros. With lawyers in the vacation : for they sleep between term and term, 
 and then they perceive not how Time moves. 
 
 As You Like It, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 The natural method of computing present time, shows how far
 
 Part 5.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 91 
 
 from truth we may be led by the irregular influence of passion : nor 
 are our eyes immediately opened when the scene is past ; for the 
 deception continues while there remain any traces of the passion. 
 But looking back upon past time when the joy or distress is no longer 
 remembered, the computation is very different : in that condition, we 
 coolly and deliberately make use of the ordinary measure, namely, the 
 course of our perceptions. And I shall now proceed to the errors to 
 which this measure is subjected. Here we must distinguish between 
 a train of perceptions, and a train of ideas. Real objects make a 
 strong impression, and are faithfully remembered : ideas, on the 
 contrary, however entertaining at the time, are apt to escape a 
 subsequent recollection. Hence it is, that in retrospection, the time 
 that was employed upon real objects, appears longer than that 
 employed upon ideas : the former are more accurately recollected 
 than the latter ; and we measure the time by the number that is 
 recollected. This doctrine shall be illustrated by examples. After 
 finishing a journey through a populous country, the frequency of 
 agreeable objects, distinctly recollected by the traveler, makes the 
 time spent in the journey appear to him longer than it was in reality ; 
 which is chiefly remarkable in the first journey, when every object is 
 new, and makes a strong impression. On the other hand, after finish- 
 ing a journey through a barren country thinly peopled, the time ap- 
 pears short, being measured by the number of objects, which were 
 few, and far from interesting. Here in both instances a computation is 
 made, directly opposite to that made during the journey. And this, 
 by the way, serves to account for what may appear singular, that in a 
 barren country, a computed mile is always longer, than near the 
 capital, where the country is rich and populous : the traveler has 
 no natural measure of the miles he has traveled, other than the time 
 bestowed upon the journey ; nor any natural measure of the time, 
 other than the number of his perceptions : now these, being few 
 from the paucity of objects in a waste country, lead him to compute 
 that the time has been short, and consequently that the miles have 
 been few : by the same method of computation, the great number of 
 perceptions, from the quantity of objects in a populous country, make 
 the traveler conjecture that the time has been long, and the miles 
 many. The last step of the computation is obvious : in estimating the 
 distance of one place from another, if the miles be reckoned few in 
 number, each mile must of course be long; if many in number, 
 each must be short. 
 
 Again, traveling with an agreeable companion, produces a short 
 computation both of the road and of time ; especially if there be 
 few objects that demand attention, or if the objects be familiar : and 
 the case is the same of young people at a ball, or of a joyous com- 
 pany over a bottle : the ideas with which they have been entertained, 
 being transitory, escape the memory : after the journey and the enter- 
 tainment are over, they reflect that they have been much diverted, 
 but scarcely can say about what. 
 
 When one is totally occupied with any agreeable work that admits 
 not many objects, time runs on without observation : and upon a
 
 92 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2 
 
 subsequent recollection, must appear short, in proportion to the pau- 
 city of objects. This is still more remarkable in close contempla- 
 tion and in deep thinking, where the train, composed wholly of 
 ideas, proceeds with an extremely slow pace : not only are the ideas 
 few in number, but are apt to escape an after reckoning. The like 
 false reckoning of time may proceed from an opposite state of mind : 
 in a reverie, where ideas float at random without making any impres- 
 sion, time goes on unheeded, and the reckoning is lost. A reverie 
 may be so profound as to prevent the recollection of any one idea : 
 that the mind was busied in a train of thinking, may, in general, be 
 remembered; but what was the subject, has quite escaped the memory. 
 In such a case, we are altogether at a loss about the time, having no 
 data for making a computation. No cause produces so false a 
 reckoning of time, as immoderate grief: the mind, in that state, is 
 violently attached to a single object, and admits not a different 
 thought: any other object breaking in, is instantly banished, so as 
 scarcely to give an appearance of succession. In a reverie, we are 
 uncertain of the time that is past ; but, in the example now given, 
 there is an appearance of certainty, that the time must have been 
 short, when the perceptions are so few in number. 
 
 The natural measure of space, appears more obscure than that of 
 time. I venture, however, to mention it, leaving it to be farther pro- 
 secuted, if it be thought of any importance. 
 
 The space marked out for a house appears considerably larger 
 after it is divided into its proper parts. A piece of ground appears 
 larger after it is surrounded with a fence ; and still larger when it is 
 made a garden and divided into different compartments. 
 
 On the contrary, a large plain looks less after it is divided into 
 parts. The sea must be excepted, which looks less from that very 
 circumstance of not being divided into parts. 
 
 A room of a moderate size appears larger when properly furnished. 
 But, when a very large room is furnished, I doubt whether it be not 
 lessened in appearance. 
 
 A room of a moderate size looks less by having a ceiling lower 
 than in proportion. The same low ceiling makes a very large room 
 look larger than it is in reality. 
 
 These experiments are by far too small a stock for a general 
 theory : but they are all that occur at present ; and, instead of a regu- 
 lar system, I have nothing for the reader's instruction but a few 
 conjectures. 
 
 The largest angle of vision seems to be the natural measure of 
 space : the eye is the only judge ; and in examining with it the size 
 of any plain, or the length of any line, the most accurate method that 
 can be taken is, to run over the object in parts : the largest part that 
 can be seen with one steadfast look, determines the largest angle of 
 vision ; and, when that angle is given, one may institute a calculation, 
 by trying with the eye how many of these parts are in the whole. 
 
 Whether this angle be the same in all men, I know not : the 
 smallest angle of vision is ascertained ; and to ascertain the largest, 
 would not be less curious.
 
 Part 5.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 93 
 
 But supposing it known, it would be a very imperfect measure ; 
 perhaps more so than the natural measure of time : for it requires 
 great steadiness of eye to measure a line with any accuracy, by ap- 
 plying to it the largest angle of distinct vision. And supposing that 
 steadiness to be acquired by practice, the measure will be imperfect 
 from other circumstances. The space comprehended under this 
 angle will be different according to the distance, and also according 
 to the situation of the object : of a perpendicular this angle will 
 comprehend the smallest space ; the space will be larger in looking 
 upon an inclined plain ; and will be larger or less in proportion to 
 the degree of inclination. 
 
 This measure of space, like the measure of time, is liable to seve- 
 ral errors, from certain operations of the mind, which will account 
 for some of the erroneous judgments above mentioned. The space 
 marked out for a dwelling-house, where the eye is at any reasonable 
 4istance, is seldom greater than can be seen at once, without moving 
 }he head : divide that space into two or three equal parts, and none 
 of these parts will appear much less than what can be comprehended 
 at one distinct look ; consequently each of them will appear equal, 
 or nearly equal, to what the whole did before the division. If, on 
 the other hand, the whole be very small, so as scarcely to fill the 
 eye at one look, its division into parts will, I conjecture, make it 
 appear still less : the minuteness of the parts is, by an easy transi- 
 tion of ideas, transferred to the whole ; and we pass the same judg- 
 ment on the latter that we do on the former. 
 
 The space marked out for a small garden is surveyed almost at 
 one view; and requires a motion of the eye so slight, as to pass for 
 an object that can be comprehended under the largest angle of dis- 
 tinct vision : if not divided into too many parts, we are apt to form 
 the same judgment of each part, and consequently to magnify the 
 garden in proportion to the number of its parts. 
 , A very large plain without protuberances is an object no less rare 
 than beautiful ; and in those who see it for the first time, it must pro- 
 duce an emotion of wonder. That emotion, however slight, imposes 
 on the mind, and makes it judge that the plain is larger than it is in 
 reality. Divide the plain into parts, and our wonder ceases ; it is no 
 longer considered as one great plain, but as so many different fields 
 or inclosures. 
 
 The first time one beholds the sea, it appears to be large beyond 
 all bounds. When it becomes familiar, and ceases to raise our won- 
 der, it appears less than it is in reality. In a storm it appears large, 
 being distinguishable by the rolling waves into a number of great 
 parts. Islands scattered at considerable distances, add in appearance 
 to its size : each intercepted part looks extremely large, and we insen- 
 sibly apply arithmetic to increase the appearance of the whole. 
 Many islands scattered at hand, give a diminutive appearance to the 
 sea, by its connection with its diminutive parts : the Lomond lake 
 would undoubtedly look larger without its islands. 
 
 Furniture increases in appearance the size of a small room, for 
 the same reason that divisions increase in appearance the size of a
 
 94 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2 
 
 garden. The emotion of wonder which is raised by a very large 
 room without furniture, makes it look larger than it is in reality: if 
 completely furnished, we view it in parts, and our wonder is not 
 raised. 
 
 A low ceiling has a diminutive appearance, which, by an easy 
 transition of ideas, is communicated to the length and breadth, pro- 
 vided they bear any proportion to the height. If they be out of all 
 proportion, the opposition seizes the mind, and raises some degree 
 of wonder, which makes the difference appear greater than it 
 really is. 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 THE RESEMBLANCE OF EMOTIONS TO THEIR CAUSES. 
 
 Many emotions resemble their causes Examples : Motion Sounds A wall or 
 pillar Pasture Emotions raised by the qualities, actions, and passions of a 
 sensible being Love Gratitude, courage, and all virtuous actions Grief- 
 Fear Pity Emotions raised by bad passions and actions do not resemble 
 their causes. 
 
 THAT many emotions have some resemblance to their causes, is a 
 truth that can be made clear by induction ; though, as far as I know, 
 the observation has not been made by any writer. Motion, in its 
 Different circumstances, is productive of feelings that resemble it : 
 sluggish motion, for example, causes a languid unpleasant feeling ; 
 slow uniform motion, a feeling calm and pleasant; and brisk motion, 
 a lively feeling that rouses the spirits, and promotes activity. A fall 
 of water through rocks, raises, in the mind, a tumultuous, confused 
 agitation, extremely similar to its cause. When force is exerted 
 with any effort, the spectator feels a similar effort, as offeree exerted 
 within his mind. A large object swells in the heart. An elevated 
 object makes the spectator stand erect. 
 
 Sounds also produce emotions or feelings that resemble them. A 
 sound in a low key brings down the mind; such a sound in a full 
 tone has a certain solemnity, which it communicates to the feeling 
 produced by it. A sound in a high key cheers the mind by raising 
 it: such a sound in a full tone both elevates and swells the mind. 
 
 Again, a wall or pillar that declines from the perpendicular, pro- 
 duces a painful feeling, as of a tottering and falling within the mind : 
 and a feeling somewhat similar is produced by a tall pillar that 
 stands so ticklish as to look like falling.* A column with a base 
 looks more firm and stable than upon the naked ground ; and for 
 that reason is more agreeable : and though the cylinder is a more 
 
 * Sunt enim Tempe saltus transitu difficilis : nam prseter angustias per quinque 
 milli a, qua exiguum jumento onusto inter est, rupes utrinque ita abscissa sunt, ut 
 despici vix sine vertigine quadam simul oculorum animique possit. 
 
 Titus Livius, lib. 44. sect. 6. 
 
 For the forest of Tempe is difficult to pass besides the narrowness for five 
 miles affording scant passage for a laden beast, the rocks on each side are so 
 parted, that they can scarcely be contemplated, without a certain giddiness, both 
 of the eyes and the brain.
 
 Part 6.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 95 
 
 beautiful figure, yet the cube for a base is preferred : its angles being 
 extended to a greater distance from the centre than the circumference 
 of a cylinder. This excludes not a different reason, that the base, 
 the shaft, and the capital of a pillar, ought, for the sake of variety, 
 to differ from each other : if the shaft be round, the base and capital 
 ought to be square. 
 
 A constrained posture, uneasy to the man himself, is disagreeable 
 to the spectator ; whence a rule in painting, that the drapery ought 
 not to adhere to the body, but hang loose, that the figures may ap- 
 pear easy and free in their movements. The constrained posture of 
 a French dancing master in one of Hogarth's pieces, is for that 
 reason disagreeable ; and it is also ridiculous, because the constraint 
 is assumed as a grace. 
 
 The foregoing observation is not confined to emotions or feelings 
 raised by still life : it holds also in those which are raised by the 
 qualities, actions, and passions, of a sensible being. Love inspired 
 by a fine woman assumes her qualities : it is sublime, soft, tender, 
 severe, or gay, according to its cause. This is still more remarkable 
 in emotions raised by human actions : it has already been remark- 
 ed,* that any signal instance of gratitude, beside procuring esteem 
 for the author, raises, in the spectator, a vague emotion of gratitude, 
 which disposes him to be grateful ; and I now further remark, that 
 this vague emotion has a strong resemblance to its cause, namely, 
 the passion that produced the grateful action. Courage exerted in- 
 spires the reader as well as the spectator with a like emotion of 
 courage; a just action fortifies our love of justice, and a generous 
 action rouses our generosity. In short, with respect to all virtuous 
 actions, it will be found by induction, that they lead us to imitation, 
 by inspiring emotions resembling the passions that produce these 
 actions. And hence the advantage of choice books and choice 
 company. 
 
 Grief as well as joy is infectious : the emotions they each raise 
 in a spectator resemble them perfectly. Fear is equally infectious: 
 and hence in an army, a few taking fright, even without cause, 
 spread the infection till it becomes an universal panic. Pity is simi- 
 lar to its cause ; a parting scene between lovers or friends, produces, 
 in the spectator, a sort of pity, which is tender like the distress : the 
 anguish of remorse, produces pity of a harsh kind ; and if the re- 
 morse be extreme, the pity has a mixture of horror. Anger I think 
 is singular ; for even where it is moderate, and causes no disgust, 
 it disposes not the spectator to anger in any degree, f Covetousness, 
 cruelty, treachery, and other vicious passions, are so far from raising 
 any emotion similar to themselves, to incite a spectator to imitation, 
 that they have an opposite effect : they raise abhorrence, and fortify 
 the spectator in his aversion to such actions. When anger is im- 
 moderate, it cannot fail to produce the same effect. 
 
 * Part I. of this chapter, sect. 4. 
 
 t Aristotle, Poet. cap. 18. sect. 3. says, that anger raises in the spectator a simi- 
 lar emotion of anger.
 
 96 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 FINAL CAUSES OF THE MORE FREQUENT EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 Actions always prompted by desire- All passions conducive to public good-An 
 agreeable cause produces a pleasant emotion; a d 1S agreeaMe cause, painful 
 Inanimate objeete agreeable-They promote happmess-They excite 
 try-Disagreeable objects hurtful-As a mark of wisdom some objects are in- 
 different-Inanimate objects that are agreeable, are attractive ; the contrary are 
 repulsive-A sensible being agreeable by its attributes, inspires a pie; 
 emotion, accompanied with desire-Final cause-It promotes r ,^ 
 A painful emotion excited by a person in distress-Sell-love wouldu 
 turn from it-Benevolence, to relieve it-Termed sympathy-Indignation e. 
 cited bv vice and w,ckedness-To secure us from mjury, injmy done to our- 
 selves requires retaliation-Painful emotions excited in a delinquent by a 
 disagreeable action, termed remorse-Right or wrong, actions never Different 
 to the spectator When right, they inspire esteem ; when wr 
 q ualite P s in myself raise esteem as well as in another; mean W^.^ 
 oritv- An appetite for fame useful, and of moral tendency-Commun 
 of passion to related objects extends the social affections-The contrary ten- 
 dency of malevolent pa'ssions-This regards savages only-The economy oi 
 the human passions entertaining to the rational mind. 
 
 IT is a law of our nature, that we never act but by the impulse 
 of desire: which in other words is saying, that passion, by the de- 
 sire included in it, is what determines the will. Hence m the con- 
 duct of life, it is of the utmost importance, that our passions be 
 directed to proper objects, tend 10 just and rational ends, and with 
 relation to each other, be duly balanced. The beauty of contrivance 
 so conspicuous in the human frame, is not confined to the rational 
 part of our nature, but is visible over the whole. Concerning the 
 passions in particular, however irregular, headstrong, and perverse, 
 in a slight view, they may appear, I hope to demonstrate, that they 
 are by nature, modelled and tempered with perfect wisdom, for the 
 good of society as well as for private good. The subject, treated 
 lars-e would be too extensive for the present work: all there is room 
 for is' a few general observations upon the sensitive part of our na- 
 ture without regarding that strange irregularity of passion disco- 
 vered in some individuals. Such topical irregularities, if I may use 
 the term, cannot fairly be held an objection to the present theory. 
 We are frequently it is true, misled by inordinate passion ; but we 
 are alo and perhaps no less frequently, misled by wrong judgment. 
 In order to fulfil my engagement, it must be premised that an 
 agreeable cause always produces a pleasant emotion; and 
 agreeable cause, a painful emotion. This is a general law of nature, 
 which admits not a single exception. Agreeableness in the cause it 
 indeed so essentially connected with pleasure in the emotion, its effect, 
 that an agreeable cause cannot be better defined, than by its power 
 of producing a pleasant emotion : and disagreeableness in the cau: 
 has the same necessary connection with pain m the emotion pro- 
 duced by it. f , 
 
 From this preliminary it appears, that m order to know 1< 
 end an emotion is made pleasant or painful, we must begin with
 
 Part 7.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 97 
 
 inquiring for what end its cause is made agreeable or disagreeable. 
 And, with respect to inanimate objects, considered as the causes of 
 emotions, many of them are made agreeable in order to promote our 
 happiness ; and it proves invincibly the benignity of the Deity, that 
 we are placed in the midst of objects for the most part agreeable. 
 But that is not all. The bulk of such objects, being of real use in 
 life, are made agreeable in order to excite our industry : witness a 
 large tree, a well-dressed fallow, a rich field of grain, and others 
 that may be named without end. On the other hand, it is not easy 
 to specify a disagreeable object that is not at the same time hurtful. 
 Some things are made disagreeable, such as a rotten carcase, be- 
 cause they are noxious : others, a dirty marsh, for example, or a 
 barren heath, are made disagreeable, in order, as above, to excite 
 our industry. And, with respect to the few things that are neither 
 agreeable nor disagreeable, it will be made evident, that their being 
 left indifferent is not a work of chance but of wisdom : of such I 
 shall have occasion to give several instances. 
 
 Because inanimate objects that are agreeable fix our attention, and 
 draw us to them, they in that respect are termed attractive : such 
 objects inspire pleasant emotions, which are gratified by adhering to 
 the objects, and enjoying them. Because disagreeable objects of the - 
 same kind repel us from them, they, in that respect, are termed repul- 
 sive: and the painful emotions raised by such objects are gratified 
 by flying from them. Thus, in general, with respect to things in- 
 animate, the tendency of every pleasant emotion is to prolong the 
 pleasure ; and the tendency of every painful emotion is to end the 
 pain. 
 
 Sensible beings considered as objects of passion, lead into a more 
 complex theory. A sensible being that is agreeable by its attributes, 
 inspires us with a pleasant emotion accompanied with desire ; and 
 the question is, what is naturally the gratification of that desire? 
 Were man altogether selfish, his nature would lead him to indulge 
 the pleasant emotion, without making any acknowledgment to the 
 person who gives him pleasure, more than to a pure air or tempe- 
 rate clime : but as man is endued with a principle of benevolence 
 as well as .of selfishness, he is prompted by his nature to desire the 
 good of every sensible being that gives him pleasure ; and the hap- 
 piness of that being is the gratification of his desire. The final 
 cause of desire so directed is illustrious : it contributes to a man's 
 own happiness, by affording him means of gratification beyond what 
 selfishness can afford ; and, at the same time, it tends eminently to 
 advance the happiness of others. This lays open a beautiful theory 
 in the nature of man. A selfish action can only benefit myself: a 
 benevolent action benefits myself as much as it benefits others. In 
 a word, benevolence may not improperly be said to be the most re- 
 fined selfishness ; which, by the way, ought to silence certain shal- 
 low philosophers, who, ignorant of human nature, teach a disgustful 
 doctrine, that to serve others, unless with a view to our own happi- 
 ness, is weakness and folly ; as if self-love only, and not benevolence, 
 contributed to our happiness. The hand of God is too visible in the 
 9
 
 98 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2. 
 
 human frame, to permit us to think seriously, that there ever can be 
 any jarring or inconsistency among natural principles, those espe- 
 cially of self-love and benevolence, which govern the bulk of our 
 actions.* 
 
 Next in order come sensible beings that are in distress. A person 
 in distress, being so far a disagreeable object, must raise in a specta- 
 tor a painful passion ; and, were man purely a selfish being, he 
 would desire to be relieved from that pain, by turning from the 
 object. But the principle of benevolence gives an opposite direction 
 to his desire : it makes him desire to afford relief: and by relieving 
 the person from distress, his passion is gratified. The painful pas- 
 sion thus directed, is termed sympathy ; which, though painful, is 
 yet in its nature attractive. And, with respect to its final cause, we 
 can be at no loss : it not only tends to relieve a fellow-creature from 
 distress, but in its gratification is greatly more pleasant than if it 
 were repulsive. 
 
 We, in the last place, bring under consideration persons hateful 
 by vice or wickedness. Imagine a wretch who has lately perpe- 
 trated some horrid crime : he is disagreeable to every spectator ; and 
 consequently raises in every spectator a painful passion. What is 
 the natural gratification of that passion ? I must here again observe, 
 that, supposing man to be entirely a selfish being, he would be 
 prompted by his nature to relieve himself from the pain, by averting 
 his eye, and banishing the criminal from his thoughts. But man is 
 not so constituted : he is composed of many principles, which, 
 though seemingly contradictory, are perfectly concordant. His 
 actions are influenced by the principle of benevolence, as well as by 
 that of selfishness : and in order to answer the foregoing question, 
 I must introduce a third principle, no less remarkable in its influ- 
 ence than either of these mentioned ; it is that principle, common to 
 all, which prompts us to punish those who do wrong. An envious, 
 a malicious, or a cruel action, being disagreeable, raises in the spec- 
 tator the painful emotion of resentment, which frequently swells into 
 a passion ; and the natural gratification of the desire included in that 
 passion, is to punish the guilty person : I must chastise the wretch 
 by indignation at least and hatred, if not more severely. Here the 
 final cause is self-evident. 
 
 An injury done to myself, touching me more than when done to 
 
 * With shallow thinkers the selfish system naturally prevails in theory, I do 
 not say in practice. During infancy, our desires centre mostly in ourselves : 
 every one perceives intuitively the comfort of food and raiment, of a snug dwell- 
 ing, and of every convenience. But that doing good to others will make us 
 happy, is not so evident; feeding the hungry, for example, or clothing the naked. 
 This truth is seen but obscurely by the gross of mankind, if at all seen : the 
 superior pleasure that accompanies the exercise of benevolence, of friendship, and 
 of every social principle, is not clearly understood till it be frequently felt. To 
 perceive the social principle in its triumphant state, a man must forget himself, 
 and turn his thoughts upon the character and conduct of his fellow-creatures : he 
 will feel a secret charm in every passion that tends to the good of others, and a 
 secret aversion against every unfeeling heart that is indifferent to the happiness 
 and distress of others. In a word, it is but too common for men to indulge sel- 
 fishness in themselves ; but all men abhor it in others.
 
 Part 7.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 99 
 
 others, raises my resentment to a higher degree. The desire, ac- 
 cordingly, included in this passion, is not satisfied with so slight a 
 punishment as indignation or hatred ; it is not fully gratified with 
 retaliation; and the author must by my hand suffer mischief, as 
 great, at least, as he has done to me. Neither can we be at any loss 
 about the final cause of that higher degree of resentment : the whole 
 vigor of the passion is required to secure individuals from the in- 
 justice and oppression of others'.* 
 
 A wicked or disgraceful action is disagreeable not only to others, 
 but even to the delinquent himself; and raises in both a painful 
 emotion including a desire of punishment. The painful emotion 
 felt by the delinquent, is distinguished by the name of remorse ; 
 which naturally excites him to punish himself. There cannot be 
 imagined a better contrivance to deter us from vice ; for remorse 
 itself is a severe punishment. That passion, and the desire of self- 
 punishment derived from it, are touched delicately by Terence : 
 
 Menedemus. Ubi comperi ex iis, qui ei fuere conscii, 
 Domum revortor moestus, atque animo fere 
 Perturbato, atque incerto prse aegritudine : 
 Adsido ; adcurrunt servi, soccos detrahunt : 
 Video alios festinare, lectos sternere, 
 Coenam adparare : pro se quisque sedulo 
 Faciebat, quo illam mihi lenirent miseriam. 
 Ubi video hsec, coepi cogitare : Hem ! tot mea 
 Solius solliciti sint causa, ut me unum expleant 1 ? 
 Ancillae tot me vestiant 7 sumptus domi 
 Tantos ego solus faciam 1 sed gnatum unicum, 
 GLuem pariter uti his decuit, aut etiam amplius, 
 duod ilia alas magis ad hasc utenda idonea 'st, 
 Bum ego hinc ejici miserum injustitia mea. 
 Malo quidem me dignum quovis deputem, 
 Si id faciam : nam usque dum ille vitam Ulam colet 
 Inopem, carens patria ob meas injurias, 
 Interea usque ilh de me supplicium dabo : 
 Laborans, quasrens, parcens, illi serviens. 
 Ita facio prorsus : nihil relinquo in aedibus, 
 Nee vas, nee vestimentum : conrasi omnia, 
 Ancillas, servos, nisi eos, qui opere rustico 
 Faciundo facile sumptum exercerent suum : 
 Omnes produxi ac vendidi : inscripsi illico 
 jEdes mercede : quasi talenta ad quindecim 
 Coegi : agrum hunc mercatus sum : hie me exerceo. 
 Decrevi tantisper me minus injuriae, 
 Chreme, meo gnato facere, dum fiam miser : 
 Nee fas esse ulla me voluptate hie frui, 
 Nisi ubi ille hue salvos redierit meus particeps.t 
 
 Heautontimorwmenos, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Otway reaches the same sentiment : 
 
 Monimia. Let mischiefs multiply ! let ev'ry hour 
 Of my loath'd life yield me increase of horror ! 
 Oh let the sun to these unhappy eyes 
 Ne'er shine again, but be eclips'd for ever ! 
 
 * See Historical Law Tracts, Tract 1. 
 
 t As the sentiment contained in this extract from Terence is also found in the 
 passage from Otway, that follows it, the editor thought it unnecessary to intro- 
 duce a translation.
 
 100 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [CL 2. 
 
 May every thing I look on seem a prodigy, 
 To fill my soul with terror, till I quite 
 Forget I ever had humanity, 
 And grow a curser of the works of nature ! 
 
 Orpha.n, Act IV. 
 
 In the cases mentioned, benevolence alone, or desire of punish- 
 ment alone, governs without a rival ; and it was necessary to handle 
 these cases separately, in order to elucidate a subject which by wri- 
 ters is left in great obscurity. But neither of these principles ope- 
 rates always without rivalship : cases may be imagined, and cases 
 actually exist, where the same person is an object both of sympathy 
 and of punishment. Thus the sight of a profligate in the venereal 
 disease, overrun with blotches and sores, puts both principles in 
 motion : while his distress fixes my attention, sympathy prevails ; 
 but as soon as I think of his profligacy, hatred prevails, accompa- 
 nied, sometimes, with a desire to punish. This, in general, is the 
 case of distress occasioned by immoral action that are not highly 
 criminal : and if the distress and the immoral actions make impres- 
 sions equal or nearly so, sympathy and hatred, counterbalancing 
 each other, will not suffer me either to afford relief, or to inflict 
 punishment. What then will be the result ? The principle of self- 
 love solves the question : abhorring an object so loathsome, I natu- 
 rally avert my eye, and walk off as fast as I can, in order to be 
 relieved from the pain. 
 
 The present subject gives birth to several other observations, for 
 which I could not find room above, without relaxing more from the 
 strictness of order and connection, than with safety could be indulged 
 in discoursing upon an intricate subject. These observations I shall 
 throw out loosely as they occur. 
 
 No action, right nor wrong, is indifferent, even to a mere spec- 
 tator: if right, it inspires esteem; if wrong, disgust. But it is 
 remarkable, that these emotions are seldom accompanied with 
 desire : the abilities of man are limited, and he finds sufficient 
 employment, in relieving the distressed, in requiting his benefac- 
 tors, and in punishing those who wrong him, without moving out 
 of his sphere for the benefit or chastisement of those with whom he 
 has no connection. 
 
 If the good qualities of others raise my esteem, the same qualities 
 in myself must produce a similar effect in a superior degree, upon 
 account of the natural partiality every man has for himself: and this 
 increases self-love. If these qualities be of a high rank, they pro- 
 duce a conviction of superiority, which excites me to assume some 
 sort of government over others. Mean qualities, on the other hand, 
 produce in me a conviction of inferiority, which makes me submit to 
 others. These convictions, distributed among individuals by mea- 
 sure and proportion, may justly be esteemed the solid basis of govern- 
 ment; because upon them depends the natural submission of the 
 many to the few, without which even the mildest government would 
 be in a violent state, and have a constant tendency to dissolution. 
 
 No other branch of the human constitution shows more visibly 
 our destination for society, nor tends more to our improvement, thaa
 
 Part 7.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 101 
 
 appetite for fame or esteem : for as the whole conveniences of life 
 are derived from mutual aid and support in society, it ought to be a 
 capital aim to secure these conveniences, by gaining the esteem and 
 affection of others. Reason, indeed, dictates that lesson : but reason 
 alone is not sufficient in a matter of such importance ; and the appe- 
 tite mentioned is a motive more powerful than reason, to be active 
 in gaining esteem and affection. That appetite, at the same time, is 
 finely adjusted to the moral branch of our constitution, by promoting 
 all the moral virtues: for what means are there to attract love and 
 esteem so effectual as a virtuous course of life ? if a man be just and 
 beneficent, if he be temperate, modest, and prudent, he will infallibly 
 gain the esteem and love of all who know him. 
 
 Communication of passion to related objects, is an illustrious 
 instance of the care of Providence to extend social connections as 
 far as the limited nature of man can admit. That communication 
 is so far hurtful, as to spread the malevolent passions beyond their 
 natural bounds: but let it be remarked, that this unhappy effect 
 regards savages only, who give way to malevolent passions ; for 
 under the discipline of society, these passions being subdued, are in 
 a good measure eradicated ; and in their place succeed the kindly 
 affections, which, meeting with all encouragement, take possession 
 of the mind, and govern all our actions. In that condition, the 
 progress of passion along related objects, by spreading the kindly 
 affections through a multitude of individuals, has a glorious effect. 
 
 Nothing can be more entertaining to a rational mind, than the 
 economy of the human passions, of which I have attempted to give 
 some faint notion. It must, however, be acknowledged, that our 
 passions, when they happen to swell beyond proper limits, assume a 
 less regular appearance : reason may proclaim oqr duty, but the 
 will, influenced by passion, makes gratification always welcome. 
 Hence the power of passion, which, when in excess, can only be 
 resisted by the utmost fortitude of mind: it is bent upon gratify 
 cation ; and where proper objects are wanting, it clings to any object 
 at hand without distinction. Thus joy, inspired by a fortunate event, 
 is diffused upon every person around by acts of benevolence ; and 
 resentment for an atrocious injury done by one out of reach, seizes 
 the first object that occurs upon which to vent itself. Those who 
 believe in prophecies, even wish the accomplishment ; and a weak 
 mind is disposed voluntarily to fulfil a prophecy, in order to gratify 
 its wish. Shakspeare, whom no particle of human nature has 
 escaped, however remote from common observation, describes that 
 weakness : 
 
 K. Henry. Doth any name particular belong 
 
 Unto that lodging where I first did swoon 1 
 Warwick. 'Tis call'd Jerusalem, my noble lord, 
 K. Henry. Laud be to God ! ev'n there my life must end, 
 
 It hath been prophesy'd to me many years, 
 
 I should not die but in Jerusalem, 
 
 Which vainly I suppos'd the Holy Land. 
 
 But bear me to that chamber, there I'll lie : 
 
 In that Jerusalem shall Henry die. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. last 
 9
 
 102 BEAUTY. [Ch. 3. 
 
 I could not deny myself the amusement of the foregoing observation, 
 though it does not properly come under my plan. The irregulari- 
 ties of passion proceeding from peculiar weaknesses and biasses, I 
 do not undertake to justify ; and of these we have had many exam- 
 ples.* It is sufficient that passions common to all, are made subser- 
 vient to beneficent purposes. I shall only observe, that, in a polished 
 society, instances of irregular passions are rare, and that their mis- 
 chief does not extend far. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 The term beauty appropriated to objects of sight Objects of sight complex 
 Constituents of the beauty of the human species Intrinsic and relative beauty 
 The effect when both are united Simplicity essential to beauty Regularity 
 and order please because they increase our happiness A curve line more beau- 
 tiful than a square ; a square, than a parallelogram, or an equilateral triangle 
 Uniformity disgusts by excess Difference between primary and secondary 
 qualities Primary exist in the object; secondary in the percipient Final cause 
 of beauty : It prompts to industry It secures social intercourse. 
 
 HAVING discoursed in general of emotions and passions, I proceed 
 to a more narrow inspection of such of them as serve to unfold the 
 principles of the fine arts. It is the province of a writer upon ethics, 
 to give a full enumeration of all the passions ; and of each separately 
 to assign the nature, the cause, the gratification, and the effects. But 
 a treatise of ethics is not my province : I carry my view no farther 
 than to the elements of criticism, in order to show, that the fine arts 
 are a subject of reasoning as well as of taste. An extensive work 
 would ill suit a design so limited : and to confine this work within 
 moderate bounds, the following plan may contribute. The observa- 
 tion made above, that things are the causes of emotions, by means of 
 their properties and attributes,! furnishes a hint for distribution. 
 Instead of a painful and tedious examination of the several passions 
 and emotions, I purpose to confine my inquiries to such attributes > 
 relations, and circumstances, as in the fine arts are chiefly employed 
 to raise agreeable emotions. Attributes of single objects, as the most 
 simple, shall take the lead ; to be followed with particulars, which, 
 depending on relations, are not found in single objects. Dispatching 
 next some coincident matters, I shall proceed to my chief aim ; which 
 is, to establish practical rules for the fine arts, derived from princi- 
 ples previously established. This is a general view of the intended 
 method ; reserving, however, a privilege to vary it in particular 
 instances, where a deviation may be more commodious. I begin 
 with Beauty, the most noted of all the qualities that belong to single 
 objects. 
 
 The term beauty, in its native signification, is appropriated to 
 objects of sight : objects of the other senses may be agreeable, such 
 * Part 5. of the present chapter. t Chap. 2. part 1, sect 1. first note.
 
 Ch. 3.] BEAUTY. 103 
 
 as the sounds of musical instruments, the smoothness and softness of 
 some surfaces ; but the agreeableness denominated beauty, belongs 
 to objects of sight. 
 
 Of all the objects of external sense, an object of sight is the most 
 complex : in the very simplest, color is perceived, figure, and length, 
 breadth, and thickness. A tree is composed of a trunk, branches, 
 and leaves ; it has color, figure, size, and sometimes motion : by 
 jneans of each of these particulars, separately considered, it appears 
 beautiful ; how much more so, when they are all united together ? 
 The beauty of the human figure is extraordinary, being a composi- 
 tion of numberless beauties, arising from the parts and qualities of 
 the object, various colors, various motions, figures, size, &c. all united 
 in one complex object, and striking the eye with combined force. 
 Hence it is, that beauty, a quality so remarkable in visible objects, 
 lends its name to express every thing that is eminently agreeable : 
 thus, by a figure of speech, we say a beautiful sound, a beautiful 
 tHought or expression, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful event, a 
 beautiful discovery in art or science. But, as figurative expres- 
 sion is the subject of a following chapter, this chapter is confined to 
 beauty in its proper signification. 
 
 It is natural to suppose, that a perception so various as that of 
 beauty, comprehending sometimes many particulars, sometimes few, 
 should occasion emotions equally various : and yet all the various 
 emotions of beauty maintain one common character, that of sweet- 
 ness and gaiety. 
 
 Considering attentively the beauty of visible objects, we discover 
 two kinds. The first may be termed intrinsic beauty, because it 
 is discovered in a single object viewed apart without relation to any 
 other : the examples above given are of that kind. The other may 
 be termed relative beauty, being founded on the relation of objects. 
 The purposed distribution would lead me to handle these beauties 
 separately ; but they are frequently so intimately connected, that, for 
 the sake of connection, I am forced, in this instance, to vary from the 
 plan, and to bring them both into the same chapter. Intrinsic beauty 
 is an object of sense merely: to perceive the beauty of a spreading 
 oak, or of a flowing river, no more is required than simply an act 
 of vision. The perception of relative beauty is accompanied with 
 an act of understanding and reflection ; for of a fine instrument or 
 engine, we perceive not the relative beauty, until we be made 
 acquainted with its use and destination. In a word, intrinsic beauty 
 is ultimate : relative beauty is that of means relating to some good 
 end or purpose. These different beauties agree in one capital cir- 
 cumstance, that both are equally perceived as belonging to the object. 
 This is evident with respect to intrinsic beauty ; but will not be so 
 readily admitted with respect to the other : the utility of the plough, 
 for example, may make it an object of admiration or of desire : but 
 why should utility make it appear beautiful ? A natural propensity 
 mentioned above* will explain that doubt: the beauty of the effect by 
 an easy transition of ideas, is transferred to the cause ; and is per- 
 * Chap. 2. part 1. sect. 5.
 
 104 BEAUTY. [Ch. 3. 
 
 ceived as one of the qualities of the cause. Thus a subject void of 
 intrinsic beauty appears beautiful from its utility; an old Gothic 
 tower, that has no beauty in itself, appears beautiful, considered as 
 proper to defend against an enemy; a dwelling-house, void of all 
 regularity, is, however, beautiful in the view of convenience ; and 
 the want of form or symmetry in a tree, will not prevent its appear- 
 ing beautiful, if it be known to produce good fruit. 
 
 When these two beauties coincide in any object, it appears delight-, 
 ful : every member of the human body possesses both in a high 
 degree : the fine proportions and slender make of a horse destined 
 for running, please every eye; partly from symmetry, and partly 
 from utility. 
 
 The beauty of utility, being proportioned accurately to the degree 
 of utility, requires no illustration ; but intrinsic beauty, so complex 
 as I have said, cannot be handled distinctly without being analyzed 
 into its constituent parts. If a tree be beautiful by means of its color, 
 its figure, its size, its motion, it is in reality possessed of so many 
 different beauties, which ought to be examined separately, in order 
 to have a clear notion of them when combined. The beauty of color 
 is too familiar to need explanation. Do not the bright and cheerful 
 colors of gold and silver contribute to preserve these metals in high 
 estimation ? The beauty of figure, arising from various circumstan- 
 ces and different views, is more complex : for example, viewing any 
 body as a whole, the beauty of its figure arises from regularity and 
 simplicity ; viewing the parts with relation to each other, uniformity, 
 proportion, and order, contribute to its beauty. The beauty of motion 
 deserves a chapter by itself; and another chapter is destined for 
 grandeur being distinguishable from beauty in its proper sense. 
 For a description of regularity, uniformity, proportion, and order, if 
 thought necessary, I refer my reader to the Appendix at the end of 
 the book. Upon simplicity I must make a few cursory observations, 
 such as may be of use in examining the beauty of single objects. 
 
 A multitude of objects crowding into the mind at once, disturb the 
 attention, and pass without making any impression, or any distinct 
 impression ; in a group, no single object makes the figure it would 
 do apart, when it occupies the whole attention.* For the same rea- 
 son, the impression made by an object that divides the attention by 
 the multiplicity of its parts, equals not that of a more simple object 
 comprehended in a single view: parts extremely complex must be 
 considered in portions successively : and a number of impressions in 
 succession, which cannot unite because not simultaneous, never touch 
 the mind like one entire impression made, as it were, at one stroke. 
 This justifies simplicity in works of art, as opposed to complicated 
 circumstances and crowded ornaments. There is an additional rea- 
 son for simplicity, in works of dignity or elevation ; which is, that 
 the mind attached to beauties of a high rank, cannot descend to infe- 
 rior beauties. The best artists, accordingly, have in all ages been 
 governed by a taste for simplicity. How comes it then that we find 
 profuse decoration prevailing in works of art? The reason plainly 
 
 * See the Appendix, containing definitions, and explanation of terms, sect. 33.
 
 Ch. 3.] BEAUTY. 105 
 
 is, that authors and architects who cannot reach the higher beauties, 
 endeavor to supply want of genius by multiplying those that are 
 inferior. 
 
 These things premised, I proceed to examine the beauty of figure 
 as arising from the above mentioned particulars, namely, regularity, 
 uniformity, proportion, order and simplicity. To exhaust this sub- 
 ject would require a volume ; and I have not even a whole chapter 
 to spare. To inquire why an object, by means of the particulars 
 mentioned, appears beautiful, would, I am afraid, be a vain attempt : 
 it seems the most probable opinion, that the nature of man was 
 originally framed with a relish for them, in order to answer wise 
 and good purposes. To explain these purposes or final causes, 
 though a subject of great importance, has scarcely been attempted 
 by any writer. One thing is evident, that our relish for the particu- 
 lars mentioned adds much beauty to the objects that surround us : 
 w-kich of course tends to our happiness : and the Author of our 
 nature has given many signal proofs that this final cause is not below 
 his care. We may be confirmed in this thought upon reflecting, 
 that our taste for these particulars is not accidental, but uniform and 
 universal, making a branch of our nature. At the same time, it 
 ought not to be overlooked, that regularity, uniformity, order, and 
 simplicity, contribute each of them to readiness of apprehension ; 
 enabling us to form more distinct images of objects, than can be 
 done with the utmost attention where these particulars are not found. 
 With respect to proportion, it is in some instances connected with a 
 useful end, as in animals, where the best proportioned are the strong- 
 est and most active; but instances are still more numerous, where 
 the proportions we relish have no connection with utility. Writers 
 on architecture insist much on the proportions of a column, and 
 assign different proportions to the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian : but 
 no architect will maintain, that the most accurate proportions con- 
 tribute more to use, than several that are less accurate and less 
 agreeable ; neither will it be maintained, that the length, breadth, 
 and height of rooms assigned as the most beautiful proportions, tend 
 also to make them the more commodious. With respect then to 
 the final cause of proportion, I see not more to be made of it but to 
 rest upon the final cause first mentioned, namely, its contributing to 
 our happiness, by increasing the beauty of visible objects. 
 
 And now with respect to the beauty of figure as far as it depends 
 on the other circumstances mentioned ; as to which, having room 
 only for a slight specimen, I confine myself to the simplest figures. 
 A circle and a square are each of them perfectly regular, being 
 equally confined to a precise form, which admits not the slightest 
 variation ; a square, however, is less beautiful than a circle. And 
 the reason seems to be, that the attention is divided among the sides 
 and angles of a square ; whereas the circumference of a circle, being 
 a single object, makes one entire impression. And this simplicity 
 contributes to beauty ; which may be illustrated by another example : 
 a square, though not more regular than a hexagon or octagon, is 
 more beautiful than either ; for what other reason, but that a square
 
 106 BEAUTY. [Ch. 3 
 
 is more simple, and the attention less divided ? This reasoning will 
 appear still more conclusive, when we consider any regular polygon 
 of very many sides ; for of this figure the mind can never have any 
 distinct perception. 
 
 A square is more regular than a parallelogram, and its parts more 
 uniform ; and for these reasons it is more beautiful. But that holds 
 with respect to intrinsic beauty only; for in many instances utility 
 turns the scale on the side of the parallelogram. This figure for 
 the doors and windows of a dwelling-house is preferred, because of 
 utility ; and here we find the beauty of utility prevailing over that 
 of regularity and uniformity. 
 
 A parallelogram again depends for its beauty, on the proportion 
 of its sides. A great inequality of sides annihilates its beauty: 
 approximation towards equality has the same effect ; for proportion 
 there degenerates into imperfect uniformity, and the figure appears 
 an unsuccessful attempt toward a square. And thus proportion con- 
 tributes to beauty. 
 
 An equilateral triangle yields not to a square in regularity, nor 
 in uniformity of parts, and it is more simple. But an equilateral 
 triangle is less beautiful than a square ; which must be owing to 
 inferiority of order in the position of its parts ; the sides of an equi- 
 lateral triangle incline to each other in the same angle, being the 
 most perfect order of which they are susceptible ; but this order is 
 obscure, and far from being so perfect as the parallelism of the sides 
 of a square. Thus order contributes to the beauty of visible objects, 
 no less than simplicity, regularity, or proportion. 
 
 A parallelogram exceeds an equilateral triangle in the orderly 
 disposition of its parts ; but being inferior in uniformity and sim- 
 plicity, it is less beautiful. 
 
 Uniformity is singular in one capital circumstance, that it is apt 
 to disgust by excess : a number of things destined for the same use, 
 such as windows, chairs, spoons, buttons, cannot be too uniform ; for 
 supposing their figure to be good, utility requires uniformity : but a 
 scrupulous uniformity of parts in a large garden or field, is far from 
 being agreeable. Uniformity among connected objects belongs not 
 to the present subject : it is handled in the chapter of uniformity 
 and variety. 
 
 In all the works of nature, simplicity makes an illustrious figure. 
 It also makes a figure in works of art : profuse ornament in paint- 
 ing, gardening, or architecture, as well as in dress, or in language, 
 shows a mean or corrupted taste : 
 
 Poets, like painters, thus unskilled to trace 
 The naked nature and the living grace, 
 With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, 
 And hide with ornaments their want of art. 
 
 Pope's Essay on Criticism, 
 
 No single property recommends a machine more than its sim 
 plicity; not solely for better answering its purpose, but by appearing 
 in itself more beautiful. Simplicity in behavior and manners has an 
 enchanting effect, and never fails to gain our affection very differ-
 
 Ch. 3.] BEAUTY. 107 
 
 
 
 ent are the artificial manners of modern times. General theorems, 
 abstracting from their importance, are delightful by their simplicity, 
 and by the easiness of their application to variety of cases. We 
 take equal delight in the laws of motion, which, with the greatest 
 simplicity, are boundless in their operations. 
 
 A gradual progress from simplicity to complex forms and profuse 
 ornament, seems to be the fate of all the fine arts : in that progress 
 these arts resemble behavior, which, from original candor and sim- 
 plicity, has degenerated into artificial refinements. At present, lite- 
 rary productions are crowded with words, epithets, figures : in 
 music, sentiment is neglected for the luxury of harmony, and for 
 difficult movement : in taste, properly so called, poignant sauces, 
 with complicated 'mixtures, of different savors, prevail among people 
 of condition : the French, accustomed to artificial red on a female 
 cheek, think the modest coloring of nature altogether insipid. 
 
 -The same tendency is discovered in the progress of the fine arts 
 among the ancients. Some vestiges of the old Grecian buildings 
 prove them to be of the Doric order : the Ionic succeeded, and seems 
 to have been the favorite order, while architecture was in the height 
 of glory : the Corinthian came next in vogue ; and in Greece the 
 buildings of that order appear mostly to have been erected after the 
 Romans got footing there. At last came the Composite, with all its 
 extravagancies, where simplicity is sacrificed to finery and crowded 
 ornament. 
 
 But what taste is to prevail next? for fashion is a continual flux, 
 and taste must vary with it. After rich and profuse ornaments 
 become familiar, simplicity appears lifeless and insipid; which, would 
 be an unsurmountable obstruction, should any person of genius and 
 taste endeavor to restore ancient simplicity.* 
 
 The distinction between primary and secondary qualities in mat- 
 ter, seems now fully established. Heat and cold, smell and taste, 
 though seeming to exist in bodies, are discovered to be effects caused 
 by these bodies in a sensitive being : color, which appears to the eye 
 as spread upon a substance, has no existence but in the mind of the 
 spectator. Qualities of that kind, which owe their existence to the 
 percipient as much as to the object, are termed secondary qualities, 
 and are distinguished from figure, extension, solidity, which, in con- 
 tradistinction to the former, are termed primary qualities, because 
 they inhere in subjects whether perceived or not. This distinction 
 suggests a curious inquiry, whether beauty be a primary or only a 
 secondary quality of objects? The question is easily determined 
 with respect to the beauty of color; for, .if color be a secondary 
 quality, existing no where but in the mind of the spectator, its beauty 
 must exist there also. This conclusion equally holds with respect 
 to the beauty of utility, which is plainly a conception of the mind, 
 arising not from sight, but from reflecting that the thing is fitted for 
 
 * A sprightly writer observes, " that the noble simplicity of the Augustan age 
 was driven out by false taste ; that the gigantic, the puerile, the quaint, and at 
 last the barbarous and the monkish, had each their successive admirers : that 
 music has become a science of tricks and slight of hand," &c.
 
 108 BEAtTTY. [Ch. 3 
 
 some good end or purpose. The question is more intricate with res- 
 pect to the beauty of regularity ; for, if regularity be a primary 
 quality, why not also its beauty? That this is not a good inference, 
 will appear from considering, that beauty, in its very conception, 
 refers to a percipient ; for an object is said to be beautiful, for no other 
 reason but that it appears so to a spectator : the same piece of matter 
 that to a man appears beautiful, may possibly appear ugly to a being 
 of a different species. Beauty, therefore, which for its existence 
 depends on the percipient as much as on the object perceived, cannot 
 be an inherent property in either. And hence it is wittily observed 
 by the poet, that beauty is not in the person beloved, but in the lover's 
 eye. This reasoning is solid : and the only cause of doubt or hesi- 
 tation is, that we are taught a different lesson by^sense : a singular 
 determination of nature makes us perceive both beauty and color as 
 belonging to the object, and, like figure or extension, as inherent 
 properties. This mechanism is uncommon ; and, when nature, to 
 fulfil her intention, prefers any singular method of operation, we 
 may be certain of some final cause that cannot be reached by ordinary 
 means. For the beauty of some objects we are indebted entirely to 
 nature ; but, with respect to the endless variety of objects that owe 
 their beauty to art and culture, the perception of beauty greatly pro- 
 motes industry ; being to us a strong additional incitement to enrich 
 our fields, and improve our manufactures. These, however, are but 
 slight effects, compared with the connections that are formed among 
 individuals in society by means of this singular mechanism: the 
 qualifications of the head and heart form, undoubtedly, the most splid 
 and most permanent connections ; but external beauty, which es 
 more in view, has a more extensive influence in forming these con- 
 nections : at any rate, it concurs in an eminent degree with mental 
 qualifications to produce social intercourse, mutual good-will, and 
 consequently mutual aid and support, which are the life of society. 
 It must not, however, be overlooked, that the perception of beauty 
 does not, when immoderate; tend to advance the interests of society. 
 Love, in particular, arising from a perception of beauty, loses, when 
 excessive, its sociable character : the appetite for gratification pre- 
 vailing over affection for the beloved object, is ungovernable ; and 
 tends violently to its end, regardless of the misery that must follow. 
 Love, in that state, is no longer a sweet agreeable passion : it becomes 
 painful, like hunger or thirst ; and produces no happiness but in the 
 instant of fruition. This discovery suggests a most important les- 
 son ; that moderation in our desires and appetites, w T hich fits us for 
 doing our duty, contributes at the same time the most to happiness : 
 even social passions, when moderate, are more pleasant than when 
 they swell beyond proper bounds.
 
 Ch. 4.] GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 109 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 
 
 The mind of man attached to tilings great and elevated Elevation of an object 
 affects us as well as magnitude The effect of a great object; and also of an 
 elevated one Emotions produced by great and elevated objects, are grandeur and 
 sublimity Greatness, considered abstractly, is agreeable Regularity, propor- 
 tion, order, and color, assist in causing grandeur Greatness distinguishes gran- 
 deur from beauty Difference between an emotion of grandeur and of beauty 
 The former is serious, the latter gay and weak Regularity, proportion, and 
 order, not so essential to grandeur as to beauty Not so distinctly perceived in 
 a great as in a small object The mind occupied with the capital parts These 
 observations applied to sublimity An agreeable object made sublime by placing 
 it high Littleness and lowness of place not disagreeable, are indifferent- If 
 they were agreeable, greatness and elevation would not be so a mental progres- 
 sion from less to greater, more agreeable than from greater to less Grandeur 
 <thd sublimity figurative These terms applicable to persons and characters 
 The same in music An ascending series of thought, or climax, agreeable 
 The grandest emotion is when the whole object is seen at one view The sub- 
 lime may be carried too far The effort is too great ; and it is difficult to descend 
 Grandeur in manner, consists in presenting the most important circumstances 
 A good description often affects more than a real view Abstract terms to be 
 avoided An emotion of grandeur raised by reiterated impressions Grandeur 
 indirectly applied, depresses the mind The bombast Imaginary beings, with- 
 out propriety of action. 
 
 NATURE has not more remarkably distinguished us from other 
 animals by an erect posture, than by a capacious and aspiring mind, 
 attaching us to things great and elevated. The ocean, the sky, seize 
 the attention, and make a deep impression :* robes of state are made 
 large and full, to draw respect : we admire an elephant for its magni- 
 tude, notwithstanding its unwieldiness. 
 
 The elevation of an object affects us no less than its magnitude : a 
 high place is chosen for the statue of a deity or hero : a tree grow- 
 ing on the brink of a precipice looks charming when viewed from 
 the plain below : a throne is erected for the chief magistrate; and a 
 chair with a high seat for the president of a court. Among all 
 nations, heaven is placed far above us, hell far below us. 
 
 In some objects, greatness and elevation concur to make a com- 
 plicated impression : the Alps and the Peak of TenerifTe are proper 
 examples ; with the following difference, that in the former greatness 
 seems to prevail, elevation in the latter. 
 
 The emotions raised by great and by elevated objects, are clearly 
 distinguishable, not only in internal feeling, but even in their exter- 
 nal expressions. A great object makes the spectator endeavor 
 to enlarge his bulk ; which is remarkable in plain people, who 
 give way to nature without reserve: in describing a great object, 
 they naturally expand themselves by drawing in air with all their 
 
 * Longinus observes, that nature inclines us to adinire, not a small rivulet, how- 
 ever clear and transparent, but the Nile, the Ister, the Rhine, or still more the 
 ocean. The sight of a small fire produces no emotion ; but we are struck with 
 the boiling furnaces of ^Etna, pouring out whole rivers of liquid flame. Trea- 
 tise of the Sublime, chap. '29. 
 10
 
 110 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch. 4. 
 
 force. An elevated object produces a different expression ; it makes 
 the spectator stretch upward, and stand a-tiptoe. 
 
 Great and elevated objects considered with relation to the emotions 
 produced by them, are termed grand and sublime. Grandeur and 
 sublimity have a double signification : they commonly signify the 
 quality or circumstance in objects by which the emotions of gran- 
 deur and sublimity are produced; sometimes the emotions themselves. 
 
 In handling the present subject, it is necessary that the impression 
 made on the mind by the magnitude of an object, abstracting from 
 its other qualities, should be ascertained. And because abstraction 
 is a mental operation of some difficulty, the safest method for judg- 
 ing is, to choose a plain object that is neither beautiful nor deformed, 
 if such a one can be found. The plainest that occurs, is a huge 
 mass of rubbish, the ruins, perhaps, of some extensive building, or 
 a large heap of stones, such as are collected together for keeping in 
 memory a battle or other remarkable event. Such an object, which 
 in miniature would be perfectly indifferent, makes an impression by 
 its magnitude, and appears agreeable. And supposing it so large, as 
 to fill the eye, and to prevent the attention from wandering upon 
 other objects, the impression it makes will be so much the deeper.* 
 
 But, though a plain object of that kind be agreeable, it is not 
 termed grand : it is not entitled to that character, unless, together 
 with its size, it be possessed of other qualities that contribute to beauty, 
 such as regularity, proportion, order, or color : and according to the 
 number of such qualities combined with magnitude, it is more or 
 less grand. Thus, St. Peter's church at Rome, the great pyramid 
 of Egypt, the Alps towering above the clouds, a great arm of the 
 sea, and, above all, a clear and serene sky, are grand, because, beside 
 their size, they are beautiful in an eminent degree. On the other 
 hand, an overgrown whale, having a disagreeable appearance, is 
 not grand. A large building, agreeable by its regularity and pro- 
 portions, is grand, and yet a much larger building destitute of regu- 
 larity, lias not the least tincture of grandeur. A single regiment in 
 battle array, makes a grand appearance ; which the surrounding 
 crowd does not, though perhaps ten for one in number. And a 
 regiment where the men are all in one livery, and the horses of one 
 color, makes a grander appearance, and consequently strikes more 
 terror, than where there is confusion of colors and of dress. Thus 
 greatness or magnitude is the circumstance that distinguishes gran- 
 deur from beauty : agreeableness is the genus, of which beauty and 
 grandeur are species. 
 
 The emotion of grandeur, duly examined, will be found an addi- 
 tional proof of the foregoing doctrine. That this emotion is plea- 
 sant in a high degree, requires no other evidence than once to 
 have seen a grand object ; and if an emotion of grandeur be pleasant, 
 its cause or object, as observed above, must infallibly be agreeable in 
 proportion. 
 
 The qualities of grandeur and beauty are not more distinct, than 
 the emotions are which these qualities produce in a spectator. It is 
 * See Appendix, Terms defined, sect. 33.
 
 CL 4.] GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. Ill 
 
 observed in the chapter immediately foregoing, that all the various 
 emotions of beauty have one common character, that of sweetness 
 and gaiety. The emotion of grandeur has a different character : a 
 large object that is agreeable, occupies the whole attention, and 
 swells the heart into a vivid emotion, which, though extremely plea- 
 sant, is rather serious than gay. And this affords a good reason for 
 distinguishing in language these different emotions. The emotions 
 raised by color, by regularity, by proportion, and by order, have such 
 a resemblance to each other, as readily to come under one general 
 term, viz. the emotion of beauty; but the emotion of grandeur is so 
 different from these mentioned, as to merit a peculiar name. 
 
 Though regularity, proportion, order, and color, contribute to 
 grandeur as well as to beauty, yet these qualities are not by far so 
 essential to the former as to the latter. To make out that proposi- 
 tion, some preliminaries are requisite. In the first place, the mind, 
 not being totally occupied with a small object, can give its attention 
 at the same time to every minute part ; but in a great or extensive 
 object, the mind being totally occupied with the capital and striking 
 parts, has no attention left for those that are little or indifferent. In 
 the next place, two similar objects appear not similar when viewed 
 at different distances ; the similar parts of a very large object, cannot 
 be seen but at different distances ; and for that reason, its regularity, 
 and the proportion of its parts, are, in some measure, lost to the eye ; 
 neither are the irregularities of a very large object so conspicuous as 
 of one that is small. Hence it is, that a large object is not so agreeable 
 by its regularity, as a small object ; nor so disagreeable by its irre- 
 gularities. 
 
 These considerations make it evident, that grandeur is satisfied 
 with a less degree of regularity and of the other qualities mentioned, 
 than is requisite for beauty ; which may be illustrated by the follow- 
 ing experiment. Approaching to a small conical hill, we take an 
 accurate survey of every part, and are sensible of the slightest devi- 
 ation from regularity and proportion. Supposing the hill to be con- 
 siderably enlarged, so as to make us less sensible of its regularity, 
 it will, upon that account, appear less beautiful. It will not, how- 
 ever, appear less agreeable, because some slight emotion of grandeur 
 comes in place of what is lost in beauty. And at last, when the hill 
 is enlarged to a great mountain, the small degree of beauty that is 
 left, is sunk in its grandeur. Hence it is, that a towering hill is 
 delightful, if it have but the slightest resemblance of a cone ; and a 
 chain of mountains no less so, though deficient in the accuracy of 
 order and proportion. We require a small surface to be smooth ; 
 but in an extensive plain, considerable inequalities are overlooked. 
 In a word, regularity, proportion, order, and color, contribute to 
 grandeur as well as to beauty ; but with a remarkable difference, 
 that, in passing from small to great, they are not required in the 
 same degree of perfection. This remark serves to explain the 
 extreme delight we have in viewing the face of nature, when suffi- 
 ciently enriched and diversified with objects. The bulk of the 
 objects in a natural landscape are beautiful, and some of them grand :
 
 112 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch. 4. 
 
 a flowing river, a spreading oak, a round hill, an extended plain, 
 are delightful ; and even a rugged rock or barren heath, though in 
 themselves disagreeable, contribute, by contrast, to the beauty of the 
 whole. Joining to these, the verdure of the fields, the mixture of 
 light and shade, and the sublime canopy spread over all ; it will not 
 appear wonderful, that so extensive a group of splendid objects 
 should swell the heart to its utmost bounds, and raise the strongest 
 emotion of grandeur. The spectator is conscious of an enthusiasm, 
 which cannot bear confinement, nor the strictness of regularity and 
 order : he loves to range at large : and is so enchanted with magni- 
 ficent objects, as to overlook slight beauties or deformities. 
 
 The same observation is applicable, in some measure, to works of 
 art : in a small building, the slightest irregularity is disagreeable ; 
 but, in a magnificent palace, or a large Gothic church, irregulari- 
 ties are less regarded : in an epic poem we pardon many negligences 
 that would not be permitted in a sonnet or epigram. Notwith- 
 standing such exceptions, it maybe justly laid down for a rule, that 
 in works of art, order and regularity ought to be governing princi- 
 ples : and hence the observation of Longinus,* " In works of art we 
 have regard to exact proportion ; in those of nature, to grandeur and 
 magnificence." 
 
 The same reflections are, in a good measure, applicable to subli- 
 mity ; particularly, that, like grandeur, it is a species of agreeable- 
 ness ; that a beautiful object placed high, appearing more agreeable 
 than formerly, produces in the spectator a new emotion, termed the 
 emotion of sublimity ; and that the perfection of order, regularity r 
 and proportion, is less required in objects placed high, or at a dis- 
 tance, than at hand. 
 
 The pleasant emotion raised by large objects, has not escaped the 
 poets : 
 
 He doth bestride the narrow world 
 
 Like a Colossus ; and we petty men 
 
 Walk under his huge legs. Julius Casar, Act I. Sc. 3. 
 Cleopatra. I dreamt there was an En?p : ror Antony ; 
 
 Oh such another sleep, that I might see 
 
 But such another man ! 
 
 His face was as the heavens : and therein stuck 
 
 A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted 
 
 The little O o' th' earth. 
 
 His legs bestrid the ocean, his rear'd arm 
 
 Crested the world. Antony and Cleopatra, Act V. Sc. 3. 
 
 Majesty 
 
 Dies not alone, but, like a gulph, doth draw 
 
 What's near it with it. It's a massy wheel 
 
 Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount ; 
 
 To whose huge spokes, ten thousand lesser things 
 
 Are mortis'd and adjoin'd ; which when it falls, 
 
 Each small annexment, petty consequence, 
 
 Attends the boist'rous ruin. Hamlet, Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 The poets have also made good use of the emotion produced by the 
 elevated situation of an object: 
 
 CLuod si me lyricis vatibus inseres, 
 
 Sublimi feriam sidera vertice. Horat. Carm. \. 1. Ode 1. 
 * Chap. 30.
 
 Ch. 4.] GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 118 
 
 Amongst the lyric bards let me be read, 
 High as the stars shall rise my lofty head. 
 
 O thou ! the earthly author of my blood, 
 
 Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, 
 
 Doth with a twofold vigor lift me up, 
 
 To reach at victory above my head. Richard, II. Act I. Sc. 4. 
 
 Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal 
 The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne. 
 
 Richard, U. ActV.Sc.2. 
 
 Antony. Why was I rais'd the meteor of the world, 
 Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travell'd, 
 Till all my fires were spent ; and then cast downward ; 
 To be trod out by Caesar 1 Dryden, All for Love, Act I. 
 
 The description of Paradise in the fourth book of Paradise Lost, 
 is a fine illustration of the impression made by elevated objects : 
 
 So on he fares, and to the border comes 
 
 Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, 
 
 Now nearer, crowns with her inclosure green, 
 
 As with a rural mound, the champain head 
 
 Of a steep wilderness ; whose hairy sides 
 
 With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, 
 
 Access deny'd ; and overhead up grew 
 
 Insuperable height of loftiest shade, 
 
 Cedar and pine, and fir, and branching palm, 
 
 A sylvan scene ; and as the ranks ascend, 
 
 Shade above shade, a woody theatre 
 
 Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops 
 
 The verd'rous wall of Paradise up sprung ; 
 
 Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
 
 Into his nether empire neighb'ring round. 
 
 And higher than that wall a circling row 
 
 Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, 
 
 Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, 
 
 Appear'd with gay enamel'd colors mix'd. B. 4. 1. 131. 
 
 Though a grand object is agreeable, we must not infer that a little 
 object is disagreeable ; which would be unhappy for man, consider- 
 ing that he is surrounded with so many objects of that kind. The 
 same holds with respect to place : a body placed high is agreeable ; 
 but the same body placed low, is not, by that circumstance, rendered 
 disagreeable. Littleness and lowness of place are precisely similar 
 in the following particular, that they neither give pleasure nor pain. 
 And in this may visibly be discovered peculiar attention in fitting the 
 internal constitution of man to his external circumstances. Were 
 littleness and lowness of place agreeable, greatness and elevation 
 could not be so : were littleness and lowness of place disagreeable, 
 they would occasion perpetual uneasiness. 
 
 The difference between great and little with respect to agreeable- 
 ness, is remarkably felt in a series, when we pass gradually from the 
 one extreme to the other. A mental progress from the capital to the 
 kingdom, from that to Europe to the whole earth to the planetary 
 system to the universe, is extremely pleasant : the heart swells, 
 and the mind is dilated, at every step. The returning in an oppo- 
 site direction is not positively painful, though our pleasure lessens 
 at every step, till it vanishes into indifference : such a progress may 
 sometimes produce pleasure of a different sort, which arises from 
 10*
 
 114 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch. 4. 
 
 taking a narrower and narrower inspection. The same observation 
 holds in a progress upward and downward. Ascent is pleasant, be- 
 cause it elevates us : but descent is never painful ; it is for the most 
 part pleasant from a different cause, that it is according to the order 
 of nature. The fall of a stone from any height is extremely agreea- 
 ble by its accelerated motion. I feel it pleasant to descend from a 
 mountain, because the descent is natural and easy. Neither is look- 
 ing downward painful ; on the contrary, to look down upon objects 
 makes part of the pleasure of elevation : looking down becomes then 
 only painful when the object is so far below as to create dizziness ; 
 and even when that is the case, we feel a sort of pleasure mixed with 
 pain. Witness Shakspeare's description of Dover cliffs : 
 
 How fearful 
 
 And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eye so low ! 
 
 The crow's and choughs, that wing the midway-air, 
 
 Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down 
 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadful trade ! 
 
 Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. 
 
 The fishermen that walk upon the beach, 
 
 Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark 
 
 Diminish'd to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 
 
 Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge, 
 
 That on th' unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, 
 
 Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, 
 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
 
 Topple down headlong. King Lear, Act IV. Sc. 6. 
 
 A remark is made above, that the emotions of grandeur and subli- 
 mity are nearly allied ; and hence it is, that the one term is frequently 
 put for the other. An increasing series of numbers, for example, 
 producing an emotion similar to that of mounting upward, is com- 
 monly termed an ascending series : a series of numbers gradually 
 decreasing, producing an emotion similar to that of going downward, 
 is commonly termed a descending series : we talk familiarly of go- 
 ing up to the capital, and of going down to the country : from a 
 lesser kingdom we talk of going up to a greater ; whence the anabasis 
 in the Greek language, when one travels from Greece to Persia. 
 We discover the same way of speaking in the language even of 
 Japan;* and its universality proves it the offspring of a natural 
 feeling. 
 
 The foregoing observation leads us to consider grandeur and 
 sublimity in a figurative sense, and as applicable to the fine arts. 
 Hitherto these terms have been taken in their proper sense, as ap- 
 plicable to objects of sight only: and it was of importance to 
 bestow some pains upon that article ; because, generally speaking, 
 the figurative sense of a word is derived from its proper sense, which 
 holds remarkably at present. Beauty in its original signification is 
 confined to objects of sight; but, as many other objects, intellectual 
 as well as moral, raise emotions resembling that of beauty, the re- 
 semblance of the effects prompts us to extend the term beauty to these 
 objects. This equally accounts for the terms grandeur and sublimity 
 taken in a figurative sense. Every motion, from whatever cause 
 * Kempfer's History of Japan, b. 5. chap. 2.
 
 Ch. 4.] GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 115 
 
 it proceeds, that resembles an emotion of grandeur or elevation, is 
 called by the same name : thus generosity is said to be an elevated 
 emotion, as well as great courage ; and that firmness of soul which 
 is superior to misfortunes, obtains the peculiar name of magnanimity. 
 On the other hand, every emotion that contracts the mind, and fixes 
 it upon things trivial or of no importance, is termed low, by its re- 
 semblance to an emotion produced by a little or low object of sight: 
 thus an appetite for trifling amusements is called a low taste. The 
 same terms are applied to characters and actions : we talk familiarly 
 of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally so of littleness 
 of mind : some actions are great and elevated, and others are little 
 and grovelling. Sentiments, and even expressions, are characterised 
 in the same manner: an expression or sentiment that raises the mind 
 is denominated great or elevated ; and hence the SUBLIME* in po- 
 etry. In such figurative terms, we lose the distinction between great 
 and elevated in their proper sense ; for the resemblance is not so 
 entire as to preserve these terms distinct in their figurative applica- 
 tion. We carry this figure still farther. Elevation in its proper 
 sense, imports superiority of place ; and lowness, inferiority of place : 
 and hence a man of superior talents, of superior rank, of inferior 
 parts, of inferior taste, and such like. The veneration we have for 
 our ancestors, and for the ancients in general, being similar to the 
 emotion produced by an elevated object of sight, justifies the figura- 
 tive expression, of the ancients being raised above us, or possessing 
 a superior place. And we may remark in passing, that as words 
 are intimately connected with ideas, many, by this form of expres- 
 sion, are led to conceive their ancestors as really above them in place, 
 and their posterity below them : 
 
 A grandanvs name is little less in love, 
 Than is the doting tiue of a mother : 
 They are as children but one step below. 
 
 Richard III. Act IV. Sc. 5. 
 
 The notes of the gamut, proceeding regularly from the blunter or 
 grosser sounds to the more acute and piercing, produce, in the hearer, 
 a feeling somewhat similar to what is produced by mounting up- 
 ward ; and this gives occasion to the figurative expressions, a high 
 note, a low note. 
 
 Such is the resemblance in feeling between real and figurative 
 grandeur, that among the nations on the east coast of Afric, who are 
 directed purely by nature, the officers of state are, with respect to rank, 
 
 * Longinus gives a description of the Sublime that is not amiss, though far 
 from being just ia every circumstance, " That the mind is elevated by it, and so 
 sensibly affected, as to swell in transport and inward pride, as if what is only 
 heard or read, were its own invention." But he adheres not to this description ; 
 in his Oth chapter, he justly observes, that many passions have nothing of the 
 grand, such as grief, fear, pity, which depress the mind instead of raising it; ana 
 yet, in chap. 8. he mentions Sappho's ode upon love as sublime : beautiful it is 
 undoubtedly, but it cannot be sublime, because it really depresses the mind instead 
 of raising it. His translator Boileaux is not more successful in his instances. In 
 his 10th reflection, he cites a passage from Demosthenes and another from Hero- 
 dotus as sublime, which have not the least tincture of that quality.
 
 116 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch. 4 
 
 distinguished by the length of the batoon each carries in his hand : 
 and in Japan, princes and great lords show their rank by the length 
 and size of their sedan-poles.* Again, it is a rule in painting, that 
 figures of a small size are proper for grotesque pieces ; but that an 
 historical subject, grand and important, requires figures as great as 
 the life. The resemblance of these feelings is in reality so strong, 
 that elevation, in a figurative sense, is observed to have the same ef- 
 fect, even externally, with real elevation : 
 
 K. Henry. This day is called the feast of Crispian. 
 He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 
 Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is nam'd, 
 And rouse him in the name of Crispian. 
 
 Henry V. Act IV. Sc. 8. 
 
 The resemblance, in feeling, between real and figurative grandeur, 
 is humorously illustrated by Addison in criticising upon English 
 tragedy : " The ordinary method of making an hero, is to clap a 
 huge plume of feathers upon his head, which rises so high, that 
 there is often a greater length from his chin to the top of his head, 
 than to the sole of his foot. One would believe, that we thought a 
 great man and a tall man the same thing. As these superfluous or- 
 naments upon the head make a great man, a princess generally re- 
 ceives her grandeur from these additional encumbrances that fall in- 
 to her tail : I mean the broad sweeping train, that follows her in all 
 her motions ; and finds constant employment for a boy, who stands 
 behind her to open and spread it to advantage."* The Scythians 
 impressed with the fame of Alexander, were astonished when they 
 found him a little man. 
 
 A gradual progress from small to great is no less remarkable in 
 figurative, than in real grandeur or elevation. Every one must have 
 observed the delightful effect of a number of thoughts or sentiments, 
 artfully disposed like an ascending series, and making impressions 
 deeper and deeper : such disposition of members in a period, is term- 
 ed a climax. 
 
 Within certain limits, grandeur and sublimity produce their strong- 
 est effects, which lessen by excess as well as by defect. This is re- 
 markable in grandeur and sublimity taken in their proper sense: 
 the grandest emotion that can be raised by a visible object, is where 
 the object can be taken in at one view ; if so immense as not to be 
 comprehended but in parts, it tends rather to distract than satisfy the 
 mind :f in like manner, the strongest emotion produced by eleva- 
 tion, is where the object is seen distinctly ; a greater elevation les- 
 sens in appearance the object, till it vanishes out of sight with its 
 pleasant emotion. The same is equally remarkable in figurative 
 grandeur and elevation, which shall be handled together, because, 
 as observed above, they are scarcely distinguishable. Sentiments 
 
 * Spectator, No. 42. 
 
 t It is justly observed by Addison, that perhaps a man would have been more 
 astonished with the majestic air that appeared in one of Lysippus's statues of 
 Alexander, though no bigger than the life, than he might have been with Mount 
 Athos, had it been cut into the figure of the hero, according to the proposal of 
 Phidias, with a river in one hand, and a city in the other. Spectator, No. 415.
 
 Ch. 4.] GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 117 
 
 may be so strained as to become obscure, or to exceed the capacity 
 of the human mind. Against such license of imagination, every 
 good writer will be upon his guard ; and therefore it is of greater 
 importance to observe, that even the true sublime may be carried be- 
 yond that pitch which produces the highest entertainment. We are 
 undoubtedly susceptible of a greater elevation than can be inspired 
 by human actions, the most heroic and magnanimous : witness what 
 we feel from Milton's description of superior beings; yet every man 
 must be sensible of a more constant and sweet elevation, when the 
 history of his own species is the subject : he enjoys an elevation 
 equal to that of the greatest hero, of an Alexander or a Caesar, of a 
 Brutus, or an Epaminondas ; he accompanies these heroes in their 
 sublimest sentiments and most hazardous exploits, with a magna- 
 nimity equal to theirs ; and finds it no stretch, to preserve the same 
 tone of mind, for hours together, without sinking. The case is not 
 the same in describing the actions or qualities of superior beings : 
 the reader's imagination cannot keep pace with that of the poet; the 
 mind, unable to support itself in a strained elevation, falls as from a 
 height ; and the fall is immoderate, like the elevation : where that 
 effect is not felt, it must be prevented by some obscurity in the con- 
 ception, which frequently attends the description of unknown objects. 
 Hence the St. Francises, St. Dominies, and other tutelary saints, 
 among the Roman Catholics. A mind unable to raise itself to the 
 Supreme Being, self-existent and eternal, or to support itself in a 
 strained elevation, finds itself more at ease in using the intercession 
 of some saint, whose piety and penances while on earth, are sup- 
 posed to have made him a favorite in heaven. 
 
 A strained elevation is attended with another inconvenience, that 
 the author is apt to fall suddenly as well as the reader ; because it is 
 not a little difficult, to descend sweetly and easily from such ele- 
 vation, to the ordinary tone of the subject. The following passage 
 is a good illustration of that observation : 
 
 Saepe etiam immensum coelo venit agmen aquarum, 
 Et fcedam glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris 
 Conlectae ex alto nubes. Ruit arduus sether, 
 Et pluvia ingenti sata laeta boumque labores 
 Diluit. Inplentur fossae, et cava flumina crescunt 
 Cum sonitu, fervetque fretis spirantibus sequor. 
 Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca 
 Fulmina molitur dextra. duo maxima motu 
 Terra tremit: fugere feras ! et mortalia corda 
 Per gentes humilis stravit pavor. Ille flagranti 
 Aut Atho, aut Rodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo 
 Dejicit: ingeminant austri, et densissimus imber. 
 
 Virg. Georg. 1. !. 
 
 And oft whole sheets descend of sluicy rain, 
 
 Suck'd by the spungy clouds from off the main 
 
 The lofty skies at once come pouring down, 
 
 The promised crop and golden labors drown. 
 
 The dikes are filled ; and with a roaring sound, 
 
 The rising rivers float the nether ground 
 
 And rocks the bellowing voice of boiling seas rebound. 
 
 The father of the gods his glory shrouds, 
 
 Involved in tempests and a night of clouds j 

 
 118 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch. 4. 
 
 And from the middle darkness flashing out, 
 By fits he deals his fiery bolts about. 
 Earth feels the mentions of her angry god ; 
 Her entrails trempre, and her mountains nod 
 And flying beasts in forests seek abode. 
 Deep horror seizqp every human breast, 
 Their pride is humbled and their fear confessed, 
 While he from high his rolling thunder throws, 
 And fires the mountains with repeated blows : 
 The rocks are fr*m their old foundations rent, 
 The winds redo0Sle and the rains augment 
 The waves on he'aps are dashed against the shore, 
 And now the woods and now the billows roar ! 
 
 In the description of a storm, to figure Jupiter throwing down huge 
 mountains with his thunder-bolts, is hyperbolically sublime, if I may 
 use the expression : the tone of mind produced by that image is so 
 distant from the tone produced by a thick shower of rain, that the 
 sudden transition must be unpleasant. 
 
 Objects of sight that are not remarkably great nor high, scarcely 
 raise any emotion of grandeur or of sublimity : and the same holds 
 in other objects ; for we often find the mind roused and animated, 
 without being carried to that height. This difference may be discerned 
 in many sorts of music, as well as in some musical instruments ; a 
 kettle-drum rouses, and a hautboy is animating; but neither of them 
 inspires an emotion of sublimity : revenge animates the mind in a 
 considerable degree ; but I think it never produces an emotion that 
 can be termed grand or sublime ; and I shall have occasion after- 
 ward to observe, that no disagreeable passion ever has that effect. 
 I am willing to put this to the test, by placing before my reader a 
 most spirited picture of revenge : it is a speech of Antony wailing 
 over the body of Caesar : 
 
 Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood ! 
 Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, 
 (Which like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, 
 To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue,) 
 A curse shall light upon the kind of men ; 
 Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife, 
 Shall cumber all the parts of Italy ; 
 Blood and destruction shall be so in use, 
 And dreadful objects so familiar, 
 That mothers shall but smile, when they behold 
 Their infants quarter'd by the hands of war. 
 All pity chok'd with custom of fell deeds, 
 And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, 
 With Ate by his side come hot from hell, 
 Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, 
 Cry, Havock! and let slip the dogs of war. 
 
 Julius Casar, Act III. Sc. 4, 
 
 No desire is more universal than to be exalted and honored ; and 
 upon that account chiefly are we ambitious of power, riches, titles, 
 fame, which would suddenly lose their relish, did they not raise us 
 above others, and command submission and deference ;* and it may 
 
 * Honestum per se esse expetendum indicant pueri, in quibus, ut in speculis, 
 natura cernitur. Quanta studia decertantium sunt ! duanta ipsa certamina ! 
 Ut illi efferuntut laetitia, cum vicerunt ! Ut pudet victos ! Ut se accusari nolunt !
 
 Ch. 4.] GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 1 19 
 
 be thought that our attachment to things grand and lofty proceeds 
 from their connection with our favorite passion. This connection has 
 undoubtedly an effect ; but that the preference given to things grand 
 and lofty must have a deeper root in human nature, Avill appear from 
 considering, that many bestow their time upon low and trifling amuse- 
 ments, without having the least tincture of this favorite passion : yet 
 these very persons talk the same language with the rest of mankind, 
 and prefer the more elevated pleasures : they acknowledge a more 
 refined taste, and are ashamed of their oifn as low and grovelling. 
 This sentiment, constant and universal, must be the work of nature ; 
 and it plainly indicates an original attachment in human nature to 
 every object that elevates the mind : some men may have a greater 
 relish for an object not of the highest rank ; but they are conscious 
 of the preference given by mankind in general to things grand and 
 sublime ; and they are sensible that their peculiar taste ought to yield 
 to the general taste. 
 
 What is said above suggests a capital rule for reaching the sub- 
 lime in such works of art as are susceptible of it ; and that is, to pre- 
 sent those parts or circumstances only which make the greatest 
 figure, keeping out of view every thing low or trivial ; for the mind, 
 elevated by an important object, cannot, without reluctance, be forced 
 down to bestow any share of its attention upon trifles. Such judi- 
 cious selection of capital circumstances, is by an eminent critic styled 
 grandeur of manner.* In none of the fine arts is there so great 
 scope for that rule as in poetry ; which, by that means, enjoys a re- 
 markable power of bestowing upon objects and events an air of 
 grandeur : when we are spectators, every minute object presents it- 
 self in its order ; but, in describing at second hand, these are laid 
 aside, and the capital objects are brought close together. A judicious 
 taste in thus selecting the most interesting incidents, to give them an 
 united force, accounts for a fact that may appear surprising; which 
 is, that we are more moved by a spirited narrative at second hand, 
 than by being spectators of the event itself, in all its circumstances. 
 
 Longinus exemplifies the foregoing rule by a comparison of two 
 passages.! The first, from Aristseus, is thus translated : 
 
 Ye pow'rs, what madness ! how on ships so frail 
 
 (Tremendous thought!) can thoughtless mortals sail 1 ? 
 
 For stormy seas they quit the pleasing plain, 
 
 Plant woods in waves, and dwell amidst the main. 
 
 Far o'er the deep (a trackless path) they go, 
 
 And wander oceans in pursuit of wo. 
 
 No ease their hearts, no rest their eyes can find, 
 
 On heaven their looks, and on the waves their mind. 
 
 Ut cupiunt laudari ! duos illi labores non perferunt, ut sequalium principes sint ! 
 Cicero definibus. 
 
 Boys show that honor is worthy to be sought for; in whom, as in a mirror, 
 we see nature. How zealous are the contenders ! How great are their con- 
 tests! How exalted with joy are the conquerors how asnamed are the con- 
 quered ! How unwilling to be blamed ; how desirous of praise ! What labors 
 do they not undergo to surpass their equals ! 
 
 * Spectator, No. 415. 
 Chap. 8. of the Sublime.
 
 120 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [CL 4. 
 
 Sunk are their spirits, while their arms they rear, 
 And gods are wearied with their fruitless prayer. 
 
 The other, from Homer, I shall give in Pope's translation : 
 
 Burst as a wave that from the cloud impends, 
 And swell'd with tempests on the ship descends. 
 White are the decks with foam : the winds aloud 
 Howl o'er the masts, and sing through every shroud. 
 Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears, 
 And instant death on every wave appears. 
 
 In the latter passage, the most striking circumstances are selected to 
 fill the mind with terror and astonishment. The former is a collec- 
 tion of minute and IOAV circumstances, which scatter the thought, and 
 make no impression : it is, at the same time, full of verbal antitheses 
 and low conceit, extremely improper in a scene of distress. But this 
 last observation belongs to another head. 
 
 The following description of a battle is remarkably sublime, by 
 collecting together, in the fewest words, those circumstances which 
 make the greatest figure. 
 
 Like Autumn's dark storms pouring from two echoing hills, toward each other 
 approached the heroes : as two dark streams from high rocks meet and roar on 
 the plain, loud, rough, and dark in battle, meet Lochlin and Inisfail. Chief 
 mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man : steel sounds on steel, and 
 helmets are cleft on high: blood bursts and smokes around : strings murmur on 
 the polish'd yew : darts rash along the sky : spears fall like sparks of flame that 
 gild the stormy face of niir''t. 
 
 As the noise of the troubled ocean when roll the waves on high, as the last peal 
 of thundering heaven, such is the noise of battle. Tho' Cormac's hundred bards 
 were there, feeble were the voice of a hundred bards to send the deaths to future 
 times ; for many were the deaths of the heroes, and wide poured the blood of the 
 valiant. Fingal. 
 
 The following passage in the 4th book of the Iliad, is a descrip- 
 tion of a battle, wonderfully ardent. " When now gathered on either 
 side, the hosts plunged together in fight ; shield is harshly laid to 
 shield ; spears crash on the brazen corslets ; bossy buckler with 
 buckler meets ; loud tumult rages over all ; groans are mixed with 
 boasts of men : the slain and slayer join in noise; the earth is float- 
 ing round with blood. As when two rushing streams from two 
 mountains come roaring down, and throw together their rapid 
 waters below, they roar along the gulphy vale: The startled shep- 
 herd hears the sound, as he stalks o'er the distant hills : So, as they 
 mixed in fight, from both armies clamor with loud terror arose." 
 But such n-eneral descriptions are not frequent in Homer. Even his 
 single combats are rare. The fifth book is the longest account of a 
 battle that is in the Iliad ; and yet contains nothing but a long cata- 
 logue of chiefs killing chiefs, not in single combat neither, but at a 
 distance, with an arrow or a javelin ; and these chiefs named for the 
 first time and the last. The same scene is continued through a great 
 part of the sixth book. There is, at the same time, a minute descrip- 
 tion of every wound, which for accuracy may do honor to an anato- 
 mist, but in an epic poem is tiresome and fatiguing. There is n 
 relief from horrid languor but the beautiful Greek language, and 
 melody of Homer's versification.
 
 Ch. 4.] GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 121 
 
 In the twenty-first book of the Odyssey, there is a passage which 
 deviates widely from the rule above laid down: it concerns that part 
 of the history of Penelope and her suitors, in which she is made to 
 declare in favor of him who should prove the most dextrous in shoot- 
 ing with the bow of Ulysses : 
 
 Now gently winding up the fair ascent 
 By many an easy step, the matron went: 
 Then o'er the pavement glides with grace divine, 
 (With polish'd oak the level pavements shine ;) 
 The folding gates a dazzling light display'd, 
 With pomp of various architrave o'erlay d. 
 The bolt, obedient to the silken string, 
 Forsakes the staple as she pulls the ring; 
 The wards respondent to the key turn'd round 
 The bars fall back; the flying valves resound. 
 Loud as a bull makes hill and valtey ring ; 
 So roar'd the lock when it releas'd the spring. 
 She moves majestic through the wealthy room 
 Where treasur'd garments cast a rich perfume ; 
 There from the column where aloft it hung, 
 Reach'd, in its splendid case, the bow unstrung. 
 
 Virgil sometimes errs against this rule : in the following passages 
 minute circumstances are brought into full view; and, what is still 
 worse, they are described with all the pomp of poetical diction ; 
 JSneid. L. }. 1. 214. to 219. L. 6. /. 176. to 182. L. 6. I. 212, to 
 231. : and the last, which describes a funeral, is the less excusable, 
 as the man whose funeral it is makes no figure in the poem. 
 
 The speech of Clytemnestra, descending from her chariot in the 
 Iphigenia of Euripides,* is stuffed with a number of common and 
 trivial circumstances. 
 
 But of all writers, Lucan, as to this article, is the most injudicious. 
 The sea-fight between the Romans and Massilians.f is described so 
 much in detail, without exhibiting any grand or total view, that the 
 reader is fatigued with endless circumstances, without ever feeling 
 any degree of elevation ; and yet there are some fine incidents, those 
 for example of the two brothers, and of the old man and his son, 
 which, taken separately, would affect us greatly. But Lucan, once 
 engaged in a description, knows no end. See other passages of the 
 same kind, L. 24. 1. 292. to 337. L. 4. /. 750. to 765. The episode 
 of the sorceress Erictho, end of book 6, is intolerably minute and 
 prolix. 
 
 To these I venture to oppose a passage from an old historical 
 ballad: 
 
 Go, little page, tell Hardiknute, 
 
 That lives on hill so high,* 
 To draw his sword, the dread of faes, 
 
 And haste to follow me. 
 The little page flew swift as dart 
 
 Flung by his master's arm. 
 " Come down, come down, Lord Hardiknute, 
 
 " And rid your king from harm." 
 
 * Beginning of Act 3. 
 
 t Lib. 3. beginning at line 567. 
 
 t High, in the old Scotch language, is pronounced hee.
 
 122 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [CL 4. 
 
 This rule is also applicable to other fine arts. In painting it is 
 established, that the principal figure must be put in the strongest 
 light ; that the beauty of attitude consists in placing the nobler parts 
 most in view, and in suppressing the smaller parts as much as possi- 
 ble ; that the folds of the drapery must be few and large ; that fore- 
 shortenings are bad, because they make the parts appear little ; 
 and that the muscles ought to be kept as entire as possible, without 
 being divided into small sections. Every one at present subscribes 
 to that rule as applied to gardening, in opposition to parterres split 
 into a thousand small parts in the stiffest regularity of figure. The 
 most eminent architects have governed themselves by the same rule 
 in all their works. 
 
 Another rule chiefly regards the sublime, though it is applicable 
 to every sort of literary performance intended for amusement ; and 
 that is, to avoid, as much as possible, abstract and general terms. 
 Such terms, similar to mathematical signs, are contrived to express 
 our thoughts in a concise manner ; but images, which are the life of 
 poetry, cannot be raised in any perfection but by introducing parti- 
 cular objects. General terms that comprehend a number of indivi- 
 duals, must be excepted from that rule: our kindred, our clan, our 
 country, and words of the like import, though they scarcely raise 
 any image, have, however, a wonderful power over our passions : 
 the greatness of the complex object overbalances the obscurity of 
 the image. 
 
 Grandeur, being an extremely vivid emotion, is not readily produced 
 in perfection but by reiterated impressions. The effect of a single 
 impression can be but momentary ; and if one feel suddenly some- 
 what like a swelling or exaltation of mind, the emotion vanishes as 
 soon as felt. Single thoughts or sentiments, I know, are often cited 
 as examples of the sublime; but their effect is far inferior to that of 
 a grand subject displayed in its capital parts. I shall give a few 
 examples, that the reader may judge for himself. In the famous 
 action of Thermopylae, where Leonidas the Spartan king, and his 
 chosen band, fighting for their country, were cut off to the last man, 
 a saying is reported of Diencces, one of the band, which, expressing 
 cheerful and undisturbed bravery, is well entitled to the first place in 
 examples of that kind. Respecting the number of their enemies, it 
 was observed, that the arrows shot by such a multitude would inter- 
 cept the light of the sun. So much the better, says he, for we shall 
 then fight in the shade.* 
 
 Somerset. Ah ! Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are, 
 We might recover all our loss again. 
 The dueen from France hath brought a puissant power, 
 Ev'n now we heard the news. Ah ! couldst thou fly ! 
 
 Warwick. Why, then I would not fly. 
 
 Third, Part Henry VI. Act V. Sc. 3. 
 
 Such a sentiment from a man expiring of his wounds, is truly heroic, 
 and must elevate the mind to the greatest height that can be done by 
 a single expression: it will not suffer in a comparison with the fa- 
 * Herodotus, Book 7.
 
 Ch. 4.] GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 123 
 
 mous sentiment Qu'il mourut of Corneille : the latter is a sentiment 
 of indignation merely, the former of firm and cheerful courage. 
 
 To cite in opposition many a sublime passage, enriched with the 
 finest images, and dressed in the most nervous expressions, would 
 scarcely be fair: I shall produce but one instance, from Shakspeare, 
 which sets a few objects before the eye, without much pomp of lan- 
 guage : it operates its effect by representing these objects in a climax, 
 raising the mind higher and higher till it feel the emotion of gran- 
 deur in perfection : 
 
 The cloud-capt tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve, &c. 
 
 The cloud-capt tow'rs produce an elevating emotion, heightened by 
 the gorgeous palaces ; and the mind is carried still higher arid 
 higher by the images that follow. Successive images, making thus 
 deeper and deeper impressions, must elevate more than any single 
 image can do. 
 
 As, on the one hand, no means directly applied have more influ- 
 ence to raise the mind than grandeur and sublimity; so, on the 
 other, no means indirectly applied have more influence to sink and 
 depress it : for in a state of elevation, the artful introduction of an 
 humbling object, makes the fall great in proportion to the elevation. 
 Of this observation Shakspeare gives a beautiful example, in the 
 passage last quoted : 
 
 The cloud-capt tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
 And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
 
 Leave not a rack behind. 
 
 Tempest, Act IV. Sc. 4. 
 
 The elevation of the mind in the former part of this beautiful pas- 
 sage, makes the fall great in proportion, when the most humbling of 
 all images is introduced, that of an utter dissolution of the earth and 
 its inhabitants. The mind, when warmed, is more susceptible of 
 impressions than in a cool state ; and a depressing or melancholy- 
 object listened to, makes the strongest impression when it reache.s 
 the mind in its highest state of elevation or cheerfulness. 
 
 But a humbling image is not always necessary to produce that 
 effect : a remark is made above, that, in describing superior beings, 
 the reader's imagination, unable to support itself in a strained eleva- 
 tion, falls often as from a height, and sinks even below its ordinary 
 tone. The following instance comes luckily in view ; for a better 
 cannot be given : " God said, Let there be light, and there was 
 light." Longinus quotes this passage from Moses as a shining ex- 
 ample of the sublime ; and it is scarcely possible, in fewer words, 
 to convey so clear an image of the infinite power of the Deity : but 
 then it belongs to the present subject to remark, that the emotion of 
 sublimity raised by this image is but momentary ; and that the mind, 
 unable to support itself in an elevation so much above nature, im- 
 mediately sinks down into humility and veneration for a being so far
 
 l24 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch, 4. 
 
 exalted above groveling mortals. Every one is acquainted with a 
 dispute about that passage between two French critics,* the one posi- 
 tively affirming it to be sublime, the other as positively denying. 
 What I have remarked shows that both of them have reached the 
 truth, but neither of them the whole truth : the primary effect of the 
 passage is undoubtedly an emotion of grandeur ; which so far jus- 
 tifies Boileau : but then every one must be sensible, that the emotion 
 is merely a flash, which, vanishing instantaneously, gives way to 
 humility and veneration. That indirect effect of sublimity justifies 
 Huet, who, being a man of true piety, and probably not much car- 
 ried by imagination, felt the humbling passion more sensibly than 
 his antagonist did. And, laying aside difference of character, Huet's 
 opinion may, I think, be defended as the more solid ; because in 
 such images, the depressing emotions are the more sensibly felt, and 
 have the longer endurance. 
 
 The straining of an elevated subject beyond due bounds, is a vice 
 not so frequent as to require the correction of criticism. But false 
 sublime is a rock on which writers of more fire than judgment com- 
 monly split ; and therefore a collection of examples may be of use 
 as a beacon to future adventurers. One species of false sublime, 
 known by the name of bombast, is common among writers of a mean 
 genius: it is a serious endeavor, by strained description, to raise a 
 low or familiar subject above its rank ; which, instead of being sub- 
 lime, becomes ridiculous. I am extremely sensible how prone the 
 mind is, in some animating passions, to magnify its objects beyond 
 natural bounds : but such hyperbolical description has its limits \ 
 and, when carried beyond the impulse of the propensity, it degene- 
 rates into burlesque. Take the following examples. 
 
 Sejanus. Great and high 
 
 The world knows only two, that's Rome and 1. 
 My roof receives me not; 'tis air I tread, 
 And at each step I feel my advanc'd head 
 Knock out a star in heav n. 
 
 Sejanus, Ben Johnson, Act V. 
 
 A writer who has no natural elevation of mind, deviates readily 
 into bombast : he strains above his natural powers ; and the violent 
 effort carries him beyond the bounds of propriety. Boileau ex- 
 presses this happily : 
 
 L'autre a peur de ramper, il se perd dans la nue.t 
 The same author, Ben Johnson, abounds in the bombast : 
 
 The mother, 
 
 Th" expulsed Apicata, finds them there ; 
 Whom when she saw lie spread on the degrees, 
 After a world of fury on herself, 
 Tearing her hair, defacing of her face, 
 Beating her breasts and womb, kneeling amaz'd, 
 Crying to heav'n, then to them ; at last 
 Her drowned voice got up above her woes : 
 And with such black and bitter execrations, 
 (As might affright the gods, and force the sun 
 Kun backward to the east ; nay, make the old 
 
 Boileau and Huet. t L'art Poet, chant. 1. 1. 68.
 
 Ch. 4.] GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 185 
 
 Deformed chaos rise again t' o'erwhelm 
 Them, us, and all the world,) she fills the air. 
 Upbraids the heavens with their partial dooms, 
 Defies their tyrannous powers, and demands 
 What she and those poor innocents have transgress'd, 
 That they must suffer such a share in vengeance. 
 
 Sejanus, Act V. Sc. laat. 
 
 Lentulus, the man, 
 
 If all our fire were out, would fetch down new 
 Out of the hand of Jove ; and rivet him 
 To Caucasus, should he but frown ; and let 
 His own gaunt eagle fly at him to tire. 
 
 Cataline, Act III. 
 
 Can these, or such, be any aid to us 1 
 Look they as they were built to shake the world 
 Or be a moment to our enterprise 1 
 A thousand, such as they are, could not make 
 One atom of our souls. They should be men 
 Worth heaven's fear, that looking up, but thus, 
 Would make Jove stand upon his guard, and draw 
 Himself within his thunder ; which, amaz'd, 
 He should discharge in vain, and they unhurt. 
 Or, if they were, like Capaneus at Thebes, 
 They should hang dead upon the highest spires 
 And ask the second bolt to be thrown down. 
 Why Lentulus talk you so long"? This time 
 Had been enough t'have scatter d all the stars. 
 T'have quench'd the sun and moon, and made the world 
 Despair of day, or any light but ours. 
 
 Cataline, Act IV. 
 
 This is the language of a madman : 
 
 Guildford. Give way, and let the gushing torrent come, 
 Behold the tears we bring to swell the deluge, 
 Till the flood rise upon the guilty world 
 And make the ruin common. 
 
 Lady Jcme Gray, Act IV. near the end. 
 
 I am sorry to observe that the following bombast stuff dropt from 
 the pen of Dryden : 
 
 To see this fleet upon the ocean move, 
 
 Angels drew wide the curtains of the skies ; 
 And heaven, as if there wanted lights above, 
 
 For tapers made two glaring comets rise. 
 
 Another species of false sublime is still more faulty than bom- 
 bast ; and that is, to force elevation by introducing imaginary beings 
 without preserving any propriety in their actions ; as if it were law- 
 ful to ascribe every extravagance and inconsistence to beings of the 
 poet's creation. No writers are more licentious in that article than 
 Johnson and Dryden: 
 
 Methinks I see Death and the Furies waiting 
 What we will do, and all the heaven at leisure 
 For the great spectacle. Draw then your swords : 
 And if our destiny envy our virtue 
 The honor of the day, yet let us care 
 To sell ourselves at such a price, as may 
 Undo the world to buy us, and make Fate, 
 While she tempts ours, to fear her own estate. 
 
 Cataline, Act V. 
 11*
 
 126 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [CL 4. 
 
 -The Furies stood on hill 
 
 Circling the place, and trembled to see men 
 
 Do more than they ; whilst Piety left the field, 
 
 Griev'd for that side, that in so bad a cause 
 
 They kney knew not what a crime their valor was. 
 
 The Sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud 
 
 The battle made, seen sweating to drive up 
 
 His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward. 
 
 Jbid,. ActV. 
 
 Osmyn. While we indulge our common happiness, 
 He is forgot by whom we all possess, 
 The brave Almanzor, to whose arms we owe 
 All that we did, and all that we shall do ; 
 Who like a tempest that outrides the wind, 
 Made a just battle ere the bodies join'd. 
 
 Abdalla. His victories we scarce could keep in view, 
 Or polish ! em so fast as he rough drew. 
 
 Abdemelech. Fate after him below with pain did move. 
 And Victory could scarce keep pace above. 
 Death did at length so many slain forget, 
 And lost the tale, and took 'em by the great. 
 
 Conquest of Granada, Act II. at beginning. 
 
 The gods of Rome fight for ye ; loud Fame calls ye, 
 
 Pitch'd on the topless Appenine, and blows 
 
 To all the under world, all nations 
 
 The seas, and unfrequented deserts, where the snow dwells, 
 
 Wakens the ruin'd monuments, and there, 
 
 Where nothing but eternal death and sleep is, 
 
 Informs again the dead bones. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, Bonduca, Act III. Sc. 3. 
 
 An actor on the stage may be guilty of bombast as well as an 
 author in his closet ; a certain manner of acting, which is grand 
 when supported by dignity in the sentiment and force in the expres- 
 sion, is ridiculous where the sentiment is mean, and the expres- 
 sion flat. 
 
 This chapter shall be closed with some observations. When the 
 sublime is carried to its due height, and circumscribed within proper 
 bounds, it enchants the mind, and raises the most delightful of all 
 emotions : the reader, engrossed by a sublime object, feels himself 
 raised as it were to a higher rank. Considering that effect, it is not 
 wonderful that the history of conquerors and heroes, should be uni- 
 versally the favorite entertainment. And this fairly accounts for 
 what I once erroneously suspected to be a wrong bias originally in 
 human nature : which is, that the grossest acts of oppression and 
 injustice scarcely blemish the character of a great conqueror : we, 
 nevertheless, warmly espouse his interest, accompany him in his 
 exploits, and are anxious for his success : the splendour and enthusi- 
 asm of the hero transfused into the readers, elevate their minds far 
 above the rules of justice, and render them, in a great measure, in- 
 sensible of the wrongs that are committed : 
 
 For in those days might only shall be admir'd, 
 And valor and heroic virtue call'd ; 
 To overcome in battle, and subdue 
 Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite 
 Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch 
 Of human glory, and for glory done
 
 Ch. 5.] MOTION AND FORCE. 127 
 
 Of triumph, to be styl'd great conquerors, 
 Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods, 
 Destroyers rightlier call'd, and plagues of men. 
 Thus fame shall be achiev'd, renown on earth, 
 And what most merits fame in silence hid. 
 
 Milton, b. ii. 
 
 The irregular influence of grandeur reaches also to other matters : 
 however good, honest, or useful, a man may be, he is not so much 
 respected as is one of a more elevated character, though of less 
 integrity ; nor do the misfortunes of the former affect us so much as 
 those of the latter. And I add, because it cannot be disguised, that 
 the remorse which attends breach of engagement, is, in a great mea- 
 sure, proportioned to the figure that the injured person makes; 
 the vows and protestations of lovers are an illustrious example ; for 
 these commonly are little regarded when made to women of inferior 
 Tank. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MOTION AND FORCE. 
 
 Motion is agreeable, rest, indifferent Motion agreeable, when it corresponds with 
 the course of our perceptions Quick motion at first agreeable By accelerating 
 the course of our perceptions, it becomes painful Slow motion becomes painful 
 by retarding our perceptions Regular motion more agreeable than irregular 
 Motion uniformly accelerated, more agreeable than when uniformly retarded 
 Upward motion agreeable Motion in a straight line agreeable In curre 
 lines more so Two kinds of force ; one quiescent, and one exerted in motion 
 To see them both exerted in motion is agreeable The difference between the 
 emotios excited by motion and those excited by force Downward motion 
 quiets the mind Upward motion elevates the mind The animating effect of 
 great force The final cause, to promote industry. 
 
 THAT motion is agreeable to the eye without relation to purpose 
 or design, may appear from the amusement it gives to infants: 
 juvenile exercises are relished chiefly on that account. 
 
 If a body in motion be agreeable, one will be apt to conclude that 
 at rest it must be disagreeable : but we learn from experience, that 
 this would be a rash conclusion. Rest is one of those circumstances 
 that are neither agreeable nor disagreeable, being viewed with per- 
 fect indifferency. And happy is it for mankind to have the matter 
 so ordered ; if rest were agreeable, it would disincline us to motion, 
 by which all things are performed : if it were disagreeable, it would 
 be a source of perpetual uneasiness ; for the bulk of the things we 
 see, appear to be at rest. A similar instance of designing wisdom 
 I have had occasion to explain, in opposing grandeur to littleness, 
 and elevation to lowness of place.* Even in the simplest matters, 
 the finger of God is conspicuous : the happy adjustment of the inter- 
 nal nature of man to his external circumstances, displayed in the 
 instances here given, is indeed admirable. 
 
 Motion is agreeable in all its varieties of quickness and slowness ; 
 but motion long continued admits some exceptions. That degree of 
 * See Chap. 4.
 
 128 MOTION AND FORCE. [Ch. 5. 
 
 continued motion which corresponds to the natural course of our 
 perceptions, is the most agreeable. The quickest motion is for an 
 instant delightful ; but soon appears to be too rapid : it becomes pain- 
 ful by forcibly accelerating the course of our perceptions. Slow 
 continued motion becomes disagreeable from an opposite cause, that 
 it retards the natural course of our perceptions.* 
 
 There are other varieties in motion, beside quickness and slow- 
 ness, that make it more or less agreeable : regular motion is pre- 
 ferred before what is irregular ; witness the motion of the planets in 
 orbits nearly circular : the motion of the comets in orbits less regu- 
 lar, is less agreeable. 
 
 Motion uniformly accelerated, resembling an ascending series of 
 numbers, is more agreeable than when uniformly retarded : motion 
 upward is agreeable, by tendency to elevation. What then shall we 
 say of downward motion regularly accelerated by the force of gravity, 
 compared with upward motion regularly retarded by the same force ? 
 Which of these is the most agreeable ? This question is not easily 
 solved. 
 
 Motion in a straight line is agreeable : but we prefer undulating 
 motion, as of waves, of a flame, of a ship under sail ; such motion is 
 more free, and also more natural. Hence the beauty of a serpentine 
 river. 
 
 The easy and sliding motion of a fluid, from the lubricity of its 
 parts, is agreeable upon that account ; but the agreeableness chiefly 
 depends on the following circumstance, that the motion is perceived, 
 not as of one body, but as of an endless number moving together 
 with order and regularity. Poets struck with that beauty, draw 
 more images from fluids in motion than from solids. 
 
 Force is of two kinds : one quiescent, and one exerted in motion. 
 The former, dead weight for example, must be laid aside ; for a body 
 at rest is not, by that circumstance, either agreeable or disagreeable. 
 Moving force only is my province ; and, though it is not separable 
 from motion, yet by the power of abstraction, either of them may be 
 considered independent of the other. Both of them are agreeable, 
 because both of them include activity. It is agreeable to see a thing 
 move : to see it moved, as when it is dragged or pushed along, is 
 neither agreeable nor disagreeable, more than when at rest. It is 
 agreeable to see a thing exert force ; but it makes not the thing either 
 agreeable or disagreeable, to see force exerted upon it. 
 
 Though motion and force are each of them agreeable, the impres- 
 sions they make are different. This difference, clearly felt, is not 
 easily described. All we can say is, that the emotion raised by a 
 moving body, resembling its cause, is felt as if the mind were carried 
 along : the emotion raised by force exerted, resembling also its cause, 
 is felt as if force were exerted within the mind. 
 
 To illustrate that difference, I give the following examples. It has 
 been explained why smoke ascending in a calm day, suppose from a 
 cottage in a wood, is an agreeable object ;f so remarkably agreeable, 
 
 * This will be explained more fully afterward, ch. 9. 
 t Chap. I.
 
 Ch. 5.] MOTION AND FORCE. 129 
 
 that landscape-painters introduce it upon all occasions. The ascent 
 being natural, and without effort, is pleasant in a calm state of mind : 
 it resembles a gently-flowing river, but is more agreeable, because 
 ascent is more to our taste than descent. A fire-work or a jet d'eau 
 rouses the mind more ; because the beauty of force visibly exerted, 
 is superadded to that of upward motion. To a man reclining indo- 
 lently upon a bank of flowers, ascending smoke in a still morning is 
 charming ; but a fire-work or a jet tfeau rouses him from that supine 
 posture, and puts him in motion. 
 
 A. jet d'eau makes an impression distinguishable from that of a 
 waterfall. Downward motion being natural and without effort, tends 
 rather to quiet the mind than to rouse it : upward motion, on the con- 
 trary, overcoming the resistance of gravity, makes an impression of 
 a great effort, and thereby rouses and enlivens the mind. 
 . The public games of the Greeks and Romans, which gave so 
 much entertainment to the spectators, consisted chiefly in exerting 
 force, wrestling, leaping, throwing great stones, and such-like trials 
 of strength. When great force is exerted, the effort felt internally 
 is animating. The effort may be such, as, in some measure, to over- 
 power the mind : thus the explosion of gun-powder, the violence of 
 a torrent, the weight of a mountain, and the crush of an earthquake, 
 create astonishment rather than pleasure. 
 
 No quality nor circumstance contributes more to grandeur than 
 force, especially where exerted by sensible beings. I cannot make 
 the observation more evident than by the following quotations. 
 
 -Him the almighty power 
 
 Hurl'd headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky, 
 With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
 To bottomless perdition, there to dwell 
 In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
 Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms. 
 
 Paradise Lost, book I. 
 
 -Now storming fury rose, 
 
 And clamor such as heard in neaven till now 
 
 Was never ; arms on armor clashing bray'd 
 
 Horrible discord, and the madding wheels 
 
 Of brazen chariots rag'd ; dire was the noise 
 
 Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss 
 
 Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew, 
 
 And flying vaulted either host with fire. 
 
 So under fiery cope together rush'd 
 
 Both battles main, with ruinous assault 
 
 And inextinguishable rage ; all heaven 
 
 Resounded ; and had earth been then, all earth 
 
 Had to her centre shook. Ibid, book 6. 
 
 They ended parle, and both addressed for fight 
 Unspeakable ; for who, though with the tongue 
 Of angels, can relate, or to what things 
 Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift . 
 
 Human imagination to such height 
 Of godlike pow'r 7 for likest gods they seem'd, 
 Stood they or mov'd, in stature, motion, arms, 
 Fit to decide the empire of great Heav'n. 
 Now wav'd their fiery swords, and in the air 
 Made horrid circles : two broad SUDS their shields
 
 130 MOTION AND FORCE. [Ch. 5. 
 
 Blaz'd opposite, while Expectation stood 
 
 In horror : from each hand with speed retir'd, 
 
 Where erst was thickest fight, th' angelic throng, 
 
 And left large field, unsafe within the wind 
 
 Of such commotion ; such as, to set forth 
 
 Great things by small, if Nature's concord broke, 
 
 Among the constellations war were sprung, 
 
 Two planets, rushing from aspect malign 
 
 Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky 
 
 Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound. 
 
 Ibid, book 6. 
 
 We shall next consider the effect of motion and force in conjunc- 
 tion. In contemplating the planetary system, what strikes us the 
 most, is the spherical figures of the planets, and their regular motions; 
 the conception we have of their activity and enormous bulk being 
 more obscure : the beauty accordingly of that system, raises a more 
 lively emotion than its grandeur. But if we could comprehend the 
 whole system at one view, the activity and irresistible force of these 
 immense bodies would fill us with amazement : nature cannot furnish 
 another scene so grand. 
 
 Motion and force, agreeable in themselves, are also agreeable by 
 their utility when employed as means to accomplish some beneficial 
 end. Hence the superior beauty of some machines, where force and 
 motion concur to perform the work of numberless hands. Hence 
 the beautiful motions, firm and regular, of a horse trained for war: 
 every single step is the fittest that can be, for obtaining the purposed 
 end. But the grace of motion is visible chiefly in man, not only for 
 the reasons mentioned, but because every gesture is significant. The 
 power, however, of agreeable motion is not a common talent : every 
 limb of the human body has an agreeable and disagreeable motion ; 
 some motions being extremely graceful, others plain and vulgar ; 
 some expressing dignity, others meanness. But the pleasure here, 
 arising, not singly from the beauty of motion, but from indicating 
 character and sentiment, belongs to different chapters.* 
 
 I should conclude with the final cause of the relish we have for 
 motion and force, were it not so evident as to require no explanation. 
 We are placed here in such circumstances as to make industry 
 essential to our well-being ; for without industry the plainest neces- 
 saries of life are not obtained. When our situation, therefore, in 
 this world requires activity and a constant exertion of motion and 
 force, Providence indulgently provides for our welfare by making 
 these agreeable to us : it would be a gross imperfection in our nature, 
 to make any thing disagreeable that we depend on for existence ; and 
 even indifference would slacken greatly that degree of activity which 
 is indispensable. 
 
 * Chap. 11. and 15.
 
 Ch. 6.] NOVELTY, &C. 131 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 NOVELTY, AND THE UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE OF 
 OBJECTS. 
 
 The powerful effect of novelty in raising emotion Wonder, the emotion raised 
 by novelty The difference between admiration and wonder Wonder directed 
 to an object ; admiration to an agent Novelty the cause of wonder ; unexpect- 
 edness, of surprise Wonder agreeable or disagreeable according to its cause 
 Surprise pleasant or painful, according to the object The difference between 
 the pleasures of novelty, and those of variety Novelty springs from one source ; 
 variety from many The lowest degree of novelty from a second survey of the 
 object The second, of objects of which \re have had a description The third, 
 of new objects resembling a known species The highest degree, from an un- 
 known object, having no analogy to any thing with which we are acquainted 
 The prevalence of novelty among people of a mean taste To arouse self-love 
 in action in case of danger, the final cause of surprise. 
 
 OF all the circumstances that raise emotions, not excepting beauty, 
 nor even greatness, novelty has the most powerful influence. A new 
 object produces, instantaneously, an emotion termed wonder, which 
 totally occupies the mind, and for a time excludes all other objects. 
 Conversation among the vulgar never is more interesting than when 
 it turns upon strange objects and extraordinary events. Men tear 
 themselves from their native country in search -of things rare and 
 new; and novelty converts into a pleasure, the fatigues, and even 
 perils of traveling. To what cause shall we ascribe these singular 
 appearances 1 To curiosity undoubtedly, a principle implanted in 
 human nature for a purpose extremely beneficial, that of acquiring 
 knowledge ; and the emotion of wonder, raised by new and strange 
 objects, inflames our curiosity to know more of them. This emotion 
 is different from admiration : novelty wherever found, whether in a 
 quality or action, is the cause of wonder ; admiration is directed to 
 the person who performs any thing wonderful. 
 
 During infancy, every new object is probably the occasion of won- 
 der, in some degree; because, during infancy, every object at first 
 sight is strange as well as new : but as objects are rendered familiar 
 by custom, we cease, by degrees, to wonder at new appearances, if 
 they have any resemblance to what we are acquainted with : for a 
 thing must be singular as well as new, to raise our wonder. To 
 save multiplying words, I would be understood to comprehend both 
 circumstances when I, hereafter, talk of novelty. 
 
 In an ordinary train of perceptions where one thing introduces 
 another, not a single object makes its appearance unexpectedly :* the 
 mind thus prepared for the reception of its objects, admits them one 
 after another without perturbation. But when a thing breaks in 
 unexpectedly, and without the preparation of any connection, it raises 
 an emotion, known by the name of surprise. That emotion may be 
 produced by the most familiar object, as when one unexpectedly 
 meets a friend who was reported to be dead ; or a man in high life 
 lately a beggar. On the other hand, a new object, however strange, 
 * See Chap. 1.
 
 132 NOVELTY, &C. [Ch. 6 
 
 will not produce the emotion, if the spectator be prepared for the 
 sight : an elephant in India will not surprise a traveller who goes to 
 see one ; and yet its novelty will raise his wonder : an Indian in 
 Britain would be much surprised to stumble upon an elephant feed- 
 ing at large in the open fields : but the creature itself, to which he 
 was accustomed, would not raise his wonder. 
 
 Surprise, thus, in several respects differs from wonder : unexpect- 
 edness is the cause of the former emotion ; novelty is the cause of 
 the latter. Nor differ they less in their nature and circumstances, 
 as will be explained hereafter. With relation to one circumstance 
 they perfectly agree; which is, the shortness of their duration: the 
 instantaneous production of these emotions in perfection, may contri- 
 bute to that effect, in conformity to a general law, that things soon decay 
 which soon come to perfection: the violence of the emotions may also 
 contribute; for an ardent emotion, which is not susceptible of increase, 
 cannot have a long course. But their short duration is occasioned 
 chiefly by that of their causes : we are soon reconciled to an object, 
 however unexpected ; and novelty soon degenerates into familiarity. 
 
 Whether these emotions be pleasant or painful, is not a clear point. 
 It may appear strange, that our own feelings and their capital qualities, 
 should afford any matter for a doubt : but when we are engrossed 
 by any emotion, there is no place for speculation ; and when suf- 
 ficiently calm for speculation, it is not easy to recall the emotion with 
 accuracy. New objects are sometimes terrible, sometimes delightful. 
 The terror which a tiger inspires is greatest at first, and wears off 
 gradually by familiarity : on the other hand, even women will 
 acknowledge that it is novelty which pleases the most in a new 
 fashion. It would be rash, however, to conclude, that wonder is in 
 itself neither pleasant nor painful, but that it assumes either quality 
 according to circumstances. An object, it is true, that has a threat- 
 ening appearance, adds to our terror by its novelty : but from that 
 experiment it does not follow, that novelty is in itself disagreeable ; 
 for it is perfectly consistent, that we be delighted with an object in 
 one view, and terrified with it in another : a river in flood swelling 
 over its banks, is a grand and delightful object ; and yet it may pro- 
 duce no small degree of fear when we attempt to cross it : courage 
 and magnanimity are agreeable ; and yet, when we view these 
 qualities in an enemy, they serve to increase our terror. In the same 
 manner, novelty may produce two effects clearly distinguishable from 
 each other : it may, directly and in itself, be agreeable ; and it may 
 have an opposite effect indirectly, which is, to- inspire terror; for 
 when a new object appears in any degree dangerous, our ignorance 
 of its powers and qualities, affords ample scope for the imagination 
 to dress it in the frightful colors.* The first sight of a lion, for 
 example, may at the same instant produce two opposite feelings, 
 the pleasant emotion of wonder, and the painful passion of terror : 
 the novelty of the object produces the former directly, and contri- 
 butes to the latter indirectly. Thus, when the subject is analysed, 
 we find, that the power which novelty has indirectly to inflame ter- 
 
 * Essays on the Principles of Morality and Natural Religion, part 2. ess. 6.
 
 Ch. 6.] NOVELTY, &c. 133 
 
 ror, is perfectly consistent with its being, in every circumstance, 
 agreeable. The matter may be put in the clearest light, by adding 
 the following circumstances. If a lion be first seen from a place of 
 safety, the spectacle is altogether agreeable without the least mixture 
 of terror. If, again, the first sight puts us within reach of that dan- 
 gerous animal, our terror may be so great as quite to exclude any sense 
 of novelty. But this fact proves not that wonder is painful: it proves 
 only, that wonder may be excluded by a more powerful passion. 
 Every man may be made certain from his own experience, that won- 
 der, raised by a new object which is inoffensive, is always pleasant; 
 and with respect to offensive objects, it appears from the foregoing 
 deduction, that the same must hold as long as the spectator can attend 
 to the novelty. 
 
 Whether surprise be in itself pleasant or painful, is a question no 
 less intricate than the former. It is certain that surprise inflames 
 our joy when unexpectedly we meet with an old friend, and our ter- 
 ror when we stumble upon any thing noxious. To clear that ques- 
 tion, the first thing to be remarked is, that in some instances an 
 unexpected object overpowers the mind, so as to produce a momen- 
 tary stupefaction : where the object is dangerous, or appears so, the 
 sudden alarm it gives, without preparation, is apt totally to unhinge the 
 mind, and for a moment to suspend all its faculties, even thought 
 itself;* in which state a man is quite helpless ; and if he move at 
 all, is as likely to run upon the danger as from it. Surprise carried 
 to such a height, cannot be either pleasant or painful ; because the 
 mind, during such momentary stupefaction, is in a good measure, if 
 not totally, insensible. 
 
 If we then inquire for the character of this emotion, it must be 
 where the unexpected object or event produces less violent effects. 
 And while the mind remains sensible of pleasure and pain, is it not 
 natural to suppose, that surprise, like wonder, should have an invaria- 
 ble character? I am inclined, however, to think that surprise has no 
 invariable character, but assumes that of the object which raises it. 
 Wonder being an emotion invariably raised by novelty, and being 
 distinguishable from all other emotions, ought naturally to possess 
 one constant character. The unexpected appearance of an object, 
 seems not equally entitled to produce an emotion distinguishable 
 from that which is produced by the object in its ordinary appearance : 
 the effect it ought naturally to have, is only to swell that emotion, 
 by making it more pleasant or more painful than it commonly is. 
 And that conjecture is confirmed by experience, as well as by lan- 
 guage, which is built upon experience : when a man meets a friend 
 unexpectedly, he is said to be agreeably surprised ; and when he meets 
 an enemy unexpectedly, he is said to be disagreeably surprised. It 
 appears, then, that the sole effect of surprise is to swell the emotion 
 raised by the object. And that effect can be clearly explained : a tide 
 of connected perceptions glide gently into the mind, and produce no 
 perturbation ; but an object breaking in unexpectedly, sounds an 
 alarm, rouses the mind out of its calm state, and directs its whole 
 * Hence the Latin names for surprise, torpor, animi stupor. 
 12
 
 134 NOVELTY, &C. [Ch. 6, 
 
 attention to the object, which, if agreeable, becomes doubly so. 
 Several circumstances concur to produce that effect: on the one hand, 
 the agitation of the mind, and its keen attention, prepare it, in the 
 most effectual manner, for receiving a deep impression : on the other 
 hand, the object, by its sudden and unforeseen appearance, makes an 
 impression, not gradually as expected objects do, but as at one stroke 
 with its whole force. The circumstances are precisely similar where 
 the object is in itself disagreeable.* 
 
 The pleasure of novelty is easily distinguished from that of variety: 
 to produce the latter, a plurality of objects is necessary ; the former 
 arises from a circumstance found in a single object. Again, where 
 objects, whether co-existent or in succession, are sufficiently diversi- 
 fied, the pleasure of variety is complete, though every single object 
 of the train be familiar : but the pleasure of novelty, directly oppo- 
 site to familiarity, requires no diversification. 
 
 There are different degrees of novelty, and its effects are in pro- 
 portion. The lowest degree is found in objects surveyed a second 
 time after a long, interval ; and that in this case an object takes on 
 some appearance of novelty, is certain from experience: a large 
 building of many parts variously adorned, or an extensive field 
 embellished with trees, lakes, temples, statues, and other ornaments, 
 will appear new oftener than once : the memory of an object so 
 complex is soon lost, of its parts at least, or of their arrangement. 
 But experience teaches, that even without any decay of remem- 
 brance, absence alone will give an air of novelty to a once fami- 
 liar object ; which is not surprising, because familiarity wears off 
 gradually by absence : thus a person with whom we have been inti- 
 mate, returning after a long interval, appears like a new acquaint- 
 
 * What the Mareschal Saxe terms le cceur humain is no other than fear occa- 
 sioned by surprise. It is owing to that cause that an ambush is generally so 
 destructive: intelligence of it beforehand renders it harmless. The Mareschal 
 gives from Caesar's Commentaries two examples of what he calls le caur humain. 
 At the siege of Amiens by the Gauls, Cassar came up with his army, which did 
 not exceed 7000 men, and began to intrench himself in such hurry, that the bar- 
 barians, judging him to be afraid, attacked his intrenchments with great spirit. 
 During the time they were filling up the ditch, he issued out with his cohorts ; and, 
 by attacking them unexpectedly, struck a panic that made them fly with precipi- 
 tation, not a single man offering to make a stand. At the siege of Alesia, the 
 Gauls, infinitely superior in number, attacked the Roman lines of circumvalia- 
 tion, in order to raise the siege. Caesar ordered a body of his men to march out 
 silently, and to attack them on the one flank, while he with another body did the 
 same on the other flank. The surprise of being attacked when they expected a 
 defence only, put the Gauls into disorder, and gave an easy victory to Cassar. 
 
 A third may be added, no less memorable. In the year 846, an obstinate battle 
 was fought between Xamire King of Leon, and Abdoulrahman the Moorish King 
 of Spain. After a very long conflict, the night only prevented the Arabians from 
 obtaining a complete victory. The King of Leon, taking advantage of the dark- 
 ness, retreated to a neighboring hill, leaving the Arabians masters of the field of bat- 
 tle. Next morning, perceiving that he could not maintain his place for want of 
 provisions, nor be able to draw off" his men in the face of a victorious army, he 
 ranged his men in order of battle, and, without losing a moment, marched to 
 attack the enemy, resolving to conquer or die. The Arabians, astonished to be 
 attacked by those who were conquered the night before, lost all heart : fear suc- 
 ceeded to astonishment, the panic was universal, and they all turned their backu 
 almost without drawing a sword.
 
 Ch. 6.] NOVELTY, &c. 135 
 
 ance : and distance of place contributes to this appearance, no less 
 than distance of time. A friend, for example, after a short absence 
 in a remote country, has the same air of novelty as if he had returned 
 after a longer interval from a place near home : the mind forms a con- 
 nection between him and the remote country, and bestows upon him 
 the singularity of the objects he has seen. For the same reason, 
 when two things equally new and singular are presented, the specta- 
 tor balances between them ; but when told that one of them is the 
 product of a distant quarter of the world, he no longer hesitates, but 
 clings to it as the most singular. Hence the preference given to 
 foreign luxuries, and to foreign curiosities, which appear rare in 
 proportion to their original distance. 
 
 The next degree of novelty, mounting upward, is found in objects 
 of which we have some information at second hand; for descrip- 
 tion, though it contribute to familiarity, cannot altogether remove 
 the appearance of novelty when the object itself is presented: 
 the first sight of a lion occasions some wonder, after a thorough 
 acquaintance with the correctest pictures and statues of that animal. 
 
 A new object that bears some distant resemblance to a known spe- 
 cies, is an instance of a third degree of novelty : a strong resem- 
 blance among individuals of the same species, prevents, almost 
 entirely, the effect of novelty, unless distance of place or some other 
 circumstance concur ; but where the resemblance is faint, some 
 degree of wonder is felt, and the emotion rises in proportion to the 
 faintness of the resemblance. 
 
 The highest degree of wonder arises from unknown objects that 
 have no analogy to any species with which we are acquainted. Shak- 
 speare in a simile introduces that species of novelty : 
 
 As glorious to the sight 
 As is a winged messenger from heaven 
 Unto the white up-turned wond'ring eye 
 Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him 
 When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
 And sails upon the bosom of the air. 
 
 Romeo and, Juliet. 
 
 One example of that species of novelty deserves peculiar attention ; 
 and that is, when an object altogether new is seen by one person only, 
 and but once. These circumstances heighten, remarkably, the emo- 
 tion : the singularity of the spectator concurs with the singularity of 
 the object, to inflame wonder to its highest pitch. 
 
 In explaining the effects of novelty, the place a being occupies 
 in the scale of existence, is a circumstance that must not be omit- 
 ted. Novelty in the individuals of a low class, is perceived with 
 indifference, or with a very slight emotion : thus a pebble, however 
 singular in its appearance, scarcely moves our wonder. The emo- 
 tion rises with the rank of the object; and, other circumstances being 
 equal, is strongest in the highest order of existence : a strange insect 
 affects us more than a strange vegetable ; and a strange quadruped 
 more than a strange insect. 
 
 However natural novelty may be, it is a matter of experience, that
 
 136 NOVELTY, &C. [Ch. & 
 
 those who relish it the most are careful to conceal its influence. 
 Love of novelty, it is true, prevails in children, in idlers, and in men 
 of shallow understanding: and yet, after all, why should one be 
 ashamed of indulging a natural propensity ? A distinction will afford 
 a satisfactory answer. No man is ashamed of curiosity when it is 
 indulged in order to acquire knowledge. But to prefer any thing 
 merely because it is new, shows a mean taste of which one ought to 
 be ashamed : vanity is commonly at the bottom, which leads those 
 who are deficient in taste to prefer things odd, rare, or singular, in 
 order to distinguish themselves from others. And in fact, that appe- 
 tite, as above mentioned, reigns chiefly among persons of a mean 
 taste, who are ignorant of refined and elegant pleasures. 
 
 One final cause of wonder, hinted above, is, that this emotion is 
 intended to stimulate our curiosity. Another, somewhat different, is, 
 to prepare the mind for receiving deep impressions of new objects. 
 An acquaintance with the various things that may affect us, and with 
 their properties, is essential to our well-being : nor will a slight or 
 superficial acquaintance be sufficient; they ought to be so deeply 
 engraved on the mind, as to be ready for use upon every occasion. 
 Now, in order to make a deep impression, it is wisely contrived, that 
 things should be introduced to our acquaintance with a certain pomp 
 and solemnity productive of a vivid emotion. When the impression is 
 once fairly made, the emotion of novelty, being no longer necessary, 
 vanishes almost instantaneously; never to return, unless, where the 
 impression happens to be obliterated by length of time or other 
 means ; in which case, the second introduction has nearly the same 
 solemnity that the first had. 
 
 Designing wisdom is no where more legible than in this part of 
 the human frame. If new objects did not affect us in a very peculiar 
 manner, their impressions would be so slight as scarcely to be of any 
 use in life: on the other hand, did objects continue to affect us as 
 deeply as at first, the mind would be totally engrossed with them, 
 and have no room left, either for action or reflection. 
 
 The final cause of surprise is still more evident than of novelty. 
 Self-love makes us vigilantly attentive to self-preservation ; but self- 
 love, which operates by means of reason and reflection, and impels 
 not the mind to any particular object or from it, is a principle too cool 
 for a sudden emergency : an object breaking in unexpectedly, affords 
 no time for deliberation; and, in that case, the agitation of surprise 
 comes in seasonably to rouse self-love into action : surprise gives the 
 alarm : and if there be any appearance of danger, our whole force 
 is instantly summoned up to shun or to prevent it.
 
 Oh. 7.] RISIBLE OBJECTS. 137 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 RISIBLE OBJECTS. 
 
 Risible objects expressed externally by laughter Ludicrous objects such as are 
 playful or jocular Trivial and unimportant objects only, risible Works of 
 nature and of art, risible only, when out of rule Objects that are not risible 
 Risible emotions, except contempt, not produced when the mind is occupied 
 Objects which cause laughter, either risible or ridiculous A risible object 
 mirthful only ; a ridiculous one, both mirthful and contemptible The nature 
 of the emotion raised by a risible object ; and also of that raised by a ridicu- 
 lous one. 
 
 SUCH is the nature of man, that his powers and faculties are soon 
 blunted by exercise. The returns of sleep, suspending all activity, 
 are not alone sufficient to preserve him in vigor : during his waking 
 Hours, amusement by intervals is requisite to unbend his mind from 
 serious occupation. To that end, nature has kindly made a provi- 
 sion of many objects, which may be distinguished by the epithet of 
 risible, because they raise in us a peculiar emotion expressed exter- 
 nally by laughter : that emotion is pleasant ; and being also mirthful, 
 it most successfully unbends the mind, and recruits the spirits. 
 Imagination contributes a part, by multiplying such objects without 
 end. 
 
 Ludicrous is a general term, signifying, as may appear from its 
 derivation, what is playsome, sportive, or jocular. Ludicrous, there- 
 fore, seems the genus, of which risible is a species, limited, as above, 
 to what makes us laugh. 
 
 However easy it may be, concerning any particular object, to say 
 whether it be risible or not, it seems difficult, if at all practicable, to 
 establish any general character, by which objects of that kind may 
 be distinguished from others. Nor is that a singular case ; for, 
 upon a review, we find the same difficulty in most of the articles 
 already handled. There is nothing more easy, viewing a particular 
 object, than to pronounce that it is beautiful or ugly, grand or little: 
 but were we to attempt general rules for ranging objects under 
 different classes, according to these qualities, we should be much 
 gravelled. A separate cause increases the difficulty of distinguishing 
 risible objects by a general character: all men are not equally affected 
 by risible objects ; nor the same man at all times ; for in high spirits 
 a thing will make him laugh outright, which scarcely provokes a 
 smile in a grave mood. Risible objects, however, are circumscribed 
 within certain limits ; which I shall suggest, without pretending to 
 accuracy. And, in the first place, I observe, that no object is risible 
 but what appears slight, little, or trivial ; for we laugh at nothing 
 that is of importance to our own interest, or to that of others. A 
 real distress raises pity, and therefore cannot be risible ; but a slight 
 or imaginary Hstress, which moves not pity, is risible. The adven- 
 ture of the fulling-mills in Don Quixote, is extremely risible ; so is 
 the scene where Sancho, in a dark night, tumbling into a pit, and 
 attaching himself to the side by hand and foot, hangs there in terrible 
 12*
 
 138 RISIBLE OBJECTS. [Ch. 7. 
 
 dismay till the morning, when he discovers himself to be within a 
 foot of the bottom. A nose remarkably long or short, is risible ; but 
 -o want it altogether, far from provoking laughter, raises horror in 
 the spectator. Secondly, with respect to works both of nature and 
 of art, none of them are risible but what are out of rule, some re- 
 markable defect or excess ; a very long visage, for example, or a 
 very short one. Hence nothing just, proper, decent, beautiful, pro- 
 portioned, or grand, is risible. 
 
 Even from this slight sketch it will readily be conjectured, that 
 the emotion raised by a risible object is of a nature so singular, as 
 scarcely to find place while the mind is occupied with any other 
 passion or emotion : and the conjecture is verified by experience ; 
 for we scarcely ever find that emotion blended with any other. One 
 emotion I must except ; and that is, contempt raised by certain im- 
 proprieties : every improper act inspires us with some degree of 
 contempt for the author ; and if an improper act be, at the same 
 time, risible to provoke laughter, of which blunders and absurdities 
 are noted instances, the two emotions of contempt and of laughter 
 unite intimately in the mind, and produce externally what is termed 
 a laugh of derision or of scorn. Hence objects that cause laughter 
 may be distinguished into two kinds : they are either risible, or ridi- 
 culous. A risible object is mirthful only: a ridiculous object is both 
 mirthful and contemptible. The first raises an emotion of laughter 
 that is altogether pleasant : the pleasant emotion of laughter raised 
 by the other, is blended with the painful emotion of contempt ; and 
 the mixed emotion is termed the emotion of ridicult. The pain a 
 ridiculous object gives me is resented and punished by a laugh of 
 derision. A risible object, on the other hand, gives me no pain : it 
 is altogether pleasant by a certain sort of titillation, which is ex- 
 pressed externally by mirthful laughter. Ridicule will be more 
 fully explained afterward : the present chapter is appropriated to the 
 other emotion. 
 
 Risible objects are so common, and so well understood, that it is 
 unnecessary to consume paper or time upon them. Take the few 
 following examples. 
 
 Folstaff. I do remember him at Clement's inn, like a man made after supper 
 of a cheese-paring. When he was naked, he was for all the world like a forked 
 radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act III. Sc. 5. 
 
 The foregoing is of disproportion. The following examples are 
 of slight or imaginary misfortunes. 
 
 Falsta-ff. Go fetch me a quart of sack ; put a toast in't. Have I liv'd to be 
 carried in a basket, like a barrow of butcher's offal, and to be thrown into the 
 Thames ! Well, if I be served such, another trick, Til have my brains ta'en out 
 and butter'd, and give them to a dog for a new-year's gift. The rogues slighted 
 me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drown'd a bitch's 
 blind puppies, fifteen i'th'litter ; and you may know by my size, that I have a 
 kind of alacrity in sinking : if the bottom were as deep as heP I should down. 
 I had been drown'd, but that the shore was shelvy and shallow ; a death that I 
 abhor ; for the water swells a man : and what a thing should I have been when 1 
 Had been swell'dl I should have been a mountain of mummy. 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor, Act III. Sc.
 
 
 
 Ch. 8.] RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 139 
 
 Falstaf. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffer'd to bring 
 this woman to evil for your good. Being thus cramm'd in the basket, a couple 
 of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were call'd forth by their mistress, to carry me in 
 the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane. They took me on their shoulders, met 
 the jealous knave their master in the door, who ask'd them once or twice what 
 they had in their basket. I quak'd for fear, lest the lunatic knave would have 
 search'd it ; but Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well, 
 on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, 
 Master Brook. I suffer'd the pangs of three egregious deaths ; first, an intole- 
 rable fright, to be detected by a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, to be compass'd 
 like a good bilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head ; and 
 then to be stopt in, like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in 
 their own grease. Think of that, a man of my kidney ; think of that, that am 
 as subject to heat as butter ; a man of continual dissolution and thaw ; it was a 
 miracle to 'scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath, when I was more 
 than half stew'd in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and 
 cool'd glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse shoe; think of that; hissing hot; 
 think of that, Master Brook. 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor, Act HI. Sc. 5. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 
 
 The pleasure of discovering dissimilitude where resemblance prevails, and resem- 
 blance where dissimilitude prevails A comparison carried too far, appears 
 slight and trivial Instruction the chief end of comparison To present a thing 
 in the strongest point of view, another end The same effect produced by con- 
 trast The similes of poets of taste drawn from things that differ from the 
 principal subject A contrast to be attempted, only when the things have 
 a common genus, and a resemblance in their capital circumstance Illustrated 
 The passions are inflamed by comparison Illustrated The influence of com- 
 parison on our opinions A man in grief not able to bear mirth Appearances 
 of danger excite both pleasure and pain Wonder, the cause of the effect pro- 
 duced by heightening or diminishing an object Surprise makes the difference 
 appear greater than it is Things found to be more beautiful or strange than 
 they were expected to be, are conceived to be more strange than they are 
 Cause for the effect of contrast and comparison The principle on which it is 
 founded To induce the completion of works of art, the final cause Resem- 
 blance too entire has no effect Emotions make the greatest figure when con- 
 trasted in succession Emotions raised by the fine arts, too nearly related to 
 make a figure by resemblance In a small garden, or painting, no dissimilarity 
 of emotion to be produced Wit and ridicule opposed to grandeur. 
 
 HAVING discussed those qualities and circumstances of single 
 objects that seem peculiarly connected with criticism, we proceed, 
 according to the method proposed in the chapter of beauty, to the 
 relations of objects, beginning with the relations of resemblance and 
 dissimilitude. 
 
 The connection that man has with the beings around him, requires 
 some acquaintance with their nature, their powers and their qualities, 
 for regulating his conduct. For acquiring a branch of knowledge 
 so essential to our well-being, motives alone of reason and interest 
 are not sufficient : nature has providently superadded curiosity, a 
 vigorous propensity, which never is at rest, This propensity attaches
 
 140 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. [Ch. 8. 
 
 us to every new object ;* and incites us to compare objects, in order 
 to discover their differences and resemblances. 
 
 Resemblance among objects of the same kind, and dissimilitude 
 among objects of different kinds, are too obyious and familiar to 
 gratify our curiosity in any degree : its gratification lies in discover- 
 ing differences among things where resemblance prevails, and re- 
 semblances where difference prevails. Thus a difference in indi- 
 viduals of the same kind of plants or animals is deemed a discovery; 
 while the many particulars in which they agree are neglected : and 
 in different kinds, any resemblance is greedily remarked, without 
 attending to the many particulars in which they differ. 
 
 A comparison, however, may be too far stretched. When differ- 
 ences or resemblances are carried beyond certain bounds, they 
 appear slight and trivial ; and for that reason will not be relished 
 by a man of taste : yet such propensity is there to gratify passion, 
 curiosity in particular, that even among good writers we find many 
 comparisons too slight to afford satisfaction. Hence the frequent 
 instances among logicians of distinctions without any solid difference: 
 and hence the frequent instances among poets and orators, of similes 
 without any just resemblance. With regard to the latter, I shall 
 confine myself to one instance, which will probably amuse the 
 reader, being a quotation, not from a poet nor orator, but from a 
 grave author, writing an institute of law. " Our student shall ob- 
 serve, that the knowledge of the law is like a deep well, out of which 
 each man draweth according to the strength of his understanding. 
 He that reaches deepest, seeth the amiable and admirable secrets of 
 the law, wherein I assure you the sages of the law in former times 
 have had the deepest reach. And, as the bucket in the depth is 
 easily drawn to the uppermost part of the water, (for nullum ele- 
 rnentum in suo proprio loco est grave,} but take it from the water, it 
 cannot be drawn up but with a great difficulty; so, albeit beginnings 
 of this study seem difficult, yet, when the professor of the law can 
 dive into the depth, it is delightful, easy, and without any heavy 
 burden, so long as he keep himself in his own proper element.''! 
 Shakspeare, with uncommon humor, ridicules such disposition to 
 simile-making, by putting in the mouth of a weak man a resem- 
 blance much of a piece with that now mentioned : 
 
 Pluellen. I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn : I tell you, Cap- 
 tain, if you look in the maps of the orld, I warrant that you sail find, in the com- 
 parisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both 
 alike. There is a river in Macedon, there is also moreover a river in Monmouth : 
 it is called Wye at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains what is the name of the 
 other river ; but it is all one, 'tis as like as my fingers to my fingers, and there is 
 salmons in both. If you mark Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's life 
 is come after it indifferent well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander, 
 God knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his 
 cholors, and his moods, and his displeasures, and his indignations ; and also 
 being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, 
 kill his pest friend Clytus. 
 
 Gower. Our King is not like him in that; he never kill'd any of his friends. 
 
 Fluellen. It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my mouth 
 
 * See chap. 6. t Coke upon Lyttleton, p. 71.
 
 Ch. 8.] RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 141 
 
 ere it is made and finished. I speak but in figures, and comparisons of it : As 
 Alexander kill'd his friend Clytus, being in his ales and his cups ; so also Harry 
 Monmouth, being in his right wits and his good judgments, turn'd away the fat 
 knight with the great belly doublet ; he was full of jests, and gypes, and knare- 
 ries, and mocks : I have forgot his name. 
 
 Gower. Sir John Falstaff. 
 
 Fliiellen. That is he : I tell you there is good men porn at Monmouth. 
 
 K. Henry V. Act IV. Sc. 13. 
 
 Instruction, no doubt, is the chief end of comparison ; but that it 
 is not the only end will be evident from considering, that a compa- 
 rison may be employed with success to put a subject in a strong 
 point of view. A lively idea is formed of a man's courage, by 
 likening it to that of a lion ; and eloquence is exalted in our imagi- 
 nation, by comparing it to a river overflowing its banks, and invol- 
 ving all in its impetuous course. The same effect is produced by 
 contrast : a man in prosperity becomes more sensible of his happi- 
 ness by opposing his condition to that of a person in want of bread. 
 Thus, comparison is subservient to poetry as well as to philosophy ; 
 and, with respect to both, the foregoing observation holds equally, 
 that resemblance among objects of the same kind, and dissimilitude 
 among objects of different kinds, have no effect : such a comparison 
 neither tends to gratify our curiosity, nor to set the objects compared 
 in a stronger light : two apartments in a palace, similar in shape, 
 size, and furniture, make, separately, as good a figure as when com- 
 pared ; and the same observation is applicable to two similar copart- 
 ments in a garden : on the other hand, oppose a regular building 
 to a fall of water, or a good picture to a towering hill, or even a 
 little dog to a large horse, and the contrast will produce no effect. 
 But a resemblance between objects of different kinds, and a difference 
 between objects of the same kind, have remarkably an enlivening 
 effect. The poets, such of them as have a just taste, draw all their 
 similies from things that in the main differ widely from the principal 
 subject ; and they never attempt a contrast but where the things have 
 a common genus and a resemblance in the capital circumstances : 
 place together a large and a small sized animal of the same species, 
 the one will appear greater, the other less, than when viewed sepa- 
 rately : when we oppose beauty to deformity, each makes a greater 
 figure by the comparison. We compare the dress of different nations 
 with curiosity, but without surprise: because they have no such 
 resemblance in the capital parts as to please us by contrasting the 
 smaller parts. But a new cut of a sleeve or of a pocket enchants 
 by its novelty, and in opposition to the former fashion, raises some 
 degree of surprise. 
 
 That resemblance and dissimilitude have an enlivening effect upon 
 objects of sight, is made sufficiently evident: and that they have the 
 same effect upon objects of the other senses, is also certain. Nor is 
 that law confined to the external senses : for characters contrasted 
 make a greater figure by the opposition : lago, in the tragedy of 
 Othello, says, 
 
 He hath a daily beauty in his life 
 That makes me ugly.
 
 142 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. [CL 8. 
 
 The character of a fop, and of a rough warrior, are no where more 
 successfully contrasted than in Shakspeare : 
 
 Hotspur. My liege, I did deny no prisoners ; 
 
 But I remember, when the fight was done, 
 
 When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil. 
 
 Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword ; 
 
 Came there a certain lord, neat trimly dress'd, 
 
 Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new-reap'd, 
 
 Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home. 
 
 He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
 
 And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
 
 A pouncet-box, which ever and anon 
 
 He gave his nose ; and still he smil'd, and talk'd 
 
 And as the soldiers bare dead bodies by, 
 
 He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly, 
 
 To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 
 
 Betwixt the wind and his nobility ! 
 
 With many holiday and lady terms 
 
 He question'd me : among the rest demanded 
 
 My pris'ners, in your Majesty's behalf. 
 
 I then all smarting with my wounds ; being gall'd 
 
 To be so pester'd with a popinjay, 
 
 Out of my grief, and my impatience. 
 
 Answer'd, neglectingly, I know not what : 
 
 He should, or should not; for he made me mad, 
 
 To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 
 
 And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman, 
 
 Of guns, and drums, and wounds ; (God save the mark !) 
 
 And telling me, the sov'reignest thing on earth 
 
 Was parmacity, for an inward bruise; 
 
 And that it was great pity, so it was, 
 
 This villainous saltpetre should be digg'd 
 
 Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 
 
 Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd 
 
 So cowardly : and but for these vile guns 
 
 He would himself have been a soldier. 
 
 First Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 4. 
 
 Passions and emotions are also inflamed by comparison. A man 
 of high rank humbles the by-standers, even to annihilate them in 
 their own opinion. Caesar, beholding the statue of Alexander, was 
 greatly mortified, that now at the age of thirty-two, when Alexander 
 died, he had not performed one memorable action. 
 
 Our opinions also are much influenced by comparison. A man 
 whose opulence exceeds the ordinary standard, is reputed richer 
 than he is in reality; and wisdom or weakness, if at all remarkable 
 in an individual, is generally carried beyond the truth. 
 
 The opinion a man forms of his present distress is heightened by 
 contrasting it with his former happiness. 
 
 Could I forget 
 
 What I have been, I might the better bear 
 
 What I am destin'd to. I'm not the first 
 
 That have been wretched : but to think how much 
 
 I have been happier. 
 
 Southern's Innocent Adultery, Act II. 
 
 The distress of a long journey makes even an indifferent inn agree- 
 able : and in travelling, when the road is good, and the horseman 
 well covered, a bad day may be agreeable by making him sensible 
 how snug he is.
 
 Ch. 8.] RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. , 143 
 
 The same effect is equally remarkable, when a man opposes his 
 condition to that of others. A ship tossed about in a storm, makes 
 the spectator reflect upon his own ease and security, and puts these 
 in the strongest light : 
 
 Suave, mari magno turbantibus sequora ventis, 
 
 E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem ; 
 
 Non quia vexari quemquam est jucunda voluptas, 
 
 Sed quibus ipse mails careas, quse cernere suave est. 
 
 Lucret. I. 2. primipio. 
 
 How sweet to. stand when tempests tear the main 
 
 On the firm cliff, and mark the seaman's toil ! 
 
 Not that another's danger soothes the soul, 
 
 But from such toil how sweet to feel secure ! 
 
 A man in grief cannot bear mirth : it gives him a more lively notion 
 of his unhappiness, and of course makes him more unhappy. Satan 
 contemplating the beauties of the terrestrial paradise, has the fol- 
 lowing exclamation : 
 
 With what delight could I have walk'd thee round, 
 If I could joy in ought, sweet interchange 
 , Of hill and valley, rivers, woods, and plains, 
 
 Now land, now sea, and shores with forest crown'd. 
 
 Rocks, dens, and caves ! but I in none of these 
 
 Find place or refuge ; and the more I see 
 
 Pleasures about me, so much more I feel 
 
 Torment within me, as from the hateful siege 
 
 Of contraries : all good to me becomes 
 
 Bane, and in heav'n much worse would be my state. 
 
 Paradise Lost, book 9. 1. 114. 
 
 Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visits, 
 Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. 
 Teach thy necessity to reason thus : 
 There is no virtue like necessity. 
 Think not the King did banish thee: 
 But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit, 
 Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. 
 Go say, I sent thee forth to purchase honor ; 
 And not, the King exil'd thee. Or suppose, 
 Devouring pestilence hangs in our air, 
 And thou art flying to a fresher clime. 
 iLook what thy soul holds dear, imagine it 
 To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st 
 Suppose the singing birds, musicians ; 
 The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence-floor ; 
 The now'rs, fair ladies ; and thy steps, no more 
 Than a delightful measure, or a dance. 
 For gnarling Sorrow hath less power to bite 
 The man that mocks at it, and sets it light. 
 
 Bolingbroke. Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand, 
 By thinking on the frosty Caucasus "? 
 Or cloy the hungry edge of Appetite, 
 By bare imagination of a feast 1 
 Or wallow naked in December snow, 
 By thinking on fantastic summer's heat 
 Oh, no ! the apprehension of the good 
 Gives but the greater feeling to the worse. 
 
 King Richard II. Act I. Sc. 6. 
 
 The appearance of danger gives sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain. 
 A timorous person upon the battlements of a high tower, is seized 
 with fear, which even the consciousness of security cannot dissipate.
 
 144 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. [CL 8. 
 
 But upon one of a firm head, this situation has a contrary effect: 
 the appearance of danger heightens, by opposition, the conscious- 
 ness of security, and consequently, the satisfaction that arises from 
 security: here the feeling resembles that above mentioned, occa- 
 sioned by a ship laboring in a storm. 
 
 The effect of magnifying or lessening objects by means of com- 
 parison, is so familiar, that no philosopher has thought of searching 
 for a cause.* The obscurity of the subject may possibly have con- 
 tributed to their silence ; but luckily, we discover the cause to be a 
 principle unfolded above, which is, the influence of passion over 
 our opinions.! We have had occasion to see many illustrious effects 
 of that singular power of passion ; and that the magnifying or the 
 diminishing of objects by means of comparison, proceeds from the 
 same cause, will evidently appear, by reflecting in what manner a 
 spectator is affected, when a very large animal is for the first time 
 placed beside a very small one of the same species. The first thing 
 that strikes the mind, is the difference between the two animals, 
 which is so great as to occasion surprise; and this, like other emo- 
 tions, magnifying its object, makes us conceive the difference to be 
 the greatest that can be : we see, or seem to see, the one animal 
 extremely little, and the other extremely large. The emotion of 
 surprise arising from any unusual resemblance, serves equally to 
 explain, why at first view we are apt to think such resemblance more 
 entire than it is in reality. And it must not escape observation, that 
 the circumstances of more and less, which are the proper subjects of 
 comparison, raise a perception so indistinct and vague as to facilitate 
 the effect described : we have no mental standard of great and little, 
 nor of the several degrees of any attribute ; and the mind thus un- 
 restrained, is naturally disposed to indulge its surprise to the utmost 
 extent. 
 
 In exploring the operations of the mind, some of which are ex- 
 tremely nice and slippery, it is necessary to proceed with the utmost 
 caution : and after all, seldom it happens that speculations of that 
 kind afford any satisfaction. Luckily, in the present case, our spec- 
 ulations are supported by facts and solid argument. First, a small 
 object of one species opposed to a great object of another, produces 
 not, in any degree, that deception which is so remarkable when both 
 objects are of the same species. The greatest disparity between 
 objects of different kinds, is so common as to be observed with per- 
 fect indifference ; but such disparity between objects of the same 
 Kind, being uncommon, never fails to produce surprise : and may we 
 not fairly conclude, that surprise, in the latter case, is what occasions 
 the deception, when we find no deception in the former ? In the next 
 place, if surprise be the sole cause of the deception, it follows neces- 
 sarily, that the deception will vanish as soon as the objects compared 
 
 * Practical writers upon the fine arts will attempt any thing, being blind both 
 to the difficulty and danger. De Piles, accounting why contrast is agreeable, 
 says, " That it is a sort of war, which puts the opposite parties in motion." 
 Thus, to account for an effect of which there is no doubt, any cause, however 
 foolish, is made welcome. 
 
 t Chap. 2. part 5.
 
 Ch. 8.] RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 145 
 
 become familiar. This holds so unerringly, as to leave no reason- 
 able doubt that surprise is the prime mover : our surprise is great 
 the first time a small lap-dog is seen with a large mastiff; but when 
 two such animals are constantly together, there is no surprise, and 
 it makes no difference whether they be viewed separately or in com- 
 pany : we set no bounds to the riches of a man who has recently 
 made his fortune, the surprising disproportion between his present 
 and his past situation being carried to an extreme ; but with regard 
 to a family that for many geaerations has enjoyed great wealth, the 
 same false reckoning is not made. It is equally remarkable, that a 
 trite simile has no effect ; a lover compared to a moth scorching 
 itself at the flame of a candle, originally a sprightly simile, has by 
 frequent use lost all force ; love cannot now be compared to fire, with- 
 out some degree of disgust : it has been justly objected against 
 Homer, that the lion is too often introduced into his similies ; all the 
 variety he is able to throw into them, not being sufficient to keep 
 alive the reader's surprise. 
 
 To explain the influence of comparison upon the mind, I have 
 chosen the simplest case, to wit, the first sight of two animals of the 
 same kind, differing in size only ; but to complete the theory, other 
 circumstances must be taken in. And the next supposition I make, 
 is where both animals, separately familiar to the spectator, are 
 brought together for the first time. In that case, the effect of mag- 
 nifying and diminishing, is found remarkably greater than in that 
 first mentioned j and the reason will appear upon analyzing the ope- 
 ration : the first feeling we have is of surprise at the uncommon 
 difference of two creatures of the same species : we are next sen- 
 sible, that the one appears less, the other larger, than they did for- 
 merly ; and that new circumstance, increasing our surprise, makes 
 us imagine a still greater opposition between the animals than if we 
 had formed no notion of them beforehand. 
 
 I shall confine myself to one other supposition : That the spec- 
 tator was acquainted beforehand with one of the animals only, the 
 lap-dog for example. This new circumstance will vary the effect ; 
 for instead of widening the natural difference, by enlarging in ap- 
 pearance the one animal, and diminishing the other in proportion, 
 the whole apparent alteration will rest upon the lap-dog : the sur- 
 prise to find it less than it appeared formerly, directs to it our whole 
 attention, and makes us conceive it to be a most diminutive creature : 
 the mastiff" in the mean time is quite overlooked. I am able to illus- 
 trate this effect by a familiar example. Take a piece of paper, or of 
 linen tolerably white, and compare it with a pure white of the same 
 kind : the judgment we formed of the first object is instantly varied ; 
 and the surprise occasioned by finding it less white than was 
 thought, produces a hasty conviction that it is much less white than 
 it is in reality : withdrawing now the pure white, and putting in its 
 place a deep black, the surprise occasioned by that new circumstance 
 carries us to the other extreme, and makes us conceive the object 
 first mentioned to be a pure white : and thus experience compels us 
 to acknowledge, that our emotions have an influence even upon our 
 13
 
 146 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. [Ch. 8 
 
 eyesight. This experiment leads to a general observation, that 
 whatever is found more strange or beautiful than was expected, is 
 judged to be more strange or beautiful than it is in reality. Hence 
 a common artifice, to depreciate beforehand what we wish to make a 
 figure in the opinion of others. 
 
 The comparisons employed by poets and orators, are of the kind 
 last mentioned ; for it is always a known object that is to be magni- 
 fied or lessened. The former is effected by likening it to some 
 grand object, or by contrasting it with one of an opposite character. 
 To effectuate the latter, the method must be reversed : the object 
 must be contrasted with something superior to it, or likened to some- 
 thing inferior. The whole effect is produced upon the principal 
 object, which by that means is elevated above its rank, or depressed 
 below it. 
 
 In accounting for the effect that any unusual resemblance or dis- 
 similitude has upon the mind, no cause has been mentioned but sur- 
 prise; and to prevent confusion, it was proper to discuss that cause 
 first. But surprise is not the only cause of the effect described : 
 another concurs which operates, perhaps, not less powerfully, namely, 
 a principle in human nature that lies still in obscurity, not having 
 been unfolded by any writer, though its effects are extensive ; and 
 as it is not distinguished by a proper name, the reader must be satis- 
 fied with the following description. Every man who studies him- 
 self or others, must be sensible of a tendency or propensity in the 
 mind, to complete every work that is begun, and to carry things to 
 their full perfection. There is little opportunity to display that pro- 
 pensity upon natural operations, which are seldom left imperfect ; 
 but in the operations of art, it has great scope : it impels us to per- 
 severe in our own work, and to wish for the completion of what 
 another is doing : we feel a sensible pleasure when the work is 
 brought to perfection ; and our pain is no less sensible when we are 
 disappointed. Hence our uneasiness, when an interesting story is 
 broken off in the middle, when a piece of music ends without a 
 close, or when a building or garden is left unfinished. The same 
 propensity operates in making collections, such as the whole Avorks 
 good and bad of any author. A certain person attempted to collect 
 prints of all the capital paintings, and succeeded except as to a few. 
 La Bruyere remarks, that an anxious search was made for these; 
 not for their value, but to complete the set.* 
 
 * The examples above given, are of things that can be carried to an end or 
 conclusion. But the same uneasiness is perceptible with respect to things that 
 admit not any conclusion ; witness a series that has no end, commonly called an 
 infinite series. The mind moving along such a series, begins soon to feel an 
 uneasiness, which becomes more and more sensible, in continuing its progress 
 without hope of an end. 
 
 An unbounded prospect doth not long continue agreeable : we soon feel a slight 
 uneasiness, which increases with the time we bestow upon the prospect. An 
 avenue without a terminating object, is one instance of an unbounded prospect ; 
 and we might hope to find the cause of its disagreeableness, if it resembled an 
 infinite series. The eye indeed promises no resemblance; for the sharpest eye 
 commands but a certain length of space, and there it is bounded, however ob- 
 scurely. But the mind perceives things as they exist ; and the line is carried on
 
 Ch. 8.] RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 147 
 
 The final cause of the propensity is an additional proof of its 
 existence: human works are of no significancy till they be com- 
 pleted ; and reason is not always a sufficient counterbalance to indo- 
 lence : some principle over and above is necessary, to excite our 
 industry, and to prevent our stopping short in the middle of the 
 course. 
 
 We need not lose time to describe the co-operation of the foregoing 
 propensity with surprise, in producing the effect that follows any 
 unusual resemblance or dissimilitude. Surprise first operates, and 
 carries our opinion of the resemblance or dissimilitude beyond truth. 
 The propensity we have been describing carries us still farther ; for 
 it forces upon the mind a conviction, that the resemblance or dissi- 
 militude is complete. We need no better illustration, than the 
 resemblance that is fancied in some pebbles to a tree or an insect ; 
 which resemblance, however faint in reality, is conceived to be won- 
 derfully perfect. The tendency to complete a resemblance acting 
 jointly with surprise, carries the mind sometimes so far, as even to 
 presume upon future events. In the Greek tragedy entitled Phi- 
 neides, those unhappy women, seeing the place where it was intended 
 they should be slain, cried out with anguish, " They now saw their 
 cruel destiny had condemned them to die in that place, being the 
 same where they had been exposed in their infancy."* 
 
 The propensity to advance every thing to its perfection, not only 
 co-operates with surprise to deceive the mind, but of itself is able to 
 produce that effect. Of this we see many instances where there is 
 no place for surprise ; and the first I shall give is' of resemblance. 
 Unumquodque eodem modo dissolvitur quo colligatum est,\ is a 
 maxim in the Roman law that has no foundation in truth ; for tying 
 and loosing, building and demolishing, are acts opposite to each 
 other, and are performed by opposite means : but when these acts 
 are connected by their relation to the same subject, their connection 
 
 in idea without end ; in which respect an unbounded prospect is similar to an infi- 
 nite series. In fact, the uneasiness of an unbounded prospect, differs very li tie 
 in its feeling from that of an infinite series ; and therefore we may r< asonaMy 
 presume, that both proceed from the same cause. 
 
 We next consider a prospect unbounded every way, as, for example, a great 
 plain or the ocean, viewed from an eminence. We feel here an uneasiness occa- 
 sioned by the want of an end or termination, precisely as in the other cases. A 
 prospect unbounded every way, is indeed so far singular, as at first to be more 
 pleasartt than a prospect that is unbounded in one direction only, and afterward 
 to be more painful. But these circumstances are easily explained, without 
 wounding the general theory : the pleasure we feel at first, is a vivid emotion of 
 grandeur, arising from the immense extent of the object: and to increase the pain 
 we feel afterward for the want of a termination, there concurs a pain of a different 
 kind, occasioned by stretching the eye to comprehend so wide a prospect; a pain 
 that gradually increases with the repeated efforts we make to grasp the whole. 
 
 It is the same principle, if I mistake not, which operates imperceptibly with 
 respect to quantity and number. Another's property indented into my field, 
 gives me uneasiness ; and I am eager to make the purchase, not for profit, but in 
 order to square my field. Xerxes and his army, in their passage to Greece, were 
 sumptuously entertained by Pythius the Lydian : Xerxes recompensed him with 
 7000 Darics, which he wanted to complete the sum of four millions. 
 
 * Aristotle, Poet. cap. 17. 
 
 t Every thing is dissolved in the same manner in which it is tied together,
 
 148 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. [Ch. 8. 
 
 leads us to imagine a sort of resemblance between them, which by 
 the foregoing propensity is conceived to be as complete as possible. 
 The next instance shall be of contrast. Addison observes, " That 
 the palest features look the most agreeable in white ; that a face 
 which is overflushed appears to advantage in the deepest scarlet ; 
 and that a dark complexion is not a little alleviated by a black hood."* 
 The foregoing propensity serves to account for these appearances ; 
 to make which evident, one of the cases shall suffice. A complexion, 
 however dark, never approaches to black: when these colors appear 
 together, their opposition strikes us ; and the propensity we have to 
 complete the opposition makes the darkness of complexion vanish 
 out of sight. 
 
 The operation of this propensity, even where there is no ground 
 for surprise, is not confined to opinion or conviction : so powerful it 
 is, as to make us sometimes proceed to action, in order to complete a 
 resemblance or dissimilitude. If this appear obscure, it will be 
 made clear by the following instances. Upon what principle is the 
 lex talionis founded, other than to make the punishment resemble 
 the mischief? Reason dictates, that there ought to be a conformity 
 or resemblance between a crime and its punishment ; and the fore- 
 going propensity impels us to make the resemblance as complete as 
 possible. Titus Livius, under the influence of that propensity, 
 accounts for a certain punishment by a resemblance between it and 
 the crime, too subtle for common apprehension. Treating of Met- 
 tus Fuffetius, the Alban general, who, for treachery to the Romans 
 his allies, was sentenced to be torn to pieces by horses, he puts the 
 following speech in the mouth of Tullus Hostilius, who decreed the 
 punishment. " Mette Fuffeti, inquit, si ipse discere posses fidem ac 
 fcedera servare, vivo tibi ea disciplina a me adhibita esset. Nunc, 
 quoniam, tuum insanabile ingenium est, at tu tuo supplicio doce hu- 
 manum genus, ea sancta credere, quse a te violata sunt. Ut igitur 
 paulo ante animum inter Fidenatem Romanamque rem ancipitem 
 gessisti, ita jam corpus passim distrahendum dabis."f By the same 
 influence, the sentence is often executed upon the very spot where 
 the crime was committed. In the Electro, of Sophocles, Egistheus 
 is dragged from the theatre into an inner room of the supposed 
 palace, to suffer death where he murdered Agamemnon. Shak- 
 speare, whose knowledge of nature is no less profound than exten- 
 sive, has not overlooked this propensity : 
 
 Othello. Get me some poison, lago, this night ; I'll not expostulate with her, 
 lest her body and her beauty unprovide my mind again : this night, lago. 
 
 lago. Do it not with poison ; strangle her in bed, even in the bed she hath con- 
 taminated. 
 
 Othello. Good, good: the justice of it pleases; very good. 
 
 Othello, Act IV. Sc. 5. 
 
 * Spectator, No. 265. 
 
 t Mettus Fulfetius, he says, if you could learn faith, and attention to treaties, 
 you should live, and receive similar treatment from me. Now, since your nature 
 is incurable, your own punishment shall teach mankind to believe in the sacred- 
 ness of those things which you have violated. As, therefore, you have held a 
 divided mind with regard to the Romans and the Fidenates, so shall your body 
 be now divided j.n all quarters. Lib. 1. sect. 28.
 
 Ch. 8.] RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 149 
 
 Warwick. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, 
 Your father's head, which Clifford placed there. 
 Instead whereof let his supply the room. 
 Measure for measure must be answered. 
 
 Third Part of Henry VI. Act II. Sc. 
 
 Persons in their last moments are generally seized with an anxiety to 
 be buried with their relations. In the Amynta of Tasso, the lover, 
 hearing that his mistress was torn to pieces by a wolf, expresses a 
 desire to die the same death.* 
 
 Upon the subject in general I have two remarks to add. The 
 first concerns resemblance, which, when too entire, has no effect, 
 however different in kind the things compared may be. The remark 
 is applicable to works of art only ; for natural objects of different 
 kinds have scarcely ever an entire resemblance. To give an example 
 in a work of art, marble, is a sort of matter very different from what 
 cpmposes an animal ; and marble cut into a human figure produces 
 great pleasure by the resemblance ; but, if a marble statue be colored 
 like a picture, the resemblance is so entire, as at a distance to make 
 the statue appear a person : we discover the mistake when we 
 approach ; and no other emotion is raised, than surprise occasioned 
 by the deception. The figure still appears a real person, rather than 
 an imitation ; and we must use reflection to correct the mistake. 
 This cannot happen in a picture ; for the resemblance can never be 
 so entire as to disguise the imitation. 
 
 The other remark relates to contrast. Emotions make the great- 
 est figure when contrasted in succession: but the succession ought 
 neither to be rapid, nor immoderately slow : if too slow, the effect of 
 contrast becomes faint by the distance of the emotions ; and if rapid, 
 no single emotion has room to expand itself to its full size, but is sti- 
 fled, as it were, in the birth, by a succeeding emotion. The funeral 
 oration of the Bishop of Meaux upon the Dutchess of Orleans is a 
 perfect hodge-podge of cheerful and melancholy representations fol- 
 lowing each other in the quickest succession. Opposite emotions 
 are best felt in succession; but each emotion separately should be 
 raised to its due pitch, before another be introduced. 
 
 What is above laid down, will enable us to determine a very impor- 
 tant question concerning emotions raised by the fine arts, namely, 
 whether ought similar emotions to succeed each other, or dissimilar? 
 The emotions raised by the fine arts are, for the most part, too nearly 
 related to make a figure by resemblance ; and for that reason their 
 succession ought to be regulated as much as possible by contrast. 
 This holds confessedly in epic and dramatic compositions ; and the 
 best writers, led, perhaps, by taste more than by reasoning, have gene- 
 rally aimed at that beauty. It holds equally in music : in the same 
 cantata, all the variety of emotions that are within the power of music 
 may not only be indulged, but, to make the greatest figure, ought to 
 be contrasted. In gardening, there is an additional reason for the 
 rule. The emotions raised by that art are at best so faint, that every 
 artifice should be employed to give them their utmost vigor : a field 
 
 * Act IV. Sc. 2. 
 13*
 
 150 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. [Ch. 8. 
 
 may be laid out in grand, sweet, gay, neat, wild, melancholy scenes ; 
 and when these are viewed in succession, grandeur ought to be con- 
 trasted with neatness, regularity with wildness, and gaiety with 
 melancholy, so that each emotion may succeed its opposite : nay, it is 
 an improvement to intermix in the succession rude uncultivated spots 
 as well as unbounded views, which in themselves are disagreeable, 
 but in succession heighten the feeling of the agreeable objects ; and 
 we have nature for our guide, which in her most beautiful landscapes 
 often intermixes rugged rocks, dirty marshes, and barren stony 
 heaths. The greatest masters of music have the same view in their 
 compositions : the second part of an Italian song seldom conveys any 
 sentiment ; and, by its harshness, seems purposely contrived to give 
 a greater relish for the interesting parts of the composition. 
 
 A small garden comprehended under a single view, affords little 
 opportunity for that embellishment. Dissimilar emotions require 
 different tones of mind ; and therefore in conjunction can never be 
 pleasant :* gayety and sweetness may be combined, or wildness and 
 gloominess ; but a composition of gayety and gloominess is distaste- 
 ful. The rude uncultivated copartment of furze and broom in Rich- 
 mond garden has a good effect in the succession of objects ; but a 
 spot of that nature would be insufferable in the midst of a polished 
 parterre or flower-plot. A garden, therefore, if not of great extent, 
 admits not dissimilar emotions ; and in ornamenting a small gar- 
 den, the safest course is to confine it to a single expression. For 
 the same reason, a landscape ought also to be confined to a single 
 expression ; and accordingly it is a rule in painting, that if the sub- 
 ject be gay, every figure ought to contribute to that emotion. 
 
 It follows from the foregoing train of reasoning, that a garden, 
 near a great city, ought to have an air of solitude. The solitariness 
 again of a waste country ought to be contrasted in forming a gar- 
 den ; no temples, no obscure walks; but jets d'eau, cascades, objects 
 active, gay, and splendid. Nay, such a garden should in some mea- 
 sure avoid imitating nature, by taking on an extraordinary appearance 
 of regularity and art, to show the busy hand of man, which in a 
 waste country has a fine effect by contrast. 
 
 It may be gathered from what is said above,! that wit and ridi- 
 cule make not an agreeable mixture with grandeur. Dissimilar 
 emotions have a fine effect in a slow succession ; but in a rapid suc- 
 cession, which approaches to coexistence, they will not be relished : 
 in the midst of a labored and elevated description of a battle, Virgil 
 introduces a ludicrous image, which is certainly out of its place: 
 
 Obvius ambustum torrem Chorineeus ab ara 
 Corripit, et venienti Ebusp plagamque ferenti 
 Occupat os flammis : illi ingens barba reluxit, 
 Nidoremque ambusta dedit. JEn. XII. 298. 
 
 Priest Corynseus armed his better hand, 
 From his own altar, with a blazing brand ; 
 And as Ebusus with a thundering pace 
 Advanced to battle, dashed it on his face : 
 His bristly beard shines out with sudden fires, 
 The crackling crop a noisome scent expires. 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 4. t Chap. 2. Part 4.
 
 Ch. 9.] UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 151 
 
 The following image is no less ludicrous, nor less improperly 
 placed : 
 
 Mentre fan quest! i bellici stromenti 
 
 Perche debbiano tosto in uso porse, 
 
 Jl gran nemico de 1'humane genti 
 
 Contra i Christian! i lividi occhi torse 
 
 E lor veggendo a ie bell' opre intenti, 
 
 Ambo le labra per furor si morse : 
 
 E qual tauro ferito, il suo dolore 
 
 Verso mugghiando e sospirando fuore. Gerusal. Cant. IV. st. 1. 
 
 While thus their work went on with luckie speed, 
 
 And reared rammes their horrid fronts advance, 
 
 The ancient foe to man, and mortal seed, 
 
 His wannish eies upon them bent askance ; 
 
 And when he saw their labours well succeed, 
 
 He wept for rage, and threat'ned dire mischance, 
 
 He chokt his curses, to himselfe he spake, 
 
 Such noise wild buls, that softly bellow, make. Fairfax. 
 
 H[t would, however, be too austere to banish altogether ludicrous 
 images from an epic poem. This poem does not always soar above 
 the clouds: it admits great variety; and upon occasion can descend 
 even to the ground without sinking. In its more familiar tones, a 
 ludicrous scene may be introduced without impropriety. This is 
 done by Virgil* in a foot-race ; the circumstances of which, not 
 excepting the ludicrous part, are copied from Homer. f After a fit 
 of merriment, we are, it is true, the less disposed to the serious and 
 sublime : but then, a ludicrous scene, by unbending the mind from 
 severe application to more interesting subjects, may prevent fatigue, 
 and preserve our relish entire. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 
 
 Succession of perceptions examined with respect to order and connection, and with 
 respect to uniformity and variety The succession by artificial methods can be 
 rendered uniform and various The train left to its natural course, not regular 
 The causes by which the rates of succession are varied The effect of a peculiar 
 constitution of mind, in accelerating or retarding it- The motion of the train 
 depends on the perceptions which compose it The effect of occupation The 
 effect of temper and constitution The effect of the will, over different objects 
 Our power over our train strengthened by discipline and business The mind 
 most at ease when the perceptions flow in their natural course Pain excited by 
 accelerating or retard ing the natural course of our perceptions Number without 
 variety, not agreeable Excess in variety, disagreeable To alter the variety 
 which nature requires, as painful as to alter the velocity Final cause why nature 
 has affixed pleasure to a moderate train A rapid train is painful, to prevent 
 injuring the mind by too great activity Another, to prevent rashness A quick 
 train made agreeable by habit Variety corresponding with our perceptions, 
 agreeable in works of art Color and sound often repeated, become unpleasant; 
 varied, they are agreeable In works of art, exposed to view, variety to be stu- 
 died In a landscape, among the same objects, contrast should prevail In 
 writing for amusement, variety should prevail. 
 
 IN attempting to explain uniformity and variety, in order to show 
 how we are affected by these circumstances, a doubt occurs, what 
 * 2En. lib. 5. t Iliad, book 23. 1. 879.
 
 152 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. [Ch. 9 
 
 method ought to be followed. In adhering closely to the subject, I 
 foresee difficulties ; and yet by indulging such a circuit as may be 
 necessary for a satisfactory vie\v, I probably shall incur the censure 
 of wandering. Yet the dread of censure ought not to prevail over 
 what is proper : beside that the intended circuit will lead to some 
 collateral matters, that are not only curious, but of considerable 
 importance in the science of human nature. 
 
 The necessary succession of perceptions may be examined in two 
 different views ; one with respect to order and connection, and one 
 with respect to uniformity and variety. In the first view it is han- 
 dled above:* and I now proceed to the second. The world we 
 inhabit is replete with things no less remarkable for their variety 
 than for their number : these, unfolded by the wonderful mechanism 
 of external sense, furnish the mind with many perceptions ; which, 
 joined with ideas of memory, of imagination, and of reflection, form 
 a complete train that has not a gap or interval. This train of per- 
 ceptions and ideas depends very little on will. The mind, as has 
 been observed,! is so constituted, "that it can by no effort break off 
 the succession of its ideas, nor keep its attention long fixed upon the 
 same object :" we can arrest a perception in its course ; we can 
 shorten its natural duration, to make room for another; we can vary 
 the succession, by change of place or of amusement : and we can, in 
 some measure, prevent variety, by frequently recalling the same 
 object after short intervals : but still there must be a succession, and 
 a change from one perception to another. By artificial means, the 
 succession may be retarded or accelerated, may be rendered more 
 various or more uniform, but in one shape or another is unavoidable. 
 
 The train, even when left to its ordinary course, is not always 
 uniform in its motion ; there are natural causes that accelerate or 
 retard it considerably. The first I shall mention, is a peculiar con- 
 stitution of mind. One man is distinguished from another, by no cir- 
 cumstance more remarkably, than his train of perceptions. To a 
 cold languid temper belongs a slow course of perceptions, which 
 occasions dulness of apprehension and sluggishness in action : to a 
 warm temper, on the contrary, belongs a quick course of percep- 
 tions, which occasions quickness of apprehension and activity in 
 business. The Asiatic nations, the Chinese especially, are observed 
 to be more cool and deliberate than the Europeans : may not the 
 reason be, that heat enervates by exhausting the spirits? and that a 
 certain degree of cold, as in the middle regions of Europe, bracing 
 the fibres, rouses the mind, and produces a brisk circulation of thought, 
 accompanied with vigor in action ? In youth is observable a quicker 
 succession of perceptions than in old age: and hence, in youth, a 
 remarkable avidity for variety of amusements, which in riper years 
 give place to more uniform and more sedate occupation. This qua- 
 lifies men of middle age for business, where activity is required, but 
 with a greater proportion of uniformity than variety. In old age, a 
 slow and languid succession makes variety unnecessary ; and for that 
 reason, the aged, in all their motions, are generally governed by an 
 * Chap. 1. t Locke, book 2. chap. 14.
 
 Ch. 9.] UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 153 
 
 habitual uniformity. Whatever be the cause, we may venture to pro- 
 nounce, that heat in the imagination and temper, is always connected 
 with a brisk flow of perceptions. 
 
 The natural rate of succession, depends also, in some degree, upon 
 the particular perceptions that compose the train. An agreeable object, 
 taking a strong hold of the mind, occasions a slower succession than 
 when the objects are indifferent : grandeur and novelty fix the atten- 
 tion for a considerable time, excluding all other ideas ; and the mind 
 thus occupied is sensible of no vacuity. Some emotions, by hurry- 
 ing the mind from object to object, accelerate the succession. Where 
 the train is composed of connected perceptions or ideas, the succes- 
 sion is quick ; for it is so ordered by nature, that the mind goes 
 easily and sweetly along connected objects.* On the other hand, the 
 succession must be slow, where the train is composed of unconnected 
 perceptions or ideas, which find not ready access to the mind ; and 
 that an unconnected object is not admitted without a struggle, appears 
 from the unsettled state of the mind for some moments after such an 
 object is presented, wavering between it and the former train : during 
 that short period, one or other of the former objects will intrude, 
 perhaps oftener than once, till the attention be fixed entirely upon 
 the new object. The same observations are applicable to ideas sug- 
 gested by language : the mind can bear a quick succession of related 
 ideas ; but an unrelated idea, for which the mind is not prepared, 
 takes time to make an impression ; and therefore a train composed 
 of such ideas, ought to proceed with a slow pace. Hence an 
 epic poem, a play, or any story connected in all its parts, may be 
 perused in a shorter time, than a book of maxims or apothegms, of 
 which a quick succession creates both confusion and fatigue. 
 
 Such latitude has nature indulged in the rate of succession : what 
 latitude it indulges with respect to uniformity, we proceed to exa- 
 mine. The uniformity or variety of a train, so far as composed of 
 perceptions, depends on the particular objects that surround the per- 
 cipient at the time. The present occupation must also have an 
 influence ; for one is sometimes engaged in a multiplicity of affairs, 
 sometimes altogether vacant. A natural train of ideas of memory 
 is more circumscribed, each object being, by some connection, linked 
 to what precedes and to what follows it : these connections, which 
 are many, and of different kinds, afford scope for a sufficient degree of 
 variety ; and at the same time prevent that degree which is unpleasant 
 by excess. Temper and constitution also have an influence here, as 
 well as upon the rate of succession : a man of a calm and sedate tem- 
 per, admits not willingly any idea but what is regularly introduced 
 by a proper connection : one of a roving disposition embraces with 
 avidity every new idea, however slender its relation be to those that 
 preceded it. Neither must we overlook the nature of the percep- 
 tions that compose the train; for their influence is no less with 
 respect to uniformity and variety, than with respect to the rate of 
 succession. The mind engrossed by any passion, love or hatred, 
 hope or fear, broods over its object, and can bear no interruption ; and 
 * See Chap. 1.
 
 154 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. [Ch. 9, 
 
 in such a state, the train of perceptions must not only be slow, but 
 extremely uniform. Anger newly inflamed eagerly grasps its object, 
 and leaves not a cranny in the mind for another thought but of 
 revenge. In the character of Hotspur, that state of mind is repre- 
 sented to the life ; a picture remarkable for likeness as well as for 
 high coloring. 
 
 Worcester. Peace, cousin, say no more : 
 And now I will unclasp a secret book, 
 And to your quick conceiving discontents 
 I'll read you matter, deep and dangerous ; 
 As full of peril and advent'rous spirit 
 As to o'erwalk a current roaring loud, 
 On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. 
 
 Hotspur. If he fall in, good night. Or sink or swim 
 Send danger from the east into the west. 
 So honor cross it from the north to south ; 
 And let them grapple. Oh ! the blood more stirs 
 To rouse'a lion than to start a hare. 
 
 Worcester. Those same noble Scots, 
 That are your prisoners 
 
 Hotspur. I'll keep them all ; 
 By Heav'n, he shall not have a Scot of them : 
 No ; if a Scot would save his soul, he shall rrot ; 
 I'll keep them, by this hand. 
 
 Worcester. You start away*, 
 And lend no ear unto my purposes : 
 Those pris'ners you shall keep. 
 
 Hotspur. I will, that's flat : 
 He said he would not ransom Mortimer ; 
 Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer: 
 But I will find him when he lies asleep, 
 And in his ear I'll holla Mortimer ! 
 Nay, I will have a starling taught to speak 
 Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him, 
 To keep his anger still in motion. 
 
 Worcester. Hear you, cousin, a word. 
 
 Hotspur. All studies here I solemnly defy, 
 Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke 
 And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales, 
 (But that I think his father loves him not, 
 And would be glad he met with some mischance), 
 I'd have him poison'd with a pot of ale. 
 
 Worcester. Farewell, my kinsman, I will talk to you 
 When you are better temper'd to attend. 
 
 First Part, Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 Having viewed a train of perceptions as directed by nature, and 
 the variations of which it is susceptible from different necessary 
 causes, we proceed to examine how far it is subjected to will ; for 
 that this faculty has some influence, is observed above. And first, 
 the rate of succession may be retarded by insisting upon one object, 
 and propelled by dismissing another before its time. But such volun- 
 tary mutations in the natural course of succession, have limits that 
 cannot be extended by the most painful efforts: which will appear 
 from considering, that the mind, circumscribed in its capacity, can- 
 not, at the same instant, admit many perceptions : and when replete, 
 that it has not place for new perceptions, till others are removed ; 
 consequently, that a voluntary change of perceptions cannot be instan-
 
 Ch. 9.] UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 155 
 
 taneous, as the time it requires sets bounds to the velocity of succes- 
 sion. On the other hand, the power we have to arrest a flying per- 
 ception, is equally limited ; and the reason is, that the longer we 
 detain any perception, the more difficulty we find in the operation ; 
 till, the difficulty becoming unsurmountable, we are forced to quit 
 our hold, and to permit the train to take its usual course. 
 
 The power we have over this train as to uniformity and variety, 
 is in some cases very great, in others very little. A train composed 
 of perceptions of external objects, depends entirely on the place we 
 occupy, and admits not more nor less variety but by change of place. 
 A train composed of ideas of memory, is still less under our power; 
 because we cannot, at will, call up any idea that is not connected with 
 the train.* But a train of ideas suggested by reading, may be varied 
 at will, provided we have books at hand. 
 
 The power that nature has given us over our train of perceptions, 
 may be greatly strengthened by proper discipline, and by an early 
 application to business ; witness some mathematicians, who go far 
 beyond common nature in slowness and uniformity ; and still more 
 persons devoted to religious exercises, who pass whole days in con- 
 templation, and impose upon themselves long and severe penances. 
 With respect to celerity and variety, it is not easily conceived what 
 length a habit of activity in affairs will carry some men. Let a 
 stranger, or let any person to whom the sight is not familiar, attend 
 the Chancellor of Great Britain through the labors but of one day, 
 during a session of Parliament: how great will be his astonish- 
 ment ! what multiplicity of law-business, what deep thinking, and 
 what elaborate application to matters of government ! The train of 
 perceptions must in that great man be accelerated far beyond the 
 ordinary course of nature : yet no confusion or hurry ; but in every 
 article the greatest order and accuracy. Such is the force of habit. 
 How happy is man, to have the command of a principle of action 
 that can elevate him so far above the ordinary condition of huma- 
 nity !f 
 
 We are now prepared for considering a train of perceptions, with 
 respect to pleasure and pain : and to that speculation peculiar atten- 
 tion must be given, because it serves to explain the effects that uni- 
 formity and variety have upon the mind. A man, when his percep- 
 tions flow in their natural course, feels himself free, light, and easy, 
 especially after any forcible acceleration or retardation. On the other 
 hand, accelerating or retarding the natural course, excites a pain, 
 which, though scarcely felt in small removes, becomes considerable 
 toward the extremes. Aversion to fix on a single object for a long 
 time, or to take in a multiplicity of objects in a short time, is remark- 
 able in children ; and equally so in men unaccustomed to business : a 
 man languishes when the succession is very slow ; and, if he grows 
 not impatient, is apt to fall asleep : during a rapid succession, he has 
 a feeling as if his head were turning round ; he is fatigued, and his 
 pain resembles that of weariness after bodily labor. 
 
 But a moderate course will not satisfy the mind, unless the per- 
 * See Chap. 1. t This chapter was composed in the year 1753.
 
 156 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY {Ch. 9. 
 
 ceptions be also diversified : number without variety is not sufficient 
 to constitute an agreeable train. In comparing a few objects, uni- 
 formity is pleasant ; but the frequent reiteration of uniform objects 
 becomes unpleasant : one tires of a scene that is not diversified ; and 
 soon feels a sort of unnatural restraint when confined within a nar- 
 row range, whether occasioned by a retarded succession, or by too 
 great uniformity. An excess in variety is, on the other hand, fa- 
 tiguing : which is felt even in a train of related perceptions ; much 
 more of unrelated perceptions, which gain not admittance without 
 effort : the effort, it is true, is scarcely perceptible in a single in- 
 stance; but by frequent reiteration it becomes exceedingly painful. 
 Whatever be the cause, the fact is certain, that a man never finds 
 himself more at ease, than when his perceptions succeed each other 
 with a certain degree, not only of velocity, but also of variety. The 
 pleasure that arises from a train of connected ideas, is remarkable 
 in a reverie ; especially where the imagination interposes, and is ac- 
 tive in coining new ideas, which is done with wonderful facility : 
 one must be sensible, that the serenity and ease of the mind in that 
 state, makes a great part of the enjoyment. The case is different 
 where external objects enter into the train ; for these, making their 
 appearance without order, and without connection save that of con- 
 tiguity, form a train of perceptions that may be extremely uniform 
 or extremely diversified ; which, for opposite reasons, are both of 
 them painful. 
 
 To alter, by an act of will, that degree of variety which nature re- 
 quires, is not less painful, than to alter that degree of velocity which 
 it requires. Contemplation, when the mind is long attached to one 
 subject, becomes painful by restraining the free range of perception : 
 curiosity, and the prospect of useful discoveries, may fortify one to 
 bear that pain : but it is deeply felt by the bulk of mankind, and pro- 
 duces in them aversion to all abstract sciences. In any profession 
 or calling, a train of operation that is simple and reiterated without 
 intromission, makes the operator languish, and lose vigor : he com- 
 plains neither of too great labor, nor of too little action ; but regrets 
 the want of variety, and the being obliged to do the same thing over 
 and over : where the operation is sufficiently varied, the mind retains 
 its vigor, and is pleased with its condition. Actions again create 
 uneasiness when excessive in number or variety, though in every 
 other respect pleasant : thus a throng of business in law, in physic, 
 or in traffic, distresses and distracts the mind, unless where a habit 
 of application is acquired by long and constant exercise : the exces- 
 sive variety is the distressing circumstance ; and the mind suffers 
 grievously by being kept constantly upon the stretch. 
 
 With relation to involuntary causes disturbing that degree of va- 
 riety which nature requires, a slight pain affecting one part of the 
 body without variation, becomes, by its constancy and long duration, 
 almost insupportable ; the patient, sensible that the pain is not in- 
 creased in degree, complains of its constancy more than of its seve- 
 rity, of its engrossing his whole thoughts, and admitting no other 
 object. A shifting pain is more tolerable, because change of place
 
 Ch. 9.] UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 157 
 
 contributes to variety : and an intermitting pain, suffering other ob- 
 jects to intervene, still more so. Again, any single color or sound 
 often returning becomes unpleasant ; as may be observed in viewing a 
 train of similar apartments in a great house painted with the same 
 color, and in hearing the prolonged tellings of a bell. Color and sound 
 varied within certain limits, though without any order, are pleasant ; 
 witness the various colors of plants and flowers in a field, and the vari- 
 ous notes of birds in a thicket : increase the number of variety, and the 
 feeling becomes unpleasant ; thus a great variety of colors, crowded 
 upon a small canvas or in quick succession, create an uneasy feel- 
 ing, which is prevented by putting the colors at a greater distance 
 from each other, either of place or of time. A number of voices in 
 a crowded assembly, a number of animals collected in a market, pro- 
 duce an unpleasant feeling ; though a few of them together, or all 
 of them in a moderate succession, would be pleasant. And because 
 of the same excess in variety, a number of pains felt in different parts 
 of the body, at the same instant or in a rapid succession, are an ex- 
 quisite torture. 
 
 The pleasure or pain resulting from a train of perceptions in dif- 
 ferent circumstances, are a beautiful contrivance of nature for valu- 
 able purposes. But being sensible, that the mind, inflamed with 
 speculations so highly interesting, is beyond measure disposed to con- 
 viction ; I shall be watchful to admit no argument nor remark, but 
 what appears solidly founded ; and with that caution I proceed to un- 
 fold these purposes. It is occasionally observed above, that persons of 
 a phlegmatic temperament, having a sluggish train of perceptions are 
 indisposed to action ; and that activity constantly accompanies a brisk 
 flow of perceptions. To ascertain that fact, a man need not go abroad 
 for experiments: reflecting on things passing in his own mind, he 
 will find, that a brisk circulation of thought constantly prompts him 
 to action ; and that he is averse to action when his perceptions lan- 
 guish in their course. But as man by nature is formed for action, and 
 must be active inorder to be happy,nature has kindly provided against 
 indolence, by annexing pleasure to a moderate course of perceptions, 
 and by making any remarkable retardation painful. A slow course 
 of perceptions is attended with another bad effect : man, in a few 
 capital cases, is governed by propensity or instinct ; but in matters 
 that admit deliberation and choice, reason is assigned him for a guide : 
 now, as reasoning requires often a great compass of ideas, their suc- 
 cession ought to be so quick as readily to furnish every motive that 
 may be necessary for mature deliberation ; in a languid succession, 
 motives will often occur after action is commenced, when it is too 
 late to retreat. 
 
 Nature has guarded man, her favorite, against a succession too 
 rapid, no less carefully than against one too slow: both are equally 
 painful, though the pain is not the same in both. Many are the good 
 effects of that contrivance. In the first place, as the exertion of bodily 
 faculties is by certain painful sensations confined within proper 
 limits, Nature is equally provident with respect to the nobler facul- 
 ties of the mind the pain of an accelerated course of perceptions, 
 14
 
 158 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. [Ch. 9. 
 
 is Nature's admonition to relax our pace, and to admit a more gentle 
 exertion of thought. Another valuable purpose is discovered upon 
 reflecting in what manner objects are imprinted on the mind : to give 
 the memory firm hold of an external object, time is required, even 
 where attention is the greatest ; and a moderate degree of attention, 
 which is the common case, must be continued still longer to produce 
 the same effect. A rapid succession, accordingly, must prevent ob- 
 jects from making an impression so deep as to be of real service in 
 life ; and Nature, for the sake of memory, has, by a painful feeling, 
 guarded against a rapid succession. But a still more valuable pur- 
 pose is answered by the contrivance ; as, on the one hand, a sluggish 
 course of perceptions indisposes to action ; so, on the other, a course 
 too rapid impels to rash and precipitant action : prudent conduct is 
 the child of deliberation and clear conception, for which there is no 
 place in a rapid course of thought. Nature therefore, taking mea- 
 sures for prudent conduct, has guarded us effectually from precipi- 
 tancy of thought, by making it painful. 
 
 Nature not only provides against a succession too slow or too 
 quick, but makes the middle course extremely pleasant. Nor is that 
 course confined within narrow bounds : every man can naturally, 
 without pain, accelerate or retard, in some degree, the rate of his per- 
 ceptions. And he can do it in a still greater degree by the force of 
 habit : a habit of contemplation annihilates the pain of a retarded 
 course of perceptions ; and a busy life, after long practice, makes ac- 
 celeration pleasant. 
 
 Concerning the final cause of our taste for variety, it will be consi- 
 dered, that human affairs, complex by variety as well as number, 
 require the distributing of our attention and activity in measure and 
 proportion. Nature therefore, to secure a just distribution corres- 
 ponding to the variety of human affairs, has made too great uni- 
 formity or too great variety in the course of perceptions, equally 
 unpleasant : and indeed, were we addicted to either extreme, our 
 internal constitution would be ill suited to our external circumstances. 
 At the same time, where great uniformity of operation is required, 
 as in several manufactures, or great variety, as in law or physic, 
 Nature, attentive to all our wants, has also provided for these cases, 
 by implanting in the breast of every person, an efficacious principle 
 that leads to habit : an obstinate perseverance in the same occupation, 
 relieves from the pain of excessive uniformity ; and the like perse- 
 verance in a quick circulation of different occupations, relieves from 
 the pain of excessive variety. And thus we come to take delight in 
 several occupations, that by nature, without habit, are not a little 
 disgustful. 
 
 A middle rate also in the train of perceptions between uniformity 
 and variety, is no less pleasant than between quickness and slowness. 
 The mind of man, so framed, is wonderfully adapted to the course 
 of human affairs, which are continually changing, but not without 
 connection: it is equally adapted to the acquisition of knowledge, 
 which results chiefly from discovering resemblances among differing 
 objects, and differences among resembling objects : such occupation,
 
 Ch. 9.] UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 159 
 
 even abstracting from the knowledge we acquire, is in itself delight- 
 ful, by preserving a middle rate between too great uniformity and 
 too great variety. 
 
 We are now arrived at the chief purpose of the present chapter ; 
 which is to consider uniformity and variety with relation to the fine 
 arts, in order to discover, if we can, when it is that the one ought to 
 prevail, and when the other. And the knowledge we have obtained, 
 will even at first view suggest a general observation, that in every 
 work of art, it must be agreeable, to find that degree of variety which 
 corresponds to the natural course of our perceptions ; and that an 
 excess in variety or in uniformity must be disagreeable, by varying 
 that natural course. For that reason, works of art admit more or 
 less variety according to the nature of the subject : in a picture of 
 an interesting event that strongly attaches the spectator to a single 
 object, the mind relishes not a multiplicity of figures nor of orna- 
 ments : a picture representing a gay subject, admits great variety of 
 figures and ornaments ; because these are agreeable to the mind in 
 a cheerful tone. The same observation is applicable to poetry and 
 to music. 
 
 It must at the same time be remarked, that one can bear a greater 
 variety of natural objects, than of objects in a picture ; and a greater 
 variety in a picture, than in a description. A real object presented 
 to view, makes an impression more readily than when represented 
 in colors, and much more readily than when represented in words. 
 Hence it is, that the profuse variety of objects in some natural land- 
 scapes, neither breeds confusion nor fatigue: and for the same rea- 
 son, there is place for greater variety of ornament in a picture than 
 in a poem. A picture, however, like a building, ought to be so 
 simple as to be comprehended in one view. Whether every one of 
 Le Brun's pictures of Alexander's history will stand this test, is 
 submitted to judges. 
 
 From these general observations, I proceed to particulars. In 
 works exposed continually to public view, variety ought to be studied. 
 It is a rule, accordingly, in sculpture, to contrast the different limbs 
 of a statue, in order to give it all the variety possible. Though the 
 cone, in a single view, be more beautiful than the pyramid ; yet a 
 pyramidal steeple, because of its variety, is justly preferred. For 
 the same reason, the oval is preferred before the circle ; and painters, 
 in copying buildings or any regular work, give an air of variety, by 
 representing the subject in an angular view: we are pleased with 
 the variety, without losing sight of the regularity. In a landscape 
 representing animals, those especially of the same kind, contrast 
 ought to prevail : to draw one sleeping, another awake ; one sitting, 
 another in motion ; one moving toward the spectator, another from 
 him, is the life of such a performance. 
 
 In every sort of writing intended for amusement, variety is neces- 
 sary in proportion to the length of the work. Want of variety is 
 sensibly felt in Davila's history of the civil wars of France: the 
 events are indeed important and various ; but the reader languishes 
 by a tiresome monotony of character, every person engaged being
 
 160 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. [Ch. 9. 
 
 figured a consummate politician, governed by interest only. It is 
 hard to say, whether Ovid disgusts more by too great variety, er too 
 great uniformity. His stories are all of the same kind, concluding 
 invariably with the transformation of one being into another ; and 
 so far he is tiresome by excess in uniformity: he is not less fatiguing 
 by excess in variety, hurrying his reader incessantly from story to 
 story. Ariosto is still more fatiguing than Ovid, by exceeding the 
 just bounds of variety. Not satisfied, like Ovid, with a succession 
 in his stories, he distracts the reader, by jumbling together a multi- 
 tude of them without any connection. Nor is the Orlando Furioso 
 less tiresome by its uniformity than the Metamorphoses, though in 
 a different manner. After a story is brought to a crisis, the reader, 
 intent on the catastrophe, is suddenly snatched away to a new story, 
 which makes no impression so long as the mind is occupied with 
 the former. This tantalizing method, from which the author never 
 once swerves during the course of a long work, besides its uniformity, 
 has another bad effect : it prevents that sympathy, which is raised 
 by an interesting event when the reader meets with no interruption. 
 The emotions produced by our perceptions in a train, have been 
 little considered, and less understood ; the subject therefore required 
 an elaborate discussion. It may surprise some readers to find variety 
 treated as only contributing to make a train of perceptions pleasant, 
 when it is commonly held to be a necessary ingredient in beauty of 
 whatever kind ; according to the definition, " That beauty consists 
 in uniformity amid variety." But, after the subject is explained and 
 illustrated as above, I presume it will be evident, that this definition, 
 however applicable to one or other species, is far from being just 
 with respect to beauty in general : variety contributes no share to 
 the beauty of a moral action, nor of a mathematical theorem : and 
 numberless are the beautiful objects of sight that have little or no 
 variety in them : a globe, the most uniform of all figures, is of all 
 the most beautiful; and a square, though more beautiful than a 
 trapezium, has less variety in its constituent parts. The foregoing 
 definition, which at best is but obscurely expressed, is only applicable 
 to a number of objects in a group or in succession, among which, 
 indeed, a due mixture of uniformity and variety is always agreeable; 
 provided the particular objects, separately considered, be in any 
 degree beautiful, for uniformity amid variety among ugly objects, 
 affords no pleasure. This circumstance is totally omitted in the 
 definition ; and indeed to have mentioned it, would, at the very first 
 glance, have shown the definition to be imperfect : for to define 
 beauty as arising from beautiful objects blended together in a due 
 proportion of uniformity and variety, would be too gross to pass cur- 
 rent : as nothing can be more gross, than to employ in a definition 
 the very term that is to be explained.
 
 CL 9.] UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 161 
 
 APPENDIX TO CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CONCERNING THE WORKS OF NATURE, CHIEFLY WITH RESPECT TC 
 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 
 
 Beauty and design in the works of nature, equally conspicuous, both in the inter- 
 nal and external structure External structure respects regularity in animals 
 Beauty of inanimate nature Mechanical operations of man confined to the 
 surfaces of bodies The operations of nature diffused through the most intimate 
 and minute parts of all substances The mechanical power of nature not con- 
 fined to the smaller bodies, but extends to the largest ones The wonderful 
 power of nature in connecting and propagating systems The connection 
 betwixt the internal frame and external nature, of all, the most wonderful 
 Uniformity and variety interwoven in the works of nature with surprising art ; 
 especially in man Still there is here, a great diversity Natural objects hence 
 form themselves into groups, and are always agreeable. 
 
 "!N things of Nature's workmanship, whether we regard their 
 internal or external structure, beauty and design are equally con- 
 spicuous. We shall begin with the outside of nature, as what first 
 presents itself. 
 
 The figure of an organic body is generally regular. The trunk 
 of a tree, its branches, and their ramifications, are nearly round, and 
 form a series regularly decreasing from the trunk to the smallest 
 fibre : uniformity is no where more remarkable than in the leaves, 
 which, in the same species, have all the same color, size, and shape : 
 the seeds and fruits are all regular figures, approaching for the most 
 part to the globular form. Hence a plant, especially of the larger 
 kind, with its trunk, branches, foliage, and fruit, is a charming object. 
 
 In an animal, the trunk, which is much larger than the other 
 parts, occupies* chief place : its shape, like that of the stem of plants, 
 is nearly round ; a figure which of all is the most agreeable : its two 
 sides are precisely similar : several of the under parts go off in pairs ; 
 and the two individuals of each pair are accurately uniform : the 
 single parts are placed in the middle : the limbs bearing a certain 
 proportion to the trunk, serve to support it, and to give it a proper 
 elevation : upon one extremity are disposed the neck and head, in 
 the direction of the trunk : the head being the chief part, possesses 
 with great propriety the chief place. Hence, the beauty of the 
 whole figure, is the result of many equal and proportional parts 
 orderly disposed; and the smallest variation in number, equality, 
 proportion, or order, never fails to produce a perception of deformity. 
 
 Nature in no particular seems more profuse of ornament, than in 
 the beautiful coloring of her works. The flowers of plants, the furs 
 of beasts, and the feathers of birds, vie with each other in the beauty 
 of their colors, which in lustre as well as in harmony are beyond 
 the power of imitation. Of all natural appearances, the coloring of 
 the human face is the most exquisite : it is the strongest instance of 
 the ineffable art of nature, in adapting and proportioning its colors 
 to the magnitude, figure, and position, of the parts. In a word, 
 color seems to live in nature only, and to languish under the finest 
 touches of art. 
 14*
 
 162 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. [Ch. 9. 
 
 When we examine the internal structure of a plant or animal, a 
 wonderful subtlety of mechanism is displayed. Man, in his mecha- 
 nical operations, is confined to the surface of bodies ; but the opera- 
 tions of nature are exerted through the whole substance, so as to 
 reach even the elementary parts. Thus the body of an animal, and 
 of a plant, are composed of certain great vessels ; these of smaller ; 
 and these again of still smaller, without end, as far as we can dis- 
 cover. This power of diffusing mechanism through the most inti- 
 mate parts, is peculiar to nature, and distinguishes her operations, 
 most remarkably, from every work of art. Such texture, continued 
 from the grosser parts to the most minute, preserves all along the 
 strictest regularity. The fibres of plants are a bundle of cylindric 
 canals, lying in the same direction, and parallel or nearly parallel 
 to each other : in some instances, a most accurate arrangement of 
 parts is discovered, as in onions, formed of concentric coats, one 
 within another, to the very centre. An animal body is still more 
 admirable, in the disposition of its internal parts, and in their order 
 and symmetry ; there is not a bone, a muscle, a blood-vessel, a nerve, 
 that has not one corresponding to it on the opposite side ; and the 
 same order is carried through the most minute parts : the lungs are 
 composed of two parts, which are disposed upon the sides of the 
 thorax ; and the kidneys, in a lower situation, have a position no 
 less orderly: as to the parts that are single, the heart is advan- 
 tageously situated near the middle ; the liver, stomach, and spleen, 
 are disposed in the upper region of the abdomen, about the same 
 height ; the bladder is placed in the middle of the body, as well as 
 the intestinal canal, which fills the whole cavity with its convolutions. 
 
 The mechanical power of nature, not confined to small bodies, 
 reaches equally those of the greatest size ; witness the bodies that 
 compose the solar system, which, however large, are weighed, 
 measured, and subjected to certain laws, with the utmost accuracy. 
 Their places round the sun, with their distances, are determined by 
 a precise rule, corresponding to their quantity of matter. The 
 superior dignity of the central body, in respect of its bulk and lucid 
 appearance, is suited to the place it occupies. The globular figure 
 of these bodies, is not only in itself beautiful, but is above all others 
 fitted for regular motion. Each planet revolves about its own axis 
 in a given time; and each moves round the sun, in an orbit nearly 
 circular, and in a time proportioned to its distance. Their velocities, 
 directed by an established law, are perpetually changing by regular 
 accelerations and retardations. In fine, the great variety of regular 
 appearances, joined with the beauty of the system itself, cannot fail 
 to produce the highest delight in every one who is sensible of design, 
 power, or beauty. 
 
 Nature has a wonderful power of connecting systems with each 
 other, and of propagating that connection through all her works. 
 Thus the constituent parts of a plant, the roots, the stem, the 
 branches, the leaves, the fruit, are really different systems, united 
 by a mutual dependence on each other : in an animal, the lymphatic 
 and lacteal ducts, the blood-vessels and nerves, the muscles and
 
 Ch. 9.] UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 163 
 
 glands, the bones and cartilages, the membranes and bowels with 
 the other organs, form distinct systems, which are united into one 
 whole. There are, at the same time, other connections less intimate : 
 every plant is joined to the earth by its roots ; it requires rain and 
 dews to furnish it with juices ; and it requires heat to preserve these 
 juices in fluidity and motion : every animal, by its gravity, is con- 
 nected with the earth, with the element in which it breathes, and 
 with the sun, by deriving from it cherishing and enlivening heat : 
 the earth furnishes aliment to plants, these to animals, and these 
 again to other animals, in a long train of dependence. That the 
 earth is part of a greater system, comprehending many bodies 
 mutually attracting each other, and gravitating all toward one com- 
 mon centre, is now thoroughly explored. Such a regular and uni- 
 form series of connections, propagated through so great a number of 
 beings, and through such wide spaces, is wonderful : and our wonder 
 must increase, when we observe these connections propagated from 
 the minutest atoms to bodies of the most enormous size, and so 
 widely diffused as that we can neither perceive their beginning nor 
 their end. That these connections are not confined within our own 
 planetary system, is certain : they are diffused over spaces still more 
 remote, where new bodies and systems rise without end. All space 
 is filled with the works of God, which are conducted by one plan, 
 to answer unerringly one great end. 
 
 But the most wonderful connection of all, though not the most 
 conspicuous, is that of our internal frame with the works of nature : 
 man is obviously fitted for contemplating these works, because in 
 this contemplation he has great delight. The works of nature are 
 remarkable in their uniformity no less than in their variety ; and 
 the mind of man is fitted to receive pleasure equally from both. 
 Uniformity and variety are interwoven in the works of nature with 
 surprising art : variety, however great, is never without some degree 
 of uniformity ; nor {he greatest uniformity without some degree of 
 variety : there is great variety in the same plant, by the different 
 appearances of its stem, branches, leaves, blossoms, fruit, size, and 
 color ; and yet, when we trace that variety through different plants, 
 especially of the same kind, there is discovered a surprising uni- 
 formity : again, where nature seems to have intended the most exact 
 uniformity, as among individuals of the same kind, there still appears 
 a diversity, which serves readily to distinguish one individual from 
 another. It is indeed admirable, that the human visage, in which 
 uniformity is so prevalent, should yet be so marked, as to leave no 
 room, among millions, for mistaking one person for another : these 
 marks, though clearly perceived, are generally so delicate, that 
 words cannot be found to describe them. A correspondence so 
 perfect between the human mind and the works of nature, is ex- 
 tremely remarkable. The opposition between variety and uniformity 
 is so great, that one would not readily imagine they could both be 
 relished by the same palate; at least not in the same object, nor at 
 the same time : it is however true, that the pleasures they afford, 
 being happily adjusted to each other, and readily mixing in intimate
 
 164 CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. [Ch. 10. 
 
 union, are frequently produced by the same individual object. Nay, 
 farther, in the objects that touch us the most, uniformity and variety 
 are constantly combined : witness natural objects, where this com- 
 bination is always found in perfection. Hence it is, that natural 
 objects readily form themselves into groups, and are agreeable in 
 whatever manner combined: a wood with its trees, shrubs, and 
 herbs, is agreeable : the music of birds, the lowing of cattle, and 
 the murmuring of a brook, are in conjunction delightful ; though 
 they strike the ear without modulation or harmony. In short, 
 nothing can be more happily accommodated to the inward constitu- 
 tion of man, than that mixture of uniformity with variety, which the 
 eye discovers in natural objects ; and, accordingly, the mind is never 
 more highly gratified than in contemplating a natural landscape. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY : 
 
 Congruity and propriety not applicable to one object Man has a sense of con- 
 gruity and propriety They are agreeable, because man is so formed Con- 
 gruity and propriety required, in proportion to the relation between things 
 No coincidence between congruity and beauty Distinction between cong-ruity 
 and propriety A great degree of congruity between a part and the whole 
 Principal and accessory, mean appearance Congruity relates to kind, as well 
 as to quantity of ornament A slight impropriety, makes a stronger impression 
 than a slight incongruity The improprieties which excite laughter and con- 
 tempt, ridiculous A mixed emotion consists of one too risible for anger, and 
 too serious for derision The effect of contempt for another upon ourselves 
 Congruity, as its final cause, contributes to our happiness Impropriety fur- 
 nishes entertainment It makes us cautious It prompts to moral conduct 
 Propriety regulates our actions It induces justice to ourselves and others- 
 It enforces the performance of social duties. 
 
 MAN is superior to the brute, not more by his rational faculties, 
 than by his senses. With respect to external senses, brutes pro- 
 bably yield not to men ; and they may also have some obscure per- 
 ception of beauty : but the more delicate senses of regularity, order, 
 uniformity, and congruity, being connected with morality and reli- 
 gion, are reserved to dignify the chief of the terrestrial creation. 
 Upon that account, no discipline is more suitable to man, nor more 
 congruous to the dignity of his nature, than that which refines his 
 taste, and leads him to distinguish, in every subject, what is regular, 
 what is orderly, what is euitable, and what is fit and proper.* 
 
 * Nee vero ilia parva vis naturae est ralionisque, quod unum hoc animal sentit 
 quid sit ordo, quid sit quod deceat in factis dictisque, qui modus. Itaque eorum 
 ipsorum, quse aspectu sentiuntur. nullum aliud animal, pulchritudinem, venustatem, 
 convenientiam partium sentit. Gluam similitudinem natura ratioque ab oculis ad 
 animum transferens, multo etiam magis pulchritudinem, constantiam, ordinem, in 
 consiliis factisque conservandum putat, cavetque ne quid indecore effeminateve 
 facial ; turn in omnibus et opinionibus et factis ne quid libidinose aut facial aut 
 cogitet. Gluibus ex rebus conflatur el efficitur id, quod quaerimus, honestum. 
 Cicero de Officiis, 1. 1. 
 
 Nor is it a trifling power of nature and of reason that this animal alone under- 
 stands orderj decency in words and deeds, and propriety of manner. No other
 
 Ch. 10.] CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY 165 
 
 It is clear from the very conception of the terms congruity and 
 propriety, that they are not applicable to any single object : they 
 imply a plurality, and obviously signify a particular relation between 
 different objects. Thus we say currently, that a decent garb is suit- 
 able or proper for a judge, modest behavior for a young woman, 
 and a lofty style for an epic poem : and, on the other hand, that it is 
 unsuitable or incongruous to see a little woman sunk in an over- 
 grown farthingale, a coat richly embroidered covering coarse and 
 dirty linen, a mean subject in an elevated style, an elevated subject 
 in a mean style, a first minister darning his wife's stocking, or a 
 reverend prelate in lawn sleeves dancing a hornpipe. 
 
 The perception we have of this relation, which seems peculiar to 
 man, cannot proceed from any other cause, than from a sense of 
 congruity or propriety; for, supposing us destitute of that sense, 
 the t.erms would be to us unintelligible.* 
 
 It is matter of experience, that congruity or propriety, wherever 
 perceived, is agreeable ; and that incongruity or impropriety, where- 
 ever perceived, is disagreeable. The only difficulty is, to ascertain 
 what are the particular objects that in conjunction suggest these 
 relations ; for there are many objects that do not : the sea, for exam- 
 ple, viewed in conjunction with a picture, or a man viewed in con- 
 junction with a mountain, suggest not either congruity or incon- 
 gruity. It seems natural to infer, what will be found true by induc- 
 tion, that we never perceive congruity nor incongruity but among 
 things that are connected by some relation ; such as a man and his 
 actions, a principal and its accessories, a subject and its ornaments. 
 -We are, indeed, so framed by nature, as, among things so connected, 
 to require a certain suitableness or correspondence, termed congruity 
 or propriety; and to be displeased when we find the opposite relation 
 of incongruity or impropriety.^ 
 
 animal has an eye to perceive the beauty, agreeableness, and convenience of parts. 
 Nature and reason, in transferring this similitude from the eyes to the mind, thinks 
 that beauty, constancy, and order, are much more to be preserved in counsels and 
 actions, and takes care that nothing be done indecorously or effeminately, and that, 
 in opinions and actions, nothing libidinous should be thought or done. That, 
 which we seek, honesty, is made up of this. 
 
 * From many things that pass current in the world without being generally 
 condemned, one at first view would imagine, that the sense of congruity or pro- 
 priety has scarce any foundation in nature; and that it is rather an artificial 
 refinement of those who affect to distinguish themselves from others. The fulsome 
 panegyrics bestowed upon the great and opulent, in epistles dedicatory and other 
 such compositions, would incline us to think so. Did there prevail in the world, 
 it will be said, or did nature suggest, a taste of what is suitable, decent, or proper, 
 would any good writer deal in such compositions, or any man of sense receive 
 them without disgust 1 Can it be supposed that Louis XIV. of France was 
 endued by nature with any sense of propriety, when, in a dramatic performance 
 purposely composed for his entertainment, he suffered himself, publicly and in his 
 presence, to be styled the greatest king ever the earth produced 7 These, it is true, 
 are strong facts ; but luckily they do not prove the sense of propriety to be arti- 
 ficial : they only prove, that the "sense of propriety is at times overpowered by 
 pride and vanity ; which is no singular case, for that sometimes is the fate even 
 of the sense of justice. 
 
 t In the chapter of beauty, qualities are distinguished into primary and second- 
 ary : and to clear some obscurity that may appear in the text, it is proper to be 
 observed, that the same distinction is applicable to relations. Resemblance^
 
 166 CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. [Ch. 10. 
 
 If things connected be the subject of congruity, it is reasonable 
 beforehand to expect a degree of congruity proportioned to the degree 
 of the connection. And, upon examination we find our expectation 
 to be well founded : where the relation is intimate, as between a 
 cause and its effect, a whole and its parts, we require the strictest 
 congruity ; but where the relation is slight, or accidental, as among 
 things jumbled together, we require little or no congruity: the 
 strictest propriety is required in behavior and manner of living; 
 because a man is connected with these by the relation of cause and 
 effect : the relation between an edifice and the ground upon which it 
 stands is of the most intimate kind, and therefore the situation of a 
 great house ought to be lofty : its relation to neighboring hills, rivers, 
 plains, being that of propinquity only, demands but a small share of 
 congruity : among members of the same club, the congruity ought 
 to be considerable, as well as among things placed for show in the 
 same niche : among passengers in a stage-coach we require very 
 little congruity ; and less still at a public spectacle. 
 
 Congruity is so nearly allied to beauty, as commonly to be held 
 a species of it ; and yet they differ so essentially, as never to coincide : 
 beauty, like color, is placed upon a single subject ; congruity upon a 
 plurality : farther, a thing beautiful in itself, may, with relation to 
 other things, produce the strongest sense of incongruity. 
 
 Congruity and propriety are commonly reckoned synonymous 
 terms ; and hitherto in opening the subject they have been used 
 indifferently : but they are distinguishable ; and the precise meaning 
 of each must be ascertained. Congruity is the genus, of which pro- 
 priety is a species ; for we call nothing propriety, but that congruity 
 or suitableness, which ought to subsist between sensible beings, and 
 their thoughts, words, and actions. 
 
 In order to give a full view of these secondary relations, I shall 
 trace them through some of the most considerable primary relations. 
 The relation of a part to the whole, being extremely intimate, de- 
 mands the utmost degree of congruity : even the slightest deviation 
 is disgustful ; witness the Lutrin, a burlesque poem, which is closed 
 with a serious and warm panegyric on Lamoignon, one of the king's 
 judges : 
 
 Amphora ooepit 
 
 Institui ; currente rota, cur urceus exit 1* 
 
 Examples of congruity and incongruity are furnished in plenty 
 by the relation between a subject and its ornaments. A literary 
 
 equality, xuiiformity, proximity, are relations that depend not on us, but exist 
 equally whether perceived or not; and upon that account may justly be termed 
 primary relations. But there are other relations, that only appear such to us, and 
 that have not any external existence like primary relations ; which is the case of 
 congruity, incongruity, propriety, impropriety: these may be properly termed 
 secondary relations. Thus it appears from what is said in the text, that the 
 secondary relations mentioned arise from objects connected by some primary 
 relation. Property is an example of a secondary relation, as it exists no where 
 but in the mind. I purchase a field or a horse : the covenant makes the primary 
 relation ; and the secondary relation built on it, is property. 
 
 * The two-handed vessel, of a foot square, is getting in fashion as the wheel 
 turns, why does the pitcher disappear 1
 
 Ch. 10.] CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. 167 
 
 performance intended merely for amusement is susceptible of much 
 ornament, as well as a music-room or a playhouse ; for in gayety 
 the mind has a peculiar relish for show and decoration. The most 
 gorgeous apparel, however improper in tragedy, is not unsuitable to 
 opera-actors : the truth is, an opera, in its present form, is a mighty 
 fine thing ; but, as it deviates from nature in its capital circumstances, 
 we look not for nature nor propriety in those which are accessory. 
 On the other hand, a serious and important subject admits not much 
 ornament ;* nor a subject that of itself is extremely beautiful : and a 
 subject that fills the mind with its loftiness and grandeur, appears 
 best in a dress altogether plain. 
 
 To a person of a mean appearance, gorgeous apparel is unsuit- 
 able ; which beside the incongruity, shows by contrast the meanness 
 of appearance in the strongest light. Sweetness of look and manner 
 requires simplicity of dress joined with the greatest elegance. A 
 stately and majestic air requires sumptuous apparel, which ought 
 not to be gaudy, nor crowded with little ornaments. A woman of 
 consummate beauty can bear to be highly adorned, and yet shows 
 best in a plain dress, 
 
 For loveliness 
 
 Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, 
 But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd ihe most. 
 
 Thomson's Autumn, 208. 
 
 Congruity regulates not only the quantity of ornament, but also 
 the kind. The decorations of a dancing-room ought, all of them, 
 to be gay. No picture is proper for a church but what has religion 
 for its subject. Every ornament upon a shield should relate to warj 
 and Virgil, with great judgment, confines the carvings upon the 
 shield of ^neas to the military history of the Romans : that beauty 
 is overlooked by Homer ; for the bulk of the sculpture upon the 
 shield of Achilles is of the arts of peace in general, and of joy and 
 festivity in particular : the author of Telemachus betrays the same 
 inattention, in describing the shield of that young hero. 
 
 In judging of propriety with regard to ornaments, we must attend, 
 not only to the nature of the subject that is to be adorned, but also 
 to the circumstances in which it is placed : the ornaments that are 
 proper for a ball will appear not altogether so decent at public wor- 
 ship : and the same person ought to dress differently for a marriage 
 feast and for a funeral. 
 
 Nothing is more intimately related to a man than his sentiments, 
 words, and actions ; and therefore we require here the strictest con- 
 formity. When we find what we thus require, we have a lively 
 sense of propriety : when we find the contrary, our sense of impro- 
 priety is no less lively. Hence the universal distaste of affectation, 
 which consists in making a show of greater delicacy and refine- 
 ment, than is suited, either to the character or circumstances of the 
 
 * Contrary to this rule, the introduction to the third volume of the Characteristics, 
 is a continued chain of metaphors : these in such profusion are too florid for the 
 subject ; and have beside the bad effect of removing our attention from the princi- 
 pal subject, to fix it upon splendid trifles.
 
 168 CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. [Ch. 10. 
 
 person. Nothing in epic or dramatic compositions is more disgust- 
 ful than impropriety of manners. In Corneille's tragedy of Cinna, 
 .^Emilia, a favourite of Augustus, receives daily marks of his affec- 
 tion, and is loaded with benefits : yet all the while is laying plots to 
 assassinate her benefactor, directed by no other motive but to avenge 
 her father's death:* revenge against a benefactor, founded solely 
 upon filial piety, cannot be directed by any principle but that of 
 justice, and therefore never can suggest unlawful means ; yet the 
 crime here attempted, a treacherous murder, is what even a mis- 
 creant will scarcely attempt against his bitterest enemy. 
 
 What is said might be thought sufficient to explain the relations 
 of congruity and propriety. And yet the subject is not exhausted: 
 on the contrary, the prospect enlarges upon us, when we take under 
 view the effects these relations produce in the mind. Congruity 
 and propriety, wherever perceived, appear agreeable ; and every 
 agreeable object produces in the mind a pleasant emotion : incon- 
 gruity and impropriety, on the other hand, are disagreeable ; and of 
 course produce painful emotions. These emotions, whether pleasant 
 or painful, sometimes vanish without any consequence ; but more 
 frequently occasion other emotions, to which I proceed. 
 
 When any slight incongruity is perceived in an accidental com- 
 bination of persons or things, as of passengers in a stage-coach, or 
 of individuals dining at an ordinary; the painful emotion of incon- 
 gruity, after a momentary existence, vanishes without producing 
 any effect. But this is not the case of propriety and impropriety : 
 voluntary acts, whether words or deeds, are imputed to the author ; 
 when proper, we reward him with our esteem ; when improper, 
 we punish him with our contempt. Let us suppose, for example, 
 a generous action suited to the character of the author, which 
 raises in him and in every spectator the pleasant emotion of pro- 
 priety : this emotion generates in the author both self-esteem and 
 joy; the former when he considers his relation to the action, and the 
 latter when he considers the good opinion that others will entertain 
 of him : the same emotion of propriety produces in the spectators 
 esteem for the author of the action ; and when they think of them- 
 selves, it also produces by contrast an emotion of humility. To 
 discover the effects of an unsuitable action, we must invert each of 
 these circumstances : the painful emotion of impropriety generates 
 in. the author of the action both humility and shame ; the former 
 when he considers his relation to the action, and the latter wh^n he 
 considers what others will think of him ; the same emotion of im- 
 propriety produces in the spectators contempt for the author of the 
 action ; and it also produces, by contrast when they think of them- 
 selves, an emotion of self-esteem. Here then are many different 
 emotions, derived from the same action considered in different 
 views by different persons a machine provided with many springs, 
 and not a little complicated. Propriety of action, it would seem, is a 
 favourite of Nature, or of the Author of Nature, when such care and 
 solicitude is bestowed on it. It is not left to our own choice ; but, like 
 * See Act I. So. 2.
 
 Ch. IO.J CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. 169 
 
 justice, is required at our hands ; and, like justice, is enforced by 
 natural rewards and punishments : a man cannot, with impunity, 
 do any thing unbecoming 1 or improper ; he suffers the chastisement 
 of contempt inflicted by others, and of shame inflicted by himself. 
 An apparatus so complicated, and so singular, ought to rouse our 
 attention : for nature does nothing in vain ; and we may conclude 
 with certainty, that this curious branch of the human constitution 
 is intended for some valuable purpose. To the discovery of that 
 purpose or final cause I shall with ardor apply my thoughts, after 
 discoursing a little more at large upon the punishment, as it may 
 now be called, that nature has provided for indecent and unbecom- 
 ing behavior. This, at any rate, is necessary, in order to give a 
 full view of the subject; and who knows whether it may not, over 
 and above, open some track that will lead us to the final cause of 
 which we are in quest ? 
 
 3 gross impropriety is punished with contempt and indignation, 
 which are vented against the offender by external expressions : nor is 
 even the slightest impropriety suffered to pass without some degree 
 of contempt. But there are improprieties of the slighter kind, that 
 provoke laughter ; of which we have examples without end in the 
 blunders and absurdities of our own species : such improprieties 
 receive a different punishment, as will appear by what follows. The 
 emotions of contempt and of laughter occasioned by an impropriety 
 of that kind, uniting intimately in the mind of the spectator, are 
 expressed externally by a peculiar sort of laugh, termed a laugh of 
 derision or scorn* An impropriety that thus moves not only contempt - 
 but laughter, is distinguished by the epithet of ridiculous ; and a 
 laugh of derision or scorn is the punishment provided for it by 
 nature. Nor ought it to escape observation, that we are so fond of 
 inflicting that punishment, as sometimes to exert it even against 
 creatures of an inferior species : witness a turkeycock swelling with 
 pride, and strutting with displayed feathers, which in a gay mood 
 is apt to provoke a laugh of derision. 
 
 We must not expect, that these different improprieties are sepa- 
 rated by distinct boundaries : for of improprieties, from the slightest 
 to the most gross, from the most risible to the most serious, there 
 are degrees without end. Hence it is, that in viewing some unbe- 
 coming actions, too risible for anger, and too serious for derision ; 
 the spectator feels a sort of mixt emotion, partaking both of derision 
 and of anger ; which accounts for an expression, common with 
 respect to the impropriety of some actions, that we know not whe- 
 ther to laugh or be angry. 
 
 It cannot fail to be observed, that in the case of a risible impro- 
 priety, which is always slight, the contempt we have for the offen- 
 der is extremely faint, though derision, its gratification, is extremely 
 pleasant. This disproportion between a passion and its gratification, 
 may seem not conformable to the analogy of nature. In looking 
 about for a solution, I reflect upon what is laid down above, that an 
 improper action not only moves our contempt for the author, but 
 
 * See Chap. 7. 
 15
 
 170 CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. [Ch. 10. 
 
 also, by means of contrast, swells the good opinion we have of our- 
 selves. This contributes, more than any other particular, to the 
 pleasure we have in ridiculing follies and absurdities ; arid accord- 
 ingly, it is well known, that those who have the greatest share of 
 vanity are the most prone to laugh at others. Vanity, which is a 
 vivid passion, pleasant in itself, and not less so in its gratification, 
 would singly be sufficient to account for the pleasure of ridicule, 
 without borrowing any aid from contempt. Hence appears the 
 reason of a noted observation, that we are the most disposed to ridi- 
 cule the blunders and absurdities of others, when we are in high 
 spirits ; for in high spirits, self-conceit displays itself with more than 
 ordinary vigor. 
 
 Having with wary steps traced an intricate road, not without 
 danger of wandering ; what remains to complete our journey, is to 
 account for the final cause of congruity and propriety, which make 
 so great a figure in the human constitution. One final cause, regard- 
 ing congruity, is pretty obvious, that the sense of congruity, as 
 one principle of the fine arts, contributes, in a remarkable degree, 
 to our entertainment; which is the final cause assigned above 
 for our sense of proportion,* and need not be enlarged upon 
 here. Congruity, indeed, with respect to quantity coincides with 
 proportion: when the parts of a building are nicely adjusted to 
 each other, it may be said indifferently, that it is agreeable by 
 the congruity of its parts, or by the proportion of its parts. But 
 propriety, which regards voluntary agents only, can never be 
 the same with proportion : a very long nose is disproportioned, but 
 cannot be termed improper. In some instances, it is true, impro- 
 priety coincides with disproportion in the same subject, but never 
 in the same respect. I give for an example, a very little man 
 buckled to a long toledo : considering the man and the sword with 
 respect to size, we perceive a disproportion : considering the sword 
 as the choice of the man, we perceive an impropriety. 
 
 The sense of impropriety with respect to mistakes, blunders, and 
 absurdities, is evidently calculated for the good of mankind. In 
 the spectators it is productive of mirth and laughter, excellent 
 recreation in an interval from business. But this is a trifle compared 
 to what follows. It is painful to be the subject ofridicule; and to 
 punish with ridicule the man who is guilty of an absurdity, tends 
 to put him more on his guard in time to come. It is well ordered, 
 that even the most innocent blunder is not committed with impunity; 
 because, were errors licensed where they do no hurt, inattention 
 would grow into habit, and be the occasion of much hurt. 
 
 The final cause of propriety, as to moral duties, is of all the most 
 illustrious. To have a just notion of it, the moral duties that respect 
 others must be distinguished from those that respect ourselves. Fide- 
 lity, gratitude, and abstinence from injury, are examples of the first 
 sort ; temperance, modesty, firmness of mind, are examples of the 
 other: the former are made duties by the sense of justice; the 
 latter, by the sen&e of propriety. Here is a final cause of th 
 * See Chap. 3.
 
 Ch. 10.1 CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. 171 
 
 sense of propriety that will rouse our attention. It is undoubt- 
 edly the interest of every man to suit his behavior to the dignity 
 of his nature, and to the station allotted him by Providence ; for 
 such rational conduct contributes in every respect to happiness, 
 by preserving health, by procuring plenty, by gaining the esteem 
 of others, and, which of all is the greatest blessing, by gaining 
 a justly founded self-esteem. But in a matter so essential to our 
 well-being, even self-interest is not relied on : the powerful autho- 
 rity of duty is superadded to the motive of interest. The God of 
 nature, in all things essential to our happiness, has observed one 
 uniform method : to keep us steady in our conduct, he has fortified 
 us with natural laws and principles, preventive of many aberrations, 
 which would daily happen were we totally surrendered to so fallible 
 a guide as is human reason. Propriety cannot rightly be consi- 
 dered in another light than as the natural law that regulates our 
 conduct with respect to ourselves; as justice is the natural law 
 that regulates our conduct with respect to others. I call propriety 
 a law, no less than justice ; because both are equally rules of con- 
 duct that ought to be obeyed : propriety includes that obligation ; 
 for to say an action is proper, is in other words to say, that it ought 
 to be performed ; and to say it is improper, is in other words to say, 
 that it ought to be forborne. It is that very character of ought and 
 should which makes justice a law to us ; and the same character is 
 applicable to propriety, though perhaps more faintly than to justice: 
 but the difference is in degree only, not in kind ; and we ought, without 
 hesitation or reluctance, to submit equally to the government of both. 
 
 But I have more to urge upon that head. To the sense of pro- 
 priety as well as of justice, are annexed the sanctions of rewards 
 and punishments ; which evidently prove the one to be a law as 
 well as the other. The satisfaction a man has in doing his duty, 
 joined to the esteem and good-will of others, is the reward that 
 belongs to both equally. The punishments also, though not the 
 same, are nearly allied ; and differ in degree more than in quality. 
 Disobedience to the law of justice is punished with remorse ; disobe- 
 dience to the law of propriety, with shame, which is remorse in a 
 lower degree. Every transgression of the law of justice raises 
 indignation in the beholder ; and so does every flagrant transgres- 
 sion of the law of propriety. Slighter improprieties receive a milder 
 punishment: they are always rebuked with some degree of con- 
 tempt, and frequently with derision. In general, it is true, that the 
 rewards and punishments annexed to the sense of propriety are 
 slighter in degree than those annexed to the sense of justice; which 
 is wisely ordered, because duty to others is still more essential to 
 society than duty to ourselves : society, indeed, could not subsist a 
 moment, were individuals not protected from the headstrong and 
 turbulent passions of their neighbors. 
 
 The final cause now unfolded of the sense of propriety, must, to 
 every discerning eye, appear delightful : and yet this is but a partial 
 view; for that sense reaches another illustrious end, which is, in 
 conjunction with the sense of justice, to enforce the performance of
 
 172 DIGNITY AND GRACE. [Ch. 11. 
 
 social duties. In fact, the sanctions visibly contrived to compel a 
 man to be just to himself, are equally serviceable to compel him. to 
 be just to others; which will be evident from a single reflection, 
 that an action, by being unjust, ceases not to be improper : an action 
 never appears more eminently improper, than when it is unjust: 
 it is obviously becoming, and suitable to human nature, that each 
 man do his duty to others ; and, accordingly, every transgression 
 of duty to others, is at the same time a transgression of duty to 
 one's self. This is a plain truth without exaggeration ; and it 
 opens a new and enchanting view in the moral landscape, the 
 prospect being greatly enriched by the multiplication of agreeable 
 objects. It appears now, that nothing is overlooked, nothing left 
 undone, that can possibly contribute to the enforcing of social duty ; 
 for to all the sanctions that belong to it singly, are superadded 
 the sanctions of self-duty. A familiar example shall suffice for 
 illustration. An act of ingratitude, considered in itself, is to the 
 author disagreeable, as well as to every spectator; considered by 
 the author with relation to himself, it raises self-contempt: consi- 
 dered by him with relation to the world, it makes him ashamed : 
 considered by others, it raises their contempt and indignation against 
 the author. These feelings are all of them occasioned by the im- 
 propriety of the action. When the action is considered as unjust, it 
 occasions another set of feelings : in the author it produces remorse, 
 and a dread of merited punishment ; and in others, the benefactor 
 chiefly, indignation and hatred directed to the ungrateful person. 
 Thus shame and remorse united in the ungrateful person, and 
 indignation united with hatred in the hearts of others, are the punish- 
 ments provided by nature for injustice. Stupid and insensible must 
 he be, who, in a contrivance so exquisite, perceives not the benevo- 
 lent hand of our Creator. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 The terms dignity and meanness, applied to man, in point of character, sentiment, 
 and behavior Dignity and meanness belong to sensible beings only Actions 
 appear in themselves grand or little ; with respect to the authors, proper or impro- 
 per ; with respect to those affected by them, just or unjust Dignity and mean- 
 ness, founded on man's natural sense of the excellence of his nature Actions 
 corresponding to the dignity of man. manly ; the contrary, childish Courage 
 held in higher estimation than justice Of pleasures, organic are the lowest, those 
 of the eye and the ear are higher, and those of the understanding the highest 
 Final cause of corporeal pleasures The pleasures of the eye and the ear are of 
 utility The social pleasures qualify a man for society The high rank of the 
 pleasures of the understanding with respect to time and eternity Grace, as dis- 
 played externally, is an object of one only of the five senses It belongs exclu- 
 sively to man The definition of grace A graceful person, of all external 
 objects, the most agreeable Dancing affords great opportunity for displaying 
 grace ; and haranguing still greater A person deficient in amiable qualities, 
 cannot be graceful. 
 
 THE terms dignity and meanness are applied to man in point of 
 character, sentiment, and behavior : we say, for example, of one man,
 
 Ch. 11.] DIGNITY AND GRACE. 173 
 
 that he has natural dignity in his air and manner ; of another, that 
 he makes a mean figure: we perceive dignity in every action and 
 sentiment of some persons ; meanness and vulgarity in the actions 
 and sentiments of others. With respect to the fine arts, some per- 
 formances are said to be manly, and suitable to the dignity of human 
 nature ; others are.termed low, mean, trivial. Such expressions are 
 common, though they have not always a precise meaning. With 
 respect to the art of criticism, it must be a real acquisition to ascertain 
 what these terms truly import; which possibly may enable us to 
 rank every performance in the fine arts according to its dignity. 
 
 Inquiring first to what subjects the terms dignity and meanness 
 are appropriated, we soon discover, that they are not applicable to 
 any thing inanimate: the most magnificent palace that ever was 
 built, may be lofty, may be grand, but it has no relation to dignity : 
 the most diminutive shrub may be little, but it is not mean. These 
 terms must belong to sensitive beings, probably to man only ; which 
 will be evident when we advance in the inquiry. 
 
 Human actions appear in many different lights : in themselves they 
 appear grand or little ; with respect to the author, they appear pro- 
 per or improper; with respect to those affected by them, just or 
 unjust : and I now add, that they are also distinguished by dignity 
 and meanness. If any one incline to think, that, with respect to 
 human actions, dignity coincides with grandeur, and meanness with 
 littleness, the difference will be evident upon reflecting, that an action 
 may be grand without being virtuous, and little without being faulty; 
 but that we never attribute dignity to any action but what is virtu- 
 ous, nor meanness to any but what is faulty. Every action of dignity 
 creates respect and esteem for the author ; and a mean action draws 
 upon him contempt. A man is admired for a grand action, but fre- 
 quently is neither loved nor esteemed for it : neither is a man always 
 contemned for a low or little action. The action of Cassar passing 
 the Rubicon was grand ; but there was no dignity in it, considering 
 that his purpose was to enslave his country. Caesar, in a march, 
 taking opportunity of a rivulet to quench his thirst, did a low action, 
 but the action was not mean. 
 
 As it appears to me, dignity and meanness are founded on a 
 natural principle not hitherto mentioned. Man is endowed with 
 a SENSE of the worth and excellence of his nature: he deems it 
 more perfect than that of the other beings around him ; and he per- 
 ceives, that the perfection of his nature consists in virtue, particularly 
 m virtues of the highest rank. To express that sense, the term dig- 
 nity is appropriated. Farther, to behave with dignity, and to refrain 
 from all mean actions, is felt to be, not a virtue only, but a duty : it 
 is a duty every man owes to himself. By acting in that manner, he 
 attracts love and esteem : by acting meanly, or below himself, he is 
 disapproved and contemned. 
 
 According to the description here given of dignity and meanness, 
 .hey appear to be a species of propriety and impropriety. Many- 
 actions may be proper or improper, to which dignity or meanness 
 cannot be applied : to eat when one is hungry, is proper, but there ia 
 15*
 
 174 DIGNITY AXI> GRACE. [Ch. 1 1. 
 
 no dignity -in that action: revenge fairly taken, if against law, ia 
 improper, but not mean. But every action of dignity is also proper, 
 and every mean action is also improper. 
 
 This sense of the dignity of human nature, reaches even our 
 pleasures and amusements : if they enlarge the mind by raising 
 grand or elevated emotions, or if they humanize the mind by exer- 
 cising our sympathy, they are approved as suited to the dignity of 
 our nature: if they contract the mind by fixing it on trivial objects, 
 they are contemned as not suited to the dignity of our nature. 
 Hence, in general, every occupation, whether of use or amusement, 
 that corresponds to the dignity of man, is termed manly ; and every 
 occupation below his nature, is termed childish. 
 
 To those who study human nature, there is a point which has 
 always appeared intricate : how comes it that generosity and courage 
 are more esteemed, and bestow more dignity, than good nature, or 
 even justice ; though the latter contributes more than the former to 
 private as well as to public happiness ? This question, bluntly pro- 
 posed, might puzzle a cunning philosopher ; but, by means of the 
 foregoing observations, will easily be solved. Human virtues, like 
 other objects, obtain a rank in our estimation, not from their utility, 
 which is a subject of reflection, but from the direct impression they 
 make on us. Justice and good nature are a sort of negative virtues, 
 that scarcely make any impression but when they are transgressed : 
 courage and generosity, on the contrary, producing elevated emo- 
 tions, enliven greatly the sense of a man's dignity, both in himself 
 and in others ; and for that reason, courage and generosity are in 
 higher regard than the other virtues mentioned : we describe them 
 as grand and elevated, as of greater dignity, and more praiseworthy. 
 
 This leads us to examine more directly emotions and passions with 
 respect to the present subject ; and it will not be difficult to form a 
 scale of them, beginning with the meanest, and ascending gradually 
 to those of the highest rank and dignity. Pleasure felt as the organ 
 of sense, named corporeal pleasure, is perceived to be low: and when 
 indulged to excess, is perceived also to be mean : for that reason, 
 persons of any delicacy dissemble the pleasure they take in eating 
 and drinking. The pleasures of the eye and ear, having no organic 
 feeling,* and being free from any sense of meanness, are indulged 
 without any shame : they even rise to a certain degree of dignity 
 when their objects are grand or elevated. The same is the case of 
 the sympathetic passions : a virtuous person behaving with fortitude 
 and dignity under cruel misfortunes, makes a capital figure ; and the 
 sympathizing spectator feels in himself the same dignity. Sympa- 
 thetic distress at the same time never is mean : on the contrary, it is 
 agreeable to the nature of a social being, and has general approba- 
 tion. The rank that love possesses in the scale, depends in a great 
 measure on its object : it possesses a low place when founded on 
 external properties merely ; and is mean when bestowed on a person 
 of inferior rank without any extraordinary qualification : but when 
 founded on the more elevated internal properties, it assumes a con- 
 * See the Introduction.
 
 Ch. ll.J DIGNITY AND GRACE. 175 
 
 aiderable degree of dignity. The same is the case of friendship. 
 When gratitude is warm, it animates the mind; but it scarcely rises 
 .0 dignity. Joy bestows dignity when it proceeds from an elevated cause. 
 
 If I can depend upon induction, dignity is not a property of any 
 disagreeable passion : one is slight, another severe ; one depresses 
 the mind, another animates it; but there is no elevation, far less 
 dignity, in any of them. Revenge, in particular, though it inflame 
 and swell the mind, is not accompanied with dignity, not even with 
 elevation : it is not, however, felt as mean or groveling, unless when 
 it takes indirect measures for gratification. Shame and remorse, 
 though they sink the spirits, are not mean. Pride, a disagreeable 
 passion, bestows no dignity in the eye of a spectator. Vanity always 
 appears mean ; and extremely so where founded, as commonly hap- 
 pens, on trivial qualifications. 
 
 J proceed to the pleasures of the understanding, which possess a 
 high rank in point of dignity. Of this every one will be sensible, 
 when he considers the important truths that have been laid open by 
 science : such as general theorems, and the general laws that govern 
 the material and moral worlds. The pleasures of the understanding 
 are suited to man as a rational and contemplative being ; and they 
 tend not a little to ennoble his nature ; even to the Deity he stretches 
 his contemplations, which, in the discovery of infinite power, wis- 
 dom, and benevolence, afford delight of the most exalted kind. 
 Hence it appears, that the fine arts studied as a rational science, 
 afford entertainment of great dignity; superior far to what they 
 afford as a subject of taste merely. 
 
 But contemplation, however in itself valuable, is chiefly respected 
 as subservient to action ; for man is intended to be more an active 
 than a contemplative being. He accordingly shows more dignity 
 in action than in contemplation : generosity, magnanimity, heroism, 
 raise his character to the highest pitch: these best express the dig- 
 nity of his nature, and advance him nearer to divinity than any 
 other of his attributes. 
 
 By every production that shows art and contrivance, our curiosity 
 is excited upon two points ; first, how it was made ; and, next, to what 
 end. Of the two, the latter is the more important inquiry, because 
 the means are ever subordinate to the end ; and, in fact, our curiosity 
 is always more inflamed by the final than by the efficient cause. 
 This preference is no where more visible, than in contemplating the 
 works of nature : if in the efficient cause wisdom and power be dis- 
 played, wisdom is no less conspicuous in the final cause ; and from 
 it only can we infer benevolence, which of all the divine attributes is 
 to man the most important. 
 
 Having endeavored to assign the efficient cause of dignity and 
 meanness, by unfolding the principle on fyhich they are founded, 
 we proceed to explain the final cause of the dignity or meanness 
 bestowed upon the several particulars above mentioned, beginning 
 with corporeal pleasures. These, as far as usual, are, like justice, 
 fenced with sufficient sanctions to prevent their being neglected: 
 hanger and thirst are painful sensations ; and we are incited to ani-
 
 176 DIGNITY AND GRACE. [Ch. 1 1 
 
 mal love by a vigorous propensity: were corporeal pleasures digni- 
 fied over and above with a place in a high class, they would infallibly 
 disturb the balance of the mind, by outweighing the social affections. 
 This is a satisfactory final cause for refusing to these pleasures any 
 degree of dignity: and the final cause is no less evident of their 
 meanness, when they are indulged to excess. The more refined plea- 
 sures of external sense, conveyed by the eye and the ear from natural 
 objects and from the fine arts, deserve a high place in our esteem, 
 because of their singular and extensive utility : in some cases they 
 rise to a considerable dignity ; and the very lowest pleasures of the 
 kind are never esteemed mean or grovelling. The pleasure arising 
 from wit, humor, ridicule, or from what is simply ludicrous, is use- 
 ful, by relaxing the mind after the fatigue of more manly occupation : 
 but the mind, when it surrenders itself to pleasure of that kind, loses 
 its vigor, and sinks gradually into sloth.* The place this pleasure 
 occupies in point of dignity, is adjusted to these views: to make it 
 useful as a relaxation, it is not branded with meanness ; to prevent 
 its usurpation, it is removed from that place but a single degree : no 
 man values himself for that pleasure, even during gratification ; and 
 if it have engrossed more of his time than is requisite for relaxation, 
 he looks back with some degree of shame. 
 
 In point of dignity, the social emotions rise above the selfish, and 
 much above those of the eye and ear : man is by his nature a social 
 being ; and to qualify him for society, it is wisely contrived, that he 
 should value himself more for being social than selfish, f 
 
 The excellency of man is chiefly discernible in the great improve- 
 ments of which he is susceptible in society : these, by perseverance, 
 may be carried on progressively above any assignable limits : and, 
 even abstracting from revelation, there is great probability, that the 
 progress begun here will be completed in some future state. Now, 
 as all valuable improvements proceed from the exercise of our 
 rational faculties, the author of our nature, in order to excite us to a 
 due use of these faculties, has assigned a high rank to the pleasures 
 of the understanding : their utility, with respect to this life as well 
 as a future, entitles them to that rank. 
 
 But as action is the aim of all our improvements, virtuous actions 
 justly possess the highest of all the ranks. These, we find, are by 
 nature distributed into different classes, and the first in point of dig- 
 nity assigned to actions that appear not the first in point of use : 
 generosity, for example, in the sense of mankind is more respected 
 than justice, though the latter is undoubtedly more essential to soci- 
 
 * Neque enim ita generati a natura sumus, ut ad ludum et jocum facti esse 
 videamur, sed ad severitatem potius et ad quaedam studia graviora atque majora. 
 Ludo autem et joco, uti illis quidem licet, sed sicut somno et quietibus caeteris, tum 
 cum gravibus seriisque rebus satisfecerimus. Cicero de offic. lib. I. 
 
 Nor are we so constituted by nature as to seem made for sport and jest ; but 
 rather for severity, and the graver and higher studies. It is only proper for us to 
 use sport and jest as we do sleep and other repose, after the satiety of grave and 
 serious things. 
 
 t For the same reason, the selfish emotions that are founded upon a social prin- 
 ciple, rise higher in our esteem than those that are founded upon a selfish principle. 
 As to which see above, p. 47. note.
 
 Ch. 11] DIGNITY AND GRACE. 177 
 
 ety ; and magnanimity, heroism, undaunted courage, rise still higher 
 in our esteem. One would readily think, that the moral virtues 
 should be esteemed according to their importance. Nature has here 
 deviated from her ordinary path, and great wisdom is shown in the 
 deviation : the efficient cause is explained above, and the final cause 
 is explained in the Essays of Morality and Natural Religion.* 
 
 We proceed to analyse grace, which being in a good measure an 
 uncultivated field, requires more than ordinary labor. 
 
 Graceful is an attribute: grace and gracefulness express that 
 attribute in the form of a noun. 
 
 That this attribute is agreeable, no one doubts. 
 
 As grace is displayed externally, it must be an object of one or 
 other of our five senses. That it is an object of sight, every person 
 of taste can bear witness ; and that it is confined to that sense, appears 
 from induction ; for it is not an object of smell, nor of taste, nor of 
 totfch. Is it an object of hearing ? Some music indeed is termed 
 graceful ; but that expression is metaphorical, as when we say of 
 other music that it is beautiful : the latter metaphor, at the same time, 
 is more sweet and easy ; which shows how little applicable to music 
 or to sound the former is, when taken in its proper sense. 
 
 That it is an attribute of man, is beyond dispute. But of what 
 other beings is it also an attribute ? We perceive at first sight that 
 nothing inanimate is entitled to that epithet. What animal then, 
 beside man, is entitled ? Surely, not an elephant, nor even a lion. 
 A horse may have a delicate shape with a lofty mien, and all his 
 motions may be exquisite; but he is never said to be graceful. 
 Beauty and grandeur are common to man with some other beings j 
 but dignity is not applied to any being inferior to man ; and upon 
 the strictest examination, the same appears to hold in grace. 
 
 Confining then grace to man, the next inquiry is, whether, like 
 beauty, it makes a constant appearance or in some circumstances 
 only. Does a person display this attribute at rest as well as in 
 motion, asleep as when awake? It is undoubtedly connected with 
 motion ; for when the most graceful person is at rest, neither moving 
 nor speaking, we lose sight of that quality as much as of color in the 
 dark. Grace then is an agreeable attribute, inseparable from motion 
 as opposed to rest, and as comprehending speech, looks, gestures, 
 and loco-motion. 
 
 As some motions are homely, the opposite to graceful, the next 
 inquiry is, with what motions is this attribute connected? No man 
 appears graceful in a mask ; and, therefore, laying aside the expres- 
 sions of the countenance, the other motions may be genteel, may be ele- 
 gant, but of themselves never are graceful. A motion adjusted in the 
 most perfect manner to answer its end, is elegant ; but still somewhat 
 more is required to complete our idea of grace, or gracefulness. 
 
 What this unknown more may be, is the nice point. One thing 
 is clear from what is said, that this move must arise from the expres- 
 sion of the countenance : and from what expressions so naturally as 
 from those which indicate mental qualities, such as sweetness, 
 * Part 1. essay 2. chap. 4.
 
 i78 KIPICVLB. {Ch. 12. 
 
 benevolence, elevation, dignity? This promises to be a fair analysis; 
 because of all objects mental qualities affect us the most : ana the 
 impression made by graceful appearance upon every spectator of 
 taste, is too deep for any cause purely corporeal. 
 
 The next step is, to examine what are the mental qualities, that, iu 
 conjunction with elegance of motion, produce a graceful appearance. 
 Sweetness, cheerfulness, affability, are not separately sufficient, nor 
 even in conjunction. As it appears to me, dignity alone with elegant 
 motion may produce a graceful appearance ; but still more graceful, 
 with the aid of other qualities, those especially that are the most 
 exalted. 
 
 But this is not all. The most exalted virtues may be the lot of a 
 person whose countenance has little expression : such a person cannot 
 be graceful. Therefore, to produce this appearance, we must add 
 another circumstance, namely, an expressive countenance, displaying 
 to every spectator of taste, with life and energy, every thing that 
 passes in the mind. 
 
 Collecting these circumstances together, grace may be defined, 
 ihat agreeable appearance which arises from elegance of motion, 
 and from a countenance expressive of dignity. Expressions of other 
 mental qualities are not essential to that appearance, but they 
 heighten it greatly. 
 
 Of all external objects, a graceful person is the most agreeable. 
 
 Dancing affords great opportunity for displaying grace, and 
 haranguing still more. 
 
 I conclude with the following reflection, that in vain will a person 
 attempt to be graceful, who is deficient in amiable qualities. A man, 
 it is true, may form an idea of qualities of which he is destitute ; 
 and, by means of that idea, may endeavor to express these qualities 
 by looks and gestures : but such studied expression will be too faint 
 and obscure to be graceful. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 RIDICULE. 
 
 A ridiculous object, both improper and risible Burlesque is of two kinds ; that 
 which excites laughter, and that which excites derision Humor connected 
 with ridicule It belongs to an author who pretends to be grave, but who paints 
 his subject so as to excite laughter Irony consists in laughing at a man under 
 the disguise of appearing to speak well of him The effect of parody Ridicule 
 the test of truth. 
 
 To define ridicule has puzzled and vexed every critic. The defi- 
 nition given by Aristotle is obscure and imperfect.* Cicero handles 
 it at great length ;f but without giving any satisfaction : he wanders 
 in the dark, and misses the distinction between risible and ridiculous. 
 Quintilian is sensible of the distinction,! but has not attempted to 
 
 * Poet. cap. 5. t L. 2. De Oratore. 
 
 * Ideoque anceps ejus rei ratio est, quod a derisu non procul abest risus ; lib. 6. 
 tap. 3. 1. 
 
 Therefore the reason of this is doubtful, that laughter is not far from ridicule.
 
 Ch. 12.] RIDICULE. 1T9 
 
 explain it. Luckily this subject lies no longer in obscurity: a risi- 
 ble object produces an emotion of laughter merely:* a ridiculous 
 object is improper as well as risible ; and produces a mixt emotion, 
 which is vented by a laugh of derision or scorn, f 
 
 Having therefore happily unravelled the knotty part, I proceed to 
 other particulars. 
 
 Burlesque, though a great engine of ridicule, is not confined to 
 that subject; for it is clearly distinguishable into burlesque that 
 excites laughter merely, and burlesque that provokes derision or 
 ridicule. A grave subject in which there is no impropriety, may be 
 brought down by a certain coloring so as to be risible ; which is the 
 case of Virgil Travestie ;| and also the case of the Secchia Rapita : 
 the authors laugh first, in order to make their readers laugh. The 
 Lutrin is a burlesque poem of the other sort, laying hold of a low 
 and trifling incident, to expose the luxury, indolence, and conten- 
 tious spirit of a set of monks. Boileau, the author, gives a ridiculous 
 air to the subject, by dressing it in the heroic style, and affecting to 
 consider it as of the utmost dignity and importance. In a composi- 
 tion of this kind, no image professedly ludicrous ought to find 
 quarter, because such images destroy the contrast ; and, accordingly, 
 the author shows always the grave face, and never once betrays a 
 smile. 
 
 Though the burlesque that aims at ridicule, produces its effect by 
 elevating the style far above the subject, yet it has limits beyond 
 which the elevation ought not to be carried: the poet, consulting the 
 imagination of his readers, ought to confine himself to such images 
 as are lively, and readily apprehended : a strained elevation, soaring 
 above an ordinary reach of fancy, makes not a pleasant impression : 
 the reader, fatigued with being always upon the stretch, is soon dis- 
 gusted ; and if he persevere, becomes thoughtless and indifferent. 
 Farther, a fiction gives no pleasure unless it be painted in colors so 
 lively as to produce some perception of reality ; which never can be 
 done effectually where the images are formed with labor or difficulty. 
 For these reasons, I cannot avoid condemning the Batrachomuoma- 
 chia, said to be the composition of Homer : it is beyond the power 
 of imagination to form a clear and lively image of frogs and mice, 
 acting with the dignity of the highest of our species ; nor can we 
 form a conception of the reality of such an action, in any manner so 
 distinct as to interest our affections even in the slightest degree. 
 
 The Rape of the Lock is of a character clearly distinguishable 
 from those now mentioned : it is not properly a burlesque perform- 
 ance, but what may rather be termed an heroi-comical poem : it treats 
 a gay and familiar subject with pleasantry, and with a moderate 
 degree of dignity : the author puts not on a mask like Boileau, nor 
 professes to make us laugh like Tassoni. The Rape of the Lock is 
 a genteel species of writing, less strained than those mentioned : 
 and is pleasant or ludicrous without having ridicule for its chief 
 aim ; giving way however to ridicule where it arises naturally from 
 a particular character, such as that of Sir Plume. Addison's Spec- 
 
 * See Chap. 7. t See Chap. 10. * Scarron. Tassoni,
 
 180 RIDICULE. [Ch. 12.] 
 
 tator upon the exercise of the fan* is extremely gay and ludicrous, 
 resembling in its subject the Rape of the Lock. 
 
 Humour belongs to the present chapter, because it is connected 
 with ridicule. Congreve defines humor to be "a singular and una- 
 voidable manner of doing or saying any thing, peculiar and natural 
 to one man only, by which his speech and actions are distinguished 
 from those of other men." Were this definition just, a majestic and 
 commanding air, which is a singular property, is humor ; as also a 
 natural flow of correct and commanding eloquence, which is no less 
 singular. Nothing just or proper is denominated humor ; nor any 
 singularity of character, words, or actions, that is valued or respected. 
 When we attend to the character of an humorist, we find that it 
 arises from circumstances both risible and improper, and therefore 
 that it lessens the man in our esteem, and makes him in some mea- 
 sure ridiculous. 
 
 Humor in writing is very different from humor in character. 
 When an author insists upon ludicrous subjects with a professed 
 purpose to make his readers laugh, he may be styled a ludicrous 
 writer ; but is scarcely entitled to be styled a writer of humor. 
 This quality belongs to an author, who affecting to be grave and 
 serious, paints his objects in such colors as to provoke mirth and 
 laughter. A writer that is really an humorist in character, does this 
 without design : if not, he must affect the character in order to suc- 
 ceed. Swift and Fontaine were humorists in character, and their 
 writings are full of humor. Addison was not an humorist in cha- 
 racter ; and yet in his prose writings a most delicate and refined 
 humor prevails. Arbuthnot exceeds them all in drollery and humor- 
 ous painting ; which shows a great genius, because, if I am not 
 misinformed, he had nothing of that peculiarity in his character. 
 
 There remains to show by examples the manner of treating sub- 
 jects, so as to give them a ridiculous appearance. 
 
 II ne dit jamais, je vous donne, mais, je vous prete le bon jour. Moliere. 
 Orleans. I know him to be valiant. 
 
 Constable. I was told that by one that knows him better than you, 
 Orleans. What's he ? 
 
 Constable. Marry, he told me so himself ; and he said he car'd not who knew it. 
 
 Henry V. Shakspeare. 
 
 He never broke any man's head but his own, and that was against a post when 
 he was drunk. Ibid. 
 
 Millament. Sententious Mirabell! pr'ythee don't look with that violent and 
 inflexible wise face, like Solomon at the dividing of the child in an old tapestry 
 hanging. Way of the World, 
 
 A true critic, in the perusal of a book, is like a dog at a feast, whose thoughts 
 and stomach are wholly set upon what the guests fling away, and consequently ia 
 apt to snarl most when there are the fewest bones. Tale of a Tub. 
 
 In the following instances, the ridicule arises from absurd con- 
 ceptions in the persons introduced. 
 
 Mascarille. Te souvient-il, vicomte de cette demilune, que nous emportames ear 
 ks ennemis au siege d' Arras ? 
 
 No. 102.
 
 Ch. 12.] kIDICULE. 181 
 
 Jodelet. due veux tu dire avec ta demi-lune 1 c'etoit bien une lune tout entiere. 
 
 Moliere les Precieuses Ridicules, Sc. 11. 
 
 Slender. I came yonder at Eaton to marry Mrs. Anne Page ; and she's a great 
 lubberly boy. 
 
 Page. Upon my life then you took the wrong. 
 
 Slender. What need you tell me that 1 I think so when I took a boy for a girl ; 
 if I had been marry'd to him, for all he was in woman's apparel, I would not 
 have had him. Merry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 Valentine. Your blessing, Sir. 
 
 Sir Sampson. You've had it already, Sir ; I think I sent it you to-day in a bill 
 for four thousand pound ; a great deal of money, Brother Foresight. 
 
 Foresight. Ay indeed, Sir Sampson, a great deal of money for a young man ; 
 I wonder what can he do with it. Love far Love, Act II. Sc. 7. 
 
 Millament. I nauseate walking; 'tis a country-diversion; I lothe the country, 
 and every thing that relates to it. 
 
 Sir Wilful. Indeed ! hah ! look ye, look ye, you do *? nay, 'tis like you may 
 here are choice of pastimes here in town, as plays and the like ; that must 
 be confess'd indeed. 
 
 RTtllement. Ah 1'etourdie ! I hate the town too. 
 
 Sir Wilful. Dear heart, that's much hah ! that you should hate 'em both ! 
 
 hah ! 'tis like you may ; there are some can't relish the town, and others can't 
 
 away with the country 'tis like you may be one of these, Cousine. 
 
 Way of the World, Act IV. Sc. 4. 
 
 Lord Froth. I assure you, Sir Paul, I laugh at nobody's jests but my own, or 
 a lady's : I assure, you, Sir Paul. 
 
 Brisk. How 1 how, my Lord 7 what, affront my wit ! Let me perish, do I 
 never say any thing worthy to be laugh'd at 1 
 
 Lord Froth. O foy, don't misapprehend me, I don't say so, for 1 often smile at 
 your conceptions. But there is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality than 
 to laugh ; 'tis such a vulgar expression of the passion ! every body can laugh. 
 Then especially to laugh at the jest of an inferior person, or when any body else 
 of the same quality does not laugh with one ; ridiculous ! To be pleas'd with 
 what pleases the crowd ! Now, when I laugh I always laugh alone. 
 
 Double Dealer, Act I. Sc. 4. 
 
 So sharp-sighted is pride in blemishes, and so willing to be gra- 
 tified, that it takes up with the very slightest improprieties : such as 
 a blunder by a foreigner in speaking our language, especially if 
 the blunder can bear a sense that reflects on the speaker : 
 
 Quickly. The young man is an honest man. 
 
 Caius. What shall de honest man do in my closet 1 dere is no honest man dat 
 shall come in my closet. Merry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 Love-speeches are finely ridiculed in the following passage. 
 
 duoth he, My faith as adamantine, 
 As chains of destiny, I'll maintain ; 
 True as Apollo ever spoke, 
 Or oracle from heart of oak ; 
 And if you'll give my flame but vent, 
 Now in close hugger mugger pent, 
 And shine upon me but benignly, 
 With that one, and that other pigsney, 
 The sun and day shall sooner part, 
 Than love, or you, shake off my heart ; 
 The sun that shall no more dispense 
 His own but your bright influence : 
 I'll carve your name on barks of trees, 
 With true love-knots, and flourishes ; 
 That shall infuse eternal spring, 
 And everlasting flourishing : 
 16
 
 182 RIDICULE. [Ch. 12. 
 
 Drink ev'ry letter on't in stum, 
 
 And make it brisk champaign become. 
 
 Where-e'er you tread, your foot shall set 
 
 The primrose and the violet ; 
 
 All spices, perfumes, and sweet powders 
 
 Shall borrow from your breath their odours ; 
 
 Nature her charter shall renew, 
 
 And take all lives of things from you ; 
 
 The world depend upon your eye, 
 
 And when you frown upon it, die. 
 
 Only our loves shall still survive, 
 
 New worlds and natures to outlive ; 
 
 And, like to herald's moons, remain 
 
 All crescents, without change or wane. 
 
 Hudibras, Part 2. canto L 
 
 Irony turns things into ridicule in a peculiar manner ; it consists 
 in laughing at a man under disguise of appearing to praise or speak 
 well of him. Swift affords us many illustrious examples of that 
 species of ridicule. Take the following. 
 
 By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a writer, capable of 
 managing the profoundest and most universal subjects. For what though his 
 head be empty, provided his common-place book be full ! And if you will bate 
 him but the circumstances of method, and style, and grammar, and invention ; 
 allow him but the common privileges of. transcribing from others, and digressing 
 from himself, as often as he shall see occasion ; he will desire no more ingredients 
 towards fitting up a treatise that shall make a very comely figure on a booksel- 
 ler's shelf, there to be preserved neat and clean, for a long eternity, adorned with 
 the heraldry of its title, fairly inscribed on a label ; never to be thumbed or greased 
 by students, nor bound to everlasting chains of darkness in a library ; but when 
 the fulness of time is come, shall happily undergo the trial of purgatory, in order 
 to ascend the sky.* 
 
 I cannot but congratulate our age on this peculiar felicity, that though we have 
 indeed made great progress in all other branches of luxury, we are not yet de- 
 bauched with any high relish in poetry, but are in this one taste less nice than our 
 ancestors. 
 
 If the Reverend clergy shewed more concern than others, I charitably impute it 
 to their great charge of souls ; and what confirmed me in this opinion was. that 
 the degrees of apprehension and terror could be distinguished to be greater or less, 
 according to their ranks and degrees in the church. t 
 
 A parody must be distinguished from every species of ridicule; 
 it enlivens a gay subject by imitating some important incident that is 
 serious: it is ludicrous, and may be risible; but ridicule is not a 
 necessary ingredient. Take the following examples, the first of 
 which refers to an expression of Moses. 
 
 The skilful nymph reviews her force with care : 
 
 Let spades be trumps ! she said, and trumps they were. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, Canto III. 45. 
 
 The next is in imitation of Achilles's oath in Homer. 
 
 But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, 
 (Which never more shall join its parted hair, 
 Which never more its honors shall renew, 
 Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew,) 
 
 * Tale of a Tub, sect. 7. 
 
 t A true and faithful narrative of what passed in London during the general 
 consternation of all ranks and degrees of mankind.
 
 Ch. 12.J RIDICULE. 183 
 
 That while my nostrils draw the vital air, 
 This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear. 
 He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread 
 The long-contended honors of her head. 
 
 Ibid, Canto IV. 133. 
 
 The following imitates the history of Agamemnon's sceptre in 
 Homer. 
 
 Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd, 
 And drew a deadly bodkin from her side, 
 (The same, his ancient personage to deck, 
 Her great-great grandsire wore about his neck, 
 In three seal-rings ; which after, melted down, 
 Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown : 
 Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, 
 The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew ; 
 Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, 
 Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) 
 
 Ibid, Canto V. 87. 
 
 Though ridicule, as observed above, is no necessary ingredient in 
 a parody, yet there is no opposition between them : ridicule may be 
 successfully employed in a parody ; and a parody may be employed 
 to promote ridicule: witness the following example with respect to 
 the latter, in which the goddess of Dulness is addressed upon the 
 subject of modern education : 
 
 Thou gav'st that ripeness, which so soon began, 
 And ceas'd so soon, he ne'er was boy nor man ; 
 Through school and college, thy kind cloUd o'ercast, 
 Safe and unseen the young jEneas past ;* 
 Thence bursting glorious, all at once let down, 
 Stunn'd with his giddy larum half the town. 
 
 Dwiciad, B. IV. 287. 
 
 The interposition of the gods, in the manner of Homer and Vir- 
 gil, ought to be confined to ludicrous subjects, which are much enli- 
 vened by such interposition handled in the form of a parody ; wit- 
 ness the cave of Spleen, Rape of the Lock, canto 4. ; the goddess of 
 Discord, Lutrin, canto 1. ; and the goddess of Indolence, canto 2. 
 
 Those who have a talent for ridicule, which is seldom united with 
 a taste for delicate and refined beauties, are quick-sighted in impro- 
 prieties ; and these they eagerly grasp, in order to gratify their 
 favorite propensity. Persons galled are provoked to maintain, that 
 ridicule is improper for grave subjects. Subjects really grave are 
 by no means fit for ridicule: but then it is urged against them, that 
 when it is called in question whether a certain subject be really 
 grave, ridicule is the only means of- determining the controversy. 
 Hence a celebrated question, whether ridicule is or is not a test ot 
 truth ? I give this question a place here, because it tends to illus- 
 trate the nature of ridicule. 
 
 The question stated in accurate terms is, whether the sense of ridi- 
 cule is the proper test for distinguishing ridiculous objects, from 
 what are not so. Taking it for granted, that ridicule is not a subject 
 of reasoning, but of sense or taste, f I proceed thus. No person 
 
 * jEn. 1. 1. At Venus obscuro, &c. 
 
 t See Chap. 10. compared with Chap. 7.
 
 184 RIDICULE. [Ch. 12. 
 
 doubts but that our sense of beauty is the true test of what is beau- 
 tiful ; and our sense of grandeur, of what is great or sublime. Is 
 it more doubtful whether our sense of ridicule be the true test of 
 what is ridiculous? It is not only the true test, but indeed the only 
 test ; for this subject comes not, more than beauty or grandeur, under 
 the province of reason. If any subject, by the influence of fashion 
 or custom, have acquired a degree of veneration to which naturally 
 it is not entitled, what are the proper means for wiping off the arti- 
 ficial coloring, and displaying the subject in its true light ? A man 
 of true taste sees the subject without disguise : but if he hesitate, 
 let him apply the test of ridicule, which separates it from its arti- 
 ficial connections, and exposes it naked with all its native impro- 
 prieties. 
 
 But it is urged, that the gravest and most serious matters may be 
 set in a ridiculous light. Hardly so ; for where an object is neither 
 risible nor improper, it lies not open in any quarter to an attack 
 from ridicule. But supposing the fact, I foresee not any harmful 
 consequence. By the same sort of reasoning, a talent for wit ought 
 to be condemned, because it may be employed to burlesque a great or 
 lofty subject. Such irregular use made of a talent for wit or ridi- 
 cule, cannot long impose upon mankind : it cannot stand the test of 
 correct and delicate taste ; and truth will at last prevail even with the 
 vulgar. To condemn a talent for ridicule because it may be perverted 
 to wrong purposes, is not a little ridiculous. Could one forbear to 
 smile, if a talent for reasoning were condemned because it also may 
 be perverted ? and yet the conclusion in the latter case, would be not 
 less just than in the former: perhaps more just; for no talent is 
 more frequently perverted than that of reason. 
 
 We had best leave nature to her own operations : the most valu- 
 able talents may be abused, and so may that of ridicule : let us bring 
 it under proper culture if we can, without endeavoring to pluck it 
 up by the root. Were we destitute of this test of truth, I know not 
 what might be the consequences : I see not what rule would be left 
 us to prevent splendid trifles passing for matters of importance, 
 show and form for substance, and superstition or enthusiasm for pure 
 religion.
 
 Ch. 13.] WIT. 185 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 WIT. 
 
 Wit, a quality of certain thoughts and expressions, not applicable to an action or a 
 passion Divided into two kinds ; in the thought, and in the expression Wit 
 in the thought, divided into two kinds : ludicrous images; and ludicrous com- 
 binations of things Ludicrous combinations, divided into five kinds : fanciful 
 ^uses ; fanciful reasoning ; ludicrous junction of small things to great ; join- 
 ing things apparently opposite ; promises, promising much, and performing 
 nothing Verbal wit depends upon choosing words of different significations 
 Verbal wit of five kinds : seeming resemblance from the double meaning of the 
 words ; a verbal antithesis, or seeming contrast, from the same cause; seeming 
 connection from the same cause ; seeming opposition from the same cause ; tak- 
 ing words in a different meaning from what they were intended An assertion 
 that bears a double meaning a species of wit, called a pun. 
 
 WIT is a quality of certain thoughts and expressions : the term is 
 never applied to an action nor a passion, and as little to an external 
 object. 
 
 However difficult it may be, in many instances, 'tp* distinguish a 
 witty thought or expression from one that is not so, yet, in general, 
 it may be laid down, that the term wit is appropriated to such thoughts 
 and expressions as are ludicrous, and also occasion some degree of 
 surprise by their singularity. Wit also, in a figurative sense, expresses 
 a talent for inventing ludicrous thoughts or expressions : we say 
 commonly a witty man, or a man of wit. 
 
 Wit in its proper sense, as explained above, is distinguishable into 
 two kinds ; wit in the thought, and wit in the words or expression. 
 Again, wit in the thought is of two kinds; ludicrous images, and 
 ludicrous combinations of things that have little or no natural 
 relation. 
 
 Ludicrous images that occasion surprise by their singularity, as 
 having little or no foundation in nature, are fabricated by the imagi- 
 nation : and the imagination is well qualified for the office ; being ot 
 all our faculties the most active, and the least under restraint. Take 
 the following example : 
 
 Shylock. You knew (none so well, none so well as you) of my daughter's flight. 
 Sa.lino. That's certain ; I for my part knew the tailor that made the wings she 
 flew withal. Merchant of Venice, Act HI. Sc. 1. 
 
 The image here is undoubtedly witty. It is ludicrous : and it must 
 occasion surprise ; for having no natural foundation, it is altogether 
 unexpected. 
 
 The other branch of wit in the thought, is that only which is taken 
 
 notice of by Addison, following Locke, who defines it " to lie in the 
 
 assemblage of ideas ; and putting those together, with quickness and 
 
 variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, thereby 
 
 to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy."* 
 
 It may be defined more concisely, and perhaps more accurately, " A 
 
 junction of things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise 
 
 because they are unexpected."! The following is a proper example. 
 
 * B. II. Ch. 11. -2. t See Chap. 1. 
 
 16*
 
 186 WIT. [Ch. 13. 
 
 s~ We grant although he had much wit, 
 He was very shy of using it, 
 As being loth to wear it out ; 
 f And therefore bore it not about, 
 
 Unless on holidays, or so, 
 As men their best apparel do. Hudibras, Canto 1. 
 
 Wit is of all the most elegant recreation : the image enters the 
 mind with gayety, and gives a sudden flash, which is extremely plea- 
 sant. Wit thereby gently elevates without straining, raises mirth 
 without dissoluteness, and relaxes while it entertains. 
 
 Wit in the expression, commonly called a play of words, being a 
 bastard sort of wit, is reserved for the last place. I proceed to exam- 
 ples of wit in the thought; and first of ludicrous images. 
 
 Falstaff, speaking of his taking Sir John Coleville of the Dale : 
 
 Here he is, and here I yield him ; and I beseech your Grace, let it be book'd 
 with the rest of this day's deeds ; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular 
 ballad else, with mine own picture on the top of it, Coleville kissing my foot : to 
 the which course if I be enforc'd, if you do not all show like gilt twopences to me ; 
 and I, in the clear sky of fame, o'ershine you as much as the full moon doth the 
 cinders of the element, which show like pins' heads to her; believe not the word 
 of the Noble. Therefore let me have right, and let desert mount. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. 3. 
 
 1 knew, when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties 
 were met themselves, one of them thought but of an if; as, if you said so, then I 
 said so; and they shook hands, and swore brothers; Your if is the only peace- 
 maker ; much virtue is in if. Shakspeare. 
 
 For there is not through all Nature, another so callous, and insensible a mem- 
 ber, as the world's posteriors, whether you apply to it the toe or the birch. 
 
 Preface to a Tale of a Tid>. 
 
 The war hath introduced abundance of polysyllables, which will never be able 
 to live many more campaigns. Speculations, operations, preliminaries, ambassa- 
 dors, palisadoes, communication, circumvallation, battalions, as numerous as they 
 are, if they attack us too frequently in our coffeehouses, we shall certainly put 
 them to flight, and cut off the rear. Tatter, No. 230. 
 
 Speaking of Discord, 
 
 She never went abroad, but she brought home such a bundle of monstrous lies, 
 as would have amazed any mortal, but such as knew her ; of a whale that had 
 swallowed a fleet of ships ; of the lions being let out of the Tower to destroy the 
 Protestant religion; of me Pope's being seen in a brandy-shop at Wapping. &c, . 
 
 History of John Bull, Part I. Ch. 16. 
 
 The other branch of wit in the thought, namely, ludicrous combi- 
 nations and oppositions, may be traced through various ramifications. 
 And, first, fanciful causes assigned that have no natural relation to the 
 effects produced : 
 
 Lancaster. Fare you well, Falstaff; I, in my condition, 
 Shall better speak of you than you deserve. [Exit. 
 
 Falstaff. I would you had but the wit; 'twere better than your dukedom. 
 Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man can- 
 not make him laugh ; but that's no marvel, he drinks no wine. There's never 
 any of these demure boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth so overcool 
 their blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male green- 
 sickness ; and then, when they many, they get wenches. They, are generally fools 
 and cowards; which some of us should be too, but for inflammation. A good 
 sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it : it ascends me into the brain ; dries 
 me there all the foolish, dull, and crudy vapors which environ it ; makes it appre- 
 hensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes; which deli- 
 vered o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The
 
 Ch. 13.] WIT. 187 
 
 second property of your excellent sherris is, the warming of the blood ; which 
 before cold and settled, left the liver white and pale ; which is the badge of pusil- 
 lanimity and cowardice : but the sherris warms it, and makes it course from the 
 inwards to the parts extreme ; it illuminateth the face, which, as a beacon, gives 
 warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm ; and then the vital 
 commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who, 
 great, and puff 'd up with his retinue, doth any deed of courage : and thus valor 
 comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that 
 sets it a-work ; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack com- 
 mences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant ; 
 for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, steril, 
 an? bare land, manured, husbanded, and till'd, with excellent endeavor of drink- 
 ing good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If 
 I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them, should be 
 to forswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to sack. 
 
 Second Part of Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. 7. 
 
 The trenchant blade, toledo trusty, 
 For want of fighting was grown rusty, 
 And ate into itself, for lack 
 Of some body to hew and hack. 
 The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt, 
 The rancor of its edge had felt ; 
 For of the lower end two handful, 
 It had devoured, 'twas so manful ; 
 And so much scorn'd to lurk in case, 
 As if it durst not show its face. Hudibras, Canto I. 
 
 Speaking of physicians, 
 
 Le bon de cette profession est, qu'il y a parmi les morts une honndtete, une dis- 
 cretion la plus grande du monde ; jamais on n'en voit se plaindre du medecm qui 
 1'a tue. Le Medicin malgre lui. 
 
 Admirez les bontes, admirez les tendresses, 
 
 De ces vieux esclaves du sort. 
 Us ne sont jamais las d'acquerir des richesses, 
 Pour ceux qui souhaitent leur mort. 
 
 Belinda. Lard, he has so pester'd me with flames and stuff I think I shan't 
 endure the sight of a fire this twelvemonth. Old Bachelor, Act II. Sc. 8. j 
 
 To account for effects by such fantastical causes, being highly 
 ludicrous, is quite improper in any serious composition. Therefore 
 the following passage from Cowley, in his poem on the death of Sir 
 Henry Wooton, is in a bad taste. 
 
 He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find, 
 He found them not so large as was his mind. 
 But, like the brave Pellsean youth, did moan, 
 Because that art had no more worlds than one. 
 And when he saw that he through all had past, 
 He dy'd, lest he should idle grow at last. 
 
 Fanciful reasoning : 
 
 Falstaf. ImbowelPd! ifthou imbowelme to-day, I'll give you leave to 
 
 powder me, and eat me to-morrow ! 'Sblood, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that 
 hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit ! I lie, I am no 
 counterfeit; to die is to be a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man, 
 who hath not the life of a man ; but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby 
 liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. 
 
 First Part, Henry IV. Act V. Sc. 4. 
 
 Clown. And the more pity that great folk should have countenance in thi 
 world to drown or hang themselves, more than their even-christian. 
 
 Hamlet, Act V. Sc._l.
 
 188 WIT- [Ch. 13 - 
 
 Pedro. Will you have me, Lady"? 
 
 Beatrice. No, my Lord, unless I might have another for working days. Your 
 Grace is too costly to wear every day. 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing, Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 Jessica. I shall be saved by my husband ; he hath made me a Christian. 
 Launcelot. Truly the more to blame he ; we were Christians enough before, 
 e'en as many as could well live by one another : this making of Christians will 
 raise the price of hogs ; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not have a rasher 
 on the coals for money. Merchant of Venice, Act III. Sc. 5. 
 
 In western clime there is a town, 
 
 To those that dwell therein well known ; 
 
 Therefore there needs no more be said here, 
 
 We unto them refer our reader : 
 
 For brevity is very good 
 
 When w' are, or are not understood. Hudibras, Canto I. 
 
 But Hudibras gave him a twitch, 
 
 As quick as lightning, in the breech, 
 
 Just in the place where honor's lodg'd, 
 
 As wise philosophers have judg'd ; 
 
 Because a kick in that part, more 
 
 Hurts honor, than deep wounds before. Ibid. Canto III. 
 
 Ludicrous junction of small things with great, as of equal impor- 
 tance: 
 
 This day black omens threat the brightest fair 
 
 That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care : 
 
 Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight : 
 
 But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night : 
 
 Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law ; 
 
 Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; 
 
 Or stain her honor, or her new brocade ; 
 
 Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade ; 
 
 Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball ; 
 
 Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, Canto II. 101. 
 One speaks the glory of the British dueen, 
 And one describes a charming Indian screen. 
 
 Ibid. Canto III. 13. 
 
 Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, 
 And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. 
 Not louder shrieks to pitying Heav'n are cast, 
 When husbands or when lapdogs breathe their last 
 Or when rich china vessels fall'n from high, 
 In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments he ! 
 
 Ibid. Canto III. 155. 
 Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive, 
 Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, 
 Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, 
 Nor ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss, 
 Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, 
 Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry, 
 E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, 
 As thou, sad virgin, for thy ravish'd hair. Ibid. Canto IV. 3. 
 
 Joining things that in appearance are opposite. As for example, 
 where Sir Roger de Coverley, in the Spectator, speaking of his 
 widow, 
 
 That he would have given her a coal-pit to have kept her in clean linen ; and 
 that her finger should have sparkled with one hundred of his richest acres. 
 
 Premises that promise much and perform nothing. Cicero upon 
 that article says,
 
 Ch. 13.] WIT. 189 
 
 Sed scitis esse notissimum ridiculi genus, cum aliud expectamus, aliud dicitur : 
 hie nobismetipsisnoster error risum movet.* De Oratore, 1. ii. cap. 63. 
 
 Beatrice. With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in 
 
 his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world, if he could get her 
 good-will. Much Ado about Nothing, Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 Beatrice. I have a good eye, uncle, I can see a church by day-light. Ibid. 
 
 Le medecin que Ton m'indique 
 
 Sait le Latin, le Grec, 1'Hebreu, 
 
 Les belles lettres, la physique, 
 
 La chimie et la botanique. 
 
 Chacun lui donne son aveu : 
 
 II auroit aussi ma pratique ; 
 
 Mais je veux vivre encore un peu. 
 
 Vingt fois le jour le bon Gregoire 
 
 A soin de fermer son armoire. 
 
 De quoi pensez-vous qu'il a peur ? 
 
 Belle demande ! du'un voleur 
 
 Trouvant line facile proie, 
 
 Ne lui ravisse tout son bien. 
 
 Non ; Gregoire a peur qu'on ne voie 
 
 due dans son armoire il na rien. 
 Again, 
 
 L'athsmatique Damon a cru que 1'air des champs 
 
 Repareroit en lui le ravage des ans, 
 
 II s'est fait, a grands frais, transporter en Bretagne. 
 
 Orvoyezce qu a fait 1'air natal qu'il a pris ! 
 
 Damon seroit mort a Paris : 
 
 Damon est mort a la campagne. 
 
 Having discussed wit in the thought, we proceed to what is verbal 
 only, commonly called a play of words. This sort of wit depends, 
 for the most part, upon choosing a word that has different signifi- 
 cations : by that artifice hocus-pocus tricks are played in language, 
 and thoughts plain and simple take on a very different appearance. 
 Play is necessary for man, in order to refresh him after labor ; and 
 accordingly man loves play, even so much as to relish a play of 
 words : and it is happy for us, that words can be employed, not only 
 for useful purposes, but also for our amusement. This amusement, 
 though humble and low, unbends the mind ; and is relished by some 
 at all times, and by all at some times. 
 
 It is remarkable, that this low species of wit, has among all nations 
 been a favorite entertainment, in a certain stage of their progress 
 toward refinement of taste and manners, and has gradually gone into 
 disrepute. As soon as a language is formed into a system, and the 
 meaning of words is ascertained with tolerable accuracy, opportunity 
 is afforded for expressions that, by the double meaning of some 
 words, give a familiar thought the appearance of being new ; and 
 the penetration of the reader or hearer is gratified in detecting the 
 true sense disguised under the double meaning. That this sort of 
 wit was in England deemed a reputable amusement, during the 
 reigns of Elizabeth and James I., is vouched by the works of Shak- 
 speare, and even by the writings of grave divines. But it cannot have 
 * But you know that it is the masked kind of the ludicrous when we expect ono 
 Ihing and another is said here we laugh at our own mistake. 
 
 De Oratore, 1. ii cap. 63
 
 190 WIT. [Ch. 13. 
 
 any long endurance : for as language ripens, and the meaning of 
 words is more and more ascertained, words held to be synonymous 
 diminish daily ; and when those that remain have been more than 
 once employed, the pleasure vanishes with the novelty. 
 
 I proceed to examples, which, as in the former case, shall be dis- 
 tributed into different classes. 
 
 A seeming resemblance from the double meaning of a word : 
 
 Beneath this stone my wife doth lie; 
 She's now at rest, and so am I. 
 
 A seeming contrast from the same cause, termed a, verbal antithe- 
 sis, which has no despicable effect in ludicrous subjects : 
 
 While Iris his cosmetic wash would try 
 
 To make her bloom revive, and lovers die, 
 
 Some ask for charms, and others philters choose, 
 
 To gain Corinna, and their quartans lose. Dispensary, Canto 2. 
 
 And how frail nymphs, oft by abortion, aim 
 
 To lose a substance, to preserve a name. Ibid. Canto 3. 
 
 While nymphs take treats, or assignations give. 
 
 Rape of the Lock. 
 
 Other ce^miug connections from the same cause : 
 Will you employ your conqu'ring sword, 
 To break a fiddle, and your word 1 Hudibras, Canto 2. 
 
 To whom the knight with comely grace 
 
 Put off his hat to put his case. Ibid. Part 3. Canto 3. 
 
 Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 
 Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home ; 
 Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey, 
 Dost sometimes counsel take and sometimes tea. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, Canto 3. 1. 5. 
 O'er their quietus where fat judges dose, 
 And lull their cough and conscience to repose. 
 
 Dispensary, Canto 1. 
 Speaking of Prince Eugene : 
 This general is a great taker of snuff as well as of towns. 
 
 Pope, Key to the Lock. 
 
 Exul mentisque domusque. Metamorphoses, 1. ix. 409. 
 
 The exile from his mind and his home. 
 A seeming opposition from the same cause : 
 Hie quiescit qui nunquam quievit. 
 Here he rests, who never rested. 
 Agc.in, 
 
 duel age a cette Iris, dont on fait tant de bruit ? 
 Me demandoit Cliton naguere. 
 I! faut, dis-je, vous satisfaire, 
 Elle a vingt ans ie jour, et cinquante ans la nuit. 
 Again, 
 
 So like the chances are of love and war, 
 
 That they alone in this distinguish'd are; 
 
 In love the victors from the vanquish'd fly, 
 
 They fly that wound, and they pursue that die. Waller. 
 
 What new found witchcraft was in thee, 
 
 With thine own cold to kindle me 1 
 
 Strange art; like him that should devise 
 
 To make a burning-glass of ice. Coieley.
 
 Ch. 13.} WIT. 191 
 
 Wit of this kind is unsuitable in a serious poem ; witness the fol- 
 lowing line in Pope's Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady: 
 
 Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before. 
 This sort of writing is finely burlesqued by Swift : 
 
 Her hands the softest ever felt, 
 
 Though cold would burn, though dry would melt. 
 
 Strephon and, Chios. 
 
 taking a word in a different sense from what is meant, comes 
 under wit, because it occasions some slight degree of surprise : 
 
 Beatrice. I may sit in a corner, and cry Heigh ho ! for a husband. 
 
 Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. 
 
 Beatrice. I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your grace 
 ne'er a brother like you 1 Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could 
 come by them. Muck Ado about Nothing, Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 Falslaff. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. 
 
 Pistol. Two yards and more. 
 
 Falstaff. No quips, now, Pistol : indeed I am in the waist two yards about ; 
 but I am now about no waste ; I am about thrift. 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor, Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 Lo. Sands. By your leave, sweet ladies, 
 
 If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me : 
 I had it from my father. 
 
 Anne BvMen. Was he mad, sir ! 
 
 Sands. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too ; 
 But he would bite none K. Henry VIII. 
 
 An assertion that bears a double meaning, one right, one wrong, 
 but so introduced as to direct us to the wrong meaning, is a species of 
 bastard wit, which is distinguished from all others by the name pun. 
 For example, 
 
 Paris. Sweet Helen, I must woo you, 
 
 To help unarm our Hector : his stubborn buckles, 
 With these your white enchanting fingers touch'd, 
 Shall more obey, than to the edge of steel, 
 Or force of Greekish sinews ; you shall do more 
 Than all the island Kings, disarm great Hector. 
 
 TVoilus and Cressida, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 The pun is in the close. The word disarm has a double meaning; 
 it signifies to take off a man's armor, and also to subdue him in fight. 
 We are directed to the latter sense by the context ; but, with regard 
 to Helen, the word holds only true in the former sense. I go on with 
 other examples : 
 
 Esse nihil dicis quicquid petis, improbe Cinna : 
 Si nil, Cinna, petis, nil tibi, Cinna, nego. Martial, 1. 3. epigr. 61. 
 You say, wicked Cinna, that you ask nothing 
 If you ask nothing, I deny you nothing. 
 Jocondus geminum imposuit tibi, Sequana pontem ; 
 Hunc tu jure potes dicere pontificem. Sanazarius. 
 
 Sequana, Jocondus placed a double bridge over thee Well mayst thou cat 
 him a bridge-maker. (Pontifex, a priest.) 
 
 N. B. Jocondus was a monk. 
 
 Chief Justice. Well ! the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy. 
 Falstaff. He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in less. 
 Chief Justice. Your means are very slender, and your waste is great. 
 Falstaff. I would it were otherwise ; I would my means were greater, and 
 my waist slenderer. Second Part, Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 2.
 
 W1T - 
 
 13. 
 
 Celia. I pray you bear with me, I can go no further. 
 
 Clown. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you: yet I should 
 bear no cross if I did bear you : for I think you have no money in your purse. 
 
 As you, like it, Act II. Sc. 4. 
 
 He that imposes an oath makes it, 
 
 Not he that for convenience takes it ; 
 
 Then how can any man be said 
 
 To break an oath he never made 1 Hudibras, Part 2. Canto 2 
 
 The seventh satire of the first book of Horace is purposely contrived 
 o introduce at the close a most execrable pun. Talking of some infa- 
 mous wretch, whose name was Rex Rupilius, 
 
 Persius exclamat, Per magnos, Brute, deos te 
 
 Oro, qui reges consueris tollere, cur non 
 
 Hunc regem jugulas ? Operum hoc, mihi crede, tuorum est. 
 
 By all the immortal gods, O Brute, 
 To thee I make my iervent suit, 
 Thou, that art wont, all kings to kill, 
 Use this king also as you will ; 
 For take my word, it is the task 
 Of him that bears both ax and mask. 
 
 Though playing with words is a mark of a mind at ease, and dis- 
 posed to any sort of amusement, we must not thence conclude that 
 playing with words is always ludicrous. Words are so intimately 
 connected with thought, that if the subject be really grave, it will not 
 appear ludicrous even in that fantastic dress. I am, however, far 
 from recommending it in any serious performance : on the contrary, 
 the discordance between the thought and expression must be disa- 
 greeable ; witness the following specimen. 
 
 He hath abandoned his physicians, madam, under whose practices he hath per- 
 secuted time with hope : and finds no other advantage in the process, but only the 
 losing of hope by time. All's Well that Ends Well, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 K. Henry. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! 
 When that my care could not withhold thy riots, 
 What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? 
 
 Second Part, K. Henry IV. 
 
 If any one shall observe that there is a third species of wit, differ- 
 ent from those mentioned, consisting in sounds merely, I am willing 
 to give it place. And indeed it must be admitted, that many of Hudi- 
 bras's double rhymes come under the definition of wit given in the 
 beginning of this chapter : they are ludicrous, and their singularity 
 occasions some degree of surprise. Swift is no less successful than 
 Butler in this sort of wit; witness the following instances: God- 
 dess Boddice. Pliny Nicolini. Iscariots Chariots. Mitre 
 Nitre. Dragon Suffragan. 
 
 A repartee may happen to be witty : but it cannot be considered 
 as a species of wit ; because there are many repartees extremely 
 smart, and yet extremely serious. I give the following example. A 
 certain petulant Greek, objecting to Anacharsis that he was a Scy- 
 thian : True, says Anacharsis, my country disgraces me, but you 
 disgrace your country. This fine turn gives surprise ; but it is far 
 from being ludicrous.
 
 Ch. 14.] CUSTOM AND HABIT. 193 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 
 
 and habit distinguished Effects of habit either active or passive 
 he influence of habit in youth, in middle age, and in old age Habits rise and 
 decline gradually Things moderately agreeable become habitual sooner than 
 those highly agreeable ; the same is applicable to pleasures of the infer; ur senses 
 -^Length of time as well as frequency of acts, necessary to introduce an active 
 habit Agreeable objects of taste are not made habitual, but produce satiety and 
 d i sgust The same true with respect to objects extremely agreeable Violent pas- 
 sions not strengthened by repetition Difference between natural appetites'and 
 habit The pain of habit less under our power, than that which arises from a 
 want of gratification, and the delight not greater Difference between generic 
 and specific habits Moderate pleasures produce a generic habit Good effects 
 of misery Good effects of society Final cause of custom or painful business 
 Custom softens pain As another final cause, it puts the rich and the poor on 
 a level Illustrated Our native sensibility biassed by custom. 
 
 VIEWING man as under the influence of novelty, would one sus- 
 pect that custom also should influence him? and yet our nature is 
 equally susceptible of each: not only in different objects, but fre- 
 quently in the same. When an object is new, it is enchanting : 
 familiarity renders it indifferent; and custom, after a longer fami- 
 liarity, makes it again disagreeable. Human nature, diversified 
 with many and various springs of action, is wonderfully, and, 
 indulging the expression, intricately constructed. 
 
 Custom has such influence upon many of our feelings, by warp- 
 ing and varying them, that we must attend to its operations if we would 
 be acquainted with human nature. This subject, in itself obscure, 
 has'been much neglected ; and a complete analysis of it would be 
 no easy task. I pretend only to touch it cursorily ; hoping, how- 
 ever, that what is here laid down, will dispose diligent inquirers to 
 attempt farther discoveries. 
 
 Custom respects the action, habit the agent. By custom we mean 
 a frequent reiteration of the same act ; and by habit, the effect that 
 custom hasten the agent. This effect may be either active, witness 
 the dexterity produced by custom in performing certain exercises ; 
 or passive, as when a thing makes an impression on us different 
 from what it did originally. The latter only, as relative to the sen- 
 sitive part of our nature, comes under the present undertaking. 
 
 This subject is intricate : some pleasures are fortified by custom ; 
 and yet custom begets familiarity, and consequently indifference:* 
 in many instances, satiety and disgust are the consequences of reitera- 
 tion : again, though custom blunts the edge of distress and of pain, 
 yet the want of any thing to which we have been long accustomed, 
 is a sort of torture. A clue to guide rs through all the intricacies 
 of this labyrinth, would be an acceptable present. 
 
 Whatever be the cause, it is certain that we are much influenced 
 
 * If all the year were playing holidays, 
 To sport would be as tedious as to work : 
 But when they seldom come, they wish'd for come, 
 And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. 
 
 First Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 2. 
 17
 
 194 CUSTOM AND HABIT. [Ch. 14 
 
 by custom: it has an effect upon our pleasures, upon our actions, 
 and even upon our thoughts and sentiments. Habit makes no figure 
 during the vivacity of youth : in middle age it gains ground ; and in 
 old age governs without control. In that period of life, generally 
 speaking, we eat at a certain hour, take exercise at a certain hour, 
 go to rest at a certain hour, all by the direction of habit: nay, a 
 particular seat, table, bed, comes to be essential : and a habit in any 
 of these cannot be controlled without uneasiness. 
 
 Any slight or moderate pleasure frequently reiterated for a long 
 time, forms a peculiar connection between us and the thing that 
 causes the pleasure. This connection, termed habit, has the effect 
 to awaken our desire or appetite, for that thing when it returns not 
 as usual. During the course of enjoyment, the pleasure rises insensi- 
 bly higher and higher till a habit be established ; at which time the 
 pleasure is at its height. It continues not however stationary : the 
 same customary reiteration which carried it to its height, brings it 
 down again by insensible degrees, even lower than it was at first : 
 but of that circumstance I shall treat afterward. What at present 
 we have in view, is to prove by experiments, that those things which 
 at first are but moderately agreeable, are the aptest to become habitual. 
 Spiritous liquors, at first scarcely agreeable, readily produce an ha- 
 bitual appetite : and custom prevails so far, as even to make us fond 
 of things originally disagreeable, such as coffee, assafcetida, and 
 tobacco : which is pleasantly illustrated by Congreve : 
 
 Fainall. For a passionate lover, methinks you are a man somewhat too dis- 
 cerning in the failings of your mistress. 
 
 Mir obeli. And for a discerning man, somewhat too passionate a lover ; for I 
 like her with all her faults ; nay, like her for her faults. Her follies are so natural, 
 or so artful, that they become her; and those affectations which in another woman 
 would be odious, serve but to make her more agreeable. I'll tell thee, Fainall, 
 she once us'd me with that insolence, that in revenge I took her to pieces, sifted 
 her, and separated her failings ; I study'd 'em, and got 'em by rote. The cata- 
 logue was so large, that I was not without hopes, one day or other, to hate her 
 heartily : to which end I so us : d myself to think of 'em, that at length, contrary to 
 my design and expectation, they gave me every hour less and less disturbance ; 
 till in a few days, it became habitual to me to remember 'em without being dis- 
 pleased. They are now grown as familiar to me as my own frailties ; and in all 
 probability, in a little time longer, I shall like 'em as well. 
 
 The Way of the World, Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 A walk upon the quarter-deck, though intolerably confined, becomes, 
 however, so agreeable by custom, that a sailor in his walk on shore, 
 confines himself commonly within the same bounds. I knew a man 
 who had relinquished the sea for a country life : in the corner of his 
 garden he reared an artificial mount with a level summit, resembling 
 most accurately a quarter-deck, not only in shape but in size ; and 
 here he generally walked. In Minorca, Governor Kane made an 
 excellent road the whole length of the island ; and yet : he inhabitants 
 adhere to the old road, though not only longer but extremely bad.* 
 
 * Custom is a second nature. Formerly, the merchants of Bristol had no 
 place for meeting but the street, open to every variety of weather. An exchange 
 was erected for them with convenient piazzas. But so rivetted were they to their 
 accustomed place, that in order to dislodge them, the magistrates were forced to 
 break up the pavement, and to render the place a heap of rough stones.
 
 vt 
 
 
 
 Ch. 14.] CUSTOM AND HABIT. 195 
 
 Play, or gaming, at first barely amusing by the occupation it affords, 
 becomes in time extremely agreeable ; and is frequently prosecuted 
 with avidity, as if it were the chief business of life. The same 
 observation is applicable to the pleasures of the internal senses, those 
 of knowledge and virtue in particular : children have scarcely any 
 sense of these pleasures ; and men very little who are in the state of 
 nature without culture : our taste for virtue and knowledge improves 
 slowly ; but is capable of growing stronger than any other appetite 
 in human nature. 
 
 To introduce an active habit, frequency of acts is not sufficient 
 without length of time : the quickest succession of acts in a short 
 time, is not sufficient ; nor a slow succession in the longest time. 
 The effect must be produced by a moderate soft action, and a long 
 series of easy touches, removed from each other by short intervals. 
 Nor are these sufficient without regularity in the time, place, and 
 other circumstances of the action : the more uniform any operation 
 the sooner it becomes habitual. And this holds equally in a 
 ssive habit ; variety in any remarkable degree, prevents the effect : 
 thus any particular food will scarcely ever become habitual, where 
 the manner of dressing it is varied. The circumstances then requi- 
 site to augment a moderate pleasure, and at the long run to form a 
 habit, are weak uniform acts, reiterated during a long course of time 
 without any considerable interruption : every agreeable cause that 
 
 'perates in this manner, will grow habitual. 
 
 Affection and aversion, as distinguished from passion on the one 
 hand, and on the other from original disposition, are in reality habits 
 respecting particular objects, acquired in the manner above set forth. 
 The pleasure of social intercourse with any person, must originally 
 be faint, and frequently reiterated, in order to establish the habit of 
 affection. Affection thus generated, whether it be friendship or love, 
 seldom swells into any tumultuous or vigorous passion; but is 
 however the strongest cement that can bind together two individuals 
 of the human species. In like manner, a slight degree of disgust 
 often reiterated with regularity, grows into the habit of aversion, 
 which commonly subsists for life. 
 
 Objects of taste that are delicious, far from tending to become 
 habitual, are apt, by indulgence, to produce satiety and disgust : no 
 man contracts a habit of sugar, honey, or sweetmeats, as he does of 
 tobacco : 
 
 Dulcia non ferimus ; succo renovamur amaro. 
 
 Ovid. Art. Amcmd,. 1. 3. 
 
 We tire of sweets we are renovated by bitter juices. 
 
 These violent delights have violent ends, 
 And in their triumph die. The sweetest honey 
 Is loathsome in its own deliciousness, 
 And in the taste confounds the appetite ; 
 Therefore love mod'rately, long love doth so; 
 Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. 
 
 Romeo and, Juliet, Act II. Sc. 6. 
 
 The same observation holds with respect to all objects that being 
 extremely agreeable raise violent passions : such passions are in'
 
 196 CUSTOM AND HABIT. [Ch. 14. 
 
 compatible with a habit of any sort ; and in particular they never 
 produce affection nor aversion ; a man who at first sight falls vio- 
 lently in love, has a strong desire of enjoyment, but no affection for 
 the woman:* a man who is surprised with an unexpected favor, 
 burns for an opportunity to exert his gratitude, without having any 
 affection for his benefactor : neither does desire of vengeance for an 
 atrocious injury, involve aversion. 
 
 It is perhaps not easy to say why moderate pleasures gather 
 strength by custom : but two causes concur to prevent that effect in 
 the more intense pleasures. These, by an original law in our 
 nature, increase quickly to their full growth, and decay with no less 
 precipitation ;f and custom is too slow in its operation to overcome 
 that law. The other cause is no less powerful: exquisite pleasure 
 is extremely fatiguing ; occasioning, as a naturalist would say, great 
 expense of animal spirits ; j and of such the mind cannot bear so 
 frequent gratification, as to superinduce a habit : if the thing that 
 raises the pleasure return before the mind have recovered its tone 
 and relish, disgust ensues instead of pleasure. 
 
 A habit never fails to admonish us of the wonted time of gratifica- 
 tion, by raising a pain for want of the object, and a desire to have it. 
 The pain of want is always first felt ; the desire naturally follows : 
 and upon presenting the object, both vanish instantaneously. Thus, 
 a man accustomed to tobacco, feels, at the end of the usual interval, 
 a confused pain of want ; which at first points at nothing in particu- 
 lar, though it soon settles upon its accustomed object: and the same 
 
 * Violent love without affection is finely exemplified in the following story. 
 When Constantinople was taken by the Turks, Irene, a young Greek of an illus- 
 trious family, fell into the hands of Mahomet II., who was at that time in the 
 prime of youth and glory. His savage heart being subdued by her charms, he 
 shut himself up with her, denying access even to his ministers. Love obtained 
 such ascendant, as to make him frequently abandon the army, and fly to his 
 Irene. War relaxed, for victory was no longer the monarch's favorite passion. 
 The soMiers, accustomed to booty, began to murmur ; and the infection spread 
 even among the commanders. The Basha Mustapha, consulting the fidelity he 
 owed his master, was the first who durst acquaint him of the discourses held 
 publicly to the prejudice of his glory. 
 
 The sultan, after a gloomy silence, formed his resolution. He ordered Mus- 
 tapha to assemble the troops next morning ; and then with precipitation retired to 
 Irene's apartment. Never before did that princess appear so charming ; never 
 before did the prince bestow so many warm caresses. To give a new lustre to 
 her beauty, he exhorted her women, next morning, to bestow their utmost art and 
 care on her dress. He took her by the hand, led her into the middle of the army, 
 and pulling off her veil, demanded of the Bashas, with a -fierce look, whether they 
 had ever beheld such a beauty 1 After an awful pause, Mahomet, with one hand 
 laying hold of the young Greek by her beautiful locks, and with the other pulling 
 out his scimitar, severed the head from the body at one stroke. Then turning to 
 his grandees, with eyes wild and furious, " This sword," said he, " when it is my 
 will, knows to cut the bands of love." However strange it may appear, we learn 
 from experience, that desire of enjoyment, may consist with the most brutal aver- 
 sion, directed both to the same woman. Of this we have a noted example in the 
 first book of Sully's^emoirs ; to which I choose to refer the reader; for it is too 
 gross to be transcribed. 
 
 t See Chap. 2. Part 3. 
 
 * Lady Easy, upon her husband's reformation, expresses to her friend the 
 following sentiment : " Be satisfied ; Sir Charles has made me happy, even to a 
 pain of joy."
 
 Ch. 14.] CUSTOM AND HABIT. 197 
 
 may be observed in persons addicted to drinking, who are often in 
 an uneasy restless state before they think of the bottle. In pleasures 
 indulged regularly, and at equal intervals, the appetite, remarkably 
 obsequious to custom, returns regularly with the usual time of grati- 
 fication; not sooner, even though the object be presented. This 
 pain of want arising from habit, seems directly opposite to that of 
 satiety ; and it must appear singular, that frequency of gratification 
 should produce effects so opposite, as are the pains of excess and 
 of want. 
 
 The appetites that respect the preservation and propagation of our 
 species, are attended with a pain of want similar to that occasioned 
 by habit : hunger and thirst are uneasy sensations of want, which 
 always precede the desire of eating or drinking ; and a pain for 
 want of carnal enjoyment precedes the desire of an object. The 
 pain being thus felt independent of an object, cannot be cured but 
 by gratification. Very different is an ordinary passion, in which 
 desire precedes the pain of want : such a passion cannot exist but 
 while the object is in view ; and therefore, by removing the object 
 out of thought, it vanishes, with its desire, and pain of want.* 
 
 The natural appetites above mentioned differ from habit in the 
 following particular : they have an undetermined direction toward 
 all objects of gratification in general ; whereas an habitual appetite 
 is directed to a particular object : the attachment we have by habit 
 to a particular woman, differs widely from the natural passion which 
 comprehends the whole sex ; and the habitual relish for a particular 
 dish is far from being the same with a vague appetite for food. 
 That difference notwithstanding, it is still remarkable, that nature 
 has enforced the gratification of certain natural appetites essential 
 to the species, by a pain of the same sort with that which habit 
 produces. 
 
 The pain of habit is less under our power than any other pain 
 that arises from want of gratification : hunger and thirst are more 
 easily endured, especially at first, than an unusual intermission of 
 any habitual pleasure : persons are often heard declaring, they would 
 forego sleep or food, rather than tobacco. We must not, however, 
 conclude, that the gratification of an habitual appetite affords the 
 same delight with the gratification of one that is natural : far from it ; 
 the pain of want only is greater. 
 
 The slow and reiterated acts that produce a habit, strengthen the 
 mind to enjoy the habitual pleasure in greater quantity and more 
 frequency than originally ; and by that means a habit of intemperate 
 gratification is often formed : after unbounded acts of intemperance, 
 the habitual relish is soon restored, and the pain for want of enjoy- 
 ment returns with fresh vigor. 
 
 The causes of the present emotions hitherto in view, are either an 
 individual, such as a companion, a certain dwelling-place, a certain 
 amusement ; or a particular species, such as coffee, mutton, or any 
 other food. But habit is not confined to such. A constant train of 
 trifling diversions, may form sush a habit in the mind, that it cannot 
 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 3. 
 17*
 
 196 CUSTOM AND HABIT. [Ch. 14, 
 
 be easy a moment without amusement : a variety in the objects pre- 
 vents a habit as to any one in particular ; but as the train is uniform 
 with respect to amusement, the habit is formed accordingly ; and that 
 sort of habit may be denominated a generic habit, in opposition to 
 the former, which is a specific habit. A habit of a town-life, of 
 country sports, of solitude, of reading, or of business, where suffi- 
 ciently varied, are instances of generic habits. Every specific habit 
 has a mixture of the generic ; for the habit of any one sort of food 
 makes the taste agreeable, and we are fond of that taste wherever 
 found. Thus a man deprived of an habitual object, takes up with 
 what most resembles it ; deprived of tobacco, any bitter herb will do, 
 rather than want : a habit of punch, makes wine a good resource : 
 accustomed to the sweet society and comforts of matrimony, the man r 
 unhappily deprived of his beloved object, inclines the sooner to a 
 second. In general, when we are deprived of a habitual object, we 
 are fond of its qualities in any other object. 
 
 The reasons are assigned above, why the causes of intense plea- 
 sure become not readily habitual : but now we discover, that these 
 reasons conclude only against specific habits. In the case of a 
 weak pleasure, a habit is formed by frequency and uniformity of 
 reiteration, which, in the case of an intense pleasure, produces satiety 
 and disgust. But it is remarkable, that satiety and disgust have no 
 effect, except as to that thing singly which occasions them : a surfeit 
 of honey produces not a loathing of sugar; and intemperance with 
 one woman produces no disrelish of the same pleasure with others. 
 Hence it is easy to account for a generic habit in any intense plea- 
 sure : the delight we had in the gratification of the appetite inflames 
 the imagination, and makes us, with avidity, search for the same 
 gratification in whatever other subject it can be found. And thus 
 uniform frequency in gratifying the same passion upon different 
 objects, produces at length a generic habit. In this manner, one 
 acquires an habitual delight in high and poignant sauces, rich dress, 
 fine equipages, crowds of company, and in whatever is commonly 
 termed pleasure. There concurs, at the same time, to introduce this 
 habit, a peculiarity observed above, that reiteration of acts enlarges- 
 the capacity of the mind, to admit a more plentiful gratification than 
 originally, with regard to frequency as well as quantity. 
 
 Hence it appears, that though a specific habit cannot be formed 
 but upon a moderate pleasure, a generic habit may be formed upon 
 any sort of pleasure, moderate or immoderate, that has variety of 
 objects. The only difference is, that a weak pleasure runs naturally 
 into a specific habit; whereas an intense pleasure is altogether 
 averse to such a habit. In a word, it is only in singular cases that 
 a moderate pleasure produces a generic habit; but an intense plea- 
 sure cannot produce any other habit. 
 
 The appetites that respect the preservation and propagation of the 
 species, are formed into habit in a peculiar manner: the time as 
 well as measure of their gratification are much under the power of 
 custom ; which, by introducing a change upon the body, occasions 
 a proportional change in the appetites. Thus, if the body be gradu-
 
 Ch. 14.] CUSTOM AND HABIT. 199 
 
 ally formed to a certain quantity of food at stated times, the appetite 
 is regulated accordingly ; and the appetite is again changed, when a 
 different habit of body is introduced by a different practice. Here 
 it would seem, that the change is not made upon the mind, which is 
 commonly the case in passive habits, but upon the body. 
 
 When rich food is brought down by ingredients of a plainer taste, 
 the composition is susceptible of a specific habit. Thus the sweet 
 ta.te of sugar, rendered less poignant in a mixture, may, in course 
 of time, produce a specific habit for such mixture. As moderate 
 pleasures, by becoming more intense, tend to generic habits ; so 
 intense pleasures, by becoming more moderate, tend 10 specific habits. 
 
 The beauty of the human figure, by a special recommendation of 
 nature, appears to us supreme, amid the great variety of beauteous 
 forms bestowed upon animals. The various degrees in which indi- 
 viduals enjoy that property, render it an object, sometimes of a 
 moderate, sometimes of an intense passion. The moderate passion 
 admitting frequent reiteration without diminution, and occupying the 
 mind without exhausting it, turns gradually stronger till it becomes 
 a habit. Nay, instances are not wanting, of a face, at first disagree- 
 able, afterward rendered indifferent by familiarity, and at length 
 agreeable by custom. On the other hand, consummate beauty, at 
 the very first glance, fills the mind so as to admit no increase. 
 Enjoyment lessens the pleasure;* and if often repeated, ends com- 
 monly in satiety and disgust. The impressions made by consummate 
 beauty, in a gradual succession from lively to faint, constitute a series 
 opposite to that of faint impressions waxing gradually more lively, 
 till they produce a specific habit. But the mind, when accustomed 
 to beauty, contracts a relish for it in general, though often repelled 
 from particular objects by the pain of satiety : and thus a generic 
 habit is formed, of which inconstancy in love is the necessary con- 
 sequence : for a generic habit, comprehending every beautiful object, 
 is an invincible obstruction to a specific habit, which is confined to one. 
 
 But a matter which is of great importance to the youth of both 
 sexes, deserves more than a cursory view. Though the pleasant 
 emotion of beauty differs widely from the corporeal appetite, yet 
 when both are directed to the same object, they produce a very strong 
 complex passion :f enjoyment in that case must be exquisite; and 
 therefore more apt to produce satiety, than in any other case what- 
 ever. This is a never-failing effect, where consummate beauty in 
 the one party, meets with a warm imagination and great sensibility 
 in the other. What I am here explaining, is true without exaggera- 
 tion; and they must be insensible upon whom it makes no impres- 
 sion : it deserves well to be pondered by the young and the amorous, 
 who, in forming the matrimonial society, are too often blindly impelled 
 by the animal pleasure merely, inflamed by beauty. It may indeed 
 happen, after the pleasure is gone, and go it must with a swift pace, 
 that a new connection is formed upon more dignified and more lasting 
 principles : but this is a dangerous experiment : for even supposing 
 good sense, good temper, and internal merit of every sort, yet a new 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 3. t See Chap. 2. Part 4.
 
 200 CUSTOM AND HABIT. [Ch. 14. 
 
 connection upon such qualifications is rarely formed : it commonly, 
 or rather always happens, that such qualifications, the only solid 
 foundation of an indissoluble connection, are rendered altogether 
 invisible by satiety of enjoyment creating disgust. 
 
 One effect of custom, different from any that have been explained, 
 must not be omitted, because it makes a great figure in human nature: 
 Though custom augments moderate pleasures, and lessens those 
 that are intense, it has a different effect with respect to pain : for it 
 blunts the edge of every sort of pain and distress, faint or acute. 
 Uninterrupted misery, therefore, is attended with one good effect ; if 
 its torments be incessant, custom hardens us to bear them. 
 
 The changes made in forming habits, are curious. Moderate 
 pleasures are augmented gradually by reiteration, till they become 
 habitual ; and then are at their height : but they are not long sta- 
 tionary ; for from that point they gradually decay, till they vanish 
 altogether. The pain occasioned by want of gratification, runs a 
 different course : it increases uniformly; and at last becomes extreme, 
 when the pleasure of gratification is reduced to nothing : 
 
 It so falls out, 
 
 That what we have we prize not to the worth, 
 While we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost, 
 Why then we rack the value ; then we find 
 The virtue that possession would not show us 
 Whilst it was ours. 
 
 Mivch Ado about Nothing ', Act 4. Sc. 1. 
 
 The effect of custom with relation to a specific habit, is displayed 
 through all its varieties in the use of tobacco. The taste of that 
 plant is at first extremely unpleasant : our disgust lessens gradually 
 till it vanishes altogether ; at which period the taste is neither agree- 
 able nor disagreeable : continuing the use of the plant, we begin to 
 relish it ; and our relish improves by use, till it arrives at perfection: 
 from that period it gradually decays, while the habit is in a state of 
 increment, and consequently the pain of want. The result is, that 
 when the habit has acquired its greatest vigor, the relish is gone ; 
 and accordingly, we often smoke and take snuff habitually, without 
 PO much as being conscious of the operation. We must except gra- 
 tification after the pain of want ; the pleasure of which gratification 
 is the greatest when the habit is the most vigorous; it is of the 
 same kind with the pleasure one feels upon being delivered from the 
 rack, the cause of which is explained above.* This pleasure, how- 
 ever, is but occasionally the effect of habit ; and however exquisite, 
 is avoided as much as possible because of the pain that precedes it. 
 With regard to the pain of want, I can discover no difference 
 between a generic and a specific habit. But these habits differ widely 
 with respect to the' positive pleasure : I have had occasion to observe 
 that the pleasure of a specific habit decays gradually till it turn 
 imperceptible ; the pleasure of a generic habit, on the contrary, being 
 supported by variety of gratification, suffers little or no decay after 
 it comes to its height. However it may be with other generic habits, 
 the observation, I am certain, holds with respect to the pleasures 
 * Chap. 2. Part I. Sect. 3.
 
 .] CUSTOM AND HABIT. 
 
 of virtue and of knowledge : the pleasure of doing good has an 
 unbounded scope, and may be so variously gratified, that it can never 
 decay ; science is equally unbounded ; our appetite for knowledge 
 having an ample range of gratification, where discoveries are 
 recommended by novelty, by variety, by utility, or by all of them. 
 In this intricate inquiry, I have endeavored, but without success, 
 to discover by what particular means it is that custom has influence 
 upon us : and now nothing seems left, but to hold our nature to be 
 so framed, as to be susceptible of such influence. And supposing it 
 purposely so framed, it will not be difficult to find out several import- 
 ant final causes. That the power of custom is a happy contrivance 
 for our good, cannot have escaped any one who reflects, that business 
 is our province, and pleasure our relaxation only. Now satiety is 
 necessary to check exquisite pleasures, which otherwise would 
 engross the mind, and unqualify us for business. On the other hand, 
 as business is sometimes painful, and is never pleasant beyond 
 moderation, the habitual increase of moderate pleasure, and the con- 
 version of pain into pleasure, are admirably contrived for disappoint- 
 ing the malice of fortune, and for reconciling us to whatever course 
 of life may be our lot : 
 
 How use doth breed a habit in a man ! 
 
 This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 
 
 I better brook than flourishing peopled towns. 
 
 Here I can sit alone, unseen of any, 
 
 And to the nightingale's complaining notes 
 
 Tune my distresses, and record my woes. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act v. Sc. 4. 
 
 As the foregoing distinction between intense and moderate holds 
 m pleasure only, every degree of pain being softened by time, cus- 
 tom is a catholicon for pain and distress of every sort ; and of that 
 regulation the final cause requires no illustration. , 
 
 Another final cause of custom will be highly relished by every 
 person of humanity, and yet has in a great measure been overlooked ; 
 which is, that custom has a greater influence than any other known 
 cause, to put the rich and the poor upon a level : weak pleasures, 
 the share of the latter, become fortunately stronger by custom 
 while voluptuous pleasures, the share of the former, are continually 
 losing ground by satiety. Men of fortune, who possess palaces, 
 sumptuous gardens, rich fields, enjoy them less than passengers do. 
 The goods of fortune are not unequally distributed : the opulent pos- 
 sess what others enjoy. 
 
 And indeed, if it be the effect of habit, to produce the pain of 
 want in a high degree, while there is little pleasure in enjoyment, a 
 voluptuous life is of all the least to be envied. Those who are 
 habituated to high feeding, easy vehicles, rich furniture, a crowd of 
 valets, much deference and flattery, enjoy but a small share of hap- 
 piness, while they are exposed to manifold distresses. To such a 
 man, enslaved by ease and luxury, even the petty inconvenience in 
 travelling, of a rough road, bad weather, or homely fare, are serious 
 evils : he loses his tone of mind, turns peevish, and would wreak his 
 resentment even upon the common accidents of life. Better far to
 
 2Q2 CUSTOM AND HABIT. [Ch. 14. 
 
 3e the goods of fortune with moderation : a man who by temperance 
 nd activity has acquired a hardy constitution, is, on the one hand 
 Warded gainst external accidents; and, on the other, is provided 
 with ffreat variety of enjoyment ever at command. 
 
 I shaTclose this chapter with an article more delicate than abstruse, 
 namely, what authority custom ought to have over our taste , 
 &Ta& One particular is certain, that we cheerfully abandon o 
 the authority of custom things that nature has left indifferent 
 custom, not nature, that has established a Difference between the right 
 hand and the left, so as to make it awkward and disagreeable to use 
 The left where the right is commonly used. The various color 
 though they affect us differently, are all of them agreeable in then 
 purity: but custom has regulated that matter in another manner 
 black skin upon a human being, is to us disagreeable; andj 
 skin is, probably, no less so to a negro. Thus things, original 
 indifferent, become agreeable or disagreeable, by the force of carton. 
 Nor will this be surprising after the discovery made above, that 
 original a^reeableness or disagreeableness of an object, is, by II 
 influence of custom, often converted into the opposite quality. 
 
 Proceeding to matters of taste, where there is naturally a pr 
 ence of one thing before another ; it is certain, in the first place, th 
 our faint and more delicate feelings are readily susceptible of a 
 from custom ; and therefore that it is no proof of a defective ti 
 find these in some measure influenced by custom: dress and 
 modes of external behavior are regulated by custom in every coun- 
 try ' the deep red or vermilion with which the ladies in France 
 cover their cheeks, appears to them beautiful in spite of nature ; and 
 strangers cannot altogether be justified in condemning that practice, 
 considering the lawful authority of custom, or of the fashion as it 
 called It is told of the people who inhabit the skirts of the Alps 
 facing the north, that the swelling they have universally in the neck 
 is to them agreeable. So far has custom power to change the nati 
 of things, and to make an object originally disagreeable take on an 
 opposite appearance. 
 
 But, as to every particular that can be denominated 
 improper, right or wrong, custom has little authority, and ought to 
 have none. The principle of duty takes naturally place of every 
 other ; and it argues a shameful weakness or degeneracy of mind, 
 to find it in any case so far subdued as to submit to custom. 
 
 These few hints may enable us to judge in some measure of foreign 
 manners, whether exhibited by foreign writers or our own. A com- 
 parison between the ancients and the moderns was sometime ago a 
 favorite subject: those who declared for ancient manners thought it 
 ficient that these manners were supported by custom : their antago- 
 nists, on the other hand, refusing submission to custom as a standard 
 taste, condemned ancient manners as in several instances irratic 
 In that controversy, an appeal being made to different principles, with- 
 out the slightest attempt to establish a common standard, the < 
 could have no end. The hints above given tend to estal 
 standard for judging how far the authority of custom ought to b
 
 Ch. 14.] CUSTOM AND HABIT. 203 
 
 held lawful ; and, for the sake of illustration, we shall apply that 
 standard in a few instances. 
 
 Human sacrifices, the most dismal effect of blind and groveling 
 superstition, wore gradually out of use by the prevalence of reason 
 and humanity. In the days of Sophocles and Euripides, traces of 
 that practice were still recent ; and the Athenians, through the pre- 
 valence of custom, could without disgust suffer human sacrifices to 
 be represented in their theatre, of which the Iphigenia of Euripides 
 is a proof. But a human sacrifice, being altogether inconsistent with 
 modern manners, as producing horror instead of pity, cannot with 
 any propriety be introduced upon a modern stage. I must therefore 
 condemn the Iphigenia of Racine, which, instead of the tender and 
 sympathetic passions, substitutes disgust and horror. Another 
 objection occurs against every fable that deviates so remarkably from 
 improved notions and sentiments ; which is, that if it should even 
 command our belief by the authority of history, it appears too ficti- 
 tious and unnatural to produce a perception of reality:* a human 
 sacrifice is so unnatural, and to us so improbable, that few will be 
 affected with the representation of it more than with a fairy tale. The 
 objection first mentioned strikes also against the Phedra of that 
 author : the Queen's passion for her stepson, transgressing the bounds 
 of nature, creates aversion and horror rather than compassion. The 
 author in his preface observes, that the Queen's passion, however 
 unnatural, was the effect of destiny and the wrath of the gods ; and 
 he puts the same excuse in her own mouth. But what is the wrath 
 of a heathen god to us Christians ? we acknowledge no destiny in 
 passion ; and if love be unnatural, it never can be relished. A sup- 
 position like what our author lays hold of, may possibly cover slight 
 improprieties; but it -will never engage our sympathy for what 
 appears to us frantic or extravagant. 
 
 Neither can I relish the catastrophe of that tragedy. A man of 
 taste may peruse, without disgust, a Grecian performance describing 
 a sea-monster sent by Neptune to destroy Hippolytus : he considers, 
 that such a story might agree with the religious creed of Greece, 
 and may be pleased with the story, as what probably had a strong 
 effect upon a Grecian audience. But he cannot have the same indul- 
 gence for such a representation upon a modern stage : because no 
 story that carries a violent air of fiction can ever move us in any 
 considerable degree. 
 
 In the Coephores of Eschylus,f Orestes is made to say, that he 
 was commanded by Apollo to avenge his father's murder ; and yet 
 if he obeyed, that he was to be delivered to the furies, or be struck 
 with some horrid malady : the tragedy accordingly concludes with a 
 chorus, deploring the fate of Orestes, obliged to take vengeance 
 against a mother, and involved thereby in a crime against his will. 
 It is impossible for any modern to bend his mind to opinions so irra- 
 tional and absurd, which must disgust him in perusing even a Gre- 
 cian story. Again, among the Greeks, grossly superstitious, it was 
 a common opinion, that the report of a man's death was a presage 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 7. t Act 2.
 
 204 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 15. 
 
 
 
 of his death : and Orestes, in the first act of Electro,, spreading a 
 report of his own death, in order to blind his mother and her adul- 
 terer, is even in that case affected with the presage. Such imbecility 
 can never find grace with a modern audience : it may indeed pro- 
 duce some compassion for a people afflicted with absurd terrors, 
 similar to what is felt in perusing a description of the Hottentots ; 
 but such manners will not interest our affections, nor attach us to the 
 personages represented. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 The soul and body intimately connected Every class of emotions attended with 
 appearances peculiar to themselves Signs of external passions, voluntary and 
 involuntary Two kinds of voluntary, natural and arbitrary They resemble 
 the emotions which accompany them The manifold expressions of the hands 
 The difficulty of restraining them under violent emotions The same with 
 respect to words The expression of every vivid passion peculiar to itself 
 Every pleasant emotion has a common expression Involuntary signs are tem- 
 porary and permanent Temporary disappear with the passion Permanent 
 signs formed in youth, remain fixed through life Final cause is, to furnish us 
 with an infallible passage to the heart Conduct, the most perfect expression 
 of internal disposition The impatience to express strong emotions externally 
 Involuntary signs unavoidable No remarkable external signs produced by 
 quiescent emotions External signs not beheld with indifference Signs- of plea- 
 sant passions agreeable ; contrary, disagreeable External signs of a pleasant 
 passion, produce in the spectator a pleasant emotion ; and external signs of a 
 painful one, the reverse Little variety in external signs of pleasant passion ; 
 unpleasant, the reverse Some external signs of painful passions attractive, 
 some repulsive Final causes are six : it tends to fix the signification of many 
 words it promotes society it transfers through a circle the feelings of an indi- 
 vidual Dissocial passions, being hurtful, are very noted Subservient to mo- 
 rality Affliction, exciting sympathy, is the most illustrious of all fixed causes 
 Sympathy prompts us to relieve objects in distress Accounted for, by being 
 resolved into the constitution of our nature Signs of passion indicate that 
 man was intended to be open and sincere. 
 
 So intimately connected are the soul and body, that every agita- 
 tion in the former produces a visible effect upon the latter. There 
 is, at the same time, a wonderful uniformity in that operation; each 
 class of emotions and passions being invariably attended with an 
 external appearance peculiar to itself* These external appear- 
 ances or signs may not improperly be considered as a natural 
 language, expressing to all beholders emotions and passions as 
 they arise in the heart. Hope, fear, joy, grief, are displayed 
 externally : the character of a man can be read in his face ; and 
 beauty, which makes so deep an impression, is known to result, not 
 so much from regular features and a fine complexion, as from good 
 nature, good sense, sprightliness, sweetness, or other mental quality, 
 expressed upon the countenance. Though perfect skill in that lan- 
 guage be rare, yet what is generally known is sufficient for the ordi- 
 
 * Omnis enim motus animi, suum quendam a natura habet vultum et sonum et 
 gestum. Cicero. I. 3. De Orators. 
 
 For every emotion of the mind naturally has its own countenance, sound, and 
 gesture.
 
 'Ch. 15.] EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 205 
 
 nary purposes of life. But by what means we come to understand 
 the language, is a point of some intricacy: it cannot be by sight 
 merely ; for, upon the most attentive inspection of the human face, 
 all that can be discerned, are figure, color, and motion, which, singly 
 or combined, never can represent a passion, nor a sentiment : the 
 external sign is indeed visible ; but to understand its meaning we 
 must be able to connect it with the passion that causes it, an opera- 
 tion far beyond the reach of eyesight. Where, then, is the instruc- 
 tor to be found that can unveil this secret connection ? If we apply 
 to experience, it is yielded, that from long and diligent observation, 
 we may gather, in some measure in what manner those with whom 
 we are acquainted express their passions externally: but with respect 
 to strangers, we are left in the dark ; and yet we are not puzzled 
 about the meaning of these external expressions in a stranger, more 
 than in a bosom-companion. Farther, had we no other means but 
 experience for understanding the external signs of passion, we could 
 not expect any degree of skill in the bulk of individuals : yet mat- 
 ters are so much better ordered, that the external expressions of pas- 
 sion form a language understood by all, by the young as well as the 
 old, by the ignorant as well as the learned : I talk of the plain and 
 legible characters of that language : for undoubtedly we are much 
 indebted to experience in deciphering the dark and more delicate 
 expressions. Where then shall we apply for a solution of this intri- 
 cate problem, which seems to penetrate deep into human nature? In 
 my mind it will be convenient to suspend the inquiry, till we are 
 better acquainted with the nature of external signs, and with their 
 operations. These articles, therefore, shall be premised. 
 
 The external signs of passion are of two kinds, voluntary and 
 involuntary. The voluntary signs are also of two kinds : some are 
 arbitrary, some natural. Words are obviously voluntary signs : and 
 they are also arbitrary; excepting a few simple sounds expressive of 
 certain internal emotions, which sounds being the same in all lan- 
 guages, must be the work of nature : thus the unpremeditated tones 
 of admiration are the same in all men ; as also of compassion, resent- 
 ment, and despair. Dramatic writers ought to be well acquainted 
 . with this natural language of passion : the chief talent of such a 
 writer is a ready command of the expressions that nature dictates to 
 every person, when any vivid emotion struggles for utterance ; and 
 the chief talent of a fine reader is a ready command of tones suited 
 to these expressions. 
 
 The other kind of voluntary signs comprehends certain attitudes 
 or gestures that naturally accompany certain emotions with a sur- 
 prising uniformity; excessive joy is expressed by leaping, dancing, 
 or some elevation of the body : excessive grief, by sinking or depres- 
 sing it : and prostration and kneeling have been employed by all 
 nations, and in all ages, to signify profound veneration. Another 
 circumstance, still more than uniformity, demonstrates these gestures 
 to be natural, viz. their remarkable conformity or resemblance to the 
 passions that produce them.* Joy, which is a cheerful elevation of 
 
 * See Chan. 2. Ptirt 6. 
 '18
 
 206 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 15. 
 
 mind, is expressed by an elevation of body : pride, magnanimity, 
 courage, and the whole tribe of elevating passions, are expressed by 
 external gestures that are the same as to the circumstance of eleva- 
 tion, however distinguishable in other respects ; and hence an erect 
 posture is a sign or expression of dignity : 
 
 Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, 
 Godlike erect, with native honor clad, 
 in naked majesty, seem'd lords of all. 
 
 Paradise Lost, book 4. 
 
 Grief, on the other hand, as well as respect, which depresses the 
 mind, cannot, for that reason, be expressed more significantly than 
 by a similar depression of the body ; and hence, to be cast down, is 
 a common phrase, signifying to be grieved or dispirited.* 
 
 One would not imagine who has not given peculiar attention, that 
 the body should be susceptible of such variety of attitude and motion, 
 as readily to accompany every different emotion with a corresponding 
 expression. Humility, for example, is expressed naturally by hang- 
 ing the head ; arrogance, by its elevation ; and languor or despond- 
 ence, by reclining it to one side. The expressions of the hands are 
 manifold : by different attitudes and motions, they express, desire, 
 hope, fear ; they assist us in promising, in inviting, in keeping one 
 at a distance; they are made instruments of threatening, of suppli- 
 cation, of praise, and of horror ; they are employed in approving, in 
 refusing, in questioning ; in showing our joy, our sorrow, our doubts, 
 our regret, our admiration. These expressions, so obedient to pas- 
 sion, are extremely difficult to be imitated in a calm state: the 
 ancients, sensible of the advantage as well as difficulty of having 
 these expressions at command, bestowed much time and care in col- 
 lecting them from observation, and in digesting them into a practical 
 art, which was taught in their schools as an important branch of 
 education. Certain sounds are by nature allotted to each passion for 
 expressing it externally. The actor who has these sounds at com- 
 mand to captivate the ear, is mighty : if he have also proper ges- 
 tures at command to captivate the eye, he is irresistible. 
 
 The foregoing signs, though in a strict sense voluntary, cannot 
 however be restrained but with the utmost difficulty when prompted 
 by passion. We scarcely need a stronger proof than the gestures of 
 a keen player at bowls : observe only how he writhes his body, in 
 order to restore a stray bowl to the right track. It is one article of 
 good breeding, to suppress, as much as possible, these external signs 
 of passion, that we may not in company appear too warm, or too 
 interested. The same observation holds in speech: a passion, it is 
 true, when in extreme, is silent ;f but when less violent it must be 
 vented in words, which have a peculiar force not to be equalled in a 
 
 * Instead of a complimental speech in addressing a superior, the Chinese deliver 
 the compliment in writing, the smallness of the letters being proportioned to the 
 degree of respect; and the highest compliment is, to make the letters so small as 
 not to be legible. Here is a clear evidence of a mental connection between respect 
 and littleness : a man humbles himself before his superior ; and endeavors to con- 
 tract himself and his hand- writing within the smallest bounds. 
 
 t See Chap. 17.
 
 Ch. 15.] EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 207 
 
 sedate composition. The ease and security we have in a confidant, 
 may encourage us to talk of ourselves and of our feelings : but the 
 cause is more general ; for it operates when we are alone as well as 
 in company. Passion is the cause ; for in many instances it is no 
 slight gratification, to vent a passion externally by words as well as 
 by gestures. Some passions, when at a certain height, impel us so 
 strongly to vent them in words, that we speak with an audible voice 
 even when there is none to listen. It is that circumstance in passion 
 which justifies soliloquies ; and it is that circumstance which proves 
 them to be natural.* The mind sometimes favors this impulse of 
 passion, by bestowing a temporary sensibility upon any object at 
 hand, in order to make it a confidant. Thus, in the Winter's Tale,\ 
 Antigonus addresses himself to an infant whom he was ordered to 
 expose ; 
 
 Come, poor babe, 
 
 I have heard, but not believ'd, the spirits of the dead 
 May walk again ; if such things be, thy mother 
 Appear'cl to me last night ; for ne'er was dream 
 So like a waking. 
 
 The involuntary signs, which are all of them natural, are either 
 peculiar to one passion, or common to many. Every vivid passion 
 hath an external expression peculiar to itself; not excepting pleasant 
 passions; witness admiration and mirth. The pleasant emotions 
 that are less vivid have one common expression ; from which we 
 may gather the strength of the emotion, but scarce the kind : we 
 perceive a cheerful or contented look ; and we can make no more of 
 it. Painful passions, being all of them violent, are distinguishable 
 from each other by their external expressions : thus fear, shame, 
 anger, anxiety, dejection, despair, have each of them peculiar expres- 
 sions; which are apprehended without the least confusion: some 
 painful passions produce violent effects upon the body, trembling, for 
 example, starting, and swooning; but these effects, depending in a 
 good measure upon singularity of constitution, are not uniform in all 
 men. 
 
 The involuntary signs, such of them as are displayed upon the 
 countenance, are of two kinds : some are temporary, making their 
 appearance with the emotions that produce them, and vanishing with 
 these emotions ; others, being formed gradually by some violent pas- 
 sion often recurring, become permanent signs of that passion, and 
 
 * Though a soliloquy in the perturbation of passion is undoubtedly natural, 
 and indeed not unfrequent in real life ; yet Congreve, who himself has penned 
 several good soliloquies, yields, with more candor than knowledge, that they are 
 unnatural ; and he only pretends to justify them from necessity. This he does in 
 his dedication of the Double Dealer, in the following words : " When a man in a 
 soliloquy reasons with himself, and pro's and con's, and weighs all his designs; 
 we ought not to imagine, that this man either talks to us, or to himself: he is 
 only thinking, and thinking (frequently) such matter as it were inexcusable folly 
 in him to speak. But because we are concealed spectators of the plot in agita- 
 tion, and the poet finds it necessary to let us know the whole mystery of his con- 
 trivance, he is willing to inform us of this person's thoughts ; and to that end is 
 forced to make use of the expedient of speech, no other better way being yet 
 invented for the communication of thought." 
 
 t Act 3. sc. 3.
 
 208 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 15, 
 
 serve to denote the disposition or temper. The face of an infant indi- 
 cates no particular disposition, because it cannot be marked with any 
 character, to which time is necessary. Even the temporary signs 
 are extremely awkward, being the first rude essays of Nature to dis- 
 cover internal feelings : thus the shrieking of a new born infant, 
 without tears or sobbings, is plainly an attempt to weep ; and some 
 of these temporary signs, as smiling and frowning, cannot be 
 observed for some months after birth. Permanent signs, formed in 
 youth while the body is soft and flexible, are preserved entire by the 
 firmness and solidity that the body acquires, and are never obliterated 
 even by a change of temper. Such signs are not produced after the 
 fibres become rigid ; some violent cases excepted, such as reiterated 
 fits of the gout or stone through a course of time : but these signs are 
 not so obstinate as those which are produced in youth ; for when the 
 cause is removed, they gradually wear away, and at last vanish. 
 
 The natural signs of emotions, voluntary and involuntary, being 
 nearly the same in all men. form a universal language, which no 
 distance of place, no difference of tribe, no diversity of tongue, can 
 darken or render doubtful : even education, though of mighty influ- 
 ence, has not power to vary nor sophisticate, far less to destroy, their 
 signification. This is a wise appointment of Providence ; for if these 
 signs were, like words, arbitrary and variable, the thoughts and 
 volitions of strangers would be entirely hid from us; which would 
 prove a great, or rather invincible, obstruction to the formation ot 
 societies : but as matters are ordered, the external appearances of 
 joy, grief, anger, fear, shame,, and of the other passions, forming a 
 universal language, open a direct, avenue to the heart. As the arbi- 
 trary signs vary in every country, there could be no communication 
 of thoughts among different nations, were it not for the natural signs, 
 in which all agree : and as the discovering of passions instantly at 
 their birth, is essential to our well-being, and often necessary for 
 self-preservation, the Author of our nature, attentive to our wants, 
 has provided a passage to the heart, which never can be obstructed 
 while eyesight remains. 
 
 In an inquiry concerning the external signs of passion, actions 
 must not be overlooked ; for though singly they afford no clear 
 light, they are, upon the whole, the best interpreters of the heart.* 
 By observing a man's conduct for a course of time, we discover 
 unerringly the various passions that move him to action, what he 
 loves, and what he hates. In our younger years, every single action 
 is a mark, not at all ambiguous, of the temper ; for in childhood 
 
 * .The actions here chiefly in view, are what a passion suggests in order to its 
 gratification. Beside these, actions are occasionally exerted to give some vent to 
 a passion, without any view to an ultimate gratification. Such occasional action 
 is characteristical of the passion in a high degree ; and for that reason, when hap- 
 pily invented, has a wonderfully good effect : 
 
 Hamlet. Oh most pernicious woman ! 
 Oh villain, villain, smiling damned villain ! 
 My tables meet it is I set it down, 
 That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain 
 At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark. [ Writing. 
 So, uncle, there you are. Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 5.
 
 .] EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 209 
 
 there is little or no disguise : the subject becomes more intricate in 
 advanced age; but even there, dissimulation is seldom carried on 
 for any length of time. And thus the conduct of life is the most per- 
 fect expression of the internal disposition. It merits not indeed the 
 title of a universal language ; because it is not thoroughly under- 
 stood except by those of penetrating genius or extensive observation : 
 it is a language, however, which every one can decipher in some 
 measure ; and which, joined with the other external signs, affords 
 sufficient means for the direction of our conduct with regard to 
 others : if we commit any mistake when such light is afforded, it 
 can never be the effect of unavoidable ignorance, but of rashness 
 or inadvertence. 
 
 Reflecting on the various expressions of our emotions, we recog- 
 nise the anxious care of Nature to discover men to each other. 
 Strong emotions, as above hinted, beget an impatience to express 
 them externally by speech and other voluntary signs, which cannot 
 be suppressed without a painful effort : thus a sudden fit of passion, 
 is a common excuse for indecent behavior or opprobrious language. 
 As to involuntary signs, these are altogether unavoidable : no voli- 
 tion nor effort can prevent the shaking of the limbs, nor a pale visage, 
 in a fit of terror : the blood will fly to the face upon a sudden emotion 
 of shame, in spite of all opposition. 
 
 Emotions indeed, properly so called, which are quiescent, produce 
 no remarkable signs externally. Nor is it necessary that the more 
 deliberate passions should, because the operation of such passions is 
 neither sudden nor violent. These, however, remain not altogether 
 in obscurity ; for being more frequent than violent passion, the bulk 
 of our actions are directed by them. Actions therefore display, with 
 sufficient evidence, the more deliberate passions ; and complete the 
 admirable system of external signs, by which we become skilful in 
 human nature. 
 
 What comes next in order is, to examine the effects produced upon 
 a spectator by external signs of passion. None of these signs arc 
 beheld with indifference : they are productive of various emotions, 
 tending all of them to ends wise and good. This curious subject 
 makes a capital branch of human nature : it is peculiarly useful to 
 writers who deal in the pathetic ; and to history painters it is 
 indispensable. 
 
 It is mentioned above, that each passion, or class of passions, has 
 its peculiar signs ; and, with respect to the present subject, it must 
 be added, that these invariably make certain impressions on a spec- 
 tator : the external signs of joy, for example, produce a cheerful 
 emotion ; the external signs of grief produce pity ; and the external 
 signs of rage produce a sort of terror even in those who are not 
 aimed at. 
 
 Secondly, it is natural to think, that pleasant passions should 
 express themselves externally by signs that to a spectator appear 
 agreeable, and painful passions by signs that to him appear dis- 
 agreeable. This conjecture, which Nature suggests, is confirmed 
 by experience. Pride possibly may be thought an exception, the 
 18*
 
 210 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 15. 
 
 external signs of which are disagreeable, though it is commonly 
 reckoned a pleasant passion : but pride is not an exception, being in 
 reality a mixed passion, partly pleasant, and partly painful; for 
 when a proud man confines his thoughts to himself, and to his own 
 dignity or importance, the passion is pleasant, and its external signs 
 agreeable ; but as pride chiefly consists in undervaluing or contemn- 
 ing others, it is so far painful, and its external signs disagreeable. 
 
 Thirdly, it is laid down above, that an agreeable object produces 
 always a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable object one that is pain- 
 ful.* According to this law, the external signs of a pleasant passion, 
 being agreeable, must produce in the spectator a pleasant emotion : 
 and the external signs of a painful passion, being disagreeable, must 
 produce in him a painful emotion. 
 
 Fourthly, in the present chapter it is observed, that pleasant pas- 
 sions are, for the most part, expressed externally in one uniform 
 manner ; but that all the painful passions are distinguishable from 
 each other by their external expressions. The emotions accordingly 
 raised in a spectator by external signs of pleasant passions, have little 
 variety : these emotions are pleasant or cheerful, and we have not 
 words to reach a more particular description. But the external signs 
 of painful passions produce in the spectator emotions of different 
 kinds : the emotions, for example, raised by external signs of grief,, 
 of remorse, of anger, of envy, of malice, are clearly distinguishable 
 from each other. 
 
 Fifthly, external signs of painful passions are some of them 
 attractive, and some repulsive. Of every painful passion that is also- 
 disagreeable,! the external signs are repulsive, repelling the specta- 
 tor from the object : and the passion raised by such external signs 
 may be also considered as repulsive. Painful passions that are 
 agreeable produce an opposite effect. Their external signs are 
 attractive, drawing the spectator to them, and producing in him 
 benevolence to the person upon whom these signs appear : witness 
 distress painted on the countenance, which instantaneously inspires 
 the spectator with pity, and impels him to afford relief. And the pas- 
 sion raised by such external signs may also be considered as attract- 
 ive. The cause of this difference among the painful passions raised 
 by their external signs may be readily gathered from what is laid 
 down, chap. 2. part 7. 
 
 It is now time to look back to the question proposed in the begin- 
 ning, How we come to understand external signs, so as to refer each 
 sign to its proper passion ! We have seen that this branch of know- 
 ledge cannot - derived originally from sight, nor from experience. 
 Is it then implanted in us by nature? The following considerations 
 will incline us to answer the question in the affirmative. In the first 
 place, the external signs of passion must be natural: for they are 
 invariably the same in every country, and among the different tribes 
 of men : pride, for example, is always expressed by an erect posture, 
 reverence by prostration, and sorrow by a dejected look. Secondly* 
 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 7. 
 
 + See passions explained as agreeable or disagreeable, Chap. 2. Part 2.
 
 Ch. 15.] EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 211 
 
 we are not even indebted to experience for the knowledge that these 
 expressions are natural and universal; for we are so framed as to 
 have an innate conviction of the fact. Let a man change his habita- 
 tion to the other side of the globe, he will, from the accustomed signs, 
 infer the passion of fear among his new neighbors, with as little 
 hesitation as he did at home. But why, after all, involve ourselves 
 in preliminary observations, when the doubt may be directly solved 
 as-^bllows ! That, if the meaning of external signs be not derived to 
 us from sight, nor from experience, there is no remaining source 
 whence it can be derived but from nature. 
 
 We may then venture to pronounce, with some degree of assu- 
 rance, that man is provided by nature with a sense or faculty that 
 lays open to him every passion by means of its external expressions. 
 And we cannot entertain any reasonable doubt of this, when we 
 reflect, that the meaning of external signs is not hid even from 
 infants. An infant is remarkably affected with the passions of its 
 nurse expressed in her countenance : a smile cheers it, a frown 
 makes it afraid : but fear cannot exist without apprehending danger ; 
 and what danger can the infant apprehend, unless it be sensible that 
 its nurse is angry? We must therefore admit, that a child can read 
 anger in its nurse's face ; of which it must be sensible intuitively, for 
 it has no other means of knowledge. Ido not affirm, that these par- 
 ticulars are clearly apprehended by the child; for to produce clear 
 and distinct perceptions, reflection and experience are requisite : but 
 that even an infant, when afraid, must have some notion of its being 
 in danger, is evident. 
 
 That we should be conscious intuitively of a passion from its 
 external expressions, is conformable to the analogy of nature : the 
 knowledge of that language is of too great importance to be left upon 
 experience ; because a foundation so uncertain and precarious, would 
 prove a great obstacle to the formation of societies. Wisely, there- 
 fore, is it ordered, and agreeably to the system of Providence, that 
 we should have nature for our instructor. 
 
 Manifold and admirable are the purposes to which the external 
 signs of passion are made subservient by the Author of our nature: 
 those occasionally mentioned above, make but a part. Several final 
 causes remain to be unfolded ; and to that task I proceed with alac- 
 rity. In the first place, the signs of internal agitation displayed 
 externally to every spectator, tend to fix the signification of many 
 words. The only effectual means to ascertain the meaning of any 
 doubtful word, is an appeal to the thing it represents : and hence the 
 ambiguity of words expressive of things that are not objects of exter- 
 nal sense ; for in that case an appeal is denied. Passion, strictly 
 speaking, is not an object of external sense; but its external signs 
 are : and by means of these signs, passions may be appealed to with 
 tolerable accuracy. Thus the words that denote our passions, next 
 to those that denote external objects, have the most distinct meaning. 
 Words signifying internal action and the more delicate feelings, 
 are less distinct. This defect with regard to internal action, is what 
 chiefly occasions the intricacy of logic . the terms of that science are
 
 212 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 15. 
 
 far from being sufficiently ascertained, even after much care and 
 labor bestowed by an eminent writer ;* to whom, however, the 
 world is greatly indebted, for removing a mountain of rubbish, and 
 moulding the subject into a rational and correct form. The same 
 defect is remarkable in criticism, which has for its object the more 
 delicate feelings ; the terms that denote these feelings being not more 
 distinct than those of logic. To reduce the science of criticism to 
 any regular form, has never once been attempted : however rich the 
 ore may be, no critical chemist has been found, to analyze its consti- 
 tuent parts, and to distinguish each by its own name. 
 
 In the second place, society among individuals is greatly promoted 
 oy that universal language. Looks and gestures give direct access 
 to the heart, and lead us to select, with tolerable accuracy, the per- 
 sons who are worthy of our confidence. It is surprising how quickly, 
 and for the most part how correctly, we judge of character from 
 external appearance. 
 
 Thirdly, after social intercourse is commenced, these external 
 signs, which diffuse, through a whole assembly, the feelings of each 
 individual, contribute above all other means to improve the social 
 affections. Language, no doubt, is the most comprehensive vehicle 
 for communicating emotions : but in expedition, as well as in power 
 of conviction, it falls short of the signs under consideration ; the 
 involuntary signs especially, which are incapable of deceit. Where 
 the countenance, the tones, the gestures, the actions, join with the 
 words in communicating emotions, these united have a force irre- 
 sistible. Thus all the pleasant emotions of the human heart, with 
 all the social and virtuous affections, are, by means of these external 
 signs, not only perceived, but felt. By this admirable contrivance, 
 conversation becomes that lively and animating amusement, with- 
 out which life would at best be insipid: one joyful countenance 
 spreads cheerfulness instantaneously through a multitude of spec- 
 tators. 
 
 Fourthly, dissocial passions, being hurtful by prompting violence 
 and mischief, are noted by the most conspicuous external signs, in 
 order to put us upon our guard. Thus anger and revenge, especially 
 when sudden, display themselves on the countenance in legible cha- 
 racters.! The external signs again of every passion that threatens 
 danger raise in us the passion of fear : which frequently operating 
 
 * Locke. 
 
 t Rough and blunt manners are allied to anger by an internal feeling, as well 
 as by external expressions resembling in a faint degree those of anger: therefore 
 such manners are easily heightened into anger ; and savages for that reason are 
 prone to anger. Thus rough and blunt manners are unhappy in two respects : 
 first, they are readily converted into anger ; and next, the change being impercep- 
 tible because of the similitude of their external signs, the person against whom the 
 anger is directed is not put upon his guard. It is for these reasons a great object 
 in society, to correct such manners, and to bring on a habit of sweetness and calm- 
 ness. This temper has two opposite good effects. First, it is not easily provoked 
 to wrath. Next, the interval being great between it and real anger, a person of that 
 temper who receives an affront, has many changes to go through before his anger 
 be inflamed : these changes have each of them their external sign ; and the offend- 
 ing party is put upon his guard, to retire, or to endeavor a reconciliation.
 
 Ch. 15 
 
 15] EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 213 
 
 without reason or reflection, moves us by a sudden impulse to 
 avoid the impending danger.* 
 
 In the fifth place, these external signs are remarkably subservient 
 to morality. A painful passion, being accompanied with disagreea- 
 ble external signs, must produce in every spectator a painful emo- 
 tion : but then, if the passion be social, the emotion it produces is 
 attractive, and connects the spectator with the person who suffers. 
 Dissocial passions only are productive of repulsive emotions, involv- 
 ing the spectator's aversion, and frequently his indignation. This 
 beautiful contrivance makes us cling to the virtuous, and abhor the 
 wicked. 
 
 Sixthly, of all the external signs of passion, those of affliction or 
 distress are the most illustrious with respect to a final cause. They 
 are illustrious by the singularity of their contrivance, and also by 
 inspiring sympathy, a passion to which human society is indebted 
 for its greatest blessing, that of providing relief for the distressed. 
 A subject so interesting deserves a leisurely and attentive examina- 
 tion. The conformity of the nature of man to his external circum- 
 stances is in every particular wonderful : his nature makes him prone 
 to society ; and society is necessary to his well-being, because in a 
 solitary state he is a helpless being, destitute of support, and in his 
 manifold distresses destitute of relief. But mutual support, the 
 shining attribute of society, is of too great moment to be left depends 
 ent upon cool reason : it is ordered more wisely, and with greater 
 conformity to the analogy of nature, that it should be enforced even 
 instinctively by the passion of sympathy. Here sympathy makes a 
 capital figure, and contributes, more than any other means, to make 
 life easy and comfortable. But, however essential the sympathy of 
 others may be to our well-being, one beforehand would not readily 
 conceive how it could be raised by external signs of distress : 
 for considering the analogy of nature, if these signs be agreeable, 
 they must give birth to a pleasant emotion leading every beholder to 
 be pleased with human woes : if disagreeable, as they undoubtedly 
 are, ought they not naturally to repel the spectator from them, in 
 order to be relieved from pain ? Such would be the reasoning before- 
 hand ; and such would be the effect were, man purely a selfish being. 
 But the benevolence of our nature gives a very different direction to 
 the painful passion of sympathy, and to the desire involved in it: 
 instead of avoiding distress, we fly to it in order to afford relief: and 
 our sympathy cannot be otherwise gratified but by giving all the suc- 
 cor in our power, f Thus external signs of distress, though disa- 
 greeable, are attractive ; and the sympathy they inspire is a powerful 
 cause, impelling us to afford relief even to a stranger as if he were 
 our friend or relation. :(: 
 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 6. t See Chap. 2. Part 7. 
 
 t It is a noted observation, that the deepest tragedies are the most crowded ; 
 which in a slight view will be thought an unaccountable bias in human nature. 
 Love of novelty, desire of occupation, beauty of action, make us fond of theatrical 
 representations ; and, when once engaged, we must follow the story to the conclu- 
 sion, whatever distress it may create. But we generally become wise by experi- 
 ence j and when we foresee what pain we shall suffer during the course of the
 
 214 EXTERNAL SIGNS OP EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [CL 15. 
 
 The effects produced in all beholders by external signs of passion, 
 tend so visibly to advance the social state, that I must indulge my 
 heart with a more narrow inspection of this admirable branch of the. 
 human constitution. These external signs, being all of them resol- 
 vable into color, figure, and motion, should not naturally make any 
 deep impression on a spectator : and supposing them qualified for 
 making deep impressions, we have seen above, that the effects they 
 produce are not such as might be expected. We cannot, therefore, 
 account otherwise for the operation of these external signs, but by 
 ascribing it to the original constitution of human nature : to improve 
 the social state, by making us instinctively rejoice with the glad of 
 heart, weep with the mourner, and shun those who threaten danger, 
 is a contrivance no less illustrious for its wisdom than for its benevo- 
 lence. With respect to the external signs of distress in particular, to 
 judge of the excellency of their contrivance, we need only reflect 
 upon several other means seemingly more natural, that would not 
 have answered the end proposed. What if the external signs of joy 
 were disagreeable, and the external signs of distress agreeable? 
 This is no whimsical supposition, because there appears not any 
 necessary connection between these signs and the emotions produced 
 by them in a spectator. Admitting then the supposition, the ques- 
 tion is, how would our sympathy operate ? There is no occasion to 
 deliberate for an answer : sympathy would be destructive, and not 
 beneficial: for, supposing the external signs of joy disagreeable, the 
 happiness of others would be our aversion ; and supposing the exter- 
 nal signs of grief agreeable, the distresses of others would be our en- 
 tertainment. I make a second supposition, that the external signs of 
 distress were indifferent to us, and productive neither of pleasure nor 
 of pain. This would annihilate the strongest branch of sympathy, that 
 which is raised by means of sight : and it is evident that reflective 
 sympathy, felt by those only who have great sensibility, would not 
 have any extensive effect. I shall draw nearer to truth in a third 
 supposition, that the external signs of distress being disagreeable, 
 were productive of a painful repulsive emotion. Sympathy upon 
 that supposition would not be annihilated : but it would be rendered 
 useless ; for it would be gratified by flying from or avoiding the 
 object, instead of clinging to it and affording relief: the condition of 
 man would in reality be worse than if sympathy were totally 
 eradicated: because sympathy would only serve to plague those 
 who feel it, without producing any good to the afflicted. 
 
 Loth to quit so interesting a subject, I add a reflection, with which 
 I shall conclude. The external signs of passion are a strong indi- 
 cation, that man, by his very constitution, is framed to be open and 
 
 representation, is it not surprising that persons of reflection do not avoid such spec- 
 tacles altogether 7 And yet one who has scarcely recovered from the distress of a 
 deep tragedy, resolves coolly and deliberately to go to the very next, without the 
 slightest obstruction from self-love. The whole mystery is explained by a single 
 observation that sympathy, though painful, is attractive, and attaches us to an 
 object in distress, the opposition of self-love notwithstanding, which should prompt 
 us to fly from it. And by this curious mechanism it is, that persons of any degree 
 of sensibility are attracted bv affliction still more than by joy.
 
 CL 16.] SENTIMENTS. 215 
 
 sincere. A child, in all things obedient to the impulses of nature, 
 hides none of its emotions : the savage and clown, who have no 
 guide but pure nature, expose their hearts to view, by giving way 
 to all the natural signs. And even when men learn to dissemble 
 their sentiments, and when behavior degenerates into art, there still 
 remain checks, that keep dissimulation within bounds, and prevent 
 a great part of its mischievous effects. The total suppression of the 
 voluntary signs during any vivid passion, begets the utmost uneasi- 
 ness, which cannot be endured for any considerable time : this ope- 
 ration becomes, indeed, less painful by habit ; but, luckily, the invo- 
 luntary signs cannot, by any effort, be suppressed, nor even dissem- 
 bled. An absolute hypocrisy, by which the character is concealed, 
 and a fictitious one assumed, is made impracticable ; and nature has 
 thereby prevented much harm to society. We may pronounce, 
 therefore, that Nature, herself sincere and candid, intends that man- 
 kind should preserve the same character, by cultivating simplicity 
 and truth, and banishing every sort of dissimulation that tends to 
 mischief. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 Sentiment is a thought prompted by passion In dramatic composition adjust the 
 passion to the character, the sentiment to the passion, the language to the senti- 
 ment Dialogue, the most difficult kind of composition The difference between 
 the French and the English, owing to this : French formed on Corneille's decla- 
 mation, English, on Shakspeare's language of nature Passion does not long 
 continue in the same tone : the sentiment should rise and fall with the passion, 
 and the language correspond with both When the mind vibrates between two 
 passions, the sentiments should also vibrate Passion to be subject to reason 
 Immoderate passions, when represented, to be distinguished as much as possi- 
 ble Six faulty sentiments Sentiments that accord not with the passion those 
 that may belong to an ordinary passion, but unsuitable to it thoughts in 
 description sentiments introduced too early or too late vicious sentiments 
 exposed in their natural garb Unnatural sentiments are of three kinds when 
 they are unsuited to the nature of man when inconsistent when too artificial 
 for a serious passion. 
 
 EVERY thought prompted by passion, is termed a sentiment* 
 To have a general notion of the different passions, will not alone 
 enable an artist to make a just representation of any passion : he 
 ought, over and above, to know the various appearances of the same 
 passion in different persons. Passions receive a tincture from every 
 peculiarity of character ; and for that reason it rarely happens, that 
 a passion, in the different circumstances of feeling, of sentiment, 
 and of expression, is precisely the same in any two persons. Hence 
 the following rule concerning dramatic and epic compositions. 
 That a passion be adjusted to the character, the sentiments to the 
 passion, and the language to the sentiments. If nature be not faith- 
 fully copied in each of these, a defect in execution is perceived : 
 there may appear some resemblance ; but the picture, upon, the 
 * See Appendix, 32.
 
 216 SENTIMENTS. [CL 16, 
 
 whole, will be insipid, through want of grace and delicacy. A 
 painter, in order to represent the various attitudes of the body, ought 
 to be intimately acquainted with muscular motion : no less intimately 
 acquainted with emotions and characters ought a writer to be, in 
 order to represent the various attitudes of the mind. A general 
 notion of the passions, in their grosser differences of strong and 
 weak, elevated and humble, severe and gay, is far from being suffi- 
 cient : pictures formed so superficially have little resemblance, and 
 no expression ; yet it will hereafter appear, that in many instances 
 our artists are deficient, even in that superficial knowledge. 
 
 In handling 1 the present subject, it would be endless to trace even 
 the ordinary passions through their nice and minute differences. 
 Mine shall be an humbler task; which is, to select from the best 
 writers instances of faulty sentiments, after paving the way by some 
 general observations. 
 
 To talk in the language of music, each passion has a certain tone, 
 to which every sentiment proceeding from it ought to be tuned with 
 the greatest accuracy : which is no easy work, especially where such 
 harmony ought to be supported during the course of a long thea- 
 trical representation. In order to reach such delicacy of execution, 
 it is necessary that a writer assume the precise character and passion 
 of the personage represented ; which requires an uncommon ge- 
 nius. But it is the only difficulty; for the writer, who, annihilating 
 himself, can thus become another person, need be in no pain about 
 the sentiments that belong to the assumed character : these will flow 
 without the least study, or even preconception ; and will frequently 
 be as delightfully new to himself as to his reader. But if a lively 
 pict\ire even of a single emotion requires an effort of genius, how 
 much greater the effort to compose a passionate dialogue with as 
 many different tones of passion as there are speakers ? With what 
 ductility of feeling must that writer be endowed, who approaches 
 perfection in such a work ; when it is necessary to assume different 
 and even opposite characters and passions, in the quickest succes- 
 sion ? Yet this work, difficult as it is, yields to that of composing a 
 dialogue in genteel comedy, exhibiting characters without passion. 
 The reason is, that the different tones of character are more delicate 
 and less in sight, than those of passion ; and, accordingly, many 
 writers, who have no genius for drawing characters, make a shift to 
 represent, tolerably well, an ordinary passion in its simple move- 
 ments. But of all works of this kind, what is truly the most diffi- 
 cult, is a characteristical dialogue upon any philosophical subject : 
 to interweave characters with reasoning, by suiting to the character 
 of each speaker, a peculiarity not only of thought, but of expres- 
 sion, requires the perfection of genius, taste, and judgment. 
 
 How nice dialogue-writing is, will be evident, even' without rea- 
 soning, from the miserable compositions of that kind found without 
 number in all languages. The art of mimicking any singularity 
 in gesture or in voice, is a rare talent, though directed by sight and 
 hearing the acutest and most lively of our external senses : how 
 much more rare must the talent be, of imitating characters and internal
 
 Ch. 16.] SENTIMENTS. 217 
 
 emotions, tracing all their different tints, and representing them in a 
 lively manner by natural sentiments properly expressed ? The truth 
 is, such execution is too delicate for an ordinary genius ; and for 
 that reason, the bulk of writers, instead of expressing- a passion as 
 one does who feels it, content themselves with describing it in the 
 language of a spectator. To awaken passion by an internal effort 
 merely, without any external cause, requires great sensibility : and 
 yet that operation is necessary, no less to the writer than to the 
 actor ; because none but those who actually feel a passion, can repre- 
 sent it to the life. The writer's part is the more complicated : he 
 must add composition to passion ; and must, in the quickest succes- 
 sion, adopt every different character. But a very humble flight of 
 imagination, may serve to convert a writer into a spectator ; so as to 
 figure, in some obscure manner, an action as passing in his sight 
 and hearing. In that figured situation, being led naturally to write 
 like a spectator, he entertains his readers with his own reflections, 
 with cool description, and florid declamation; instead of making 
 them eye-witnesses, as it were, to a real event, and to every move- 
 ment of genuine passion.* Thus most of our plays appear to be 
 cast in the same mould ; personages without character, the mere out- 
 lines of passion, a tiresome monotony, and a pompous declamatory 
 style.f 
 
 This descriptive manner of representing passion, is a very cold 
 entertainment : our sympathy is not raised by description ; we must 
 first be lulled into a dream of reality, and every thing must appear 
 as passing in our sight.:}: Unhappy is the player of genius who 
 acts a capital part in what may be termed a descriptive tragedy; 
 after assuming the very passion that is be represented, how is he 
 cramped in action, when he must utter, not the sentiments of the 
 passion he feels, but a cold description in the language of a by- 
 stander ? It is that imperfection, I am persuaded, in the bulk of our 
 plays, which confines our stage almost entirely to Shakspeare, not- 
 withstanding his many irregularities. In our late English trage- 
 dies, we sometimes find sentiments tolerably well adapted to a plain 
 passion: but we must not, in any of them, expect a sentiment 
 expressive of character ; and, upon that very account, our late per- 
 formances of the dramatic kind are, for the most part, intolerably 
 insipid. 
 
 * In the jEncid, the hero is made to describe himself in the following words : 
 Sum pius JEneas, fama super ccthcra notus. Virgil could never have been guilty 
 of an impropriety so gross, had he assumed the personage of his hero, instead of 
 uttering the sentiments of a spectator. Nor would Xenophon have made the fol- 
 lowing speech for Cyrus the younger, to his Grecian auxiliaries, whom he was 
 leading against his brother Artaxerxes: "I have chosen you, O Greeks! my 
 auxiliaries, not to enlarge my army, for I have Barbarians without number ; but 
 because you surpass all the Barbarians in valor and military discipline." This 
 sentiment is Xenophon's : for surely Cyrus did not reckon his countrymen Bar- 
 barians. 
 
 t " Chez Racine tout est sentiment ; il a su faire parler chacun pour soi, et c'est 
 en cela qu'il est vraiment unique parmi les auteurs dramatiques de sa nation." 
 Rousseau. 
 
 t See Chap. 2. Part 1. sect. 7. 
 19
 
 218 SENTIMENTS. fCL 16. 
 
 Looking back upon what is said, I am in some apprehension of 
 not being perfectly understood; for it is not easy to avoid obscurity 
 in handling a matter so complicated : but I promise to set it in the 
 clearest light, by adding example to precept. The first examples 
 shall be of sentiments that appear the legitimate offspring of pas- 
 sion ; to which shall be opposed what are descriptive only, and ille- 
 gitimate : and in making this comparison, I borrow my instances 
 from Shakspeare and Corneille, who for genius in dramatic compo- 
 sition stand uppermost in the rolls of fame. / 
 
 Shakspeare shall furnish the first example, being of sentiments 
 dictated by a violent and perturbed passion : 
 
 Lear. Filial ingratitude 
 
 Is it not, as if this mouth should tear this hand 
 For lifting food to't 1 But I'll punish home; 
 
 No, I will weep no more. In such a night, 
 
 To shut me out ! Pour on, I will endure. 
 
 In such a night as this ! O Regan, Goneril, 
 Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all 
 O ! that way madness lies ; let me shun that ; 
 No more of that. 
 
 Kent. Good, my lord, enter here. 
 
 Lear. Pr'ythee, go in thyself, seek thine own ease, 
 This tempest will not give me leave to ponder 
 On things would hurt me more : but I'll go in ; 
 
 In, boy, go first. You houseless poverty 
 
 Nay, get thee in ; I'll pray, and then I'll sleep 
 Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
 That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
 How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
 Your loop'd and window'd raggedness defend you 
 
 From seasons such as these 1 O I have ta'en 
 
 Too little care of this ! take physic, Pomp ; 
 Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, 
 That thou may'st shake the superflux to them, 
 And show the heavens more just. 
 
 King Lear, Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 I give another example of the same kind, expressing sentiments 
 arising from remorse and despair : 
 
 Othello. Lo ! I have a weapon : 
 A better never did itself sustain 
 Upon a soldier's thigh. I've seen the day, 
 That with this little arm, and this good sword, 
 I've made my way through more impediments 
 Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast ! 
 Who can control his fate 1 'tis not so now. 
 Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd ; 
 Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, 
 The very sea-mark of my utmost sail. 
 Do you go back dismay'd 7 'tis a lost fear. 
 Man but a rush against Othello's breast, 
 And he retires. Where should Othello go ? 
 Now how dost thou look now 1 Oh ill-starr'd wench ! 
 Pale as thy smock ! When we shall meet at compt 
 This look of thine will hurl my soul from heav'n, 
 And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl'; 
 Ev'n like thy chastity. O cursed slave ! 
 Whip me, ye devils, 
 From the possession of this heav'nly sight;
 
 Ch. 16.] SENTIMENTS. 219 
 
 I Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur, 
 
 Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid hre 
 
 Oh, Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! dead! oh! oh! 
 
 Othello, Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 The sentiments here displayed flow so naturally from the passions 
 represented, that we cannot conceive any imitation more perfect. 
 
 With regard to the French author, truth obliges me to acknow- 
 ledge, that he describes in the style of a spectator, instead of express- 
 ing passion like one who feels it ; which naturally betrays him into 
 a tiresome monotony, and a pompous declamatory style.* It is 
 scarcely necessary to gives examples, for he never varies from that 
 tone. I shall, however, take two passages at a venture, in order to be 
 confronted with those transcribed above. In the tragedy of Cinna, 
 ./Emilia, after the conspiracy was discovered, having nothing in view 
 but racks and death to herself and her lover, receives a pardon from. 
 Augustus, attended with the brightest circumstances of magnanimity 
 and tenderness. This is a lucky situation for representing the pas- 
 sions of surprise and gratitude in their different stages, which seem 
 naturally to be what follow. These passions, raised at once to the 
 utmost pitch, and being at first too big for utterance, must, for some 
 moments be expressed by violent gestures only : as soon as there is 
 
 * This criticism reaches the French dramatic writers in general, with very few 
 exceptions : their tragedies, excepting those of Racine, are mostly, if not totally, 
 descriptive. Corneille led the way; and later writers, imitating his manner, have 
 accustomed the French ear to a style, formal, pompbus, declamatory, which suits 
 not with any passion. Hence, to burlesque a French tragedy, is not more diffi- 
 cult than to burlesque a stiff solemn fop. The facility of the operation has in 
 Paris introduced a singular amusement, which is, to burlesque the more successful 
 tragedies in a sort of farce, called a parodi/. La Motte, who himself appears to 
 have been sorely galled by some of these productions, acknowledges that no more 
 is necessary to give them currency but barely to vary the dramatis persona:, and 
 instead of kings and heroes, queens and princesses, to substitute tinkers and tai- 
 lors, milkmaids and seamstresses. The declamatory style, so different from the 
 genuine expression of passion, passes in some measure unobserved, when great 
 personages are the speakers ; but in the mouths of the vulgar the impropriety 
 with regard to the speaker as well as to the passion represented, is so remarkable 
 as to become ridiculous. A tragedy, where every passion is made to speak in its 
 natural tone, is not liable to be thus burlesqued : the same passion is by all men 
 expressed nearly in the same manner ; and, therefore, the genuine expressions of 
 a passion cannot be ridiculous in the mouth of any man who is susceptible of the 
 passion. 
 
 It is a well known fact, that to an English ear, the French actors appear to 
 pronounce with too great rapidity ; a complaint much insisted on by Gibber in par- 
 ticular, who had frequently heard the famous Baron upon the French stage. 
 This may in some measure be attributed to our want of facility in the French 
 tongue ; as foreigners generally imagine that every language is pronounced too 
 quick by natives. But that it is not the sole cause, will be probable from a fact 
 directly opposite, that the French are not a little disgusted with the languidness, 
 as they term it, of the English pronunciation. May not this difference of taste 
 be derived from what is observed above 1 The pronunciation of the genuine lan- 
 guage of a passion is necessarily directed by the nature of the passion, particu- 
 larly by the slowness or celerity of its progress : plaintive passions, which are 
 the most frequent in tragedy, having a slow motion, dictate a slow pronunciation; 
 in declamation, on the contrary, the speaker warms gradually ; and, as he warms, 
 he naturally accelerates his pronunciation. But, as the French have formed their 
 tone of pronunciation upon Corneille's declamatory tragedies, and the English 
 upon the more natural language of Shakspeare, it is not surprising that custom 
 should produce such difference of taste in the two nations.
 
 220 SENTIMENTS. [Ch. 16. 
 
 vent for words, the first expressions are broken and interrupted : at 
 last we ought to expect a tide of intermingled sentiments, occasioned 
 by the fluctuation of the mind between the two passions. ^Emilia 
 is made to behave in a very different manner : with extreme coolness 
 she describes her own situation, as if she were merely a spectator, or 
 rather the poet takes the task off her hands : 
 
 Et je me rens, Seigneur, a ces hautes bontes: 
 
 Je recouvre la vue aupres de leurs claries. 
 
 Je connois mon forfait qui me sembloit justice ; 
 
 Et ce que n'avoit pu la terreur du supplice, 
 
 Je sens naitre en mon ame un repentir puissant. 
 
 Et mon coeur en secret me clit, qu il y consent. 
 
 Le ciel a resolu votre grandeur supr6me ; 
 
 Et pour preuve, Seigneur, je n'en veux que moi-merne. 
 
 J'ose avec vanite me donner cet eclat. 
 
 Puisqu'il change mon cceur, qu'il veut changer 1'etat, 
 
 Ma haine va mourir, que j'ai crue immortelle ; 
 
 Elle est morte, et ce coeur devient sujet fidele ; 
 
 Et prenant desormais cette haine en horreur, 
 
 L'ardeur de vous servir succede a sa fureur. 
 
 Act V. Sc. 3. 
 
 In the tragedy of Sertorius, the queen, surprised with the news 
 that her lover was assassinated, instead of venting any passion, 
 degenerates into a cool spectator, and undertakes to instruct the 
 bystanders how a queen ought to behave on such an occasion : 
 
 Viriatn. II m'en fait voir ensemble, et 1'auteur, et la cause. 
 Par cet assassinat c'est de moi qu'on dispose, 
 C'est mon trone, c'est moi qu'on pretend conquerir ; 
 Et c : est mon juste choix qui seul 1'a fait perir. 
 Madame apres sa perte, et parmi ces alarmes, 
 N'attendez point de moi de sou^irs, ni de larmes ; 
 Ce sont amusemens que dedaigne aisement 
 Le prompt et noble orgueil d : un vif ressentiment. 
 dui pleure, 1'affoiblit ; qui soupire. 1'exhale : 
 II faut plus de fierte dans une ame royale ; 
 Et ma douleur soumise aux soins de le veno-er. &c. 
 
 Act V. Sc. 3. 
 
 So much in general upon the genuine seniiments of passion. I 
 proceed to particular observations. And, first, passions seldom con- 
 tinue uniform any considerable time : they generally fluctuate, swell- 
 ing and subsiding by turns, often in a quick succession:* and the 
 sentiments cannot be just unless they correspond to such fluctuation. 
 Accordingly, climax never shows better than in expressing a swelling 
 passion : the following passages may suffice for an illustration. 
 
 Oroonoko. .Can vou raise the dead ? 
 
 Pursue and overtake the wings of time 1 
 And bring about again, the hours, the days. 
 The years, that made me happy 1 
 
 Grdunoko, Act II. Sc. 2. 
 
 Almerisi. How hast thou charnrd 
 
 The wildness of the waves and rocks to this ? 
 That thus relenting they have giv'n thee back 
 To earth, to light and life, to love and me 7 
 
 Mour-nii>s Bride, Act I. Sc. 7. 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 3.
 
 Ch. 16.J SENT! J3NTS. 221 
 
 I would not be the villain that thou think'st 
 For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp 
 And the rich East to boot. 
 
 Macbeth,, Act IV. Sc. 3. 
 
 The following passage expresses finely the progress of conviction. 
 
 Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve 
 That tender, lovely form, of painted air, 
 So like Almeria. Ha ! it sinks, it falls ; 
 I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade. 
 "Pis life ! 'tis warm ! 'tis she ! 'tis she herself! 
 It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife ! 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act II. Sc. 6. 
 
 [n the progress of thought, our resolutions become more vigorous 
 as well as our passions : 
 
 If ever I do yield or give consent, 
 
 By any action, word, or thought, to wed 
 
 Another lord ; may then just heav'n show'r down, &c. 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 And this leads to a second observation, that the different stages of 
 a passion, and its different directions, from birth to extinction, must be 
 carefully represented in their order ; because otherwise the senti- 
 ments, by being misplaced, will appear forced and unnatural. Resent- 
 ment, for example, when provoked by an atrocious injury, discharges 
 itself first upon the author : sentiments therefore of revenge come 
 always first, and must, in some measure, be exhausted before the per- 
 son injured thinks of grieving for himself. In the Cid of Corneille, 
 Don Diegue having been affronted in a cruel manner, expresses 
 scarcely any sentiment of revenge, but is totally occupied in contem- 
 plating the low situation to which he is reduced by the affront : 
 
 O rage ! 6 desespoir ! 6 vieillesse ennemie ! 
 N'ai-je done tant vecu que pour cette infamie 7 
 Et ne suis-je blanchi dans les travaux guerriers, 
 due pour voir en un jour fletrir tant de lauriers 1 
 Mon bras, qu'avec respect toute 1'Espagne admire, 
 Mon bras, qui tant de fois a sauve cet empire, 
 Tant de fois affermi le tr6ne de son Roi, 
 Trahit done ma querrelle, et ne fait rien pour moi ! 
 O cruel souvenir de ma gloire passee ! 
 CEuvre de tant de jours en un jour effacee ! 
 Nouvelle dignite fatale a mon bonheur ! 
 Precipice eleve d'ou tombe mon honneur ! 
 Faut-il de votre eclat voir triompher le Comte. 
 Et mourir sans vengeance, ou vivre dans la honte'? 
 Comte, sois de mon Prince a present gouverneur, 
 Ce haul rang n'admet point un homme sans honneur ; 
 Et ton jaloux orgueil par cet affront insigne, 
 Malgre le choix du Roi, m'en a su rendre indigne. 
 Et toi, de mes exploits glorieux instrument, 
 Mais d'un corps tout de glace inutile ornement, 
 Fer jadis tant a craindre, et qui dans cette offense 
 M'as servi de parade, et non pas de defense, 
 Va, quitte desormais le dernier des humains, 
 Passe pour me venger en de meilleures mains. 
 
 Le Cid, Act I. Sc. 7. 
 
 These sentiments are certainly not the first that are suggested by 
 the passion of resentment. As the first movements of resentment 
 19*
 
 y-22 SENTIMENTS. [Ch. 16. 
 
 are always directed to its object, the very same is the case of 2frief. 
 Yet with relation to the sudden and severe distemper that seized 
 Alexander bathing in the river Cydnus, Quintus Curtius describes 
 the first emotions of the army as directed to themselves, lamenting 
 that they were left without a leader, far from home, and had scarcely 
 any hopes of returning in safety: their king's distress, which must 
 naturally have been their first concern, occupies them but in the 
 second place, according to that author. In the Aminta of Tasso, 
 Sylvia, upon a report of her lover's death, which she believed cer- 
 tain, instead of bemoaning the loss of her beloved, turns her thoughts 
 upon herself, and wonders her heart does not break. 
 
 In the tragedy of Jane Shore, Alicia, in the full purpose of destroy- 
 ing her rival, has the following reflection: 
 
 Oh Jealousy ! thou bane of pleasing friendship, 
 
 Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms ; 
 
 How does thy rancor poison all our softness, 
 
 And turn our gentle natures into bitterness 1 
 
 See where she comes ! once my heart's dearest blessing, 
 
 Now my chang'd eyes are blasted with her beauty, 
 
 Loathe that known face, and sicken to behold her. 
 
 Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 These are the reflections of a cool spectator. A passion while it 
 has the ascendant, and is freely indulged, suggests not to the person 
 who feels it any sentiment to his own prejudice : reflections like the 
 foregoing occur not readily till the passion has spent its vigor. 
 
 A person sometimes is agitated at once by different passions ; and 
 the mind, in that case, vibrating like a pendulum, vents itself in 
 sentiments that partake of the same vibration. This I give as a 
 third observation : 
 
 Queen. 'Would I had never trod this English earth. 
 Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! 
 Ye've angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts. 
 What shall become of me now 1 wretched lady ! 
 I am the most unhappy woman living. 
 
 Alas ! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes 1 [To her women. 
 Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, 
 No friends, no hope ! no kindred weep for me ! 
 Almost no grave allow'd me. 
 
 Henry VIII. Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 Othello. Oh devil, devil ! 
 
 If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, 
 Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. 
 Out of my sight ! 
 
 Desdemona. I will not stay t'offend you. f> ( >, 
 
 Lodovico. Truly, an obedient lady : 
 I do beseech your Lordship, call her back. 
 
 Oth. Mistress 
 
 Des. Mv Lord. 
 
 Oth. What would you with her, Sirl 
 
 Lod. Who. I. my Lord ? 
 
 Oth. Ay ; you did wish that I would make her turn: 
 Sir, she can turn and turn, and yet go on ; 
 And turn again. And she can weep, Sir', weep: 
 And she's obedient: as you say, obedient; 
 Very obedient proceed you in" your tears
 
 1. 16.] SENTIMENTS. 223 
 
 Concerning this, Sir oh well painted passion ! 
 
 I am commanded home get you away, 
 
 I'll send for you anon Sir, I obey the mandate, 
 
 And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt ! [Exit Desdemona. 
 
 Othello, Act IV. Sc. 1. 
 
 JEmilia. Oh ! my good Lord, I would speak a word with you. 
 
 Othello, Yes, 'tis ./Emilia By and by She's dead. 
 "Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death; 
 The noise was high Ha ! no more moving 1 
 Still as the grave. Shall she come in 1 were't good 1 ? 
 I think she stirs again No What's the best 1 ? 
 If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife ; 
 My wife ! my wife ! What wife ! I have no wife ; 
 Oh insupportable ! O heavy hour ! 
 
 Othello, Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 A fourth observation is, that nature, which gave us passions, and 
 made them extremely beneficial when moderate, intended, undoubt- 
 edly, that they should be subjected to the government of reason and 
 conscience.* It is, therefore, against the order of nature, that passion 
 in any case should take the lead in contradiction to reason and con- 
 science: such a state of mind is a sort of anarchy, of which every 
 one is ashamed, and endeavors to hide or dissemble. Even love, 
 however laudable, is attended with a conscious shame when it 
 becomes immoderate : it is covered from the world, and disclosed 
 only to the beloved object : 
 
 Et que 1'amour souvent de remors combattu, 
 Paroisse une foiblesse, et non une vertu. 
 
 Boileau, L'Art Poet. Chant. 3. 1. 101. 
 
 O, they love least that let men know their love. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 Hence a capital rule in the representation of immoderate passions, 
 that they ought to be hid or dissembled as much as possible. And 
 this holds in an especial manner with respect to criminal passions : 
 one never counsels the commission of a crime in plain terms : guilt 
 must not appear in its native colors, even in thought : the proposal 
 must be made by hints, and by representing the action in some 
 favorable light. Of the propriety of sentiment upon such an occasion, 
 Shakspeare, in the Tempest, has given us a beautiful example, in a 
 speech by the usurping Duke of Milan, advising Sebastian to murder 
 his brother the King of Naples : 
 
 Antonio. What might, 
 
 Worthy Sebastian, O, what might no more. 
 
 And yet, methinks. I see it in thy face, 
 
 What thou shouldst be : th' occasion speaks thee. and 
 
 My strong imagination sees a crown 
 
 Dropping upon thy head. 
 
 Tempest. Act II. Sc. i. 
 
 There never was drawn a more complete picture of this kind, than 
 that of King John soliciting Hubert to murder the young Prince 
 Arthur : 
 
 K. John. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert, 
 We owe thee much ; within this wall of flesh 
 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 7.
 
 224 SENTIMENTS. [Ch. 16. 
 
 There is a soul counts thee her creditor, 
 And with advantage means to pay thy love. 
 And. my good friend, thy voluntary oath 
 Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. 
 
 Give me thy hand, I had a thing to say 
 
 But I will fit it with some better time. 
 By Heav'n, Hubert, I'm almost asham'd 
 To say what good respect I have of thee. 
 
 Hubert. I am much bounden to your Majesty. 
 
 K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet- 
 But thou shalt have and creep time ne'er so slow, 
 Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. 
 
 I had a thing to say but let it go ; 
 
 The sun is in the heaven ; and the proud day, 
 
 Attended with the pleasures of the world, 
 
 Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds, 
 
 To give me audience. If the midnight bell 
 
 Did with his iron-tongue and brazen mouth 
 
 Sound one into the drowsy race of night ; 
 
 If this same were a church-yard where we stand, 
 
 And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs ; 
 
 Or if that surly spirit Melancholy 
 
 Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy-thick, 
 
 Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, 
 
 Making that idiot Laughter keep men's eyes, 
 
 And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, 
 
 (A passion hateful to my purposes ;) 
 
 Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, 
 
 Hear me without thine ears, and make reply 
 
 Without a tongue, using conceit alone, 
 
 Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words; 
 
 Then, in despite of broad-ey'd watchful day, 
 
 I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts. 
 
 But ah, I will not Yet I love thee well ; 
 
 And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well. 
 
 Hubert. So well, that what you bid me undertake, 
 Though that my death were adjunct to my act, 
 By Heav'n I'd do't. 
 
 K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst 1 
 Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye 
 On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend; 
 He is a very serpent in my way. 
 And. wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, 
 He lies before me. Dost thou understand me 1 ? 
 Thou art his keeper. King John, Act III. Sc. 3. 
 
 As things are best illustrated by their contraries, I proceed to 
 faulty sentiments, disdaining to be indebted for examples to any but 
 the most approved authors. The first class shall consist of senti- 
 ments that accord not with the passion ; or, in other words, senti- 
 ments that the passion does not naturally suggest. In the second 
 class, shall be ranged sentiments that may belong to an ordinary 
 passion, but unsuitable to it as tinctured by a singular character 
 Thoughts that properly are not sentiments, but rather descriptions, 
 make a third. Sentiments that belong to the passion represented, 
 but are faulty as being introduced too early or too late, make a 
 fourth. Vicious sentiments exposed in their native dress, instead of 
 being 1 concealed or disguised, make a fifth. And in the last class, 
 shall be collected sentiments suited to no character nor passion, and 
 therefore unnatural.
 
 Oh. 16.] SENTIMENT. 225 
 
 The first class contains faulty sentiments of various kinds, which 
 I shall endeavor to distinguish from each other ; beginning with 
 sentiments that are faulty by being above the tone of the passion : 
 
 
 Othello. O my soul's joy ! 
 
 If after every tempest come such calms, 
 
 May the winds blow till they have waken'd death ! 
 
 And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas 
 
 Olympus high, and duck again as low 
 
 As hell's from heaven. 
 
 Othello, Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 This sentiment may be suggested by violent and inflamed passion, 
 but is not suited to the calm satisfaction that one feels upon escaping 
 danger. 
 
 Pkilaster. Place me, some god, upon a pyramid 
 Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice 
 Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence 
 I may discourse to all the under-world 
 The worth that dwells in him. 
 
 Philaster of Beaumont and Fletcher, Act IV. 
 
 Second. Sentiments below the tone of the passion. Ptolemy, 
 by putting Pompey to death, having incurred the displeasure of 
 Cassar, was in the utmost dread of being dethroned : in that agitating 
 situation, Corneille makes him utter a speech full of cool reflection, 
 that is in no degree expressive of the passion. 
 
 Ah ! si je t'avois era, je n'aurois pas de maitre, 
 Je serois dans le trone ou le Ciel m'a fait naitre ; 
 Mais c'est une imprudence assez commune aux rois, 
 D'ecouter trop d'avis, et se tromper aux choix. 
 Le Destin les aveugle au bord du precipice, 
 Ou si quelque lumiere en leur ame se glisse, 
 Cette fausse clarte dont il les fiblouit. 
 Lesplonge dans une gouffre, et puis s'evanouit. 
 
 La Mart de Pompee, Act IV. Sc. 1. 
 
 In Les Preres ennemis of Racine, the second act is opened with a 
 love-scene. Hemon talks to his mistress of the torments of absence, 
 of the lustre of her eyes, that he ought to die no where but at her 
 feet, and that one moment of absence is a thousand years. Antigone 
 on her part acts the coquette ; pretends she must be gone to wait on 
 her mother and brother, and cannot stay to listen to his courtship. 
 This is odious French gallantry, below the dignity of the passion 
 of love : it would scarcely be excusable in painting modern French 
 manners ; and is insufferable where the ancients are brought upon 
 the stage. The manners painted in the Alexandre of the same 
 author are not more just. French gallantry prevails there throughout. 
 Third. Sentiments that agree not with the tone of the passion ; 
 as where a pleasant sentiment is grafted upon a painful passion, or 
 the contrary. In the following instances the sentiments are too gay 
 for a serious passion : 
 
 No happier task these faded eyes pursue ; 
 To read and weep is all they now can do. 
 
 Eloisa to Abelard, 1. 47.
 
 226 SENTIMENTS. [Ch. 16, 
 
 Again, 
 
 Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid, 
 
 Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid ; 
 
 They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, 
 
 Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires ; 
 
 The virgin's wish without her fears impart, 
 
 Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart ; 
 
 Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, 
 
 And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole. 
 
 Eloisa to Abelard, 1. 51. 
 
 These thoughts are pretty : they suit Pope, but not Eloisa. 
 
 Satan, enraged by a threatening of the angel Gabriel, answers 
 thus : 
 
 Then when I am thy captive talk of chains, 
 
 Proud limitary cherub ; but ere then 
 
 Far heavier load thyself expect to feel 
 
 From my prevailing arm, though Heaven's King 
 
 Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers, 
 
 Us'd to the yoke, draw'st his triumphant wheels 
 
 In progress through the road of heav'n star-pav'd. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book IV. 
 
 The concluding epithet forms a grand and delightful image, which 
 cannot be the genuine offspring of rage. 
 
 Fourth. Sentiments too artificial for a serious passion. I give 
 for the first example a speech of Percy expiring : 
 
 O, Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth: 
 
 I better brook the loss of brittle life, 
 
 Than those proud titles thou hast won of me ; 
 
 They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh. 
 
 But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool ; 
 
 And time, that takes survey of all the world, 
 
 Must have a stop. 
 
 First Part, Henry IV. Act V. Sc. 4. 
 
 Livy inserts the following passage in a plaintive oration of the Lo- 
 crenses, accusing Pleminius the Roman legate of oppression. 
 
 In hoc legato vestro, nee hominis quicquam est, Patres Conscripti, prater figu- 
 ram et speciem ; neque Romani civis, preeter habitum vestitumque, et sonum lin- 
 guae Latinae. Pestis et bellua immanis, quales fretum, quondam, quo ab Sicilia 
 dividimur, ad perniciem navigantium circumsedisse, fabula? ferunt.* 
 
 The sentiments of the Mourning Bride, are for the most part, no 
 less delicate than just copies of nature : in the following exception 
 the picture is beautiful, but too artful to be suggested by severe grief. 
 
 Almeria. O no ! Time gives increase to my afflictions. 
 The circling hours, that gather all the woes 
 Which are diffus'd through the revolving year, 
 Come heavy laden with th' oppressive weight 
 To me ; with me, successively they leave 
 The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares, 
 And all the damps of grief, that did retard their flight. 
 
 Conscript fathers ! in this your legate there is nought of man save his figure and 
 species ; nor is there ought of a Roman citizen save his habit and dress, and the 
 sound of the Latin tongue. He is a pest and a great brute, such as those which 
 the sea that drives us from Sicily is fabled to have engendered for the destruction 
 of sailors. Titus Linus, 1. 29. 17.
 
 Ch. 16.] SENTIMENTS. 227 
 
 They shake their downy wings, and scatter all 
 The dire collected dews on my poor head ; 
 They fly with joy and swiftness from me. 
 
 Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 In the same play, Almeria, seeing a dead body, which she took to 
 be Alphonso's, expresses sentiments strained and artificial, which 
 ture suggests not to any person upon such an occasion. 
 
 Had they, or hearts, or eyes, that did this deed 1 
 
 Could eyes endure to guide such cruel hands ? 
 
 Are not my eyes guilty alike with theirs,' 
 
 That thus can gaze, and yet not turn to stone 1 
 
 I do not weep ! The springs of tears are dry r d, 
 
 And of a sudd,en I am calm, as if 
 
 All things were well ; and yet my husband's murder'd ! 
 
 Yes, yes, I know to mourn : I'll sluice this heart, 
 
 The source of wo, and let the torrent loose. 
 
 Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 Lady Trueman. How could you be so cruel to defer giving me that joy which 
 ou knew I must receive from your presence 1 You have robb'd my life of some 
 fiours of happiness that ought to have been in it. Drummer, Act V. 
 
 Pope's Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady, expresses 
 delicately the most tender concern and sorrow that one can feel for 
 the deplorable fate of a person of worth. Such a poem, deeply seri- 
 ous and pathetic, rejects Avith disdain all fiction. Upon that account, 
 the following passage deserves no quarter ; for it is not the language 
 of the heart ; but of the imagination indulging its nights at ease ; and 
 by that means is eminently discordant with the subject. It would be 
 a still more severe censure, if it should be ascribed to imitation, copy- 
 ing indiscreetly what has been said by others : 
 
 What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, 
 Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face 1 
 What though no sacred earth allow thee room, 
 Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb 1 
 Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest, 
 And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : 
 There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 
 There the first roses of the year shall blow ; 
 While angels with their silver wings o'ershade 
 The ground, now sacred by they reliques made. 
 
 Fifth. Fanciful or finical sentiments. Sentiments that degenerate 
 info point or conceit, however they may amuse in an idle hour, can 
 never be the offspring of any serious or important passion. In the 
 Jerusalem of Tasso, Tancred, after a single combat, spent with fatigue 
 and loss of blood, falls into a swoon ; in which situation, understood 
 to be dead, he is discovered by Erminia, who was in love with him 
 to distraction. A more happy situation cannot be imagined, to raise 
 grief in an instant to its height ; and yet, in venting her sorrow, she 
 descends most abominably into antithesis and conceit, even of the 
 lowest kind : 
 
 E in lui verso d'inessicabil vena 
 Lacrime, e voce di sospiri mista. 
 In che misero punto or qui me mena 
 Fortuna ! a che veduta amara e trista !
 
 225 SENTIMENTS. [Ch. 16. 
 
 Dopo gran tempo i' ti ritrovo a pena 
 Tancredi, e ti riveggio, e non son vista, 
 Vista non son da te, benche presente 
 E trovando ti perdo eternamente. 
 
 Canto 19. St, 105. 
 
 Her springs of teares she looseth foorth, and cries 
 Hither why bring'st thou me, ah fortune blinde "J 
 Where dead, for whom I lived, my comfort lies, 
 Where warre for peace, travell for rest I find ; 
 Tancred, I have thee, see thee, yet thine eies 
 Lookt not upon thy love and handmaide kinde, 
 
 Undoe their doores, their lids fast closed sever 
 
 Alas, I find thee for to lose thee ever. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Armida's lamentation respecting her lover Rinaldo,* is in the same 
 vicious taste. 
 
 Queen. Give me no help in lamentation, 
 I am not barren to bring forth complaints : 
 All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes 
 That I, being govern 'd by the wat'ry moon, 
 May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world, 
 Ah, for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward. 
 
 King Richard III. Act II. Sc. 2. 
 
 Jane Shore. Let me be branded for the public scorn, 
 Turn ; d forth, and driven to wander like a vagabond, 
 Be friendless and forsaken, seek my bread 
 Upon the barren wild, and desolate waste, 
 Feed on my sighs and drink my falling tears ; 
 Ere I consent to teach my lips injustice, 
 Or wrong the Orphan who has none to save him. 
 
 Jane Shore, Act IV. 
 
 Give me your drops, ye soft-descending rains, 
 Give me your streams, ye never-ceasing springs, 
 That my sad eyes may still supply my duty, 
 And feed an everlasting flood of sorrow. 
 
 Jane Shore, Act V. 
 
 Jane Shore utters her last breath in a witty conceit. 
 
 Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace 
 'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now 
 Was there not something I would have bequeath'd you ? 
 But I have nothing left me to bestow, 
 Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh mercy, Heav'n ! [Dies. 
 
 ActV. 
 
 Gilford to Lady Jane Gray, when both were condemned to die 
 
 Thou stand'st unmov'd ; 
 Calm temper sits upon thy beauteous brow ; 
 Thy eyes that flow d so fast for Edward's loss, 
 Gaze unconcern 'd upon the ruin round thee, 
 As if thou hadst resolv'd to brave thy fate, 
 And triumph in the midst of desolation. 
 Ha ! see, it swells, the liquid crystal rises, 
 It starts in spite of thee but I will catch it, 
 Nor let the earth be wet with dew so rich. 
 
 Lady Ja-ne Gray, Act IV. near the end. 
 
 Canto 20. Stan. 124, 125, and 126.
 
 1. 16.] SENTIMENTS. 229 
 
 The concluding 1 sentiment is altogether finical, unsuitable to the 
 importance of the occasion, and even to the dignity of the passion 
 of love. 
 
 Corneille, in his Examen of the Cid* answering an objection, that 
 his sentiments are sometimes too much refined for persons in deep 
 distress, observes, that if poets did not indulge sentiments more 
 ingenious or refined than are prompted by passion, their performan- 
 ces would often be low, and extreme grief would never suggest but 
 exclamations merely. This is in plain language to assert, that forced 
 thoughts are more agreeable than those that are natural, and ought 
 to be preferred. 
 
 The second class is of sentiments that may belong to an ordinary 
 passion, but are not perfectly concordant with it, as tinctured by a 
 singular character. 
 
 In the last act of that excellent comedy, The Careless Husband, 
 Lady Easy, upon Sir Charles's reformation, is made to express more 
 violent and turbulent sentiments of joy, than are consistent with the 
 mildness of her character : 
 
 Lady Easy. O the soft treasure ! O the dear reward of long-desiring love. 
 Thus ! thus to have you mine, is something more than happiness ; 'tis double life, 
 and madness of abounding joy. 
 
 If the sentiments of a passion ought to be suited to a peculiar charac- 
 ter, it is still more necessary that actions be suited to the character. 
 In the fifth act of the Drummer, Addison makes his gardener act 
 even below the character of an ignorant credulous rustic : he gives 
 him the behavior of a gaping idiot. 
 
 The following instances are descriptions rather than sentiments, 
 which compose a third class. 
 
 Of this descriptive manner of painting the passions, there is in the 
 Hippolytus of Euripides, Act V. an illustrious instance, namely, the 
 speech of Theseus, upon hearing of his son's dismal exit. In Ra- 
 cine's tragedy of Esther, the Queen hearing of the decree issued 
 against her people, instead of expressing sentiments suitable to the 
 occasion, turns her attention upon herself, and describes with accu- 
 racy her own situation : 
 
 Juste Ciel ! tout mon sang dans mes veines se glace. 
 
 Act I. Sc. 3. 
 Again, 
 
 Aman. C'en est fait. Mon orgueil est forc6 de plier. L'inexorable Aman est 
 reduit a prier. Esther, Act III. Sc. 5. 
 
 Athalie. duel prodige nouveau me trouble et m'embarrasse 1 ? 
 La douceur de sa voix, son enfance, sa grace, 
 Font insensiblement a mon inimitie 
 Succeder Je serois sensible a la pitie 7 
 
 Athalie, Act II. Sc. 7. 
 
 Titus. O de ma passion fureur desesperee ! 
 
 Brutus of Voltaire, Act III. Sc. 6. 
 
 What other are the foregoing instances but describing the passion 
 another feels ? 
 
 * Page 316. 
 20
 
 230 SENTIMENTS. [Ch. 16. 
 
 A man stabbed to the heart in a combat with his enemy, expresses 
 himself thus : 
 
 So, now I am at rest: 
 
 I feel death rising higher still, and higher, 
 
 Within my bosom ; every breath I fetch 
 
 Shuts up my life within a shorter compass : 
 
 And like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less 
 
 And less each pulse, 'till it be lost in air. Dryden. 
 
 Captain Flash, in a farce composed by Garrick, endeavors to hide 
 his fear by saying, " What a damn'd passion I am in." 
 
 An example is given above of remorse and despair expressed by 
 genuine and natural sentiments. In the fourth book of Paradise. 
 Lost, Satan is made to express his remorse and despair in sentiments, 
 which, though beautiful, are not altogether natural : they are rather 
 the sentiments of a spectator, than of a person who actually is tor- 
 mented with these passions. 
 
 The fourth class is of sentiments introduced too early or too late. 
 
 Some examples mentioned above belong to this class. Add the 
 following from Venice Preserved, Act V. at the close of the scene 
 between Belvidera and her father Priuli. The account given by 
 Belvidera of the danger she was in, and of her husband's threatening 
 iO murder her, ought naturally to have alarmed her relenting father, 
 and to have made him express the most perturbed sentiments. Instead 
 of which he dissolves into tenderness and love for his daughter, as 
 if he had already delivered her from danger, and as if there were a 
 perfect tranquillity : 
 
 Canst thou forgive me all my follies past ? 
 
 I'll henceforth be indeed a father ; never, 
 
 Never more thus expose, but cherish thee, 
 
 Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life, 
 
 Dear as those eyes that weep in fondness o'er thee : 
 
 Peace to thy heart. 
 
 Immoral sentiments exposed in their native colors, instead of being 
 concealed or disguised, compose the fifth class. 
 
 The Lady Macbeth, projecting the death of the King, has the fol- 
 lowing soliloquy : 
 
 -The raven himself is hoarse 
 
 That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
 
 Under my battlements. Come all you spirits 
 
 That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, 
 
 And fill me from the crown to th' toe, top-full 
 
 Of direst cruelty ; make thick my blood, 
 
 Stop up th' access and passage to remorse, 
 
 That no compunctious visitings of nature 
 
 Shake my fell purpose. 
 
 Macbeth, Act 1. Sc. 5. 
 
 This speech is not natural. A treacherous murder was never per- 
 petrated, even by the most hardened miscreant, without compunction : 
 and that the lady here must have been in horrible agitation, appears 
 from her invoking the infernal spirits to fill her with cruelty, and to 
 stop up all avenues to remorse. But in that state of mind, it is a 
 never-failing artifice of self-deceit, to draw the thickest veil over the 
 wicked action, and to extenuate it by all the circumstances that
 
 Ch. 16.] SENTIMENTS. 231 
 
 imagination can suggest : and if the crime cannot bear disguise, the 
 next attempt is to thrust it out of mind altogether, and to rush on to 
 action without thought. This last was the husband's method : 
 
 Strange things I have in head, that will to hand ; 
 Which must be acted ere tljfiy must be scann'd. 
 
 Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 The lady follows neither of these courses, but in a deliberate manner 
 endeavors to fortify her heart in the commission of an execrable 
 crime, without even attempting to color it. This, I think, is not 
 natural ; I hope there is no such wretch to be found as is here rep- 
 resented. In the Pompey of Corneille,* Photine counsels a wicked 
 :tion in the plainest terms without disguise : 
 
 Seigneur, n'attirez point le tonnerre en ces lieux, 
 
 Rangez vous du parti des destins et des dieux, 
 
 Et sans les accuser d'injustice, ou d'outrage ; 
 
 Puis qu'ils font les heureux, adorez leur ouvrage ; 
 
 duels que soient leurs decrets, declarez-vous pour eux, 
 
 Et pour leur obeir, perdez le malheureux. 
 
 Presse de toutes parts des coleres celestes, 
 
 II en vient dessus vous faire fondre les restes ; 
 
 Et sa tike qu'a peine il a pu derober, 
 
 Toutpreteadechoir,chercne avec qui tomber. 
 
 Sa retraite chez vous en effet n'est qu'un crime ; 
 
 Elle marque sa haine, et non pas son estime ; 
 
 II ne vient que vous perdre en venant prendre port, 
 
 Et vous pouvez douter s'il est digne de mort! 
 
 II devoit mieux remplir nos vceux et notre attente, 
 
 Faire voir sur ses nefs la victoire flottante ; 
 
 II n'eut ici trouve que joye et que festins ; 
 
 Mais puisqu'il est vaincu, qu'il s'en prenne aux destins. 
 
 J'en veux a sa disgrace et non a. sa personne, 
 
 Jexecute a regret ce que le ciel ordonne, 
 
 Et du meme poignard, pour Cesar destine, 
 
 Je perce en soupirant son cceur infortune, 
 
 Vous ne pouvez enfin qu'aux depens de sa tete 
 
 Mettre a Vabri la votre, et parer la tempdte. 
 
 Laissez nommer sa mort un injuste attentat, 
 
 La justice n'est pas une vertu d'etat. 
 
 Le chpix des actions, ou mauvaises, ou bonnes, 
 
 Ne fait qu'aneantir la force des couronnes ; 
 
 Ledroit des rois consiste a ne rien epargner ; 
 
 La timide equite detruit 1'art de regner ; 
 
 duand on craint d'etre injuste on a toujours a craindre ; 
 
 Et qui veut tout pouvoir doit oser tout enfreindre 
 
 Fuir comme un deshonneur la vertu qui le perd, 
 
 Et voler sans scrupule au crime qui lui sert. 
 
 In the tragedy of Esther,] Haman acknowledges, without disguise, 
 his cruelty, insolence, and pride. And there is another example of 
 the same kind in the Agamemnon of Seneca.J In the tragedy of 
 Athalie,^ Mathan, in cool blood, relates to his friend many black 
 crimes of which he had been guilty, to satisfy his ambition. 
 
 In Congreve's Double-dealer, Maskwell, instead of disguising or 
 coloring his crimes, values himself upon them in a soliloquy : 
 
 Cynthia, let thy beauty gild my crimes ; and whatsoever I commit of treachery 
 * Act I. Sc. I. t Act II. Sc. I. 
 
 t Beginning of Act II. Act III. Sc. 3. at the close.
 
 232 SENTIMENTS. [CL 16. 
 
 or deceit, shall be imputed to me as a merit. Treachery! what treachery 1 Love 
 
 cancels all the bonds of friendship, and sets men right upon their first foundations. 
 
 Act II. Sc. 8. 
 
 In French plays, love, instead of being hid or disguised, is treated 
 as a serious concern, and of greater importance than fortune, family, 
 or dignity. I suspect the reason to be, that, in the capital of France, 
 love, by the easiness of intercourse, has dwindled down from a real 
 passion to be a connection that is regulated entirely by the mode or 
 fashion.* This may in some measure excuse their writers, but will 
 never make their plays be relished among foreigners : 
 
 Maxime. Gluoi, trahir mon ami 1 
 
 Euphorbe. L'amour rend tout permis. 
 
 Un veritable amant ne connoit point d'amis. 
 
 Cinna, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 Cesar. Reine, tout est paisible, et la ville calmee, 
 
 du'un trouble assez leger avoit trop alarmee, 
 
 N'a plus a redouter le divorce intestin 
 
 Du soldat insolent, et du peuple mutin. 
 
 Mais, 6 Dieux! ce moment que je vous ai quittee, 
 
 D'un trouble bien plus grand a mon ame agitee, 
 
 Et ces soins importuns qui m'arrachoient de vous 
 
 Contre ma grandeur meme allumoient mon courroux. 
 
 Je lui voulois du mal de m'etre si contraire, 
 
 De rendre ma presence ailleurs si necessaire, 
 
 Mais je lui pardonnois au simple souvenir 
 
 Du bonheur qu'a ma flamme elle a fait obtenir. 
 
 C'est elle dont je tiens cette haute esperance, 
 
 dui flatte mes desirs d'une illustre apparence, 
 
 Et fait croire a Cesar qu'il peut former des vceux, 
 
 du'il n'est pas tout-a fait indigne de vos feux, 
 
 Et qu'il peut en pretendre une juste conqudte, 
 
 N'ayant plus que les Dieux au dessus de sa tete. 
 
 Oui, Reine, si quelqu'un dans ce vaste univers 
 
 Pouvoit porter plus haut la gloire de vos fers ; 
 
 S'il etoit quelque trpne ou vous puissiez paroitre 
 
 Plus digrtement assise en captivant son maitre, 
 
 J'irois, j'irois a lui, moins pour le lui ravir, 
 
 due pour lui disputer le droit de vous servir; 
 
 Et je n'aspirerois au bonheur de vous plaire, 
 
 du'apres avoir mis bas un si grand adversaire. 
 
 C'etoit pour acquerir un droit si precieux, 
 
 due combattoit partout mon bras ambitieux, 
 
 Et dans Pharsale meme il a tire 1'epee 
 
 Plus pour le conserver, que pour vaincre Pompee. 
 
 Je 1'ai vaincu, princesse, et le Dieu des combats 
 
 M'y favorisoit moins que vos divins appas. 
 
 Us conduisoient ma main, ils enfloient mon courage, 
 
 Cette pleine victoire est leur dernier ouvrage, 
 
 C'est reflet des ardeurs qu'ils daignoient m'inspirer; 
 
 Et vos beaux yeux enfin m'ayant fait soupirer, 
 
 Pour faire que votre ame avec gloire y reponde, 
 
 M'ont rendu le premier, et de Rome, et du monde 
 
 C'est ce glorieux litre, a present effectif ; 
 
 due je viens ennoblir par celui de captif ; 
 
 Heureux, si mon esprit gagne tant sur le votre, 
 
 du'il en estime 1'un, et me permette 1'autre. 
 
 Pompee, Act IV. Sc. 3. 
 
 * A certain author says humorously, " Les mots me'mes d'amour et d'amant 
 sont bannis de 1'intime societe des deux sexes, et relegues avec ceux de ckaine et 
 de flamme dans les Romans qu'on ne lit plus. 1 ' And where nature is once banish- 
 ed, a fair field is open to every fantastic imitation, even the most extravagant.
 
 Ch. 16. SENTIMENTS. 233 
 
 The last class comprehends sentiments that are unnatural, as being 
 suited to no character nor passion. These may be subdivided into 
 three branches: first, sentiments unsuitable to the constitution of 
 man, and to the laws of his nature; second, inconsistent sentiments; 
 third, sentiments that are pure rant and extravagance. 
 
 When the fable is of human affairs, every event, every incident, 
 and every circumstance, ought to be natural, otherwise the imitation 
 is imperfect. But an imperfect imitation is a venial fault, compared 
 with that of running contrary to nature. In the Hippolytus of 
 Euripides,* Hippolytus, wishing for another self in his own situa- 
 tion, How much (says he) should I be touched with his misfortune ! 
 as if it were natural to grieve more for the misfortunes of another 
 than for one's own. 
 
 Osmyn. Yet I behold her yet and now no more. 
 Turn your lights inward, eyes, and view my thought. 
 So shall you still behold her 'twill not be. 
 O impotence of sight ! mechanic sense 
 Which to exterior objects ow'st thy faculty, 
 Not seeing of election, but necessity. 
 Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors, 
 Successively reflect succeeding images. 
 Nor what they would, but must ; a star or toad ; 
 Just as the hand of chance administers ! 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act II. Sc. 8. 
 
 No man, in his senses, ever thought of applying his eyes to dis- 
 cover what passes in his mind ; far less of blaming his eyes for not 
 seeing a thought or idea. In Moliere's L'AvareJ Harpagon being 
 robbed of his money, seizes himself by the arm, mistaking it for that 
 of the robber. And again he expresses himself as follows : 
 
 Je veux aller querir la justice, et faire donner la question a toute ma maison ; 
 a servantes, a valets, a fils, a fille, et a moi aussi. 
 
 This is so absurd as scarcely to provoke a smile, if it be not at 
 the author. 
 
 Of this second branch the following are examples. 
 
 -Now bid me run, 
 
 And I will strive with things impossible, 
 Yea get the better of them. 
 
 Julius Casar, Act II. Sc. 3. 
 
 Vos mains seules ont droit de vaincre un invincible. 
 
 Le Cid, Act V. Sc. last. 
 
 due son nom soit beni. due son nom soil chante, 
 due 1'on celebre ses ouvrages 
 Au dela de 1'eternite. 
 
 Esther, Act V. Sc. last. 
 
 Me miserable ! which way shall I fly 
 Infinite wrath and infinite despair 1 
 Which way I fly is hell : myself am hell; 
 And in the lowest deep, a lower deep 
 Still threatmng to devour me, opens wide; 
 To which the hell I suffer seems a heav'n. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book IV. 
 
 * Act IV. Sc. 5. t Act IV. Sc. 7. 
 
 20*
 
 234 SENTIMENTS. [Ch. 16. 
 
 Of the third brar.ch, take the following samples. 
 Lucan, talking- of Pompey's sepulchre, 
 
 Roraanum nomen, et omne 
 
 Imperium Magno est tumuli modus. Obrue saxa 
 
 Crimine plena deum. Si tota est Herculis Oete, 
 
 Et juga tota vacant Bromio Nyseia ; quare 
 
 Unus in Egypto Magno lapis 1 Omnia Lagi 
 
 Rura tenere potest, si nullp cespite nomen 
 
 Hceserit. Erremus populi, cinerumque tuorum, 
 
 Magne, metu nullas Nili calcemus arenas. L. 8. 1. 798. 
 
 Thus in Howe's translation : 
 
 Where there are seas, or air, or earth, or skies, 
 Where-e'er Rome's empire stretches, Pompey lies. 
 Far be the vile memorial then convey'd ! 
 Nor let this stone the partial gods upbraid 
 Shall Hercules all Oeta's heights demand, 
 And Nysa's hill for Bacchus only stand, 
 While one poor pebble is the warrior's doom 
 That fought the cause of liberty and Rome 1 
 If fate decrees he must in Egypt lie, 
 Let the whole fertile realm his grave supply, 
 Yield the wide country to his awful shade 
 Nor let us dare on any part to tread, 
 Fearful we violate the mighty dead. 
 
 The following passages are pure rant. Coriolanus, speaking to 
 his mother, 
 
 What is this 1 
 
 Your knees to me 1 to your corrected son 7 
 Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach 
 Fillip the stars : then let the mutinous winds 
 Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun : 
 Murd'ring impossibility, to make 
 What cannot be, slight work. 
 
 Coriolanus, Act V. Sc. 3. 
 
 Casar. Danger knows full well, 
 
 That Caesar is more dangerous than he. 
 We were two lions litter'd in one day, 
 And I the elder and more terrible. 
 
 Julius CcEsar t Act II. Sc. 4. 
 
 Almahide. This day 
 
 I gave my faith to him, he his to me. 
 
 Almanzor. Good heaven, thy book of fate before me lay 
 But to tear out the journal of this day. 
 Or if the order of the world below, 
 Will not the gap of one whole day allow, 
 Give me that minute when she made that vow. 
 That minute e'en the happy from their bliss might give. 
 And those who live in grief a shorter time would live, 
 So small a link if broke, th' eternal chain, 
 Would like divided waters join again. 
 
 Conquest of Grenada, Act III. 
 
 Almanzor. I'll hold it fast 
 
 As life: when life's gone, I'll hold this last, 
 And if thou tak'st after I am slain, 
 I'll send my ghost to fetch it back again. 
 
 Conquest of Grenada, Part 2. Act III. 
 l/yndiraxa. A crown is come, and will not fate allow, 
 And yet I feel something like death is near. 
 My guards, my guards
 
 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 235 
 
 Let not that ugly skeleton appear. 
 
 Sure destiny mistakes ; this death's not mine ; 
 
 She doats, and means to cut another line. 
 
 Tell her I am a queen but 'tis too late ; 
 
 Dying, I charge rebellion on my fate ; 
 
 Bow down, ye slaves 
 
 Bow quickly down and your submission show; 
 
 I'm pleas'd to taste an empire ere I go. . [Dies. 
 
 Conquest of Grenada, Part 2. Act V. 
 Ventidius. But you, ere love misled your wand'ring eyes, 
 Were, sure, the chief and best of human race, 
 Fram'd in the very pride and boast of nature, 
 So perfect, that the gods who formed you wonder'd 
 At their own skill, and cry'd, a lucky hit 
 Has mended our design. 
 
 Dry den, All for Love, Act I. 
 
 Not to talk of the impiety of this sentiment, it is ludicrous instead 
 of being lofty. 
 
 The famous epitaph on Raphael is no less absurd than any of the 
 foregoing passages : 
 
 Raphel, timuit, quo sospite, vinci 
 Rerum magna parens, et moriente mori. 
 
 Imitated by Pope in his Epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller : 
 Living, great nature fear'd he might outvie 
 Her works ; and dying, fears herself might die. 
 
 Such is the force of imitation ; for Pope, of himself, would never 
 have been guilty of a thought so extravagant. 
 
 So much upon sentiments ; the language proper for expressing 
 them, comes next in order. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 
 
 Man has a propensity to communicate his passions and emotions Venting a 
 passion gives relief Immoderate grief is silent, because it fills the mind Im- 
 moderate love and revenge silent Surprise and terror silent They express in 
 words, only the capital circumstances Language should be adopted to the sen- 
 timent and passion Elevated sentiments require elevated language Tender 
 sentiments, soft and flowing language Figures give an agreeable character to 
 sentiment Gross errors, of passions expressed in flowing in an unequal course 
 The language of violent passion, interrupted and broken, soliloquies particu- 
 larly Authors apt to use language above their tone of mind To use lan- 
 guage too figurative for the dignity and importance of the subject, an error 
 Language too light and airy for a serious passion A thought that turns upon 
 one expression instead of the subject Expressions which have no distinct 
 meaning. 
 
 AMONG the particulars that compose the social part of our nature, 
 a propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and every 
 thing that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice affect 
 us greatly ; and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we 
 have no friend nor acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we 
 sometimes utter our complaints aloud, even where there are none to 
 listen.
 
 236 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. [Ch. 17. 
 
 But this propensity operates not in every state of mind. A man 
 immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself, rejecting all consola- 
 tion : immoderate grief accordingly is mute : complaining is strug- 
 gling for consolation 
 
 It is the wretch's comfort still to have 
 
 Some small reserve of near and inward wo, 
 
 Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief, 
 
 Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn, 
 
 And glutton-like alone devour. 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 When grief subsides, it then and no sooner finds a tongue : we 
 complain, because complaining is an effort to disburden the mind of 
 its distress.* 
 
 Surprise and terror are silent passions for a different reason : they 
 agitate the mind so violently as, for a time, to suspend the exercise of 
 its faculties, and among others the faculty of speech. 
 
 Love and revenge, when immoderate, are not more loquacious than 
 immoderate grief. But when these passions become moderate, they 
 set the tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become loquacious : 
 moderate love, when unsuccessful, is vented in complaints; when 
 successful, is full of joy expressed by words and gestures. 
 
 As no passion has any long uninterrupted existence,! nor beats 
 aiways with an equal pulse, the language suggested by passion is not 
 only unequal, but frequently interrupted : and even during an unin- 
 terrupted fit of passion, we only express in words the more capital 
 sentiments. In familiar conversation, one who vents every single 
 thought is justly branded with the character of loquacity ; because 
 sensible people express no thoughts but what make some figure : in 
 the same manner, we are only disposed to express the strongest pulses 
 of passion, especially when it returns with impetuosity after inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 I formerly had occasion to observe,! that the sentiments ought to 
 be turned to the passion, and the language to both. Elevated senti- 
 ments require elevated language : tender sentiments ought to be 
 clothed in words that are soft and flowing: when the mind is depressed 
 with any passion, the sentiments must be expressed in words that are 
 humble, not low. Words being intimately connected with the ideas 
 
 * This observation is finely illustrated by a story which Herodotus records, b. 3. 
 Cambyses, when he conquered Egypt, made Psammenitus the king prisoner; and 
 for trying his constancy, ordered his daughter to be dressed in the habit of a slave, 
 and to be employed in bringing water from the river; his son also was led to exe- 
 cution with a halter about his neck. The Egyptians vented their sorrow in tears 
 and lamentations; Psammenitus only, with a downcast eye, remained silent. 
 Afterward meeting one of his companions, a man advanced in years, who, being 
 plundered of all, was begging alms, he wept bitterly, calling him by his name. 
 Cambyses, struck with wonder, demanded an answer to the following question : 
 '' Psammenitus, thy master. Cambyses, is desirous to know, why, after thou hadst 
 seen thy daughter so ignominiously treated, and thy son led to execution, without 
 exclaiming or weeping, thou shouldst be so highly concerned for a poor man, no 
 way related to theeT' Psammenitus returned the following answer: "Son of 
 Cyrus, the calamities of my family are too great to leave me the power of weep- 
 ing ; but the misfortunes of a companion, reduced in his old age to want of bread, 
 is a fit subject for lamentation." 
 
 t See Chap. 2. Part 3. t Chap. 16.
 
 Ch. 17.] LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 237 
 
 they represent, the greatest harmony is required between them : to 
 express, for example, an humble sentiment in high sounding words, 
 is disagreeable by a discordant mixture of feelings ; and the discord 
 ' ! not less when elevated sentiments are dressed in low words : 
 
 Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult. 
 Indignatur item privatis ac prope socco 
 Dignis carminibus narrari coena Thyestae. 
 
 Horace, Ars Poet. I. 89. 
 
 A comic subject will not hold 
 If 'tis in tragic measure told ; 
 Besides, it would an audience shock, 
 In verses fitter for the sock 
 The Thyestean feast to tell. 
 
 This, however, excludes not figurative expression, which, within 
 moderate bounds, communicates to the sentiment an agreeable eleva- 
 tion. We are sensible of an effect directly opposite, where figura- 
 tive expression is indulged beyond a just measure: the opposition 
 between the expression and the sentiment, makes the discord appear 
 greater than it is in reality.* 
 
 At the same time, figures are not equally the language of every 
 passion : pleasant emotions, which elevate or swell the mind, vent 
 themselves in strong epithets and figurative expression ; but hum- 
 bling and dispiriting passions affect to speak plain : 
 
 Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri. 
 Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque; 
 Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba, 
 Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela. 
 
 Horace, ATS Poet, 1. 95. 
 
 And sometimes in the tragic scene 
 You've wailings, melancholy mean. 
 Peleus and Telephus, when poor, 
 And exiles, will no more endure 
 Their rants and raving ten feet high 
 If they would to the heart apply. 
 
 Figurative expression, being the work of an enlivened imagina- 
 tion, cannot be the language of anguish or distress. Otway, sensible 
 of this, has painted a scene of distress in colors finely adapted to the 
 subject : there is scarcely a figure in it, except a short and natural 
 simile with which the speech is introduced. Belvidera talking to 
 her father of her husband : 
 
 Think you saw what past at our last parting 
 
 Think you beheld him like a raging lion, 
 
 Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps, 
 
 Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain 
 
 Of burning fury ; think you saw his one hand 
 
 Fix'd on my throat, while the extended other 
 
 Grasp 'd a keen threat'ning dagger ; oh, 'twas thus 
 
 We last embrac'd, when, trembling with revenge, 
 
 He dragg'd me to the ground, and at my bosom 
 
 Presented horrid death : cried out, My friends ! 
 
 Where are my friends'? swore, wept, rag'd, threaten'd, lov'd 
 
 For he yet lov'd, and that dear love preserv'd me 
 
 To this last trial of a father's pity. 
 
 * See this explained more particularly in Chap. 8.
 
 238 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. [Ch. 17. 
 
 I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought 
 
 That that dear hand should do th' unfriendly office ; 
 
 If I was ever then your care, now hear me ; 
 
 Fly to the senate, save the promised lives 
 
 Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice. 
 
 Venice Preserved, Act V. 
 
 To preserve the foresaid resemblance between words and their 
 meaning, the sentiments of active and hurrying passions ought to be 
 dressed in words where syllables prevail that are pronounced short 
 or fast ; for these make an impression of hurry and precipitation. 
 Emotions, on the other hand, that rest upon their objects, are best 
 expressed by words where syllables prevail that are pronounced long 
 or slow. A person affected with melancholy has a languid and slow 
 train of perceptions : the expression best suited to that state of mind, 
 is where words, not only of long but of many syllables, abound in 
 the composition ; and, for that reason, nothing can be finer than the 
 following passage. 
 
 In those deep solitudes, and awful cells, 
 Where heav'nly-pensive Contemplation dwells, 
 And ever-musing melancholy reigns. 
 
 Pope, Eloisa to Abelard. 
 
 To preserve the same resemblance, another circumstance is requi- 
 site, that the language, like the emotion, be rough or smooth, broken 
 or uniform. Calm and sweet emotions are best expressed by words 
 that glide softly : surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, require 
 an expression both rough and broken. 
 
 It cannot have escaped any diligent inquirer into nature, that, in 
 the hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing first which 
 is most at heart :* which is beautifully done in the following pas- 
 sage. 
 
 Me, me ; adsum qui feci : in me convertite ferrum, 
 O Rutuli, mea fraus omnis. 
 
 JEneid, IX. 427. 
 
 Me me I'm here, I did it turn your swords 
 On me, oh Rutuleans mine was all the fraud. 
 
 Passion has often the effect of redoubling words, the better to 
 make them express the strong conception of the mind. This is finely 
 imitated in the following examples. 
 
 -Thou sun, said I, fair light ! 
 
 And thou enlighten'd earth, so fresh and gay ! 
 Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains ! 
 And ye that live, and move, fair creatures ! tell, 
 
 Tell if ye saw, how came I thus, how here 
 
 Paradise Lost, book VIII. 273. 
 
 Both have sinn'd ! but thou 
 
 Against God only ; I, 'gainst God and thee : 
 And to the place of judgment will return. 
 There witli my cries importune Heaven, that all 
 
 * Demetrius Phalereus (of Elocution, sect. 28.) justly observes, that an accurate 
 adjustment of the words to the thought, so as to make them correspond in every 
 particular, is only proper for sedate subjects; for that passion speaks plain, and 
 rejects all refinements.
 
 Ch. 17.] LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 239 
 
 The sentence, from thy head remov'd, may light 
 On me, sole cause to thee of all this wo ; 
 Me ! me ! only just object of his ire. 
 
 Paradise Lost, book X. 930. 
 
 Shakspeare is superior to all other writers in delineating passion. 
 It is difficult to say in what part he most excels, whether in moulding 
 every passion to peculiarity of character, in discovering the senti- 
 ments that proceed from various tones of passion, Qr in expressing 
 properly every different sentiment : he disgusts not his reader with 
 general declamation and unmeaning words, too common in other 
 writers : his sentiments are adjusted to the peculiar character and 
 circumstances of the speaker : and the propriety is no less perfect 
 between his sentiments and his diction. That this is no exaggera- 
 tion, will be evident to every one of taste, upon comparing Shakspeare 
 with other writers in similar passages. If upon any occasion he 
 falls below himself, it is in those scenes where passion enters not : by 
 endeavoring in that case tc raise his dialogue above the style of 
 ordinary conversation, he sometimes deviates into intricate thought 
 and obscure expression:* sometimes, to throw his language out of 
 the familiar, he employs rhyme. But may it not, in some measure, 
 excuse Shakspeare, I shall not say his works, that he had no pattern, 
 in his own or in any living language, of dialogue fitted for the thea- 
 tre ? At the same time, it ought not to escape observation, that the 
 stream clears in its progress, and that in his later plays he has 
 attained the purity and perfection of dialogue ; an observation that, 
 with greater certainty than tradition, will direct us to arrange his 
 plays in the order of time. This ought to be considered by those 
 who rigidly exaggerate every blemish of the finest genius for the 
 drama ever the world enjoyed : they ought also for their own sake 
 to consider, that it is easier to discover his blemishes, which lie 
 generally at the surface, than his beauties, which can be truly relished 
 by those only who dive deep into human nature. One thing must 
 be evident to the meanest capacity, that wherever passion is to be 
 
 * Of this take the following specimen : 
 
 They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase 
 
 Soil our ambition ; and, indeed it takes 
 
 From pur achievements, though perform'd at height, 
 
 The pith and marrow of our attribute. 
 
 So, oft it chances in particular men, 
 
 That for some vicious mole of nature in them, 
 
 As, in their birth, (wherein they are not guilty, 
 
 Since nature cannot choose his origin,) 
 
 By the o'ergrowth of some complexion 
 
 Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason 
 
 Or by some habit, that too much o'er-leavens 
 
 The form of plausive manners ; that these men 
 
 Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, 
 
 (Being nature's livery, or fortune's scar,) 
 
 Their virtues else, be they as pure as gra.ce, 
 
 As infinite as man may undergo, 
 
 Shall in the general censure take corruption 
 
 From that particular fault. 
 
 Hamlet, Act 1. Sc. 7.
 
 240 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. t^L l7 ' 
 
 displayed, nature shows itself mighty in him, and is conspicuous by 
 the most delicate propriety of sentiment and expression. 
 
 I return to my subject, from a digression from which I cannot rep 
 That perfect harmony which ought to subsist among all the co 
 tuent parts of a dialogue, is a beauty no less rare than conspicuous 
 as to expression in particular, were I to give instances, where, in or 
 or other of the respects above mentioned, it corresponds not precisely 
 to the characters, passions, and sentiments, I might from ditte 
 authors collect volumes. Following, therefore, the method laid d 
 in the chapter of sentiments, I shall confine my quotations t 
 grosser errors, which every writer ought to avoid.. 
 
 And, first, of passion expressed in words flowing u 
 course without interruption. 
 
 In the chapter above cited, Corneille is censured for the imprc 
 priety of his sentiments: and here, for the sake of truth, I am obli 
 to attack him a second time. Were I to give instances from < 
 author of the fault under consideration, I might transcribe i 
 tragedies ; for he is no less faulty in this particular, than in pas 
 upon us his own thoughts as a spectator, instead of the genui: 
 timents of passion. . Nor would a comparison between | 
 Shakspeare, upon the present article, redound more to his honor, th 
 the former upon the sentiments. Racine is here less incorrect i 
 Corneille; and from him, therefore, I shall gather a few instance 
 The first shall be the description of the sea-monster m h 
 given by Theramene, the companion of Hippolytus. Theramene i 
 represented in terrible agitation, which appears from the following 
 passage, so boldly figurative as not to be excused but by violent pel 
 turbation of mind : 
 
 Le ciel avec horreur voit ce monstre sauvage, 
 Laterre s'en emeut, 1'air en est infecte, 
 Le Hot, qui 1'apporta, recule epouvante. 
 
 Yet Theramene gives a long pompous connected description of 
 that event, dwelling upon every minute circumstance, as if he had 
 been only a cool spectator : 
 
 A peine nous sortions des portes de Trezene, 
 II etoit sur son char. Ses gardes affliges 
 Imitoient son silence, autour de lui ranges. 
 II suivoit tout pensif le chemin de Mycenes. 
 Sa main sur les chevaux laissoit flotter les r6nes. 
 Sessuperbescoursiers qu'on voyoit autrefois 
 Pleins d'une ardeur si noble obeir a sa voix, 
 L'ffiil morne maintenant et la tete baissee, 
 Serabloient se conformer a sa triste pensee, &c. 
 
 Act V. Sc. 6. 
 
 * The critics seem not perfectly to comprehend the genuis of Shakspeare. His 
 plays are defective in the mechanical part ; which is less the work of genius than 
 of experience, and is not otherwise brought to perfection but by diligently observ- 
 ing the errors of former compositions. Shakspeare excels all the ancients and 
 moderns in knowledge of human nature, and in unfolding even the most obscure 
 and refined emotions. This is a rare faculty, and of the greatest importance in a 
 dramatic author ; and it is that faculty which makes him surpass all other writers 
 in the comic as well as tragic vein.
 
 Ch. 17.] LANGUAGE OF PASSION. ' 241 
 
 The last speech of Atalide, in the tragedy of Bajazet, of the same 
 author, is a continued discourse ; and but a faint representation of 
 the violent passion which forced her to put an end to her own life : 
 
 Enfin, e'en est done fait. Et par mes amtoces, 
 
 Mes injustes soup9<ms, mes funestes caprices, 
 
 Je suis done arrivee au douloureux moment, 
 
 Oil je vois, par mon crime, expirer mon amant. 
 
 N'etoit-ce pas assez, cruelle destinee, 
 
 Q.u'a lui survivre, helas ! je-fusse condamn^el 
 
 Et falloit-il encor que, pour comble d'horreurs, 
 
 Je ne pusse imputer sa mort qu'a mes fureurs ! 
 
 Oui, c'est moi, cher amant, qui t'arrache la vie ; 
 
 Roxane, ou le Sultan, ne te 1 ont point ravie. 
 
 Moi seule, j'ai tissu le lien mulheureux 
 
 Dont tu viens d'eprouver les de testables nceuds. 
 
 Et je puis, sans mourir, en souffrir la pensee 1 
 
 Moi, qui n'ai pu tantot, de ta mort menacee, 
 
 Retentir mes esprits, prompts a m'abandonner 
 
 Ah ! n'ai-je eu de 1'amour que pour t'assassiner 7 
 
 Mais e'en est trop. II faut par un prompt sacrifice, 
 
 due ma fidelle main te venge, et me pumsse. 
 
 Vous, de qui j'ai trouble la gloire et le repos, 
 
 Heros, qui deviez tous revivre en ce heros, 
 
 Toi, mere malheureuse, et qui des notre enfance, 
 
 Me confias son coaur dans une autre esperance, 
 
 Infortune Visir, amis desesperes, 
 
 Roxane, venez tous centre moi conjures, 
 
 Tourmenter a la fois une amante eperdue ; [Ette se tile. 
 
 Et prenez la vengeance enfin qui vois est due. 
 
 Act V. Sc. last. 
 
 Though works, not authors, are the professed subject of this criti- 
 cal undertaking, I am tempted, by the present speculation, to trans- 
 gress, once again, the limits prescribed, and to venture a cursory 
 reflection upon that justly celebrated author; that he is always 
 sensible, generally correct, never falls low, maintains a moderate, 
 degree of dignity, without reaching the sublime, paints delicately 
 the tender affections, but is a stranger to the genuine language of 
 enthusiastic or fervid passion. 
 
 If, in general, the language of violent passion ought to be broken 
 and interrupted, soliloquies ought to be so in a peculiar manner : 
 language is intended by nature for society : and a man when alone, 
 though he always clothes his thoughts in words, seldom gives his 
 words utterance, unless when prompted by some strong emotion ; 
 and even then by starts and intervals only.* Shakspeare's solilo- 
 quies may be justly established as a model; for it is not easy to 
 conceive any model more perfect : of his many incomparable solilo- 
 quies, I confine myself to the two following, being different in their 
 manner. 
 
 Hamlet. Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt, 
 
 Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 
 
 Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd 
 
 His canon 'gainst self-slaughter ! O God ! O God ! 
 
 How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, 
 
 Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
 
 Fie on't ! O fie ! 'tis an unweeded garden, 
 
 * Soliloquies accounted for, Chap. 15. 
 21
 
 242 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. [Ch. 17. 
 
 That grows to seed : things rank and gross in nature 
 
 Possess it merely. That it should come to this! 
 
 But two months dead ! nay, not so much ; not two ; 
 So excellent a king, that was, to this, 
 Hyperion to a satyr : so loving to my mother, 
 That he permitted not the winds of heav'n 
 Visit her face too roughly. Heav'n and earth ! 
 Must I remember why, she would hang on him, 
 As if increase of appetite had grown 
 
 By what it fed on ; yet, within a month 
 
 Let me not think Frailty, thy name is Woman! 
 A little month ! or ere those shoes were old, 
 With which she followed my poor father's body, 
 
 Like Niobe, all tears Why she, ev'n she 
 
 (O heav'n ! a beast that wants discourse of reason, 
 Would have mourn'd longer) married with mine uncle, 
 My father's brother; but no more like my father, 
 Than I to Hercules. Within a month ! 
 Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 
 Had left the flushing in her gauled eyes. 
 
 She married Oh, most wicked speed, to post 
 
 With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 
 
 It is not, nor it cannot come to good. 
 
 But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue. 
 
 Hamlet, Act 1. Sc. 3. 
 
 Ford. Hum ! ha ! is this a vision 7 is this a dream 1 do I sleep 1 Mr. Ford, 
 awake ; awake, Mr. Ford ; there's a hole made in your best coat, Mr. Ford ! 
 this 'tis to be married ! this 'tis to have linen and buck-baskets ! Well, I will 
 proclaim myself what I am ; I will now take the leacher ; he is at my house ; he 
 cannot 'scape me ; 'tis impossible he should ; he cannot creep into a halfpenny- 
 purse, nor into a pepper-box. But lest t,he devil that guides him should aid him, 
 I will search impossible places, though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what 
 I would not, shall not make me tame. 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor, Act III. Sc. last. 
 
 These soliloquies are accurate and bold copies of nature : in a pas- 
 sionate soliloquy one begins with thinking aloud ; and the strongest 
 feelings only, are expressed ; as the speaker warms, he begins to ima- 
 gine one listening, and gradually slides into a connected discourse. 
 
 How far distant are soliloquies generally from these models? 
 So far, indeed, as to give disgust instead of pleasure. The first 
 scene of Iphigenia in Tauris discovers that princess, in a soliloquy, 
 gravely reporting to herself her own history. There is the same 
 impropriety in the first scene of Alcestes, and in the other introduc- 
 tions of Euripides, almost without exception. Nothing can be more 
 ridiculous : it puts one in mind of a most curious device in Gothic 
 paintings, that of making every figure explain itself by a written 
 label issuing from its mouth. The description which a parasite, in 
 the Eunuch of Terence,* gives of himself, makes a sprightly solilo- 
 quy : but it is not consistent with the rules of propriety ; for no man, 
 in his ordinary state of mind, and upon a familiar subject, ever thinks 
 of talking aloud to himself. The same objection lies against a solilo- 
 quy in the Adelphi of the same author.f The soliloquy which makes 
 the third scene, act third, of his Heicyra, is insufferable; for there 
 Pamphilus, soberly and circumstantially, relates to himself an adven- 
 ture which had happened to him a moment before. 
 
 * Act II. Sc. 2. t Act I. Sc. 1.
 
 Ch. 17.] LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 243 
 
 Corneille is not more happy in his soliloquies than in his dialogue. 
 Take for a specimen the first scene of Cinna. 
 
 Racine also is extremely faulty in the same respect. His solilo- 
 quies are regular harangues, a chain completed in every link, 
 without interruption or interval : that of Antiochus in Berenice* 
 resembles a regular pleading, where the parties pro and con display 
 their arguments at full length. The following soliloquies are equally 
 faulty : Bajazet, act 3. sc. 7 ; Mithridate, act 3. sc. 4. and act 4. 
 sc. 5 ; Iphigenia, act 4. sc. 8. 
 
 Soliloquies upon lively or interesting subjects, but without any 
 turbulence of passion, may be carried on in a continued chain of 
 thought. If, for example, the nature and sprightliness of the subject 
 prompt a man to speak his thoughts in the form of a dialogue, the 
 expression must be carried on without break or interruption, as in 
 a dialogue between two persons ; which justifies Falstaff 's soliloquy 
 upon honor. 
 
 What need I be so forward with Death, that calls not on me 1 Well, 'tis no 
 matter, Honor pricks me on. But how if Honor prick me off, when I come on 1 
 how then 1 Can Honor set a leg 1 No : or an arm 1 No : or take away the 
 
 fief of a wound 7 No. Honor hath no skill in surgery then 1 No. What is 
 onor 1 A word. What is that word honor ? Air ; a trim reckoning. 
 
 Who hath it 1 He that dy'd a Wednesday. Doth he feel it 1 No. Doth he 
 hear it 7 No. Is it insensible then 7 Yes, to the dead. But will it not live 
 with the living 7 No. Why 7 Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none 
 of it ; honor is a mere scutcheon ; and so ends my catechism. 
 
 First Part Henry IV. Act V. Sc. 1. 
 
 And even without dialogue, a continued discourse may be justified, 
 where a man reasons in a soliloquy upon an important subject; for 
 if in such a case it be at all excusable to think aloud, it is necessary 
 that the reasoning be carried on in a chain ; which justifies that 
 admirable soliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immortality, being a 
 serene meditation upon the most interesting of all subjects. And 
 the same consideration will justify the soliloquy that introduces the 
 5th act of Addison's Cato. 
 
 The next class of the grosser errors which all writers ought to 
 avoid, shall be of language elevated above the tone of the sentiment ; 
 of which take the following instances : 
 
 Zara. Swift as occasion, I 
 Myself will fly ; and earlier than the morn 
 Wake thee to freedom. Now 'tis late; and yet 
 Some news few minutes past arriv'd, which seem'd 
 
 To shake the temper of the King. Who knows 
 
 What racking cares disease a monarch's bed 7 
 
 Or love, that late at night still lights his lamp, 
 
 And strikes his rays through dusk, and folded lids, 
 
 Forbidding rest, may stretch his eyes awake, 
 
 And force their balls abroad at this dead hour. 
 
 I'll try. Mourning Bride, Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 The language here is undoubtedly too pompous and labored for 
 describing so simple a circumstance as absence of sleep. In the 
 following passage, the tone of the language, warm and plaintive, is 
 well suited to the passion, which is recent grief: but every one will 
 * Act I. Sc. 2.
 
 244 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. Ch. 17. 
 
 be sensible, that in the last couplet save one, the tone is changed, 
 and the mind suddenly elevated to be let fall as suddenly in the last 
 couplet : 
 
 Ildeteste a 'amais sa coupable victoire, 
 II renonce a la cour, aux humains, a la gloire 
 Et se fuiant lui-meme, au milieu des deserts, 
 II va cacher sa peine au bout de 1'univers ; 
 La, soit que le soleil rendit le jour au monde, 
 Soit qu'iljinit sa course au vaste sein de Vonde 
 Sa voix faisoit redire aux echos attendris, 
 JLe nom, le triste nom, de son malheureux fils. 
 
 Henriade, Chant. VIII. 229. 
 
 Language too artificial or too figurative for the gravity, dignity, 
 or importance, of the occasion, may be put in a third class. 
 
 Chimene demanding justice against Rodrigue who killed her 
 father, instead of a plain and pathetic expostulation, makes a speech 
 stuffed with the most artificial flowers of rhetoric : 
 
 Sire, mon pere est mort, mes yeux ont vu son sang 
 Confer a gros bouillons de son genereux flanc ; 
 Ce sang qui tant de fois garantit vos murailles, 
 Ce sang qui tant de fois vous gagna des batailles, 
 Ce sang qui, tout sorti, fume encore de courroux 
 De se voir repandu pour d'autres que pour vous, 
 du'au milieu des hazards n'osoit verser la guerre, 
 Rodrigue en votre cour vient d'en couvrir la terre. 
 J'ai couru sur le lieu sans force, et sans couleur : 
 Je 1'ai trouve sans vie. Excusez ma douleur, 
 Sire ; la voix me manque a ce recit funeste, 
 Mes pleurs et mes soupirs vous diront rnieux le reste. 
 
 And again, 
 
 Son flanc etoit ouvert, et, pour mieux m'emouvoir, 
 Son sang sur la poussiere ecrivoit mon devoir ; 
 Ou plutot sa valeur en cet etat reduite 
 Me parloit par sa plaie, et hatoit ma poursuite, 
 Et pour se faire entendre au'plus juste des Rois, 
 Par cette triste bouche elle empruntoit ma voix. 
 
 Act II. Sc. 9. 
 
 Nothing can be contrived in language more averse to the tone of the 
 passion than this florid speech : I should imagine it more apt to pro- 
 voke laughter than to inspire concern or pity. 
 
 In a fourth class shall be given specimens of language too light 
 or airy for a severe passion. 
 
 Imagery and figurative expression are discordant, in the highest 
 degree, with the agony of a mother, who is deprived of two hopeful 
 sons by a brutal murder. Therefore the following passage is un- 
 doubtedly in a bad taste. 
 
 Queen. Ah, my poor princes ! ah, my tender babes ! 
 My unblown flow'rs. new appearing sweets! 
 If yet your gentle souls fly in the air, 
 And be not fixt in doom perpetual, 
 Hover about me with your airy wings, 
 And hear your mother s lamentation. 
 
 Richard III. Act IV. Sc. 4. 
 Again, 
 
 K. Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child.
 
 Ch. 17.] LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 245 
 
 Constance. Grief fills the room up of my absent child; 
 Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
 Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
 Remembers me of all his gracious parts^ 
 Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form; 
 Then have I reason to be fond of grief. 
 
 King John, Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 A thought that turns upon the expression instead of the subject, 
 commonly called a play of words, being low and childish, is un- 
 worthy of any composition, whether gay or serious, that pretends to 
 any degree of elevation : thoughts of this kind make a fifth class. 
 
 In the Amynta of Tasso,* the lover falls into a mere play of 
 words, demanding how he who had lost himself, could find a mis- 
 tress. And for the same reason, the following passage in Corneille 
 has been generally condemned : 
 
 Chimcne. Mon pere est mort, Elvire, et la premiere e pee 
 Dont s'est armc Rodrigue a sa trame coupee. 
 Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez-vous en eau : 
 La moitie de ma vie a mis 1'autre au tombeau, 
 Et m'oblige a venger, apres ce coup funeste, 
 Celle que je n'ai plus, sur celle qui me reste. 
 
 Cid, Act III. Sc. 3. 
 To die is to be banish'd from myself: 
 And Sylvia is myself; banish'd from her, 
 Is self from self; a deadly banishment ! 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 Countess. I pray thee, lady, have a better cheer : 
 If thou engrossest all the griefs as thine, 
 Thou robb'st me of a moiety. 
 
 All's well that ends well, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 K. Henry. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! 
 When that my care could not withhold thy riots, 
 What wilt thou do when riot is thy care 1 ? 
 O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, 
 Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. 4. 
 
 Antony, speaking of Julius Caesar : 
 
 world ! thou wast the forest of this hart 
 And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. 
 How like a deer, stricken by many princes, 
 Dost thou here lie ! 
 
 Julius Casar, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 Playing thus with the sound of words, which is still worse than a 
 pun, is the meanest of all conceits. But Shakspeare, when he 
 descends to a play of words, is not always in the wrong : for it is 
 done sometimes to denote a peculiar character, as in the following 
 passage : 
 
 K. Philip. What say'st thou, boy 1 look in the lady's face. 
 
 Lewis. I do, my lord, and in her eye I find 
 A wonder, or a wond'rous miracle ; 
 The shadow of myself form'd in her eye ; 
 Which being but the shadow of your son, 
 Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow, 
 
 1 do protest, I never lov'd myself 
 Till now infixed I beheld myself 
 
 * Act 1. Sc. 2. 
 
 21*
 
 246 ANGUAGE or PASSION. [Ch. 17. 
 
 Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye. 
 
 Fatdconbridge. Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye ! 
 Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow 
 And quarter'd in her heart ! he doth espy 
 Himself Love's traitor : this is pity now, 
 That hang'd, and drawn, and quarter'd, there should be, 
 In such alove so vile a lout as he. 
 
 King John, Act II. Sc. '2 
 
 A jingle of words is the lowest species of that low wit ; which is 
 scarcely sufferable in any case, and least of all in an heroic poem : 
 and yet Milton, in some instances, has descended to that puerility : 
 
 And brought into the world a world of wo. 
 
 begirt th' Almighty throne 
 
 Beseeching: or besieginir 
 
 Which tempted our attempt 
 
 At one slight bound high overleap'd all bound. 
 
 With a shout 
 
 Loud as from number without numbers. 
 
 One should think it unnecessary to enter a caveat against an ex- 
 pression that has no meaning, or no distinct meaning; and yet some- 
 what of that kind may be found even among good writers. Such 
 make a sixth class. 
 
 Sebastian. I beg no pity for this mould'ring clay ; 
 For if you give it burial, there it takes 
 Possession of your earth : 
 If burnt and scatter'd in the air : the winds 
 That strew my dust, diffuse my royalty, 
 And spread me o'er your clime ; for where one atom 
 Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian reigns. 
 
 Dryden, Don Sebastian King of Portugal, Act I. 
 
 Cleopatra. Now, what news, my Charmion ? 
 Will he be kind 1 and will he not forsake me ? 
 Am I to live or die ? nay, do I live 1 
 Or am I dead 1 for when he gave his answer 
 Fate took the word, and then I liv'd or dy'd. 
 
 Dryden, All for Love, Act II. 
 
 If she be coy, and scorn my noble fire, 
 
 If her chill heart I cannot move ; 
 
 Why. I'll enjoy the very love, 
 And make a mistress of my own desire. 
 
 Cowley, poem inscribed, The Request. 
 
 His whole poem, inscribed, My Picture, is a jargon of the same kind. 
 
 'Tis he, they cry, by whom 
 
 Not men, but war itself is overcome. 
 
 Indian Queen. 
 
 Such empty expressions are finely ridiculed in the Rehearsal : 
 
 Was't not unjust to ravish hence her breath, 
 And in life's stead to leave us nought but death. 
 
 Act IV. Sc. 1.
 
 Ch. 18.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 247 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 BEAUTY OP LANGUAGE. 
 
 Painting and sculpture alone of the fine arts, imitative A beauty of language, 
 distinct from the beauty of the thought it expresses Of different words conveying 
 the same thought, that -which best answers the end is most beautiful Beauties 
 of language arising from sound Beauty of sound Beauty of signification 
 The resemblance between sound and signification Beauty of verse. 
 
 Or all the fine arts, painting and sculpture only, are in their nature 
 imitative. An ornamented field is not a copy or imitation of nature, 
 but nature itself embellished. Architecture is productive of originals, 
 and copies not from nature. Sound and motion may, in some mea- 
 sure, be imitated by music ; but for the most part music, like archi- 
 tecture, is productive of originals. Language copies not from nature, 
 more than music or architecture; unless, where, like music, it is 
 imitative of sound or motion. Thus, in the description of particular 
 sounds, language sometimes furnishes words, which, besides their 
 customary power of exciting ideas, resemble, by their softness or 
 harshness, the sounds described ; and there are words which, by the 
 celerity or slowness of pronunciation, have some resemblance to the 
 motion they signify. The imitative power of words goes one step 
 farther : the loftiness of some words makes them proper symbols of 
 lofty ideas ; a rough subject is imitated by harsh-sounding words ; 
 and words of many syllables pronounced slow and smooth, are 
 expressive of grief and melancholy. Words have a separate effect 
 on the mind abstracted from their signification and from their imita- 
 tive power : they are mrfre or less agreeable to the ear, by the fulness, 
 sweetness, faintness, or roughness of their tones. 
 
 These are Jbut faint beauties, being known to those only who have 
 more than ordinary acuteness of perception. Language possesses a 
 beauty superior greatly in degree, of which we are eminently sensi- 
 ble when a thought is communicated with perspicuity and sprightli- 
 ness. This beauty of language, arising from its power of expressing 
 thought, is apt to be confounded with the beauty of the thought itself: 
 the beauty of thought, transferred to the expression, makes it appear 
 more beautiful.* But these beauties, if we wish to think accurately, 
 must be distinguished from each other. They are in reality so dis- 
 tinct, that we sometimes are conscious of the highest pleasure lan- 
 guage can afford, when the subject expressed is disagreeable : a thing 
 that is loathsome, or a scene of horror to make one's hair stand on 
 end, may be described in a manner so lively, as that the disagreeable- 
 ness of the subject shall not even obscure the agreeableness of the 
 
 * Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 5. Demetrius Phalereus (of Elocution, sect. 75.) makes 
 the same observation. We are apt, says that author, to confound the language 
 with the subject ; and if the latter be nervous, we judge the same of the former. 
 But they are clearly distinguishable ; and it is not uncommon to find subjects of 
 great dignity dressed in mean language. Theopompus is celebrated for the force 
 of his diction; but erroneously: his subject indeed has great force, but his style 
 r little. 

 
 248 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18, 
 
 description. The causes of the original beauty of language, con- 
 sidered as significant, which is a branch of the present subject, will 
 be explained in their order. I shall only at present observe, that this 
 beauty is the beauty of means fitted to an end, that of communicating 
 thought : and hence it evidently appears, that of several expressions 
 all conveying the same thought, the most beautiful, in the sense now 
 mentioned, is that which in the most perfect manner answers it end. 
 The several beauties of language above mentioned, being of dif- 
 ferent kinds, ought to be handled separately. I shall begin with 
 those beauties of language that arise from sound ; after which will 
 follow the beauties of language considered as significant : this order 
 appears natural ; for the sound of a word is attended to, before we 
 consider its signification. In a third section come those singular 
 beauties of language that are derived from a resemblance between 
 sound and signification. The beauties of verse are handled in the 
 last section : for though the foregoing beauties are found in verse as 
 well as in prose, yet verse has many peculiar beauties, which, for 
 the sake of connection, must be brought under one view; and versi- 
 fication, at any rate, is a subject of so great importance as to deserve 
 a place by itself. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Sounds of different letters Syllables Words A period or sentence Discourse 
 The manner in which the vowels are sounded The vowels form a regular 
 series of sounds from high to low All agreeable The medium vowels most so 
 A consonant has no sound Syllables into which consonants enter, have 
 more than one sound The sounds of syllables as many as the letters A double 
 sound more agreeable than a single Difference between pronunciation and 
 music, with respect to sound The source of the agreeableness or disagreeable- 
 ness of words The most agreeable successions formed, when the cavity of the 
 mouth is alternately increased and diminished, within moderate limits, and 
 where long and short syllables follow one.another A standard to all nations of 
 the comparative merit of their languages Not possible, however, to form a com- 
 plete standard A rough language preferable to a smooth one, when it has a 
 sufficient number of smooth sounds The English tongue originally harsh, but 
 at present much softened Remarks on the dropping in of words that end in ed 
 The effect of ascending and descending in a series varying by small differen- 
 ces The effect where it varies by large differences, where contrast prevails 
 The effect of a strong impulse succeeding a weak one; and also of a weak 
 impulse succeeding a strong one The maxim founded on this Direction for 
 arranging the different members of a sentence. 
 
 THIS subject requires the following order: The sounds of the 
 different letters come first: next, these sounds as united in syllables : 
 third, syllables united in words : fourth, words united in a period : 
 and, in the last place, periods united in a discourse. 
 
 With respect to the first article, every vowel is sounded with a 
 single expiration of air from the wind-pipe, through the cavity of the 
 mouth. By varying this cavity, the different vowels are sounded ; 
 for the air in passing through cavities differing in size, produces 
 various sounds, some high or sharp, some low or flat: a small cavity 
 occasions a high sound, a large cavity a low sound. The five vow- 
 els accordingly, pronounced with the same extension of the wind- 
 pipe, but with different openings of the mouth, form a regular series
 
 Ch. 18.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 249 
 
 of sounds, descending from high to low, in the following order, 
 i, e, a, o, u* Each of these sounds is agreeable to the ear : and if 
 it be required which of them is the most agreeable, it is, perhaps, 
 safest to hold, that those vowels which are the farthest removed from 
 the extremes, will be the most relished. This is all I have to remark 
 upon the first article : for consonants being letters that of themselves 
 have no sound, serve only in conjunction with vowels to form articu- 
 lateTsounds; and as every articulate sound makes a syllable, conso-' 
 nants come naturally under the second article ; to which we proceed. 
 
 A consonant is pronounced with a less cavity than a vowel ; and 
 consequently every syllable into which a consonant enters, must have 
 more than one sound, though pronounced with one expiration of air, 
 or with one breath as commonly expressed : for however readily two 
 sounds may unite, yet where they differ in tone, both of them must 
 be heard if neither of them be suppressed. For the same reason, 
 every syllable must be composed of as many sounds as there are let- 
 ters, supposing every letter to be distinctly pronounced. 
 
 We next inquire, how far syllables are agreeable to the ear. Few 
 tongues are so polished, as entirely to have rejected sounds that are 
 pronounced with difficulty ; and it is a noted observation, that such 
 sounds are to the ear harsh and disagreeable. But with respect to 
 agreeable sounds, it appears, that a double sound is always more 
 agreeable than a single sound : every one who has an ear must be 
 . sensible, that the diphthong oi or ai is more agreeable than any of 
 these vowels pronounced singly : the same holds where a consonant 
 enters into the double sound ; the syllable le has a more agreeable 
 sound than the vowel e, or than any vowel. And in support of 
 experience, a satisfactory argument may be drawn from the wisdom 
 of Providence : speech is bestowed on man, to qualify him for soci- 
 ety ; and his provision of articulate sounds is proportioned to the 
 use he has for them ; but if sounds that are agreeable singly, were 
 not also agreeable in conjunction, the necessity of a painful selection 
 would render language intricate and difficult to be attained in any 
 perfection ; and this selection, at the same time, would abridge the 
 number of useful sounds, so as, perhaps, not to leave sufficient for 
 answering the different ends of language. 
 
 In this view, the harmony of pronunciation differs widely from 
 that of music properly so called. In the latter are discovered many 
 sounds singly agreeable, which in conjunction are extremely disa- 
 greeable ; none but what are called concordant sounds having a good 
 effect in conjunction. In the former, all sounds, singly agreeable, 
 are in conjunction concordant ; and ought to be, in order to fulfil the 
 purposes of language. 
 
 Having discussed syllables, we proceed to words ; which make 
 the third article. Monosyllables belong to the former head ; poly- 
 syllables open a different scene. In a cursory view, one would ima- 
 gine, that the agreeableness or disagreeableness of a word with 
 
 * In this scale of sounds, the letter i must be pronounced as in the word inter- 
 est, and as in other words beginning with the syllable in ; the letter e as in per- 
 suasion ; the letter a as in bat ; and the letter tt as in number.
 
 250 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 respect to its sound, should depend upon the agreeableness or dis- 
 agreeableness of its component syllables : which is true in part, but 
 not entirely ; for we must also take under consideration, the effect of 
 syllables in succession. In the first place, syllables in immediate suc- 
 cession, pronounced each of them, with the same, or nearly the same 
 aperture of the mouth, produce a succession of weak and feeble sounds ; 
 witness the French words dit-il, pathetique : on the other hand, a syl- 
 lable of the greatest aperture succeeding one of the smallest, or the 
 contrary, makes a succession, which, because of its remarkable disa- 
 greeableness, is distinguished by a proper name, hiatus. The most 
 agreeable succession is, where the cavity is increased and diminished 
 alternately within moderate limits : examples, alternative, longevity, 
 pusillanimous. Secondly, words consisting wholly of syllables pro- 
 nounced slow, or of syllables pronounced quick, commonly called 
 long and short syllables, have little melody in them ; witness the words 
 petitioner, fruiterer, dizziness: on the other hand, the intermixture of 
 long and short syllables is remarkably agreeable ; for example, de- 
 gree, repent, wonderful, altitude, rapidity, independent, impetuosity* 
 The cause will be explained hereafter, in treating of versification. 
 
 Distinguishable from the beauties above mentioned, there is a 
 beauty of some words which arises from their signification : when 
 the emotion raised by the length or shortness, the roughness or 
 smoothness, of the sound, resembles, in any degree, what is raised 
 ~hy the sense, we feel a very remarkable pleasure. But this subject 
 belongs to the third section. 
 
 The foregoing observations afford a standard 'to every nation, for 
 estimating, pretty accurately, the comparative merit of the words that 
 enter into their own language : but they are not equally useful in 
 comparing the words of different languages ; which will thus appear. 
 Different nations judge differently of the harshness or smoothness of 
 articulate sounds'; a sound, for example, harsh and disagreeable to 
 an Italian, may be abundantly smooth to a northern ear : here every 
 nation must judge for itself; nor can there be any solid ground for 
 a preference, when there is no common standard to which we can 
 appeal. The case is precisely the same as in behavior and manners: 
 plain-dealing and sincerity, liberty in words and actions, form the 
 character of one people ; politeness, reserve, and a total disguise of 
 every sentiment that can give offence, form the character of another 
 people : to each the manners of the other are disagreeable. An 
 effeminate mind cannot bear the least of that roughness and severity 
 which is generally esteemed manly, when exerted-upon proper occa- 
 sions: neither can an effeminate ear bear the 1 harshness of certain 
 words, that are deemed nervous and sounding by those accustomed 
 to a rougher tone of speech. Must we then relinquish all thoughts 
 of comparing languages in point of roughness and smoothness, as a 
 
 * Italian words, like those of Latin and Greek, have this property almost uni- 
 versally : English and French words are generally deficient. In the former, the 
 long syllable is removed from the end, as far as the sound will permit; and in the 
 letter, the last syllable is generally long. For example, Senator in English. Sena- 
 tor in Latin, and Senateur in French.
 
 Ch. 18.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 251 
 
 fruitless inquiry 1 Not altogether ; for we may proceed a certain 
 length, though without hope of an ultimate decision. A language 
 pronounced with difficulty even by natives, must yield to a smoother 
 language : and supposing two languages pronounced with equal 
 facility by natives, the rougher language, in ,my judgment, ought to 
 be preferred, provided it be also stored with a competent share of 
 more mellow sounds ; which will be evident from attending to the 
 different effects that articulate sound has on the mind. A smooth 
 gliding sound is agreeable, by calming the mind, and lulling it to 
 rest : a rough bold sound, on the contrary, animates the mind ; the 
 effort perceived in pronouncing, is communicated to the hearers, 
 who feel in their own minds a similar effort, rousing their attention, 
 and disposing them to action. I add another consideration : the 
 agreeableness of contrast in the rougher language, for which the 
 great variety of sounds gives ample opportunity, must, even in an 
 effeminate ear, prevail over the more uniform sounds of the smoother 
 language.* This appears all that can be safely determined upon the 
 present point. With respect to the other circumstances that consti- 
 tute the beauty of words, the standard above mentioned is infallible 
 when applied to foreign languages as well as to our own : for every 
 man, whatever be his mother-tongue, is equally capable to judge of 
 the length or shortness of words, of the alternate opening and closing 
 of the mouth in speaking, and of the relation that the sound bears to 
 the sense : in these particulars, the judgment is susceptible of no 
 prejudice from custom, at least of no invincible prejudice. 
 
 That the English tongue, originally harsh, is at present much 
 softened by dropping in the pronunciation many redundant conso- 
 nants, is undoubtedly true : that it is not capable of being farther 
 mellowed without suffering in its force and energy, will scarcely be 
 thought by any one who possesses an ear ; and yet such in Britain 
 is the propensity for dispatch, that, overlooking the majesty of words 
 composed of many syllables aptly connected, the prevailing taste is 
 to shorten words, even at the expence of making them disagreeable 
 to the ear, and harsh in the pronunciation. But I have no occasion 
 to insist upon this article, being prevented by an excellent writer, 
 who possessed, if any man ever did, the true genius of the English 
 tongue. f I cannot, however, forbear urging one observation, bor- 
 rowed from that author : several tenses of our verbs are formed by 
 adding the final syllable ed, which, being a weak sound, has remark- 
 ably the worse effect by possessing the most conspicuous place in the 
 word : upon which account, the vowel in common speech is generally 
 suppressed, and the consonant added to the foregoing syllable; 
 whence the following rugged sounds, drudg'd, disturbed, rebuk'd, 
 fledg'd. It is still less excusable to follow this practice in writing; 
 for the hurry of speaking may excuse what would be altogether 
 
 * That the Italian tongue is too smooth, seems probable, from considering, that 
 in versification, vowels are frequently suppressed, in order to produce a rougher 
 and bolder tone. 
 
 t See Swift's proposal for correcting the English tongue, in a letter to the Earl 
 of Oxford.
 
 252 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18 
 
 improper in composition : the syllable ed, it is true, sounds poorly 
 at the end of a word; but rather that defect, than multiply the num- 
 ber of harsh words, which, after all, bear an over-proportion in our 
 tongue. The author above mentioned, by showing a good example, 
 did all in his power totfestore that syllable; and he well deserves to 
 be imitated. Some exceptions however I would make. A word that 
 signifies labor or any thing harsh or rugged, ought not to be smooth ; 
 therefore forc'd with an apostrophe, is better than forced, without it. 
 Another exception is where the penult syllable ends with a vowel ; 
 in that case the final syllable ed may be apostrophized without 
 making the word harsh: examples, betrayed, carry* d, destroyed, 
 employed. 
 
 The article next in order, is the music of words as united in a 
 period. And as the arrangement of words in succession so as to 
 afford the greatest pleasure to the ear, depends on principles remote 
 from common view, it will be necessary to premise some general 
 observations upon the appearance that objects make, when placed in 
 an increasing or decreasing series. Where the objects vary by 
 small differences, so as to have a mutual resemblance, we, in ascend- 
 ing, conceive the second object of no greater size than the first, the 
 third of no greater size than the second, and so of the rest ; which 
 diminishes, in appearance, the size of every object except the first : 
 but when, beginning at the greatest object, we proceed gradually to 
 the least, resemblance makes us imagine the second as great as the 
 first, and the third as great as the second ; which in appearance 
 magnifies every object except the first. On the other hand, in a 
 series varying by large differences, where contrast prevails, the 
 effects are directly opposite: a great object succeeding a small one 
 of the same kind, appears greater than usual ; and a little object suc- 
 ceeding one that is great, appears less than usual.* Hence a 
 remarkable pleasure in viewing a series ascending by large diffe- 
 rences; directly opposite to what we feel when the differences are 
 small. The least object of a series ascending by large differences 
 has the same effect upon the mind, as if h stood single without mak- 
 ing a part of the series : but the second object, by means of contrast, 
 appears greater than when viewed singly and apart ; and the same 
 effect is perceived in ascending progressively, till we arrive at the 
 last object. The opposite effect is produced in descending : for in 
 this direction, every object, except the first, appears less than when 
 viewed separately and independent of the series. We may then 
 assume as a maxim, which will hold in the composition of language 
 as well as of other subjects, that a strong impulse succeeding a weak, 
 makes double impression on the mind ; and that a weak impulse 
 succeeding a strong, makes scarcely any impression. 
 
 After establishing this maxim, we can be at no loss about its 
 application to the subject in hand. The following rule is laid down 
 by Diomedes.f " In verbis observandum est, ne a majoribus ad 
 minora descendat oratio : melius enim dicitur, Vir est optimus, 
 quam, Vir oplimus est." This rule is also applicable to entire mem- 
 * See the reason, Chap. 8. t De structura perfects orationis, L 2.
 
 Ch. 18.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 253 
 
 bers of a period, which, according to our author's expression, ought 
 not, more than single words, to proceed from the greater to the less, 
 but from the less to the greater.* In arranging the members of a 
 period, no writer equals Cicero : the beauty of the following exam- 
 ples out of many, will not suffer me to slur them over by a reference, 
 
 Quicum quaestor fueram, 
 Quicum me sors consuetudoque majorum, 
 _ Qviicura me deorum hominumque judicium conjunxeratt 
 
 Again : 
 
 Habet honorem quern petimus, 
 
 Habet spem quam prffipositam nobis habemus, 
 
 Habet ejcistimationem, multo sudore, labore, vigiliisque, collectam.t 
 
 Again : 
 
 
 
 Eripite nos ex miseriis, 
 
 Eripite nos ex faucibus eorum, 
 
 duorum crudelitas nostro sanguine non potest expleri.S 
 
 De Orator e> 1. 1. 52. 
 
 'his order of words or members gradually increasing in length, 
 may, as far as concerns the pleasure of sound, be denominated a 
 climax in sound. 
 
 The last article is the music of periods as united in a discourse ; 
 which shall be dispatched in a very few words. By no other human 
 means is it possible to present to the mind, such a number of objects, 
 and in so swift a succession, as by speaking or writing; and for that 
 reason, variety ought more to be studied in these, than in any other 
 sort of composition. Hence a rule for arranging the members of 
 different periods with relation to each other, that to avoid a tedious 
 uniformity of sound and cadence, the arrangement, the cadence, and 
 the length of the members, ought to be diversified as much as pos- 
 sible : and if the members of different periods be sufficiently diver- 
 sified, the periods themselves will be equally so. 
 
 * See Demetrius Phalereus of Elocution, 18. 
 
 t With whom I was quaestor with whom the fortunes and the customs of our 
 ancestors with whom the judgment of gods and men had joined me. 
 
 * He, whom we seek, hath honor he hath the hope which we have set before 
 us he hath esteem, gained by much sweat, labor and vigils. 
 
 Snatch us from our miseries snatch us from the jaws of those whose cruelty 
 cannot be satisfied, but with our blood. 
 22
 
 254 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 Beauty of language with respect to signification, divided into words, and arrange- 
 mentPerspicuity not to be sacrificed to any other beauty Want of perspi- 
 cuity arisino- from defect in arrangement Giving different names to the same 
 thing in the same sentence, another error The language to accord with the si 
 iect An accordance of a peculiar kind The impression made by the won 
 and by the thought to be the same The conjunction and disjunction contained 
 in the sentiment to be imitated in the expression Connected members of a 
 thouo-ht, to be expressed by connected members of a sentence Alliteration A 
 connection in words, when there is none in thought, a deformity A verbal an- 
 tithesisThe union of a negative and an affirmative proposition, unpleasant- 
 Two distinct ideas not to be put in the same sentence To crowd them into a 
 member of a sentence still worse In describing resembling object^ a resei 
 blance in the members of the sentence to be studied In words also Opposition 
 to be studied, in words that express contrasted objects The scene not to be 
 changed Remarks on the use of the copulative Arrangement, the second kind 
 of beauty Words that import relation, to be distinguished from those that < 
 not Declension and juxtaposition used by the Greeks and the Latins to expre 
 relation Juxtaposition, the principal method used in English 1 he r 
 between substantives expressed by particles The same true with respec 
 qualities Difference between natural and inverted order When the natural 
 order may be departed from Remarks on inversion, and its advantages- 
 two kinds of ambiguities, occasioned by wrong arrangement Example; 
 trative of these errors, with the observations upon them A pronoun to b 
 placed as near as possible to its noun The depression or elevation Of an 
 object Many circumstances not to be used A circumstance to be disposed of 
 as soon as possible A sentence to be closed with the most important wo 
 The longest member of a sentence to bring up the rear When liveliness 
 expression is demanded, the sense to be brought out at the end Why an inverted 
 style is pleasing A short period lively, a long solemn A sentence to be closed 
 with the former Long and short syllables to be intermixed Natural order 
 beautiful ; inverted not. 
 
 IT is well said by a noted writer,* " That by means of speech we 
 can divert our sorrows, mingle our mirth, impart our secrets, com- 
 municate our counsels, and make mutual compacts and agreements 
 to supply and assist each other." Considering speech as contri- 
 buting to so many good purposes, words that convey clear and distinct 
 ideasrmust be one of its capital beauties. This cause of beauty, is 
 too extensive to be handled as a branch of any other subject : for to 
 ascertain with accuracy even the proper meaning of words, not to 
 talk of their figurative power, would require a large volume ; an 
 useful work indeed, but not to be attempted without a large stock of 
 time, study, and reflection. This branch, therefore, of the subject, I 
 humbly decline. Nor do I propose to exhaust all the other beauties 
 of language that relate to signification : the reader, in a work like 
 the present, cannot fairly expect more than a slight sketch of those 
 / that make the greatest figure. This task is the more to my taste, as 
 being connected with certain natural principles; and the rules I 
 shalf have occasion to lay down, will, if I judge rightly, be agreeable 
 illustrations of these principles. Every subject must be of import- 
 ance that tends to unfold the human heart ; for what other science is 
 of greater use to human beings ? 
 
 * Scot's Christian Life.
 
 SeC. 2.} BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 255 
 
 The present subject is too extensive to be -discussed without di- 
 viding it into parts; and what follows suggests a division into two 
 parts. In every period, two things are to be regarded : first, the 
 words of which it is composed ; next, the arrangement of these 
 words ; the former resembling the stones that compose a building, 
 and the latter resembling the order in which they are placed. 
 Hence the beauties of language with respect to signification, may 
 noFimproperly be distinguished into two kinds : first, the beauties 
 that arise from a right choice of words or materials for constructing 
 the period ; and next, the beauties that arise from a due arrangement 
 of these words or materials. I begin with rules that direct us to a 
 right choice of words, and then proceed to rules that concern their 
 arrangement. 
 
 And with respect to the former, communication of thought being 
 the chief end of language, it is a rule, that perspicuity ought not to 
 be sacrificed to any other beauty whatever. If it should be doubted 
 whether perspicuity be a positive beauty, it cannot be doubted that 
 the want of it is the greatest defect. Nothing, therefore, in language 
 ought more to be studied, than to prevent all obscurity in the expres- 
 sion ; for to have no meaning, is but one degree worse, than to have 
 a meaning that is not understood. Want of perspicuity from a 
 wrong arrangement, belongs to the next branch. I shall here give a 
 few examples where the obscurity arises from a wrong choice of 
 words ; and as this defect is too common in the ordinary herd of 
 writers to make examples from them necessary, I confine myself to 
 the most celebrated authors. 
 
 Livy, speaking of a rout after a battle, 
 
 Multique in ruina majore quarn fuga oppress! obtruncatique. 
 
 L. 4. 46, 
 And many in a ruin greater than flight, were crushed and slain. 
 
 This author is frequently obscure, by expressing but part of his 
 thought, leaving it to be completed by his reader. His description 
 of the sea-fight, 1. 28. cap. 30. is extremely perplexed. 
 
 Unde tibi reditum certo subtemine Parcse 
 
 Rupere. Horace, Epod. XIII. 22. 
 
 From whence (the Pates have spun it so,) 
 You shall not be allowed to go ' 
 Home. 
 
 dui perssepe cava testudine flevit amorem, 
 
 Non elaboration ad pedem, Horace, Epod. XIV. 11. 
 
 Who often lamented his love on the hollow shell, to no labored foot. 
 
 Me fabulosse Vulture in Appulo, 
 Altricis extra limen Apulia, 
 
 Ludo, fatigatumque somno, 
 
 Fronde nova puerum palumbes 
 
 Texere. Horace, Carm. 1. 3. ode 4. 
 
 Me tired with sleep, and yet a child 
 
 From kind Apulia s bounds beguiled, 
 
 Up in mount Vultur, now so famed and known, 
 
 The woodland doves concealed with foliage newly blown.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 Purffi rivus aquae silvaque jugerum 
 
 Paucorum, et segetis certa fides mese, 
 
 Fulgentera imperio fertilis Africa 
 
 FaUit sorte beatior. Horace, Carm. 1. 3. ode 16. 
 
 A wood of moderate extent, 
 
 And stream of purest element, 
 
 And harvest home secure, 
 
 Make me more happy than the weight 
 
 Of Africa's precarious state 
 
 Of empire, could ensure. 
 Cum fas atque nefas exiguo>?ie libidinum 
 Discernunt avidi. Horace, Carm. 1. 1. ode 
 
 Right and wrong 
 
 Confounding in their lust. 
 Ac spem fronte serenat. 
 And makes hope serene on his forehead. 
 
 I am in greater pain about the foregoing passages, than about 
 any I have ventured to criticise, being aware that a vagi 
 obscure expression, is apt to gain favor with those who neglect 
 examine it with a critical eye. To some it carries the sense that 
 they relish the most: and by suggesting various meanings at 01 
 it is admired by others as concise and comprehensive : which by t 
 way fairly accounts for the opinion generally entertained with respec 
 to most languages in their infant state, of expressing much in i& 
 words. This observation may be illustrated by a passage : 
 Quintilian, quoted in the first volume for a different purpose. 
 
 At qua: Polycleto defuerunt, Phidise atque Aleameni dantur. Phidias tamen 
 diis quam hominibus efficiendis melior artifex traditur : in ebore vero longe citr 
 ajmulum vel si nihil nisi Minervam Athenis, aut Olympmm in Elide Jovem 
 fecisset, cujus pulchritudo adjecisse aliquid etiam recepta rehgiom mdetur ; adeo 
 majestds operis Deum aydbxcit* 
 
 The sentence in the Italic characters appeared to me abundantly 
 perspicuous, before I gave it peculiar attention. And yet to examine 
 it independent of the context, its proper meaning is not what is 
 intended : the words naturally import, that the beauty of the statues 
 mentioned, appears to add some new tenet or rite to the established 
 religion, or appears to add new dignity to it ; and we must consult 
 the context before we can gather the true meaning ; which is, that 
 the Greeks were confirmed in the belief of their established religion 
 by these majestic statues, so like real divinities. 
 
 There may be a defect in perspicuity proceeding even from the 
 slightest ambiguity in construction ; as where the period commences 
 with a member conceived to be in the nominative case, which after- 
 ward is found to be in the accusative. Example : " Some emotions 
 more peculiarly connected with the fine arts, I propose to handle in 
 separate chapters."! Better thus : " Some emotions more peculiarly 
 * But Phidias and Alcamenes possess those qualities which were denied to 
 Polycletus. Phidias, however, is said to be a better artificer of gods than 
 men in ivory, indeed, he is far beyond his rival, even if he had made nothi: 
 except his Minerva at Athens, or his Olympian Jove in Ehs, whose beauty 
 seems to have even added something to the received religion ; so much has the 
 majesty of the work represented a god. 
 
 t Elements of Criticism, Vol. I. p. 43. edit. 1.
 
 SeC. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 257 
 
 connected with the fine arts, are proposed to be handled in separate 
 chapters." 
 
 I add another error against perspicuity, which I mention, the 
 rather, because with some writers it passes for a beauty. It is the 
 giving of different names to the same object, mentioned oftener than 
 once in the same period. Example : Speaking of the English adven- 
 . turers who first attempted the conquest of Ireland, " and instead of 
 re^iaiming the natives from their uncultivated manners, they were 
 gradually assimilated to the ancient inhabitants, and degenerated 
 from the customs of their own nation." From this mode of expres- 
 sion, one would think the author meant to distinguish the ancient 
 inhabitants from the natives; and we cannot discover otherwise than 
 from the sense, that these are only different names given to the same 
 object for the sake of variety. But perspicuity ought never to be 
 sacrificed to any other beauty, which leads me to think that the pas- 
 sage may be improved as follows : " and degenerating from the cus- 
 toms of their own nation, they were gradually assimilated to the 
 natives, instead of reclaiming them from their uncultivated manners." 
 
 The next rule in order, because next in importance is, that the 
 language ought to correspond to the subject. Heroic actions or 
 sentiments require elevated language ; tender sentiments ought to be 
 expressed in words soft and flowing ; and plain language void of 
 ornament, is adapted to subjects grave and didactic. Language may 
 be considered as the dress of thought; and where the one is not 
 suited to the other, we are sensible of incongruity, in the same 
 manner as where a judge is dressed like a fop, or a peasant like a 
 man of quality. Where the impression made by the words resem- 
 bles the impression made by the thought, the similar emotions mix, 
 sweetly in the mind, and double the pleasure;* but where the im- 
 pressions made by the thought and the words are dissimilar, the 
 unnatural union into, which they are forced, is disagreeable, f 
 
 This concordance between the thought and the words has been 
 observed by every critic, and is so well understood as not to require 
 any illustration. But there is a concordance of a peculiar kind, 
 that has scarcely been touched in works of criticism, though it con- 
 tributes to neatness of composition. It is what follows. In a 
 thought of any extent, we commonly find some parts intimately 
 united, some slightly, some disjoined, and some directly opposed to 
 each other. To find these conjunctions and disjunctions imitated in 
 the expression, is a beauty ; because such imitation makes the words 
 concordant with the sense. This doctrine may be illustrated by a 
 familiar example. When we have occasion to mention the intimate 
 connection that the soul has with the body, the expression ought to 
 be, the soul and body ; because the particle the, relative to both, 
 makes a connection in the expression, resembling, in some degree, 
 the connection in the thought: but when the soul is distinguished 
 from the body, it is better to say the soul and the body ; because tha 
 disjunction in the words resembles the disjunction in the thought. 
 I proceed to other examples, beginning with conjunctions. 
 
 * Chap. 2. Part 4 t Ibid. 
 
 22*
 
 258 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. fCL IS. 
 
 Constituit agmen ; etexpedire tela aniraosque. equitibus jussis,* &c. 
 
 Liry, 1. 38. 25. 
 
 Here the words that express the connected ideas are artificially con- 
 nected by subjecting them both to the regimen of one verb. And 
 the two following are of the same kind. 
 
 duum ex paucis quotidie aliqui eorum caderent aut vuir.erarentur. et qui supe- 
 rarent, fessi et corporibus et animis essent.t &c. Livy, 1. 3b. 29. 
 
 Post acer Mnestheus adducto constitit arcu. 
 
 Alta petens, pariterque oculos telumque tetendit. sEnezd, v 507. 
 
 Then Mnestheus to the head his arrow drove 
 With lifted eyes, and took his aim above. 
 
 But to justify this artificial connection among the words, the ideas 
 they express ought to be intimately connected ; for otherwise that 
 concordance which is required between the sense and the expression 
 will be impaired. In that view, a passage from Tacitus is excep- 
 tionable; where words that signify ideas very little connected, are, 
 however, forced into an artificial union. Here is the passage : 
 
 Germania omnis a Galliis, Rhsetiisque, et Pannoniis, Rheno et Danubio 
 : a Sarmatis Dacisque, mutuo metu aut montibus separatur.t 
 
 De Moribus German i, 
 
 Upon the same account, I esteem the following passage equally ex- 
 ceptionable. 
 
 The fiend look'd up, and knew 
 
 His mounted scale aloft ; nor more, but fled 
 Murm'ring, and with him fled the shades of night. 
 
 Paradise Lost, B. 4. at t!i< 
 
 There is no natural connection between a person's flying or retiring, 
 an,d the succession of daylight to darkness ; and therefore to con- 
 nect artificially the terms that signify these things cannot have a 
 ;- \veet effect. 
 
 Two members of a thought connected by their relation to the 
 same action, will naturally be expressed by two members of the 
 period governed by the same verb ; in which case these members, 
 In order to improve their connection, ought to be constructed in the 
 same manner. This beauty is so common among good writers, as 
 to have been little attended to : but the neglect of it is remarl 
 !;s agreeable: For example, " He did not mention Leonora, nor that 
 her father was dead." Better thus : " He did not mention Leonora, 
 nor her father's death." 
 
 Where two ideas are so connected, as to require but a copulative, 
 it is pleasant to find a connection in the words that express these 
 i leas, were it even so slight as where both begin with the same 
 letter: 
 
 * He put his army in order and the horsemen wereordered to have their 
 ;>ons and their minds ready. 
 
 t When some of the few daily fell or were wounded, and those who remained 
 v,-<?re sick in body and mind. 
 
 J Germany is separated from the Gauls, the Rhetians, and the Pannonians, by 
 t;>e. Rhine and the Danube : from the Sarmatians and the Datians, by mutual fear 
 and the mountains.
 
 Sec. 2.] BEAUTY or LANGUAGE. 259 
 
 The peacock, in all his pride, does not display half the colour that appears in 
 the garments of a British lady, when she is either dressed for a ball or a birth-day. 
 
 Spectator, No. 265. 
 
 Had not my dog of a steward run away as he did, without making up his 
 accounts, I had still been immersed in sin and sea-coal. Ibid. No. 530. 
 
 My life's companion, and my bosom-friend, 
 One faith, one fame, one fate shall both attend. 
 
 Dry den, Translation of ^Eneid. 
 
 There is sensibly a defect in neatness when uniformity in this case 
 is totally neglected ;* witness the following example, where the con- 
 struction of two members connected by a copulative is unnecessarily 
 varied. 
 
 For it is confidently reported, that two young gentlemen of real hopes, bright 
 wit, and profound judgment, who, upon a thorough examination of causes and 
 effects, and by the mere force of natural abilities, without the least tincture of 
 learning, have made a discovery that there was no God, and generously comrnu- 
 nicuti.ng their thoughts for the good of the public, were some time ago, by an 
 unparalleled severity, and upon f know not what obsolete law, broke for blas- 
 phemy. t [Better thus :] having made a discovery that there was no God, and 
 having generously communicated their thoughts for the good of the public, were 
 some time ago, &c. 
 
 He had been guilty of a fault, for which his master would have put him to 
 death, had he not found an opportunity to escape out of his hands, and fled into 
 the deserts of Numidia. Guardian, No. 139. 
 
 If all the ends of the Revolution are already obtained, it is not only impertinent 
 to argue for obtaining any of them, but factious designs might be imputed, and 
 the name of incendiary be applied with some colour, perhaps, to any one who 
 should persist in pressing this point. Dissertation upon Parties. Dedication. 
 
 Next as to examples of disjunction and opposition in the parts of 
 the thought, imitated in the expression ; an imitation that is distin- 
 guished by the name of antithesis. 
 
 Speaking of Coriolanus soliciting the people to be made consul : 
 With a proud heart he wore his humble weeds. Coriolanus. 
 
 Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar were 
 dead, to live all free men 1 Julius Casar. 
 
 He hath cool'd my friends and heated mine enemies. Sfiakspeare. 
 
 An artificial connection among the words, is undoubtedly a beauty 
 when it represents any peculiar connection among the constituent 
 parts of the thought; but where there is no such connection, it is a 
 positive deformity, as above observed, because it makes a discordance 
 between the thought and expression. For the same reason AVC ought 
 also to avoid every artificial opposition of words where there is none 
 in the thought. This last, termed verbal antithesis, is studied by 
 low writers, because of a certain degree of liveliness in it. They 
 do not consider how incongruous it is, in a grave composition, to 
 cheat the reader, and to make him expect a contrast in the thought, 
 which upon examination is not found there. 
 
 A light wife doth make a heavy husband. Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Here is a studied opposition in the words, not only without any 
 opposition in the sense, but even where there is a very intimate con- 
 
 * See Girard's French Grammar, Discourse 12. 
 
 t An argument against abolishing Christianity. Swift.
 
 260 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 nection, that of cause and effect ; for it is the levity of the wife that 
 torments the husband. 
 
 -Will maintain 
 
 Upon his bad life to make all this good. 
 
 King Richard II. Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 iMcetta. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here "? 
 Julia. If thou respect them, best to take them up. 
 IMcetta. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona^ Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 A fault directly opposite to that last mentioned, is to conjoin arti- 
 ficially words that express ideas opposed to each other. This is a 
 fault too gross to be in common practice ; and yet writers are guilty 
 of it in some degree, when they conjoin, by a copulative, things 
 transacted at different periods of time. Hence a want of neatness in 
 the following expression. 
 
 The nobility too, whom the king had no means of retaining by suitable offices 
 and preferments, had been seized with the general discontent, and unwarily threw 
 themselves into the scale which began already too much to preponderate. 
 
 History of Great Britain, vol. I. p. 250. 
 
 In periods of this kind, it appears more neat to express the past 
 time by the participle passive, thus : 
 
 The nobility havingbeen seized with the general discontent, unwarily threw 
 themselves. &c. (or) The nobility, who had been seized, &c. unwarily threw 
 themselves, &c. 
 
 It is unpleasant to find even a negative and affirmative proposition 
 connected by a copulative : 
 
 Nee excitatur classico miles truci, 
 
 Nee horret iratum mare ; 
 
 Forumque vital, et superba civium 
 
 Potentiorum limina. Horace, Epod. 2. 1. 5. 
 
 Him no dread tramp alarms 
 
 To take the soldier's arms, 
 
 Nor need he fear the stormy main 
 
 The noisy bar he shuns 
 
 Nor to the levy runs 
 
 Of men whose station makes them vain. 
 If it appear not plain, and prove untrue, 
 Deadly divorce step between me and you. Shakspeare. 
 
 In mirth and drollery it may have a good effect to connect verbally 
 things that are opposite to each other in the thought. Example: 
 Henry IV. of France introducing the Mareschal Biron to some of 
 his friends, "Here, gentlemen," says he, "is the Mareschal Biron, 
 whom I freely present both to my friends and enemies." 
 
 This rule of studying uniformity between the thought and expres- 
 sion, may be extended to the construction of sentences or periods. 
 A sentence or period ought to express one entire thought or mental 
 proposition; and different thoughts ought to be separated in the 
 expression by placing them in different sentences or periods. It is 
 therefore offending against neatness, to crowd into one period entire 
 thoughts requiring more than one; which is joining in language 
 things that are separated in reality. Of errors against this rule take 
 the following examples.
 
 Sect. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 261 
 
 Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea pleasant ; also our bed is green. 
 Caesar, describing the Suevi : 
 
 Atque in earn se consuetudinem adduxerunt, ut locis frigidissimis, neque ves- 
 titus, preeter pelles, habeant quidquam, quarum propter exiguitatem, magna est 
 corporis pars aperta, et laventur in flumimbus.* Commentaria, 1. 4. prin. 
 
 Burnet, in the history of his own times, giving Lord Sunderland's 
 character, says, 
 
 His own notions were always good; but he was a man of great expense. 
 
 I have seen a woman's face break out in heats, as she has been talking against 
 a great lord, whom she had never seen in her life ; and indeed never knew a party- 
 woman that kept her beauty for a twelvemonth. Spectator, No. 57. 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke, speaking of Strada : 
 
 I single him out among the moderns, because he had the foolish presumption to 
 censure Tacitus, and to write history himself ; and your lordship will forgive this 
 short excursion in honor of a favorite writer. 
 
 Letters on History, Vol. I. .Let. 5. 
 
 It seems to me, that in order to maintain the moral system of the world at a 
 certain point, far below that of ideal perfection^ (for we are made capable of con- 
 ceiving what we are incapable of attaining,) out 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 fit to mingle from time to time, 
 among the societies of men, a few, and but a few, of those on whom he is gra- 
 ciously pleased to bestow a larger proportion of the ethereal spirit than is given 
 in the ordinary course of his providence to the sons of men. 
 
 Bolingbroke, on the Spirit of Patriotism, Let. I. 
 
 To crowd into a single member of a period different subjects, is 
 still worse than to crowd them into one period : 
 
 Trojam, genitore Adamasto 
 
 Paupere (mansissetque utinam fortuna) profectus. 
 
 Mneid, III. 614. 
 
 " I came 
 
 To Troy, and Achamenides my name, 
 Me, my poor father with Ulysses sent, 
 " (Oh, had I stayed, with poverty content !) 
 
 From conjunctions and disjunctions in general, we proceed to com- 
 parisons, which make one species of them, beginning with similes. 
 And here also, the intimate connection that words have with their 
 meaning, requires that in describing two resembling objects, a resem- 
 blance in the two members of the period ought to be studied. To 
 illustrate the rule in this case, I shall give various examples of 
 deviations from it ; beginning with resemblances expressed in words, 
 that have no resemblance. 
 
 I have observed of late, the style of some great ministers very much to exceed 
 that of any other productions. ' Letter to the Lord High Treasurer. Swift. 
 
 This, instead of studying the resemblance of words in a period 
 that expresses a comparison, is going out of one's road to avoid it 
 Instead of productions, which resemble not ministers great nor small, 
 the proper word is writers or authors. 
 
 If men of eminence are exposed to censure on the one hand, they are as much 
 liable to flattery on the other. If they receive reproaches which are not due to 
 them, they likewise receive praises which they do not deserve. Spectator. 
 
 * And they had been led into this custom, that in the coldest places they used 
 no garments save skins, which were so short that a great part of the body was 
 exposed : and they bathed in the rivers,
 
 262 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [CH. 18. 
 
 Here the subject plainly demands uniformity in expression instead 
 of variety ; and therefore it is submitted, whether the period would 
 not do better in the following manner : 
 
 If men of eminence be exposed to censure on the one hand, they are as much 
 exposed to flattery on the other. If they receive reproaches that are not due, they 
 likewise receive praises that are not due. 
 
 I cannot but fancy, however, that this imitation, which passes so currently with 
 other judgments, must at some time or other have stuck a little with your lord- 
 s/lip.* [Better thus :] I cannot but fancy, however, that this imitation, which 
 passes so currently with others, must at some time or other have stuck a little with 
 your lordship. 
 
 A glutton or mere sensualist is as ridiculous as the other two characters. 
 
 Shaftesbury, Vol. I. p. 129. 
 
 They wisely prefer the generous efforts of good-will and affection, to the reluc- 
 tant compliances of such as obey by force. 
 
 Remarks on the History of England, Letter 5. Bolingbroke. 
 
 Titus Livius, mentioning a demand made by the people of Enna 
 of the keys from the Roman governor, makes him say, 
 
 Gluas simul tradiderimus, Carthaginiensium extemplo Enna erit, foediusque hie 
 trucidabimur, quam Murgantiae presidium interfectum est.t L. 24. 38. 
 
 Quintus Curtius, speaking of Porus mounted on an elephant, and 
 leading his army to battle : 
 
 Magnitudini Pori adjicere videbatur belluaqua vehebatur, tantum inter caeteras 
 eminens, quanto aliis ipse praestabat.t L. 8. cap. 14. 
 
 It is still a greater deviation from congruity, to affect not only 
 variety in the words, but also in the construction. Describing Ther- 
 mopyke, Titus Livius says, 
 
 Id jug-urn, sicut Apennini dorso Italia dmditur. itamediam Graeciam diremit. 
 
 L. 36. 15. 
 Speaking of Shakspeare : 
 
 There may remain a suspicion that we over-rate the greatness of his genius, in 
 the same manner as bodies appear more gigantic on account of their being dis- 
 proportioned and misshapen. History of G. Britain, Vol. I. p. 138. 
 
 This is studying variety in a period where the beauty lies in uni- 
 formity. Better thus : 
 
 There may remain a suspicion that we over-rate the greatness of his genuis, in 
 the same manner as we over-rate the greatness of bodies that are disproportioned 
 and misshapen. 
 
 Next as to the length of the members that signify the resembling 
 objects. To produce a resemblance between such members, they 
 ought not only be constructed in the same manner, but as nearly as 
 possible be equal in length. By neglecting this circumstance, the 
 following example is defective in neatness : 
 
 As the performance of all other religious duties will not avail in the sight of 
 
 * Letter concerning Enthusiasm. Shaftesbury. 
 
 t As soon as we snail have delivered them (the keys) Enna forthwith becomes 
 Carthaginian, and in this we shall be more basely butchered than the Murgantian 
 guard. 
 
 * The brute that carried Porus, seemed to add to his magnitude, towering as 
 much over the other beasts, as he (Porus) towered above other men. 
 
 That ridge, as Italy is divided by the back of the Appenines, so it divides 
 middle Greece.
 
 t. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 263 
 
 God, without charity ; so neither will the discharge of all other ministerial duties 
 avail in the sight of men, without a, faithful discharge of this principal duty. 
 
 Dissertation upon Parties. Dedication. 
 
 In the following passage are accumulated all the errors that a 
 period expressing a resemblance can well admit. 
 
 Ministers are answerable for every thing done to the prejudice of the constitu- 
 tion, in the same proportion as the preservation of the constitution in its purity 
 and^vigor, or the perverting and weakening it, are of greater consequence to the 
 nation, than any other instances of good or bad government. 
 
 Dissertation upon Parties. Dedication. 
 
 Next of a comparison where things are opposed to each other. 
 And here it must be obvious, that if resemblance ought to be studied 
 in the words which express two resembling objects, there is equal 
 reason for studying opposition in the words which express contrasted 
 objects. This rule will be best illustrated by examples of deviations 
 from it : 
 
 A friend exaggerates a man's virtues, an enemy inflames his crimes. 
 
 Spectator, No. 399. 
 
 Here the opposition in the thought is neglected in the words, 
 which at first view seem to import, that the friend and the enemy are 
 employed in different matters, without any relation to each other, 
 whether of resemblance or of opposition. And, therefore, the con- 
 trast or opposition will be better marked by expressing the thought 
 as follows : 
 
 A friend exaggerates a man's virtues, an enemy his crimes. 
 
 The following are examples of the same kind. 
 
 The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation ; the fool when he 
 recommends himself to the applause of those about him. Ibid. No. 73. 
 
 Better : 
 
 The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation ; the fool when he 
 gains that of others. 
 
 Sicut in frugibus pecudibusque, non tantum semina ad servandam indolem 
 valent, quantum terrae proprietas ccelique. sub quo aluntur, mutat.* 
 
 Licy, lib. 38. Sect. 17. 
 
 We proceed to a rule of a different kind. During the course of a 
 period, the scene ought to be continued without variation: the chang- 
 ing from person to person, from subject to subject, or from person to 
 subject, within the bounds of a single period, distracts the mind, and 
 affords no time for a solid impression. I illustrate this rule by giv- 
 ing examples of deviations from it. 
 
 Honos alit artes, omnesque incenduntur ad studia gloria; jacentque ea semper 
 quse apud quosque improbantur.t Cicero, Tuscul. quast. \. 1. 
 
 Speaking of the distemper contracted by Alexander bathing in the 
 river Cydnus, and of the cure offered by Philip the physician : 
 
 Inter haec a Parmenione fidissimo purpuratorum, literas accipit, quibus ei 
 denunciabat, ne salutem suam Philippe committeret.t 
 
 Quinbus Curtius, 1. 3. cap. 6. 
 
 * As in fruits and cattle the seed not only serves to preserve the breed, as much 
 as the properties of soil and climate change, by which they are nourished. 
 
 t Honor nurses the arts we are all ambitious of glorious studies those are 
 always disregarded which are condemned by every one. 
 
 t In the midst of these things, he receives lessons from Parmenio the most 
 fajlhful of his courtiers, in which he warned him not to trust his health to Philip.
 
 264 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 Hook, in his Roman history, speaking of Eumenes, who had been 
 beat to the ground with a stone, says, 
 
 After a short time he came to himself; and the next day they put him on board 
 his ship, which conveyed him first to Corinth, and thence to the island of JEgina. 
 
 I give another example of a period which is unpleasant, even by 
 a very slight deviation from the rule. 
 
 That sort of instruction which is acquired by inculcating an important moral 
 truth, &c. 
 
 This expression includes two persons, one acquiring and one 
 inculcating ; and the scene is changed without necessity. To avoid 
 this blemish, the thought may be expressed thus : 
 
 That sort of instruction which is afforded by inculcating, &c. 
 
 The bad effect of such change of person is remarkable in the 
 following passage: 
 
 The Britons, 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 moun- 
 tainous parts, and the rest of the country, in customs, religion, and language, 
 became wholly Saxon. Letter to the Lord, High Treasurer. Sivift. 
 
 The following passage has a change ffom subject to person: 
 
 This prostitution of praise is not only a deceit upon the gross of mankind, who 
 
 Sake their notion of characters from the learned ; but also the better sort must by 
 
 t liis means lose some part at least of that desire of fame which is the incentive to 
 
 i'tions, when they find it promiscuously bestowed on the meritorious 
 
 deserving. Guardian, No. 4. 
 
 Even so slight a change as to vary the construction in the same 
 period, is unpleasant : 
 
 Annibal luce prima, Balearibus levique alia armatura prsemissa, transgressus 
 flumen, ut quosque traduxerat, ita in acie locabat ; Gallos Hispanosque equites 
 prope ripam laevo in cornu adversus Romanum equitatum ; dextrum cornu Nu- 
 midis equitibus datum.* Tit. Liv. 1. 22. 46. 
 
 Speaking of Hannibal's elephants drove back by the enemy upon 
 his own army : 
 
 Eo magis ruere in suos belluse, tantoque majorem stragem edere quam inter 
 hostes ediderant, quanto acrius pavor consternatam agit, quam insidentis magistri 
 imperio regitur.t Liv. 1. 27. 14. 
 
 This passage is also faulty in a different respect, that there is no 
 resemblance between the members of the sentence, though they 
 express a simile. 
 
 The present head, which relates to the choice of materials, shall 
 be closed with a rule concerning the use of copulatives. Longinus 
 observes, that it animates a period to drop the copulatives ; and he 
 gives the following example from Xenophon : 
 
 Closing their shields together, they were push'd, they fought, they slew, they 
 were slain. Treatise of the Sublime, cap. 16. 
 
 * Annibal, early in the morning having sent over the slingers and other light 
 troops, crossed the river to place in battalion those whom he had led over; the 
 Gallic and Spanish horsemen near the bank in the left wing, opposite the Roman 
 cavalry the right wing was given to the Numidian horse. 
 
 tThe more the brutes rushed upon their own men, the greater slaughter they 
 made amongst them than amongst the enemies, by as much as their consternation 
 was greater than the power of their riders to govern them.
 
 Sect. 2.] BEATJTY OP LANGtUOE. 265 
 
 The reason I take to be what follows. A continued sound, if not 
 loud, tends to lay us asleep : an interrupted sound rouses and ani- 
 mates by its repeated impulses. Thus feet composed of syllables, 
 being pronounced with a sensible interval between each, make more 
 lively impressions than can be made by a continued sound. A 
 period of which the members are connected by copulatives, produces 
 an effect upon the mind approaching to that of a continued sound ; 
 ad, therefore, the suppressing of copulatives must animate a descrip- 
 tion. It produces a different effect akin to that mentioned : the mem- 
 bers of a period connected by proper copulatives, glide smoothly and 
 gently along ; and are a proof of sedateness and leisure in the 
 speaker : on the other hand, one in the hurry of passion, neglecting 
 copulatives and other particles, expresses the principal image only ; 
 and for that reason, hurry or quick action is best expressed without 
 copulatives : 
 
 Veni, vidi, vici.* 
 
 Ite: 
 
 Ferte citi flammas, date vela, impellite remos. 
 
 Haste haul my galleys out ! pursue the foe ! 
 
 Bring flaming brands ! set sail, and swiftly row ! MneiA, IV. 593. 
 
 duis globus, O civis, caligine volvitur atra ? 
 
 Ferte citi ferrum, dete tela, scandite muros. 
 
 Hostis adest, eja. 
 
 What rolling clouds, my friends, approach the wall *? 
 
 Arm ! arm ! and man the works prepare your spears 
 
 And pointed darts, the Lallan host appears ! JEneid. IX. 37. 
 
 In this view Longinus f justly compares copulatives in a period to 
 strait tying, which in a race obstructs the freedom of motion. 
 
 It follows, that a plurality of copulatives in the same period ought 
 to be avoided : for if the laying aside of copulatives give force and 
 liveliness, a redundancy of them must render the period languid. I 
 appeal to the following instance, though there are but two copula- 
 tives : 
 
 Upon looking over the letters of my female correspondents, I find several from 
 women complaining of jealous husbands ; and at the same time protesting their 
 own innocence, and desiring my advice upon this occasion. Spectator, No. 170. 
 
 I except the case where the words are intended to express tne 
 coldness of the speaker ; for there the redundancy of copulatives is 
 a beauty : 
 
 Dining one day at an alderman's in the city, Peter observed him expatiating, 
 after the manner of his brethren, in the praises of his surloin of beef. _"Beef," 
 said the sage magistrate, "is the king of meat: Beef comprehends in it the 
 quintessence of partridge, and quail, and venison, and pheasant, and plum-pudding, 
 and custard." Tale of a Tub, 4. 
 
 And the author shows great delicacy of taste by varying the expres- 
 sion in the mouth of Peter, who is represented more animated : 
 
 " Bread," says he. " dear brothers, is the staff of life ; in which bread is 
 contained, inclusive, the quintessence of beef, mutton, veai, venison, partridges, 
 plum-pudding, and custard." 
 
 * I came saw conquered ! 
 t Treatise of the Sublime, cap. 16. 
 23
 
 266 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18, 
 
 Another case must also be excepted : copulatives have a good 
 effect where the intention is to give an impression of a great multi- 
 tude consisting of many divisions ; for example : " The army was 
 composed of Grecians, and Carians, and Lycians, and Pamphylians, 
 and Phrygians." The reason is, that a leisurely survey, which is 
 expressed by the copulatives, makes the parts appear more numerous 
 than they would do by a hasty survey : in the latter case the army 
 appears in one group ; in the former, we take as it were an accurate 
 survey of each nation and of each division.* 
 
 We proceed to the second kind of beauty ; which consists in a 
 due arrangement of the words or materials. This branch of the 
 subject is no less ni&e than extensive ; and I despair of setting it in 
 a clear light, except to those who are well acquainted \vith the gene- 
 ral principles that govern the structure or composition of language. 
 In a thought, generally speaking, there is, at least, one capital 
 object considered as acting or as suffering. This object is expressed 
 by a substantive noun ; its action is expressed by an active verb ; and 
 the thing affected by the action is expressed by another substantive 
 noun : its suffering or passive state is expressed by a passive verb ; 
 and the thing that acts upon it, by a substantive noun. Beside these, 
 which are the capital parts of a sentence or period, there are, gene- 
 rally, under-parts ; each of the substantives, as well as the verb, may 
 be qualified : time, place, purpose, motive, means, instrument, and a 
 thousand other circumstances, may be necessary to complete the 
 thought. And in what manner these several parts are connected in 
 the expression, will appear from what follows. 
 
 In a complete thought' or mental proposition, all the members 
 and parts are mutually related, some slightly, some intimately. To 
 put such a thought in words, it is not sufficient that the component 
 ideas be clearly expressed ; it is also necessary, that all the relations 
 contained in the thought be expressed according to their different 
 degrees of intimacy. To annex a certain meaning to a certain 
 sounder word, requires no art: the great nicety in all languages is, 
 to express the various relations that connect the parts of the thought. 
 Could we suppose this branch of language to be still a secret, it 
 would puzzle, I am apt to think, the most acute grammarian, to 
 invent an expeditious method : and yet, by the guidance merely of 
 nature, the rude and illiterate have been led to a method so perfect, 
 as to appear not susceptible of any improvement ; and the next step 
 in our progress shall be to explain that method. 
 
 Words that import a relation, must be distinguished from such as 
 do not. Substantives commonly imply no relation ; such as animal, 
 man, tree, river. Adjectives, verbs, and adverbs, imply a relation ; 
 the adjective good must relate to some being possessed of that quality ; 
 the verb write is applied to some person who writes; and the 
 adverbs moderately, diligently, have plainly a reference to some 
 action which they modify. When a relative word is introduced, it 
 must be signified by the expression to what word it relates, without 
 which the sense is not complete. For answering that purpose, I 
 * See Demetrius Phalereus of Elocution, sect. 63.
 
 Sect. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 267 
 
 observe in Greek and Latin two different methods. Adjectives are 
 declined as well as substantives ; and declension serves to ascertain 
 their connection : If the word that expresses the subject be, for ex- 
 ample, in the nominative case, so also must the word be that expresses 
 its quality ; example, vir bonus. Again, verbs are related, on the 
 one hand, to the agent, and, on the other, to the subject upon which 
 the action is exerted : and a contrivance similar to that now men- 
 ti<5ned, serves to express the double relation : the nominative case is 
 appropriated to the agent, the accusative to the passive subject ; and 
 the verb is put in the first, second, or third person, to intimate its 
 connection with the word that signifies the agent : examples, Ego 
 amo Tulliam; tu amas Semproniam ; Brutus amat Portiam* The 
 other method is by juxtaposition, which is necessary with respect to 
 such words only as are not declined ; adverbs, for example, articles, 
 prepositions, and conjunctions. In the English language there are 
 few declensions ; and therefore juxtaposition is our chief resource : 
 adjectives accompany their substantives;! an adverb accompanies 
 the word it qualifies ; and the verb occupies the middle place be- 
 tween the active and passive subjects, to which it relates. 
 
 It must be obvious, that those terms which have nothing relative 
 in their signification, cannot be connected in so easy a manner. 
 When two substantives happen to be connected, as cause and effect, 
 as principal and accessory, or in any other manner, such connection 
 cannot be expressed by contiguity solely ; for words must often, in 
 a period, be placed together which are not thus related : the relation 
 between substantives, therefore, cannot otherwise be expressed than 
 by particles denoting the relation. Latin indeed and Greek, by 
 their declensions, go a certain length to express such relations, 
 without the aid of particles. The relation of property for example, 
 between Caesar and his horse, is expressed by putting the latter in 
 the nominative case, the former in the genitive ; equus Casaris : the 
 same is also expressed in English without the aid of a particle, 
 Casals horse. But in other instances, declensions not being used 
 in the English language, relations of this kind are commonly ex- 
 pressed by prepositions. Examples : That wine came from Cyprus. 
 He is going to Paris. The sun is below the horizon. 
 
 This form of connecting by prepositions, is not confined to substan- 
 tives, dualities, attributes, manner of existing or acting, and all 
 other circumstances, may, in the same manner, be connected with 
 the substances to which they relate. This is done artificially by 
 converting the circumstance into a substantive ; in which condition 
 it is qualified to be connected with the principal subject by a prepo- 
 sition, in the manner above described. For example, the adjective 
 
 * I love Tullia thou lovest Sempronia Brutus loves Portia. 
 
 t Taking advantage of a declension to separate an, adjective from its substantive, 
 as is commonly practised in Latin, though it detract not from perspicuity, is 
 certainly less neat than the English method of juxtaposition. Contiguity is more 
 expressive of an intimate relation, than resemblance merely of the final syllables. 
 Latin indeed has evidently the advantage when the adjective and substantive 
 happen to be connected by contiguity, as well as by resemblance of the final 
 syllables.
 
 268 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 wise being converted into the substantive wisdom, gives opportunity 
 for the expression " a man of wisdom," instead of the more simple 
 expression, a wise man : this variety in the expression enriches 
 language. I observe, beside, that the using of a preposition in this 
 case, is not always a matter of choice : it is indispensable with 
 respect to every circumstance that cannot be expressed by a single 
 adjective or adverb. 
 
 To pave the way for the rules of arrangement, one other pre- 
 liminary is necessary ; which is, to explain the difference between 
 a natural style, and that where transposition or inversion prevails. 
 There are, it is true, no precise boundaries between them, for they 
 run into each other like the shades of different colors. No person, 
 however, is at a loss to distinguish them in their extremes : and it 
 is necessary to make the distinction : because though some of the 
 rules I shall have occasion to mention are common to both, yet each 
 has rules peculiar to itself. In a natural style, relative words are 
 by juxtaposition connected with those to Avhich they relate, going 
 before or after, according to the peculiar genius of the language. 
 Again, a circumstance connected by a preposition, follows naturally 
 the word with which it is connected. But this arrangement may 
 be varied, when a different order is more "beautiful ; a circumstance 
 may be placed before the word with which it is connected by a pre- 
 position ; and may be interjected even between a relative word and 
 that to which it relates. When such liberties are frequently taken, 
 the style becomes inverted or transposed. 
 
 But as the liberty of inversion is a capital point in the present 
 subject, it will be necessary to examine it more narrowly, and in 
 particular to trace the several degrees in which an inverted style 
 recedes more and more from that which is natural. And first, as to 
 the placing of a circumstance before the word with which it is con- 
 nected, I observe, that it is the easiest of all inversion, even so easy 
 as to be consistent with a style that is properly termed natural ; 
 witness the following examples. 
 
 In the sincerity of my heart, I profess, &c. 
 
 By our own ill management, we are brought to so low an ebb of wealth and 
 credit, that, &c. 
 
 On Thursday morning there was little or nothing transacted in Change-alley. 
 
 At St. Bride's church in Fleet-street, Mr. Woolston, (who writ against the 
 miracles of our Savior,) in the utmost terrors of conscience, made a public re- 
 cantation. 
 
 The interjecting of a circumstance between a relative word, and 
 that to which it relates, is more properly termed inversion ; because, 
 by a disjunction of words intimately connected, it recedes farther 
 from a natural style. But this license has degrees ; for the dis- 
 junction is more violent in some instances than in others. And to 
 give a just notion of the difference, there is a necessity to enter a 
 little more into an abstract subject, than would otherwise be my 
 inclination. 
 
 In nature, though a subject cannot exist without its qualities, nor
 
 Sect. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 269 
 
 a quality without a subject ; yet in our conception of these, a material 
 difference may be remarked. I cannot conceive a quality but as 
 belonging to some subject : it makes, indeed, a part of the idea which 
 is formed of the subject. But the opposite holds not ; for though I 
 cannot form a conception of a subject void of all qualities, a partial 
 conception may be formed of it, abstracting from any particular 
 quality : I can, for example, form the idea of a fine Arabian horse 
 without regard to his color, or of a white horse without regard to 
 his size. Such partial conception of a subject, is still more easy 
 with respect to action or motion ; which is an occasional attribute 
 only, and has not the same permanency with color or figure: I 
 cannot form an idea of motion independent of a body ; but there is 
 nothing more easy than to form an idea of a body at rest. Hence 
 it appears, that the degree of inversion depends greatly on the order 
 in which the related words are placed : when a substantive occupies 
 the first place, the idea it suggests must subsist in the mind at least 
 for a moment, independent of the relative words afterward intro- 
 duced; and that moment may without difficulty be prolonged by 
 interjecting a circumstance between the substantive and its connec- 
 tions. This liberty, therefore, however frequent, will scarcely alone 
 be sufficient to denominate a style inverted. The case is very dif- 
 ferent, where the word that occupies the first place denotes a quality 
 or an action ; for as these cannot be conceived without a subject, 
 they cannot, without greater violence, be separated from the subject 
 that follows ; and for that reason, every such separation, by means 
 of an interjected circumstance, belongs to an inverted style. 
 
 To illustrate this doctrine, examples are necessary ; and I shall 
 begin with those where the word first introduced does not imply a 
 relation. 
 
 Nor Eve to iterate 
 
 Her former trespass fear'd. 
 
 Hunger and thirst at once, 
 
 Powerful persuaders, quicken'd at the scent 
 Of that alluring fruit, urg'd me so keen. 
 
 Moon that now meet'st the orient sun, now fli'st 
 With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies, 
 And ye five other wand'ring fires that move 
 p In mystic dance not without song, resound 
 
 His praise. 
 
 In the following examples, where the word first introduced imports 
 a relation, the disjunction will be found more violent. 
 
 Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
 Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
 Brought death into the world, and all our wo, 
 With loss of Eden, till one greater man 
 Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, 
 Sing heav'nly muse. 
 
 Upon the firm opacous globe 
 
 Of this round world, whose first convex divides 
 The luminous inferior orbs inclos'd 
 From chaos and th' inroad of darkness old, 
 Satan alighted walks. 
 23*
 
 270 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 On a sudden open fly 
 
 With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, 
 Tlv infernal doors. 
 
 Wherein remain'd, 
 
 For what could else 1 to our almighty foe 
 Clear victory, to our part loss and rout. 
 
 Forth rush'd, with whirlwind sound, 
 
 The chariot of paternal Deity. 
 
 Language would have no great power, were it confined to the 
 natural order of ideas. I shall soon have opportunity to make it 
 evident, that by inversion a thousand beauties may be compassed, 
 which must be relinquished in a natural arrangement. In the 
 mean time, it ought not to. escape observation, that the mind of man 
 is happily so constituted as to relish inversion, though in one respect 
 unnatural ; and to relish it so much, as in many cases to admit a 
 separation between words the most intimately connected. It can 
 scarcely be said that inversion has any limits ; though I may ven- 
 ture to pronounce, that the disjunction of articles, conjunctions, or 
 prepositions, from the words to which they belong, has very seldom 
 a good effect. The following example with relation to a preposition, 
 is, perhaps, as tolerable as any of the kind : 
 
 He would neither separate from, nor act against them. 
 
 I give notice to the reader, that I am now ready to enter on the 
 rules of arrangement ; beginning with a natural style, and proceed- 
 ing, gradually, to what is the most inverted. And in the arrange- 
 ment of a period, as well as in a right choice of words, the first and 
 great object being perspicuity, the rule above laid down, that perspi- 
 cuity ought not to be sacrificed to any other beauty, holds equally in 
 both. Ambiguities occasioned by a wrong arrangement are of two 
 sorts ; one where the arrangement leads to a wrong sense, and one 
 where the sense is left doubtful. The first, being the more culpable, 
 shall take the lead, beginning with examples of words put in a wrong 
 place. 
 
 How much the imagination of such a presence must exalt a genius, we may 
 observe merely from the influence which an ordinary presence has over men. 
 
 Characteristics, Vol. i. p. 7. 
 
 This arrangement leads to a wrong sense : the adverb merely seems 
 by its position to affect the preceding word ; whereas it is intended 
 to affect the following words, an ordinary presence ; and therefore 
 the arrangement ought to be thus : 
 
 How much the imagination of such a presence must exalt a genius, we may 
 observe from the influence which an ordinary presence merely has over men. 
 [Or, better,] which even an ordinary presence has over men. 
 
 The time of the election of a poet-laureat being now at hand, it may be proper 
 to give some account of the rites and ceremonies anciently used at that solemnity, 
 and only discontinued through the neglect and degeneracy of later times. 
 
 Guardian. 
 
 The term only is intended to qualify the noun degeneracy, and not 
 the participle discontinued; and therefore the arrangement ought to 
 be as follows :
 
 Sect. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 271 
 
 and discontinued through the neglect and degeneracy only 
 
 of later times. 
 Sixtus the Fourth was, if I mistake not, a great collector of books at least. 
 
 Letters on History, Vol. I. Let. C. Bolingbroke, 
 
 The expression here leads evidently to a wrong sense ; the adverb 
 at least, ought not to be connected with the substantive books, but 
 with collector, thus : 
 
 "Sixtus the Fourth was a great collector at least of books. 
 Speaking of Lewis XIV. 
 
 If he was not the greatest king, he was the best actor of majesty at least, that 
 ever filled a throne. Ibid. Letter 7. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 If he was not the greatest king, he was at least the best actor of majesty, &c. 
 This arrangement removes the wrong sense occasioned by the juxta* 
 position of majesty and at least. 
 
 The following examples are of a wrong arrangement of members : 
 
 I have confined myself to those methods for the advancement of piety, which are 
 in the power of a prince limited like ours by a strict execution of the laws. 
 
 A Project for the Advancement of Religion. Swift. 
 
 The structure of this period leads to a meaning which is not the 
 author's, viz. power limited by a strict execution of the laws. That 
 wrong sense is removed by the following arrangement: 
 
 I have confined myself to those methods for the advancement of piety, which, 
 by a strict execution of the laws, are in the power of a prince limited like ours. 
 
 This morning, when one of Lady Lizard's daughters was looking over some 
 hoods and ribands brought by her tirewoman, with great care and diligence, I 
 employed no less in examining the box which contained them. Guardian, No. 4. 
 
 The wrong sense occasioned by this arrangement, may be easily 
 prevented by varying it thus : 
 
 This morning when, with great care and diligence, one of Lady Lizard's 
 daughters was looking over some hoods and ribands, &c. 
 
 A great stone that I happened to find after a long search by the sea-shore, served 
 me for an anchor. Gulliver's Travels, Part I. Chap. 8. 
 
 One would think that the search was confined to the sea-shore ; but 
 as the meaning is, that the great stone was found by the sea-shore, 
 the period ought to be arranged thus : 
 
 A great stone, that, after a long search, I happened to find by the sea-shore, 
 served me for an anchor. 
 
 Next of a wrong arrangement where the sense is left doubtful ; 
 beginning, as in the former sort, with examples of wrong arrange- 
 ment of words in a member. 
 
 These forms of conversation by degrees multiplied and grew troublesome. 
 
 Spectator, No. 119. 
 
 Here it is left doubtful whether the modification by degrees relates 
 to the preceding member or to what follows : it should be, 
 
 These forms of conversation multiplied by degrees. 
 
 Nor does this false modesty expose us only to such actions as are indiscreet, but 
 vry ofien to such as are highly criminal. Spectator, No. 458.
 
 272 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 The ambiguity is removed by the following arrangement : 
 Nor does this false modesty expose us to such actions only as are indiscreet, Sue. 
 The empire of Blefuscu is an island situated to the north-east side of Lilliput, 
 
 from whence it is parted only by a channel of 800 yards wide. 
 
 Gulliver's Travels, Part I. Chap. 5. 
 
 The ambiguity may be removed thus : 
 
 from whence it is parted by a channel of 800 yards wide 
 
 only. 
 
 In the following examples the sense is left doubtful by wrong 
 arrangement of members. 
 
 The minister who grows less by his elevation, like a little statue placed on a 
 mighty pedestal, will always have his jealousy strong about him. 
 
 Dissertation upon Parties. Dedication. Bolingbroke. 
 
 Here, as far as can be gathered from the arrangement, it is doubtful, 
 whether the object introduced by way of simile, relate to what goes 
 before or to what follows : the ambiguity is removed by the follow- 
 ing arrangement : 
 
 The minister, who, like a little statue placed on a mighty pedestal, grows less 
 by his elevation, will always, &c. 
 
 Since this is too much to ask of freemen, nay of slaves, if his expectation be not 
 answered, shall he form a lasting division upon such transient motives r \ Ibid. 
 
 Better thus: 
 
 Since this is too much to ask of freemen, nay of slaves, shall he, if his expecta- 
 tions be not answered, form, &c. 
 
 Speaking of the superstitious practice of locking up the room where 
 a person of distinction dies : 
 
 The knight seeing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, and himself in 
 a manner shut out of his own house, upon the death of his mother, ordered all the 
 apartments to be flung open, and exorcised by his chaplain. 
 
 Spectator, No. 110. 
 Better thus : 
 
 The knight seeing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, and himself in 
 a manner shut out of his own house, ordered, upon the death of his mother, all the 
 apartments to be flung open. 
 
 Speaking of some indecencies in conversation : 
 
 As it is impossible for such an irrational way of conversation to last long among 
 a people that make any profession of religion, or show of modesty, if the country 
 gentlemen get into it, they will certainly be left in the lurch. 
 
 Spectator, No. 119. 
 
 The ambiguity vanishes in the following arrangement : 
 
 the country gentlemen, if they get into it, will certainly be left in 
 
 the lurch. 
 
 Speaking of a discovery in natural philosophy, that color is not a 
 quality of matter : 
 
 As this is a truth which has been proved incontestably by many modern philo- 
 sophers, 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 Human Understanding. 
 
 Spectator, No. 413. 
 Better thus : 
 
 As this is a truth, &c. the English reader, if he would see the notion explained 
 at large, may find it, &c.
 
 Sec. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 273 
 
 A woman seldom asks advice before she has bought her wedding-clothes. 
 When she has made her own choice, for form's sake she sends a conge d'elire to 
 her friends. Jbid. No. 475. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 she sends, for form's sake, a conge d'elire to her friends. 
 
 And since it is necessary that there should be a perpetual intercourse of buying 
 and selling, and dealing upon credit, where fraud is permitted or connived at, or 
 hatkjio law to punish it, the honest dealer is always undone, and the knave gets 
 the advantage. Gulliver's Travels, Part I. Chap. 6. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 And since it is necessary that there should be a perpetual intercourse of buying 
 and selling, and dealing upon credit, the honest dealer, where fraud is permitted or 
 connived at, or hath no law to punish it, is always undone, and the knave gets the 
 advantage. 
 
 From these examples, the following observation will occur, that a 
 circumstance ought never to be placed between two capital members 
 of a period ; for by such situation it must always be doubtful, as far 
 as we gather from the arrangement, to which of the two members 
 it belongs : where it is interjected, as it ought to be, between parts of 
 the member to which it belongs, the ambiguity is removed, and the 
 capital members are kept distinct, which is a great beauty in compo- 
 sition. In general, to preserve members distinct that signify things 
 distinguished in the thought, the best method is, to place first in the 
 consequent member, some word that cannot connect with what pre- 
 cedes it. 
 
 If it shall be thought, that the objections here are too scrupulous, 
 and that the defect of perspicuity is easily supplied by accurate punc- 
 tuation ; the answer is, that punctuation may remove an ambiguity, 
 but will never produce that peculiar beauty which is perceived when 
 the sense comes out clearly and distinctly by means of a happy 
 arrangement. Such influence has this beauty, that by a natural 
 transition of perception it is communicated to the very sound of the 
 words, so as in appearance to improve the music of the period. But 
 as this curious subject comes in more properly afterward, it is suffi- 
 cient at present to appeal to experience, that a period so arranged as 
 to bring out the sense clear, seems always more musical than where 
 the sense is left in any degree doubtful. 
 
 A rule deservedly occupying the second place, is, that words 
 expressing things connected in the thought, ought to be placed as 
 near together as possible. This rule is derived immediately from 
 human nature, prone in every instance to place together things in any 
 manner connected:* where things are arranged according to their 
 connections, we have a sense of order ; otherwise we have a sense of 
 disorder, as of things placed by chance : and we naturally place words 
 in the same order in which we would place the things they signify. 
 The bad effect of a violent separation of words or members thus 
 intimately connected, will appear from the following examples. 
 
 For the English are naturally fanciful, and very often disposed, by that gloomi- 
 ness and melancholy of temper which is so frequent in our nation, to many wild 
 notions and visions, to which others are not so liable. Spectator, No. 419. 
 
 * See Chap. I.
 
 274 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 Here the verb or assertion is, by a pretty long circumstance, vio- 
 lently separated from the subject to which it refers : this makes a 
 harsh arrangement ; the less excusable as the fault is easily pre- 
 vented by placing the circumstance before the verb, after the follow- 
 ing manner : 
 
 For the English are naturally fanciful, and, by that gloominess and melancholy 
 of temper which is so frequent in our nation, are often disposed to many wild 
 notions, &c. 
 
 For as no mortal author, in the ordinary fate and vicissitude of things, knows to 
 what use his works may, some time or other, be applied, &c. 
 
 Spectator, No. 85. 
 Better thus : 
 
 For as, in the ordinary fate and vicissitude of things, no mortal author knows 
 to what use, some time or other, his works may be applied, &c. 
 
 From whence we may date likewise the rivalship of the house of France, for 
 we may reckon that of Valois and that of Bourbon as one upon this occasion, and 
 the house of Austria, that continues at this day, and has oft cost so*much blood 
 and so much treasure in the course of it. 
 
 Letters on History, Vol. I. Let. 6. Bolingbroke. 
 
 It cannot be impertinent or ridiculous therefore in such a country, whatever it 
 might be in the Abbot of St. Real's, which was Savoy I think ; or in Peru, under 
 the Incas, where Garsilasso de la Vega says it was lawful for none but the nobi- 
 lity to study for men of all degrees to instruct themselves, in those affairs wherein 
 they may be actors, or judges of those that act, or controllers of those that judge. 
 Letters on History, Vol. I. Let. 5. Bolingbroke. 
 
 If Scipio, who was naturally given to women, for which anecdote we have, if I 
 mistake not, the authority of Polybius, as well as some verses of Nevius, pre- 
 served by Aulus Gellius, had been educated by Olympias at the court of Philip, it 
 is improbable that he would have restored the beautiful Spaniard. Ibid. Let. 3. 
 
 If any one have a curiosity for more specimens of this kind, they 
 will be found, without number, in the works of the same author. 
 
 A pronoun, which saves the naming of a person or thing a second 
 time, ought to be placed as near as possible to the name of that person 
 or thing, This is a branch of the foregoing rule ; and with the 
 reason there given another concurs, viz. that if other ideas intervene, 
 it is difficult to recall the person or thing by reference : 
 
 If I had leave to print the Latin letters transmitted to me from foreign parts, 
 they would fill a volume, and be a full defence against all that Mr. Partridge, of 
 his accomplices of the Portugal inquisition, will be ever able to object ; who, by 
 the way, are the only enemies my predictions have ever met with at home or 
 abroad. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 and be a full defence against all that can be objected by Mr. Part- 
 ridge, or his accomplices of the Portugal inquisition; who, by the way, are, &c. 
 
 There being a round million of creatures in human figure, throughout this king- 
 dom, whose whole subsistence, &c. A Modest Proposal, <$*c. Swift. 
 
 Better : 
 
 There being throughout this kingdom, a round million of creatures in human 
 figure, whose whole subsistence, &c. 
 
 Tom is a lively impudent clown, and has wit enough to have made him aplea- 
 sant companion, had it been polished and rectified by good manners. 
 
 Guardian, No. 162. 
 
 It is the custom of the Mahometans, if they see any printed or written paper upon 
 the ground, to take it up, and lay it aside carefully, as not knowing but it may 
 contain some piece of their Alcoran. Spectator, No. 85.
 
 Sect. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 27 ] 
 
 The arrangement here leads to a wrong sense, as if the ground 
 were taken up, not the paper, Better thus : 
 
 It is the custom of the Mahometans, if they see upon the ground any printed or 
 written paper, to take it up, &c. 
 
 The following rule depends on the communication of emotions to 
 related objects ; a principle in human nature that has an extensive 
 operation : and we find this operation, even where the objects are 
 noUotherwise related than by juxtaposition of the words that express 
 them. Hence, to elevate or depress an object, one method is, to join 
 it in the expression with another that is naturally high or low : wit- 
 ness the following speech of Eumenes to the Roman Senate. 
 
 Causam veniendi sibi Romam fuisse, praeter cupiditatem visendi deos homines- 
 qiie, quorum beneficio in ea fortuna esset, supra quam ne optare quidem auderet, 
 etiam ut coram moneret senatum ut Persei conatus obviam iret.* 
 
 Livy, \, 42. cap. 11. 
 
 To join the Romans with the gods in the same enunciation, is an 
 artful stroke of flattery, because it tacitly puts them on a level. On 
 the other hand, the degrading or vilifying of an object, is done suc- 
 cessfully by ranking it with one that is really low : 
 
 I hope to have this entertainment in a readiness for the next winter ; and doubt 
 not but it will please more than the opera or puppet-show. Spectator, No. 28. 
 
 Manifold have been the judgments which Heaven from time to time, for the 
 chastisement of a sinful people, has inflicted upon whole nations. For when the 
 degeneracy becomes common, 'tis but just the punishment should be general. Of 
 this kind, in our own unfortunate country, was that destructive pestilence, whose 
 mortality was so fatal as to sweep away, if Sir William Petty may be believed, 
 five millions of Christian souls, besides women and Jews. 
 
 God's Revenge against Punning. Arbuthnot. 
 
 Such also was that dreadful conflagration ensuing in this famous metropolis of 
 London, which consumed, according to the computation of Sir Samuel Moreland, 
 100,000 houses, not to mention churches and stables. Ibid. 
 
 But on condition it might pass into a law, I would gladly exempt both lawyers 
 of all ages, subaltern and field officers, young heirs, dancing-masters, pick-pockets, 
 and players. An infallible Scheme to pay the Public Debt. Swift. 
 
 Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, 
 Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all. 
 
 Rape of the Lock. 
 
 Circumstances in a period resemble small stones in a building, 
 employed to fill up vacuities among those of a larger size. In the 
 arrangement of a period, such under-parts crowded together make 
 a poor figure ; and never are graceful but when interspersed among 
 the capital parts. I illustrate this rule by the following example. 
 
 It is likewise urged, that there are, by computation, in this kingdom, above 
 10,000 parsons, whose revenues, added to those of my Lords the Bishops, would 
 suffice to maintain, &c. Argument against abolishing Christianity. Swift. 
 
 Here two circumstances, viz. by computation, and in this kingdom, 
 are crowded together unnecessarily ; they make a better appearance 
 separated in the following manner : 
 
 * His cause for coming to Rome, in addition to his desire of seeing gods and 
 men, by whose kindness he had such good fortune, and more than which he dared 
 not wish for, was that he might openly assure the senate that he was opposed to 
 Perseus.
 
 276 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 It is likewise urged, that in this kingdom there are, by computation, above 
 10,000 parsons, &c. 
 
 If there be room for a choice, the sooner a circumstance is intro- 
 duced, the better ; because circumstances are proper for that coolness 
 of mind, with which we begin a period as well as a volume : in the 
 progress, the mind warms, and has a greater relish for matters of 
 importance. When a circumstance is placed at the beginning of the 
 period, or near the beginning, the transition from it to the principal 
 subject is agreeable: it is like ascending, or going upward. On the 
 other hand, to place it late in the period has a bad effect : for after 
 being engaged in the principal subject, one is with reluctance 
 brought down to give attention to a circumstance. Hence evidently 
 the preference of the following arrangement : 
 
 Whether in any country a choice altogether unexceptionable has been made, 
 seems doubtful. 
 
 Before this other, 
 Whether a choice altogether unexceptionable has in any country been made, &c. 
 
 For this reason the following period is exceptionable in point of 
 arrangement. 
 
 I have considered formerly, with a good deal of attention, the subject upon 
 which you command me to communicate my thoughts to you. 
 
 Bolingbroke of the Study of History, Letter 1. 
 
 which, with a slight alteration, may be improved thus : 
 
 I have formerly, with a good deal of attention, considered the subject, &c. 
 Swift, speaking of a virtuous and learned education : 
 
 And although they may be, and too often are drawn, by the temptations of 
 youth, and the opportunities of a large fortune, into some irregularities, when they 
 come forward into the great world ; it is ever with reluctance and compunction of 
 mind, because their bias to virtue still continues. The Intellise r ncer, No. 9. 
 
 Better : 
 
 And although, when they come forward into the great world, they may be, and 
 too often, &c. 
 
 The bad effect of placing a circumstance last or late in a period, 
 will appear from the following examples. 
 
 Let us endeavor to establish to ourselves an interest in him who holds the reins 
 of the whole creation in his hand. Spectator, No. 12. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 Let us endeavor to establish to ourselves an interest in him, who, in his hand, 
 holds the reins of the whole creation. 
 
 Virgil, who has cast the whole system of Platonic philosophy, so far as it 
 relates to the soul of man, into beautiful allegories, in the sixth book of his JEneid, 
 gives us the punishment, &c. Spectator, No. 90. 
 
 Better thus : 
 Virgil, who in the sixth book of his ^neid, has cast, &c. 
 
 And Philip the Fourth was obliged at last to conclude a peace on terms repug- 
 nant to his inclination, to that of his people, to the interest of Spain, and to that 
 of all Europe, in the Pyrenean treaty. 
 
 Letters on History, Vol. I. Let. 6. Bolingbroke.
 
 Sec. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 277 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 And at last, in the Pyrenean treaty, Philip the Fourth was obliged to conclude 
 a peace, &c. 
 
 In arranging a period, it is of importance to determine in what 
 part of it a word makes the greatest figure ; whether at the begin- 
 ning, during the course, or at the close. Breaking silence rouses 
 the attention, and prepares for a deep impression at the beginning : 
 thfi beginning, however, must yield to the close ; which being suc- 
 ceeded by a pause, affords time for a word to make its deepest 
 impression.* Hence the following rule, that to give the utmost 
 force to a period, it ought, if possible, to be closed with that word 
 which makes the greatest figure. The opportunity of a pause 
 should not be thrown away upon accessories, but reserved for the 
 principal object, in order that it may make a full impression: which 
 is an additional reason against closing a period with a circumstance. 
 There are, however, periods that admit not such a structure ; and in 
 that case, the capital word ought, if possible, to be placed in the 
 front, which next to the close is the most advantageous for making 
 an impression. Hence, in directing our discourse to a man of 
 figure, we ought to begin with his name ; and one will be sensible 
 of a degradation, when this rule is neglected, as it frequently is for 
 the sake of verse. I give the following examples. 
 
 Integer vitse, scelerisque purus, 
 Non eget Mauri jaculis, neque area, 
 Nee venenatis gravida sagittis, 
 
 Fusee, pharetra. Horat. Carm. 1. 1. ode 22. 
 
 One sound and pure of wicked arts 
 Leaves to the blocks their spear and bow, 
 Nor need the deadly tinctured darts 
 Within his quiver stow. 
 
 Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, et n'ai point d'autre crainte. 
 
 [n these examples, the name of the person addressed to makes a 
 mean figure, being like a circumstance slipt into a corner. That 
 this criticism is well founded, we need no other proof than Addison's 
 translation of the last example : 
 
 O Abner ! I fear my God, and I fear none but him. 
 
 Guardian^o. 117. 
 
 O father, what intends thy hand, she cry'd, 
 
 Against thy only son 1 What fury, O son, 
 
 Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart 
 
 Against thy father's head 1 Paradise Lost, B. 2. 1. 727. 
 
 Kvery one must be sensible of a dignity in the invocation at the 
 beginning, which is not attained by that in the middle. I mean not, 
 however, to censure this passage : on the contrary, it appears beau- 
 ful, by distinguishing the respect that is due to a father from that 
 which is due to a son. 
 
 The substance of what is said in this and the foregoing section, 
 
 * To give force or elevation to a period, it ought to begin and end with a long 
 syllable. For a long syllable makes naturally the strongest impression : and of 
 all the syllables in a period, we are chiefly moved with the first and last. 
 
 Demetrius Phalereus of Elocution, Sect. J9. 
 
 24
 
 278 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 upon the method of arranging words in a period, so as to make the 
 deepest impression with respect to sound as well as signification, is 
 comprehended in the following observation : That order of words 
 in a period will always be the most agreeable, where, without obscu- 
 ring the sense, the most important images, the most sonorous words, 
 and the longest members, bring up the rear. 
 
 Hitherto of arranging single words, single members, and single 
 circumstances. But the enumeration of many particulars in the 
 same period is often necessary ; and the question is, In what order 
 they should be placed ? It does not seem easy, at first view, to bring 
 a subject apparently so loose under any general rule : but luckily, 
 reflecting upon what is said in the first chapter about order, we find 
 rules laid down to our hand, which leave us no task but that of ap- 
 plying them to the present question. And, first, with respect to the 
 enumerating particulars of equal rank, it is laid down in the place 
 quoted, that as there is no cause for preferring any one before the 
 rest, it is indifferent to the mind in what order they be viewed. 
 And it is only necessary to be added here, that for the same 
 reason, it is indifferent in what order they be named. 2dly, 
 If a number of objects of the same kind, differing only in size, 
 are to be ranged along a straight line, the most agreeable order to 
 the eye is that of an increasing series. In surveying a number of 
 such objects, beginning at the least, and proceeding to greater and 
 greater, the mind swells gradually with the successive objects, and 
 in its progress has a very sensible pleasure. Precisely for the same 
 reason, words expressive of such objects ought to be placed in the 
 same order. The beauty of this figure, which may be termed a 
 climax in sense, has escaped Lord Bolingbroke in the first member 
 of the following period. 
 
 Let but one great, brave, disinterested, active man arise, and he will be received, 
 followed, and almost adored. 
 
 The following arrangement has sensibly a better effect 
 Let but one brave, great, active, disinterested man arise, &c. 
 
 Whether the same rule ought to be followed in enumerating men of 
 different ranks, seems doubtful : on the one hand, a number of per- 
 sons presented to the eye in form of an increasing series is undoubt- 
 edly the most agreeable order : on the other hand, in every list of 
 names, we set the person of the greatest dignity at the top, and 
 descend gradually through his inferiors. Where the purpose is to 
 honour the persons named according to their rank, the latter order 
 ought to be followed ; but every one who regards himself only, or 
 his reader, will choose the former order. 3dly, As the sense of 
 order directs the eye to descend from the principal to its greatest 
 accessory, and from the whole to its greatest part, and in the same 
 order through all the parts and accessories till we arrive at the 
 minutest ; the same order ought to be followed in the enumeration 
 of such particulars. I shall give one familiar example. Talking 
 of the parts of a column, the base, the shaft, the capital, these are 
 capable of six different arrangements, and the question is, Which is
 
 Sec. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 279 
 
 the best ? When we have in view the erecting of a column, we are 
 naturally led to express the parts in the order above mentioned ; 
 which at the same time is agreeable by ascending. But considering 
 the column as it stands, without reference to its erection, the sense, 
 of order, as observed above, requires the chief part to be named 
 first : for that reason we begin with the shaft ; and the base comes 
 next in order, that we may ascend from it to the capital. Lastly, In 
 tracing the particulars of any natural operation, order requires that 
 we follow the course of nature: historical facts are related in the 
 order of time: we begin at the founder of a family, and proceed 
 from him to his descendants : but in describing a lofty oak, we begin 
 with the trunk, and ascend to the branches. 
 
 When force and liveliness of expression are demanded, the rule 
 is, to suspend the thought as long as possible, and to bring it out 
 full and entire at the close : which cannot be done but by inverting 
 the natural arrangement. By introducing a word or member before 
 its time, curiosity is raised about what is to follow ; and it is agree- 
 able to have our curiosity gratified at the close of the period : the 
 pleasure we feel resembles that of seeing a stroke exerted upon a 
 body by the whole collected force of the agent. On the other hand, 
 where a period is so constructed as to admit more than one complete 
 close in the sense, the curiosity of the reader is exhausted at the first 
 close, and what follows appears languid or superfluous : his disap- 
 pointment contributes also to that appearance, when he finds, con- 
 trary to expectation, that the period is not yet finished. Cicero, and 
 after him Quintilian, recommend the verb to the last place. This 
 method evidently tends to suspend the sense till the close of the 
 period ; for without the verb the sense cannot be complete : and 
 when the verb happens to be the capital word, which it frequently is, 
 it ought at any rate to be the last, according to another rule, above 
 laid down. I proceed as usual to illustrate this rule by examples. 
 The following period is placed in its natural order. 
 
 Were instruction an essential circumstance in epic poetry, I doubt whether a 
 single instance could be given of this species of composition, in any language. 
 
 The period thus arranged admits a full close upon the word compo- 
 sition^ after which it goes on languidly, and closes without force. 
 This blemish will be avoided by the following arrangement : 
 
 Were instruction an essential circumstance in epic poetry, I doubt whether, in 
 any language, a single instance could be given of this species of composition. 
 
 Some of our most eminent divines have made use of this Platonic notion, as 
 far as it regards the subsistence of our passions after death, with great beauty and 
 strength of reason. Spectator, No. 90. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 Some of our most eminent divines have, with great beauty and strength of 
 reason, made use of this Platonic notion, &c. 
 
 Men of the best sense have been touched, more or less, with these groundless 
 horrors and presages of futurity, upon surveying the most indifferent works of 
 nature . Spectator, No. 505. 
 
 Better, 
 
 Upon surveying the most indifferent works of nature, men of the best sense, &c.
 
 280 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. IS. 
 
 She soon informed him of the place he was in, which, notwithstanding all its 
 horrors, appeared to him more sweet than the bower of Mahomet, in the company 
 of his Balsora. Guardian, No. 167. 
 
 Better, 
 
 She soon, &c. appeared to him, in the company of his Balsora, more sweet, &c. 
 
 The Emperor was so intent on the establishment of his absolute power in Hun- 
 gary, that he exposed the empire doubly to desolation and ruin for the sake of it. 
 Letters on History, Vol. I. Let. 7. Solingbrojp. 
 
 Better 
 
 that for the sake of it he exposed the empire doubly to desolation 
 
 and ruin. 
 
 None of the rules for the composition of periods are more liable 
 to be abused, than those last mentioned ; witness many Latin wri- 
 ters, among the moderns especially, whose style, by inversions too 
 violent, is rendered harsh and obscure. Suspension of the thought 
 till the close of the period, ought never to be preferred before per- 
 spicuity. Neither ought such suspension to be attempted in a long 
 period ; because in that case the mind is bewildered amidst a profu- 
 sion of words : a traveller, while he is puzzled about the road, 
 relishes not the finest prospect: 
 
 All the rich presents which Astyages had given him at parting, keeping only 
 some Median horses, in order to propagate the breed of them in Persia, he distri- 
 buted among his friends whom he left at the court of Ecbatana. 
 
 Travels of Cyrus, Book I. 
 
 The foregoing rules concern the arrangement of a single period : 
 I add one rule more concerning the distribution of a discourse into 
 different periods. A short period is lively and familiar : a long 
 period, requiring more attention, makes an impression grave and 
 solemn.* In general, a writer ought to study a mixture of long and- 
 short periods, which prevent an irksome uniformity, and entertain 
 the mind with variety of impressions. In particular, long periods 
 ought to be avoided till the reader's attention be thoroughly engaged ; 
 and therefore a discourse, especially of the familiar kind, ought never 
 to be introduced with a long period. For that reason, the commence- 
 ment of a letter to a very young lady on her marriage is faulty : 
 
 Madam, The hurry and impertinence of receiving and paying visits on account 
 of your marriage, being now over, you are beginning to enter into a course of life, 
 where you will want much advice to divert you from falling into many errors, fop- 
 peries, and follies, to which your sex is subject. Swift. 
 
 See another example still more faulty, in the commencement of 
 Cicero's oration, Pro Arc/iia Poeta. 
 
 Before proceeding farther, it may be proper to review the rules 
 laid down in this and the preceding section, in order to make some 
 general observations. That order of the words and members of a 
 period is justly termed natural, which corresponds to the natural 
 order of the ideas that compose the thought. , The tendency of many 
 
 * Demetrius Phalereus (of Elocution, sect. 44.) observes, that long members in 
 a period make an impression of gravity and importance. The same observation 
 is applicable to periods.
 
 Sect. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 281 
 
 of the foregoing rules is to substitute an artificial arrangement, in 
 order to catch some beauty either of sound or meaning for which 
 there is no place in the natural order. But seldom it happens, that 
 in the same period there is place for a plurality of these rules : if 
 one beauty can be retained, another must be relinquished ; and the 
 only question is, Which ought to be preferred ? This question can- 
 not be resolved by any general rule : if the natural order be not 
 relished, a few trials will discover that artificial order which has the 
 b effect ; and this exercise, supported by a good taste, will in time 
 make the choice easy. All that can be said in general is, that in 
 making a choice, sound ought to yield to signification. 
 
 The transposing words and members out of their natural order, 
 >o remarkable in the learned languages, has been the subject of 
 viuch speculation. It is agreed on all hands, that such transposition 
 or inversion bestows upon a period a very sensible degree of force and 
 ejevation ; and yet writers seem to be at a loss how to account for this 
 effect. Cerceau* ascribes so much power to inversion, as to make it 
 the characteristic of French verse, and the single circumstance which 
 in that language distinguishes verse from prose : and yet he pretends 
 not to say, that it hath any other effect but to raise surprise ; he must 
 mean curiosity, which is done by suspending the thought during the 
 period, and bringing it out entire at the close. This indeed is one 
 effect of inversion ; but neither its sole effect, nor even that which is 
 the most remarkable, as is made evident above. But waving censure, 
 which is not an agreeable task, I enter into the matter; and begin 
 with observing, that if conformity between words and their meaning 
 be agreeable, it must of course be agreeable to find the same order or 
 arrangement in both. Hence the beauty of a plain or natural style, 
 where the order of the words corresponds precisely to the order of the 
 ideas. Nor is this the single beauty of a natural style : it is also agree- 
 able by its simplicity and perspicuity. This observation throws light 
 upon the subject: for if a natural style be in itself agreeable, a trans- 
 posed style cannot be so ; and therefore its agreeableness must arise 
 from admitting some positive beauty that is excluded in a natural style. 
 To be confirmed in this opinion, we need but reflect upon some of 
 the foregoing rules, which make it evident, that language by means 
 of inversion, is susceptible of many beauties that are totally excluded 
 in a natural arrangement. From these premises it clearly follows, 
 ihat inversion ought not to be indulged, unless in order to reach 
 some beauty superior to those of a natural style. It may with great 
 certainty be pronounced, that every inversion which is not governed 
 by this rule, will appear harsh and strained, and be disrelished by 
 every one of taste. Hence the beauty of inversion when happily 
 conducted ; the beauty, not of an end, but of means, as furnishing 
 opportunity for numberless ornaments that find no place in a natural 
 style : hence the force, the elevation, the harmony, the cadence, of 
 some compositions : hence the manifold beauties of the Greek and 
 Roman tongues, of which living languages afford but faint imitations. 
 * Reflections sur la Pocsie Frai^oise. 
 
 24*
 
 282 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Resemblance between articulate sounds and the things they represent The beauty 
 of this resemblance A concord may exist without a resemblance Examples 
 given by critics of sense, may be resolved into a resemblance of effects Slow 
 motion imitated by long syllables ; quick, by a succession of short ones Inter- 
 rupted motion, by monosyllables Rough motion, rough sounds Smooth, equa- 
 ble, smooth sounds Prolonged motion, Alexandrian line Gravity or solemnity, 
 a period of long syllables -Melancholy, a period of polysyllables Hard labor, 
 long syllables made short Rough words pronounced with difficulty A climax 
 of sound and sense, delightful An anticlimax The pleasure of a weak resem- 
 blance The effect of pronunciation, or the resemblance between sense and sound 
 Difference between notes in singing and reading The key note in reading 
 Cadence Direction for pronunciation In Greek, the tones marked The com- 
 parison between pronunciation and singing The former fixed ; the latter, arbi- 
 trary The notes of music, with respect to the first, agreeable With respect to 
 the second, music has its greatest variety In pronunciation, in the third, the 
 voice confined within three and a half notes Last two equal singing. 
 
 A RESEMBLANCE between the sound of certain words and their sig- 
 nification, is a beauty that has escaped no critical writer, and yet it 
 is not handled with accuracy by any of them. They have probably 
 been of opinion, that a beauty so obvious to the feeling, requires no 
 explanation. This is an error ; and to avoid it, I shall give exam- 
 ples of the various resemblances between sound and signification, 
 accompanied with an endeavor to explain why such resemblances 
 are beautiful. I shall begin with examples where the resemblance 
 between the sound and signification is the most entire ; and shall 
 next give examples where the resemblance is less and less so. 
 
 There being frequently a strong resemblance of one sound to 
 another, it will not be surprising to find an articulate sound resem- 
 bling one that is not articulate : thus the sound of a bow-string is 
 imitated by. the words that express it. 
 
 The string let fly, 
 
 Twanged short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry. 
 
 Odyssey, XXI. 449. 
 The sound of felling trees in a wood : 
 
 Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes, 
 On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks 
 Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown, 
 Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down. 
 
 Iliad, XXIII. 144, 
 
 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
 The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. 
 
 Pope's Essay on Criticism, 369. 
 
 Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms. 
 
 And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms : 
 
 When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves, 
 
 The rough rock roars : tumultuous boil the waves. Pope. 
 
 No person can be at a loss about the cause of this beauty : it is 
 obviously that of imitation. 
 
 That there is any other natural resemblance of sound to signifi- 
 cation, must not be taken for granted. There is no resemblance of 
 sound to motion, nor of sound to sentiment. We are however apt to
 
 Sec. 3.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 283 
 
 be deceived by artful pronunciation : the same passage may be pro- 
 nounced in many different tones, elevated or humble, sweet or harsh, 
 brisk or melancholy, so as to accord with the thought or sentiment : 
 such concord must be distinguished from that concord between sound 
 and sense, which is perceived in some expressions independent of art- 
 ful pronunciation: the latter is the poet's work; the former must be 
 attributed to the reader. Another thing contributes still more to the 
 deceit. In language, sound and sense being intimately connected, 
 the properties of the one are readily communicated to the other : for 
 example, the quality of grandeur, of sweetness, or of melancholy, 
 though belonging to the thought solely, is transferred to the words, 
 which by that means resemble, in appearance, the thought that is 
 expressed by them.* I have great reason to recommend these obser- 
 vations to the reader, considering how inaccurately the present sub- 
 ject is handled by critics : not one of them distinguishes the natural 
 resemblance of sound and signification, from the artificial resemblan- 
 ces now described ; witness Vida in particular, who in a very long 
 passage has given very few examples but what are of the latter kind.f 
 
 That there may be a resemblance of articulate sounds to some 
 that are not articulate, is self-evident ; and that in fact there exist 
 such resemblances successfully employed by writers of genius, is 
 clear from the foregoing examples, and from many others that might 
 be given. But we may safely pronounce, that this natural resemblance 
 can be carried no farther : the objects of the different senses, differ 
 so widely from each other, as to exclude any resemblance. Sound 
 in particular, whether articulate or inarticulate, resembles not in any 
 degree taste, smell, or motion : and as little can it resemble any 
 internal sentiment, feeling or emotion. But must we then admit, 
 that nothing but sound can be imitated by sound ? Taking imitation 
 in its proper sense, as importing a resemblance between two objects, 
 the proposition must be admitted : and yet in many passages that 
 are not descriptive of sound, every one must be sensible of a peculiar 
 concord between the sound of the words and their meaning. As there 
 can be no doubt of the fact, what remains is to inquire into its cause. 
 
 Resembling causes may produce effects that have no resemblance; 
 and causes that have no resemblance may produce resembling effects. 
 A magnificent building, for example, resembles not, in any degree, 
 an heroic action; and yet the emotions they produce, are concordant, 
 and bear a resemblance to each other. We are still more sensible 
 of this resemblance in a song, when the music is properly adapted 
 to the sentiment: there is no resemblance between thought and 
 sound; but there is the strongest resemblance between the emo- 
 tion raised by music tender and pathetic, and that raised by the 
 complaint of an unsuccessful lover. Applying this observation 
 to the present subject, it appears, that in some instances, the sound, 
 even of a single word, makes an impression resembling that which 
 is made by the thing it signifies : witness the word running, com- 
 posed of two short syllables; and more remarkably the words 
 rapidity, impetuosity, precipitation. Brutal manners produce, in the 
 * See Chap. 2. Part I. sect. 5. t Poet. L. 3. 1. 365-454.
 
 284 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 spectator, an emotion not unlike what is produced by a harsh and 
 rough sound ; and hence the beauty of the figurative expression 
 rugged manners. Again, the word little, being pronounced with a 
 very small aperture of the mouth, has a weak and faint sound, which 
 makes an impression resembling that made by a diminutive object. 
 This resemblance of effects is still more remarkable where a number 
 of words are connected in a period : words pronounced in succession 
 make often a strong impression ; and when this impression happens 
 to accord with that made by the sense, we are sensible of a complex 
 emotion, peculiarly pleasant ; one proceeding from the sentiment, 
 and one from the melody or sound of the words. But the chief 
 pleasure proceeds from having these two concordant emotions com- 
 bined in perfect harmony, and carried on in the mind to a full close.* 
 Except in the single case where sound is described, all the examples 
 given by critics of sense being imitated in sound, resolve into a 
 resemblance of effects : emotions raised by sound and signification 
 may have a resemblance; but sound itself cannot have a resemblance 
 to any thing but sound. 
 
 Proceeding now to particulars, and beginning with those cases 
 where the emotions have the strongest resemblance, I observe, first, 
 that by a number of syllables in succession, an emotion is sometimes 
 raised extremely similar to that raised by successive motion ; which 
 may be evident even to those who are defective in taste, from the fol- 
 owing fact, that the term movement in all languages is equally applied 
 o both. In this manner, successive motion, such as walking, run- 
 ning, galloping, can be imitated by a succession of long or short syl- 
 lables, or by a due mixture of both. For example, slow motion may 
 be justly imitated in a verse where long syllables prevail ; especially 
 when aided by a slow pronunciation. 
 
 Illi inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. Gear. IV. 174. 
 
 On the other hand, swift motion is imitated by a succession of short 
 syllables : 
 
 Gluadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum. 
 Again : 
 
 Radit iter liquidum, celeres neque commovet alas. 
 
 Thirdly; a line composed of monosyllables, makes an impression, 
 by the frequency of its pauses, similar to what is made by laborious 
 interrupted motion : 
 
 With many a weary step, and many a groan, 
 Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone. 
 
 Odyssey, XI. 736. 
 
 First march the heavy mules securely slow ; 
 
 O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er craggs, o'er rocks they go. 
 
 Iliad, XXIII. 138. 
 
 Fourthly ; the impression made by rough sounds in succession, 
 resembles that made by rough or tumultuous motion : on the other 
 hand, the impression of smooth sounds resembles that of gentle 
 motion. The following is an example of both. 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 4.
 
 Sec. 3.} BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 285 
 
 Two craggy rocks projecting to the main, 
 The roaring wind's tempestuous rage restrain ; 
 Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide, 
 And ships secure without their halsers ride. 
 
 Odyssey, III. 118. 
 
 Another example of the latter 
 
 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 
 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows 
 
 Essay on Criticism, 366. 
 
 Fifthly ; prolonged motion is expressed in an Alexandrine line. 
 The first example shall be of slow motion prolonged. 
 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the song ; 
 
 That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
 
 Essay on Criticism, 356. 
 
 The next example is of forcible motion prolonged : 
 
 The waves behind impel the waves before, 
 Wide-rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore. 
 
 Iliad, XIII. 1004, 
 
 The last shall be of rapid motion prolonged : 
 
 Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, 
 
 Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. 
 
 Essay on Criticism, 373, 
 
 Again, speaking of a rock torn from the brow of a mountain : 
 
 Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urg'd amain, 
 Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain. 
 
 Iliad, XIII. 197. 
 
 Sixthly ; a period consisting mostly of long syllables, that is, of 
 syllables pronounced slow, produces an emotion resembling faintly 
 that which is produced by gravity and solemnity. Hence the beauty 
 of the following verse : 
 
 Olli sedato respondit corde Latinus. 
 It resembles equally an object that is insipid and uninteresting. 
 
 Taedet quotidianarum harum formarum. 
 
 Terence, Eunuckus, Act II. Sc. 3. 
 
 Seventhly; a slow succession of ideas is a circumstance that 
 belongs equally to settled melancholy, and to a period composed of 
 polysyllables pronounced slowly : and hence by similarity of emo- 
 tions, the latter is imitative of the former : 
 
 In those deep solitudes, and awful cells, 
 
 Where heav'nly pensive Contemplation dwells. 
 
 And ever-musing melancholy reigns. Pope, Eloisa to Abelard. 
 
 Eighthly; a long syllable made short, or a short syllable made 
 long, raises, by the difficulty of pronouncing contrary to custom, a 
 feeling similar to that of hard labor : 
 
 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
 
 The line too labors, and the words move slow. Essay on Crit. 370. 
 
 Ninthly ; harsh or rough words pronounced with difficulty, excite 
 a feeling similar to that which proceeds from the labor of thought to 
 a dull writer :
 
 286 BEATTTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 I 
 
 Just writes to make his barrenness appear, 
 
 And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a-year. 
 
 Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, \. 181. 
 
 I shall close with one example more, which of all makes the finest 
 figure. In the first section mention is made of a climax in sound; 
 and in the second, of a climax in sense. It belongs to the present 
 subject to observe, that when these coincide in the same passage, the 
 concordance of sound and sense is delightful: the reader is conscious 
 not only of pleasure from the two climaxes separately, but of an addi- 
 tional pleasure from their concordance, and from finding the sense so 
 justly imitated by the sound. In this respect, no periods are more 
 perfect than those borrowed from Cicero in the first section. 
 
 The concord between sense and sound is no less agreeable in 
 what may be termed an anticlimax, where the progress is from great 
 to little ; for this has the effect to make diminutive objects appear 
 still more diminutive. Horace affords a striking example : 
 
 Parturiunt monies, nascetur ridiculus mus. 
 
 The arrangement here is singularly artful : the first place is occupied 
 by the verb, which is the capital word by its sense as well as sound : 
 the close is reserved for the word that is the meanest in sense as 
 well as in sound. And it must not be overlooked, that the resem- 
 bling sounds of the two last syllables give a ludicrous air to the 
 whole. 
 
 Reviewing the foregoing examples, it appears to me, contrary to 
 expectation, that, in passing from the strongest resemblances to those 
 that are fainter, every step affords additional pleasure. Renewing 
 the experiment again and again, I feel no wavering, but the greatest 
 pleasure constantly from the faintest resemblances. And yet how 
 can this be 1 for if the pleasure lie in imitation, must not the strong- 
 est resemblance afford the greatest pleasure? From this vexing 
 dilemma I am happily relieved, by reflecting on a doctrine established 
 in the chapter of resemblance and contrast, that the pleasure of 
 resemblance is the greatest, where it is least expected, and where the 
 objects compared are in their capital circumstances widely different. 
 Nor will this appear surprising, when we descend to familiar exam- 
 ples. It raises no degree of wonder to find the most perfect resem- 
 blance between two eggs of the same bird : it is more rare to find 
 such resemblance between two human faces ; and upon that account 
 such an appearance raises some degree of wonder : but this emotion 
 rises to a still greater height, when we find in a pebble, an agate, or 
 other natural production, any resemblance to a tree or to any organ- 
 ised body. We cannot hesitate a moment, in applying these obser- 
 vations to the present subject : what occasion of wonder can it be to 
 find one sound resembling another, where both are of the same kind? 
 It is not so common to find a resemblance between an articulate sound 
 and one not articulate ; which accordingly affords some slight plea- 
 sure. But the pleasure swells greatly, when we employ sound to 
 imitate things it resembles not otherwise than by the effects produced 
 in the mind.
 
 Sec. 3.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 287 
 
 I have had occasion to observe, that to complete the resemblance 
 between sound and sense, artful pronunciation contributes not a lit- 
 tle. Pronunciation therefore may be considered as a branch of the 
 present subject ; and with some observations upon it the section shall 
 be concluded. 
 
 In order to give a just idea of pronunciation, it must be distin- 
 guished from singing. The latter is carried on by notes, requiring 
 each of them a different aperture of the windpipe: the notes properly 
 belonging to the former, are expressed by different apertures of the 
 mouth, without varying the aperture of the windpipe. This, how- 
 ever, does not hinder pronunciation to borrow from singing, as 
 one sometimes is naturally led to do, in expressing a vehement 
 passion. 
 
 In reading, as in singing, there is a key-note : above this note the 
 voice is frequently elevated, to make the sound correspond to the ele- 
 vation of the subject : but the mind in an elevated state, is disposed 
 to action ; therefore, in order to a rest, it must be brought down to 
 the key-note. Hence the term cadence. 
 
 The only general rule that can be given for directing the pronun- 
 ciation, is, to sound the words in such a manner as to imitate the 
 things they signify. In pronouncing words signifying what is ele- 
 vated, the voice ought to be raised above its ordinary tone ; and words 
 signifying dejection of mind, ought to be pronounced in a low note. 
 To imitate a stern and impetuous passion, the words ought to be 
 pronounced rough and loud ; a sweet and kindly passion, on the 
 contrary, ought to be imitated by a soft and melodious tone of voice: 
 in Dryden's ode of Alexander's Feast, the line Fain, fain, fain, fain, 
 represents a gradual sinking of the mind; and therefore is pro- 
 nounced with a falling voice by every one of taste, without instruc- 
 tion. In general, words that make the greatest figure ought to be 
 marked with a peculiar emphasis. Another circumstance contributes 
 to the resemblance between sense and sound, which is slow or quick 
 pronunciation : for though the length or shortness of the syllables 
 with relation to each other, be in prose ascertained in some measure, 
 and in verse accurately ; yet taking a whole line or period together, 
 it may be pronounced slow or fast. A period, accordingly, ought to 
 be pronounced slow, when it expresses what is solemn or deliberate ; 
 and ought to be pronounced quick, when it expresses what is brisk, 
 lively, or impetuous. 
 
 The art of pronouncing with propriety and grace, being intended 
 to make the sound an echo to the sense, scarcely admits of any other 
 general rule than that above mentioned. It may indeed be branched 
 out into many particular rules and observations : but without much 
 success ; because no language furnishes words to signify the differ- 
 ent degrees of high and low, loud and soft, fast and slow. Before 
 these differences can be made the subject of regular instruction, notes 
 must be invented, resembling those employed in music. We have 
 reason to believe, that in Greece every tragedy was accompanied 
 with such notes, in order to ascertain" the pronunciation; but the 
 moderns hitherto have not thought of this refinement. Cicero,
 
 288 BEATTTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 indeed,* without the help of notes, pretends to give rules for ascer- 
 taining the various tones of voice that are proper in expressing the 
 different passions ; and it must be acknowledged, that in this attempt 
 he has exhausted the whole power of language. At the same time, 
 every person of discernment will perceive, that these rules avail 
 little in point of instruction: the very words he employs, are not 
 inteligible, except to those who beforehand are acquainted with 
 the subject. 
 
 To vary the scene a little, I propose to close with a slight com- 
 parison, between singing and pronouncing. In this comparison, the 
 five following circumstances relative to articulate sound, must be 
 kept in view. 1st, A sound or syllable is harsh or smooth. 2d, It 
 is long or short. 3d, It is pronounced high or low. 4th, It is pro- 
 nounced loud or soft. And, lastly, A number of words in succession, 
 constituting a period or member of a period, are pronounced slow or 
 quick. Of these five the first depending on the component letters, 
 and the second being ascertained by custom, admit not any variety 
 in pronouncing. The three last are arbitrary, depending on the will 
 of the person who pronounces ; and it is chiefly in the artful man- 
 agement of these that just pronunciation consists. With respect to 
 the first circumstance, musi& has evidently the advantage ; for all its 
 notes are agreeable to the ear; which is not always the case of 
 articulate sounds. With respect to the second, long and short sylla- 
 bles variously combined, produce a great variety of feet; yet far 
 inferior to the variety that is found in the multiplied combinations of 
 musical notes. With respect to high and low notes, pronunciation 
 is still more inferior to singing ; for it is observed by Dionysius of 
 Halicarnassus.f that in pronouncing, i. e. without altering the aper- 
 ture of the windpipe, the voice is confined within three notes and a 
 half: singing has a much greater compass. With respect to the two 
 last circumstances, pronunciation equals singing. 
 
 In this chapter, I have mentioned none of the beauties of lan- 
 guage but what arise from words taken in their proper sense. Beau- 
 ties that depend on the metaphorical and figurative power of words, 
 are reserved to be treated, Chap. XX. 
 
 * De Oratore, 1. iii. can. 58. t De Structure Orationis, sect. 2.
 
 Sect. 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 289 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 VERSIFICATION. 
 
 The different impressions of poetry and prose on the ear The distinction between 
 verse and prose The laws to which verse is subject Latin Hexameter and 
 English heroic verse only, to be examined The "five things premised as of 
 importance The purposes for which pauses are necessary The different rules 
 to be observed in different cases The heads under which Latin and Greek 
 "Hexameter are to be treated Substitutes for Dactyles and Spondees Excep- 
 tion to the rule that finds the pause after the fifth syllable One syllable always 
 distinguished by a capital accent English heroic examined Number Quan- 
 tity Arrangement Pause Accent Heroic, commonly Iambic Exception 
 melody in heroic verse, arises from pause and accent One capital pause in a 
 line Two inferior pauses A full pause not to divide a word A pause inter- 
 jected between a noun and an adjective Between a verb and an adverb 
 Between an agent and his actions Between an active verb and the subject of 
 the action When the pause may be inserted Concluding pause Words sepa- 
 rated in an inverted order When a musical pause may be inserted Double 
 effect of accents The effect of accenting a low word Accent confined to long 
 syllables The most important accent It is of two kinds In expressing dejec- 
 tion, the capital accent excluded The effect of the position of the accent on the 
 sense Different powers denoted by the lines from the different position of the 
 pause The first order The second order The third order The fourth order 
 Each order distinguished by its final accent and pause The sentiment in 
 each order Blank verse Its advantages The pauses and accents of blank 
 verse Its superior melody Advantages of Hexameter over English rhyme 
 Blank verse unites the properties of both The number and variety of pauses 
 and accents of English rhyme Other advantages of blank verse The defects 
 of French heroic verse Not possible to introduce Hexameter into English 
 The foundation of rhyme in nature Its effect in a couplet Not fit for a lofty 
 subject Its effect on a low subject Not fit for anguish or deep distress Not 
 suited to seiious subjects. 
 
 THE music of verse, though handled by every grammarian, merits 
 more attention than that with which it has been honored. It is a 
 subject intimately connected with human nature ; and to explain it 
 thoroughly, several nice and delicate feelings must be employed. 
 But before entering upon it, we must see what verse is, or, in other 
 words, by what mark it is distinguished from prose a point not so 
 easy as may at first be apprehended. It is true, that the construc- 
 tion of verse is governed by precise rules ; whereas prose is more 
 loose, and scarcely subjected to any rules. But are the many who 
 have no rules, left without means to make the distinction ? and even 
 with respect to the learned, must they apply the rule before they can 
 with certainty pronounce Avhether the composition be prose or verse ? 
 This will hardly be maintained ; and therefore instead of rules, the 
 ear must be appealed to as the proper judge. But by what mark 
 does the ear distinguish verse from prose ? The proper and satis- 
 factory answer is, that these make different impressions upon every 
 one who has an ear. This advances us one step in our inquiry. 
 
 Taking it then for granted, that verse and prose make upon the 
 ear different impressions ; nothing remains but to explain this diffe- 
 rence, and to assign its cause. To this end, I call to my aid, an 
 observation made above upon the sound of words, that they are 
 more agreeable to the ear when composed of long and short sylla- 
 bles, than when all the syllables are of the same sort : a continued 
 25
 
 290 BEAT7TY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 sound in the same tone, makes not a musical impression : the same 
 note successively renewed by intervals, is more agreeable ; but still 
 makes not a musical impression. To produce that impression, 
 variety is necessary as well as number : the successive sounds or 
 syllables, must be some of them long, some of them short : and if 
 also high and low, the music is the more perfect. The musical 
 impression made by a period consisting of long and short syllables 
 arranged in a certain order, is what the Greeks call rythmus, the 
 Latins numerus, and we melody or measure. Cicero justly observes 
 that in one continued sound there is no melody : " Numerus in con- 
 tinuatione nullus est." But in what follows he is wide of the truth, 
 if by numerus he means melody or musical measure : " Distinctio, 
 et asqualium et ssepe variorum intervallorum percussio, numerum. 
 conficit ; quern in cadentibus guttis, quod intervallis distinguuntur, 
 notare possumus."* Falling drops, whether with equal or unequal 
 intervals, are certainly not music : we are not sensible of a musical 
 impression but in a succession of long and short notes. And this 
 also was probably the opinion of the author cited, though his expres- 
 sion be a little unguarded, f 
 
 It will probably occur, that melody, if it depend on long and short 
 syllables combined in a sentence, may be found in prose as well as 
 in verse ; considering especially, that in both, particular words are 
 accented or pronounced in a higher tone than the rest ; and there- 
 fore that verse cannot be distinguished from prose by melody merely. 
 The observation is just ; and it follows, that the distinction between 
 them, since it depends not singly on melody, must arise from the 
 difference of the melody : which is precisely the case ; though that 
 difference cannot with any accuracy be explained in words ; all that 
 can be said is, that verse is more musical than prose, and its melody 
 more perfect. The difference between verse and prose, resembles 
 the difference, in music properly so called, between the song and 
 the recitative : and the resemblance is not the least complete, that 
 these differences, like the shades of colors, approximate sometimes 
 so nearly as scarcely to be discernible : the melody of a recitative 
 approaches sometimes to that of a song ; which, on the other hand, 
 degenerates sometimes to that of a recitative. Nothing is more 
 distinguishable from prose, than the bulk of Virgil's Hexameters : 
 many of those composed by Horace, are very little removed from 
 prose : Sapphic verse has a very sensible melody : that, on the other 
 hand, of an Iambic, is extremely faint.J 
 
 * The distinction (of sounds) and (its) percussion (on the ear) at equal, and 
 frequently at varying intervals, produce a measured cadence, which we may 
 remark in the falling of drops, because they are repeated by intervals. 
 
 t From this passage, however, we discover the etymology of the Latin term for 
 musical impression. Every one being sensible that there is no music in a con- 
 tinued sound ; the first inquiries were probably carried no farther than to disco- 
 ver, that to produce a musical impression a number of sounds is necessary. A 
 musical impression obtained the name of numerus, before it was clearly ascer- 
 tained, that variety is necessary as well as number. 
 
 t Music, properly so called, is analyzed into melody and harmony. A succes- 
 sion of sounds so as to be agreeable to the ear, constitutes melody : harmony arises 
 from co-existing sounds. Verse therefore can only reach melody, and not harmorv.
 
 SeC. 4.} BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 291 
 
 This more perfect melody of articulate sounds, is what distin- 
 guishes verse from prose. Verse is subjected to certain inflexible 
 laws ; the number and variety of the component syllables being 
 ascertained, and in some measure the order of succession. Such 
 restraint makes it a matter of difficulty to compose in verse a diffi- 
 culty that is not to be surmounted but by a peculiar genius. Useful 
 lessons conveyed to us in verse, are agreeable by the union of music 
 with instruction: but are we for that reason to reject knowledge 
 offered in a plainer dress ? That would be ridiculous : for know- 
 ledge is of intrinsic merit, independent of the means of acquisition ; 
 and there are many, not less capable than willing to instruct us, who 
 have no genius for verse. Hence the use of prose ; which, for the 
 reason now given, is not confined to precise rules. There belongs 
 to it, a certain melody of an inferior kind, which ought to be the aim 
 of every writer ; but for succeeding in it, practice is necessary more 
 than genius. Nor do we rigidly insist for melodious prose : pro- 
 vided the work convey instruction, its chief end, we are the less 
 solicitous about its dress. 
 
 Having ascertained the nature and limits of our subject, I pro- 
 ceed to the laws by which it is regulated. These would be endless, 
 were verse of all different kinds to be taken under consideration. I 
 propose therefore to confine the inquiry, to Latin or Greek Hexa- 
 meter, and to French and English heroic verse ; which, perhaps, 
 may carry me farther than the reader will choose to follow. The 
 observations I shall have occasion to make, will at any rate be suf- 
 ficient for a specimen ; and these, with proper variations, may easily 
 be transferred to the composition of other sorts of verse. 
 
 Before I enter upon particulars, it must be premised in general, 
 that to verse of every kind, five things are of importance. 1st, 
 The number of syllables that compose a verse line. 2d, The diffe- 
 rent lengths of syllables, i. e. the difference of time taken in pro- 
 nouncing. 3d, The arrangement of these syllables combined in 
 words. 4th, The pauses or stops in pronouncing. 5th, The pro- 
 nouncing of syllables in a high or a low tone. The three first men- 
 tioned are obviously essential to verse : if any of them be wanting, 
 there cannot be that higher degree of melody which distinguishes 
 verse from prose. To give a just notion of the fourth, it must be 
 observed, that pauses are necessary for three different purposes : 
 one, to separate periods, and members of the same period, according 
 to the sense ; another, to improve the melody of verse; and the last, to 
 afford opportunity for drawing breath in reading. A pause of the first 
 kind is variable, being long or short, frequent or less frequent, as the 
 sense requires. A pause of the second kind, being determined by the 
 melody, is in no degree arbitrary. The last sort is in a measure arbi- 
 trary, depending on the reader's command of breath. But as one can- 
 not read with grace, unless, for drawing breath, opportunity be taken 
 of a pause in the sense or in the melody, this pause ought never to be 
 distinguished from the others ; and for that reason shall be laid aside. 
 With respect then to the pauses of sense and of melody, it may be 
 affirmed without hesitation, that their coincidence in verse is a capital
 
 292 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 beauty: but as it cannot be expected, in a long work especially, that 
 every line should be so perfect ; we shall afterward have occasion to 
 see, that the pause necessary for the sense must often, in some degree, 
 be sacrificed to the verse-pause, and the latter sometimes to the 
 former. 
 
 The pronouncing of syllables in a high or low tone, contributes also 
 to melody. In reading whether verse pr prose, a certain tone is assum- 
 ed, which may be called the key-note ; and in that tone the bulk of the 
 words are sounded. Sometimes to humor the sense, and sometimes 
 the melody, a particular syllable is sounded in a higher tone ; and this 
 is termed accenting a syllable, or gracing it with an accent. Opposed 
 to the accent, is the cadence, which I have not mentioned as one of 
 the requisites of verse, because it is entirely regulated by the sense, 
 and has no peculiar relation to verse. The cadence is a falling of 
 the voice below the key-note at the close of every period ; and so 
 little is it essential to verse, that in correct reading the final syllable 
 of every line is accented, that syllable only excepted which closes 
 the period, where the sense requires a cadence. The reader may 
 be satisfied of this by experiments ; and for that purpose I recom- 
 mend to him the Rape of the Lock, which, in point of versification, 
 is the most complete performance in the English language. Let 
 him consult in a particular period, canto 2, beginning at line 47, 
 and closed line 52, with the word gay, which only of the whole final 
 syllables is pronounced with a cadence. . He may also examine ano- 
 ther period in the 5th canto, which runs from line 45 to line 52. 
 
 Though the five requisites above mentioned, enter into the compo- 
 sition of every species of verse, they are, however, governed by dif- 
 ferent rules, peculiar to each species. Upon quantity only, one 
 general observation may be premised, because it is applicable to 
 every species of verse that syllables, with respect to the time taken 
 in pronouncing, are long or short ; two short syllables, with respect 
 to time, being precisely equal to a long one. These two lengths 
 are essential to verse of all kinds ; and to no verse, as far as I know, 
 is a greater variety of time necessary in pronouncing syllables. The 
 voice, indeed, is frequently made to rest longer than usual upon a 
 word that bears an important signification ; but this is done to 
 humor the sense, and is not necessary for melody. A thing not 
 more necessary for melody occurs with respect to accenting, similar 
 to that now mentioned : A word signifying any thing humble, low, 
 or dejected, is naturally, in prose, as well as in verse, pronounced in 
 a tone below the key-note. 
 
 We are now sufficiently prepared for particulars ; beginning 
 with Latin or Greek Hexameter, which are the same. What I 
 have to observe upon this species of verse, will come under the four 
 following heads ; number, arrangement, pause, and accent : for as 
 to quantity, what is observed above may suffice. 
 
 Hexameter lines, as to time, are all of the same length ; being 
 equivalent to the time taken in pronouncing twelve long syllables or 
 twenty-four short. An Hexameter line may consist of seventeen 
 syllables ; and when regular and not Spondiac, it never has fewer
 
 Sec. 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 293 
 
 than thirteen : whence it follows, that where the syllables are many, 
 the plurality must be short ; where few, the plurality must be long. 
 This line is susceptible of much variety as to the succession of 
 long and short syllables. It is, however, subjected to laws that con- 
 fine its variety within certain limits; and for ascertaining these 
 limits, grammarians have invented a rule by Dactyles and Spondees, 
 which they denominate feet. One at first view is led to think, that 
 these feet are also intended to regulate the pronunciation : which is 
 far from being the case ; for were one to pronounce according to 
 these feet, the melody of an Hexameter line would be destroyed, or at 
 best be much inferior to what it is when properly pronounced.* 
 These feet must be confined to regulate the arrangement, for they 
 serve no other purpose. They are withal so artificial and complex, 
 that I am tempted to substitute in their stead, other rules more sim- 
 ple and of more easy application ; for example, the following : 
 1st, The line must always commence with a long syllable, and 
 close with two long preceded by two short. 2d, More than two 
 short can never be found together, nor fewer than two. And, 3d, 
 Two long syllables which have been preceded by two short, cannot 
 
 * After giving some attention to this subject, and weighing deliberately every 
 circumstance, I was necessarily led to the foregoing conclusion, That the Dactyle 
 and Spondee are no other than artificial measures, invented for trying the accu- 
 racy of composition. Repeated experiments have convinced me, that though the 
 sense should be neglected, an Hexameter line read by Dactyles and Spondees will 
 not be melodious. And the composition of an Hexameter line demonstrates this 
 to be true, without necessity of an experiment ; for, as will appear afterward, 
 there must always, in this line, be a capital pause at the end of the fifth long 
 syllable, reckoning, as above, two short for one long, and when we measure this 
 line by Dactyles, and Spondees, the pause now mentioned divides always a Dac- 
 tyle or a Spondee, without once falling in after either of these feet. Hence it is 
 evident, that if a line be pronounced as it is scanned, by Dactyles and Spondees, 
 the pause must utterly be neglected ; which destroys the melody, because this 
 pause is essential to the melody of an Hexameter verse. If, on the other hand, the 
 melody be preserved by making that pause, the pronouncing by Dactyles or 
 Spondees must be abandoned. 
 
 What has led grammarians into the use of Dactyles and Spondees, seems 
 not beyond the reach of conjecture. To produce melody, the Dactyle, and the 
 Spondee, which close every Hexameter line, must be distinctly expressed in the 
 pronunciation. This discovery joined with another, that the foregoing part of the 
 verse could be measured by the same feet, probably led grammarians to adopt these 
 artificial measures, and perhaps rashly to conclude, that the pronunciation is di- 
 rected by these feet as the composition is : the Dactyle and the Spondee at the close, 
 serve indeed to regulate the pronunciation as well as the composition ; but in the 
 foregoing part of the line, they regulate the composition only, not the pronunciation. 
 
 If we must have feet in verse to regulate the pronunciation, and consequently 
 the melody, these feet must be determined by the pauses. All the syllables mtei 
 jected between two pauses ought to be deemed one musical foot ; because, to pre- 
 serve the melody, they must all be pronounced together, without any stop. And 
 therefore, whatever number there are of pauses in an Hexameter line, the parts into 
 which it is divided by these pauses, make just so many musical feet. 
 
 Connection obliges me here to anticipate, and to observe, that the same doctrine is 
 applicable to English heroic verse. Considering its composition merely, it is of 
 two kinds ; one composed of five Iambi; and one of a Trochoua followed by 
 four Iambi : but these feet afford no rule for pronouncing ; the musical fe 
 obviously those parts of the line that are interjected between two pauses, lo 
 bring out the melody, these feet must be expressed in the pronunciation ; or, w 
 comes to the same, the pronunciation must be directed by the pauses, without 
 regard to the Iambus or Trochoeus. 
 25*
 
 294 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 also be followed by two short. These few rules fulfil all the con- 
 ditions of an Hexameter line, with relation to order or arrangement. 
 To these again a single rule may be substituted, for which I have a 
 still greater relish, as it regulates more affirmatively the construc- 
 tion of every part. That I may put this rule into words with per- 
 spicuity, I take a hint from the twelve long syllables that compose 
 an Hexameter line to divide it into twelve equal parts or portions, 
 being each of them one long syllable or two short. A portion being 
 thus defined, I proceed to the rule. The 1st, 3d, 5th, 7th, 9th, llth, 
 and 12th portions, must each of them be one long syllable ; the 10th 
 must always be two short syllables ; the 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th, may 
 either be one long or two short. Or to express the thing still more 
 curtly, The 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th portions may be one long syllable 
 or two short ; the 10th must be two short syllables ; all the rest must 
 consist each of one long syllable. This fulfils all the conditions of 
 an Hexameter line, and comprehends all the combinations of Dac- 
 tyles and Spondees that this line admits. 
 
 Next in order comes the pause. At the end of every Hexameter 
 line, every one must be sensible of a complete close or full pause ; 
 the cause of which follows. The two long syllables preceded by 
 two short, which always close an Hexameter line, are a fine prepa- 
 ration for a pause : for long syllables, or syllables pronounced 
 slow, resembling a slow and languid motion, tending to rest, naturally 
 incline the mind to rest, or to pause ; and to this inclination the two 
 preceding short syllables contribute, which by contrast, make the slow 
 pronunciation of the final syllables the more conspicuous. Beside 
 this complete close or full pause at the end, others are also requisite 
 for the sake of melody ; of which I discover two clearly, and perhaps 
 there may be more. The longest and most remarkable, succeeds the 
 5th portion : the other, which, being shorter and more faint, may be 
 called the semipause, succeeds the 8th portion. So striking is the 
 pause first mentioned, as to be distinguished even by the rudest ear : 
 the monkish rhymes are evidently built upon it ; in which by an 
 invariable rule, the final word always chimes with that which 
 immediately precedes the said pause : 
 
 De planctu cudo II metrum cum carmine nudo 
 Mingere cum bumbis II res est saluberrima lumbis. 
 
 The difference of time in the pause and semipause, occasions 
 another difference no less remarkable, that it is lawful to divide a 
 word by a semipause, but never by a pause, the bad effect of which 
 is sensibly felt in the following examples : 
 
 Effusus labor, at II que immitis rupta Tyranni. 
 Again : 
 
 Observans nido im II plumes detraxit ; at ilia. 
 Again : 
 
 Loricam quam De II moleo detraxerat ipse. 
 
 The dividing of a word by a semipause has not the same bad effect: 
 Jamque pedem referens I! casus e | vaserat omnes. 
 
 Again : 
 
 dualis populea II moerens Philo | mela sub umbra.
 
 Sect. 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 295 
 
 Again : 
 
 Ludere que vellem II calamo per | misit agresti. 
 
 Lines, however, where words are left entire, without being divided 
 even by a semipause, run by that means much the more sweetly : 
 
 Nee gemere aerea II cessabit | turtur ab ulrao. 
 Again : 
 
 duadrupedanteputrem II sonitu quatit | ungula campum. 
 Again : 
 
 Eurydicen toto II referebant flumine ripae. 
 
 The reason of these observations will be evident upon the slightest 
 reflection. Between things so intimately connected in reading aloud, 
 as are sense and sound, every degree of discord is unpleasant : and 
 for that reason, it is a matter of importance, to make the musical 
 pauses coincide as much as possible with those of sense ; which is 
 requisite, more especially, with respect to the pause, a deviation 
 from the rule being less remarkable in a semipause. Considering 
 the matter as to melody solely, it is indifferent whether the pauses 
 be at the end of words or in the middle ; but when we carry the 
 sense along, it is disagreeable to find a word split into two by a 
 pause, as if there were really two words: and though the disagree- 
 ableness here be connected with the sense only, it is by an easy 
 transition of perceptions transferred to the sound ; by which means, 
 we conceive a line to be harsh and grating to the ear, when in 
 reality it is only so to the understanding.* 
 
 To the rule that fixes the pause after the fifth portion, there is 
 one exception, and no more : If the syllable succeeding the 5th 
 portion be short, the pause is sometimes postponed to it. 
 
 Pupillis quos dura II premit custodia matrum. 
 Again : 
 
 In terras oppressa II gravi sub religione. 
 Again : 
 
 Et quorum pars magna II fui ; quis talia fando. 
 
 This contributes to diversify the melody; and where the words 
 are smooth and liquid, is not ungraceful ; as in the following 
 examples : 
 
 Formosam resonare lldoces Amaryllida sylvas. 
 Again: 
 
 Agricolas, quibus ipsa II procul discordibus armis. 
 
 If this pause, placed as aforesaid after the short syllable, happen 
 also to divide a word, the melody by these circumstances is totally 
 annihilated. Witness the following line of Ennuis, which is plain 
 prose : 
 
 Romse mania terrullit impiger | Hanibal armis. 
 
 Hitherto the arrangement of the long and short syllables of an 
 Hexameter line and its different pauses, have been considered with 
 respect to melody: but to have a just notion of Hexameter verse, these 
 particulars must also be considered with respect to sense. There is 
 not, perhaps, in any other sort of verse, such latitude in the long and 
 short syllables ; a circumstance that contributes greatly to that rich- 
 * See Chap. 2 Part 1. sect. 5.
 
 296 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 ness of melody which is remarkable in Hexameter verse, and which 
 made Aristotle pronounce, that an epic poem in any other verse 
 would not succeed.* One defect, however, must not be dissembled, 
 that the same means which contribute to the richness of the melody, 
 render it less fit than several other sorts for a narrative poem. There 
 cannot be a more artful contrivance, as above observed, than to close 
 an Hexameter line with two long syllables preceded by two short : 
 but unhappily this construction proves a great embarrassment to the 
 sense ; which will thus be evident. As in general, there ought to be 
 a strict concordance between a thought and the words in which it is 
 dressed ; so in particular, every close in the sense ought to be accom- 
 panied with a close in the sound. In prose, this law may be strictly 
 observed ; but in verse, the same strictness would occasion insupera- 
 ble difficulties. Willing to sacrifice to the melody of verse some 
 share of the concordance between thought and expression, we freely 
 excuse the separation of the musical pause from that of the sense, 
 during the course of a line ; but the close of an Hexameter line is 
 too conspicuous to admit this liberty : for which reason there ought 
 always to be some pause in the sense at the end of every Hexameter 
 line, were it but such a pause as is marked with a comma ; and for the 
 same reason, there ought never to be a full close in the sense but at the 
 end of a line, because there the melody is closed. An Hexameter line, 
 to preserve its melody, cannot well admit any greater relaxation ; and 
 yet in a narrative poem, it is extremely difficult to adhere strictly to the 
 rule even with these indulgences. Virgil, the chief of poets for versi- 
 fication, is forced often to end a line without any close in the sense, and 
 as often to close the sense during the running of a line; though a close 
 in the melody during the movement of the thought, or a close in the 
 thought during the movement of the melody, cannot be agreeable. 
 The accent, to which we proceed, is no less essential than the 
 other circumstances above handled. By a good ear it will be dis- 
 cerned, that in every line there is one syllable distinguishable from 
 the rest by a capital accent : that syllable, being the seventh portion, 
 is invariably long. 
 
 Nee bene promeritis II capitur nee | tangitur ira. 
 Again : 
 
 Non sibi sed toto II genitum se | credere mundo. 
 Again : 
 
 Quails spelunca II subito com|mota columba. 
 
 In these examples, the accent is laid upon the last syllable of a word ; 
 which is favorable to the melody in the following respect, that the 
 pause, which for the sake of reading distinctly must follow every word, 
 gives opportunity to prolong the accent. And for that reason, a line 
 thus accented, has a more spirited air, than when the accent is placed on 
 any other syllable. Compare the foregoing lines with the following; 
 
 Alba neque Assyrio II fucatur | lana veneno. 
 Again : 
 
 Panditur interea II domus 6mnipo|tentis Olympi 
 Again : 
 
 * Poet. cap. 25.
 
 Sec. 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 297 
 
 Olli sedato II respondit | corde Latinus. 
 
 In lines where the pause comes after the short syllable succeed- 
 ing the fifth portion, the accent is displaced, and rendered less sen- 
 sible : it seems to be split into two, and to be laid partly on the 5th 
 portion, and partly on the 7th, its usual place ; as in 
 
 Nuda germ nodoque II sinAs col|lecta fluentes. 
 Again : 
 
 Formosam resonare II doces Amar|yllida sylvas. 
 
 Beside this capital accent, slighter accents are laid upon other 
 portions ; particularly upon the fourth, unless where it consists of 
 two short syllables ; upon the ninth, which is always a long sylla- 
 ble ; and upon the eleventh, where the line concludes with a mono- 
 syllable. Such conclusion, by the by, impairs the melody, and for 
 that reason is not to be indulged, unless where it is expressive of 
 the sense. The following lines are marked with all the accents. 
 
 Ludere quee vellem calamo permisit agresti. 
 Again : 
 
 Et durse quercus sudabunt roscida mella. 
 Again : 
 
 Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. 
 
 Reflecting upon the melody of Hexameter verse, we find, that 
 order or arrangement doth not constitute the whole of it ; for when 
 we compare different lines, equally regular as to the succession of 
 long and short syllables, the melody is found in very different degrees 
 of perfection ; which is not occasioned by any particular combina- 
 tion of Dactyles and Spondees, or of long and short syllables, because 
 we find lines where Dactyles prevail, and lines where Spondees pre- 
 vail, equally melodious. Of the former take the following instance : 
 
 .SSneadum genetrix hominum divumque voluptas. 
 Of the latter : 
 
 Molli paulatim flavescet campus arista 
 
 What can be more different as to melody than the two following 
 lines, which, however, as to the succession of long and short sylla- 
 bles, are constructed precisely in the same manner ? 
 
 Spond. Dact. Spond. Spond. Dact. Spend. 
 
 Ad talos stola dimissa et circumdata palla. HOT. 
 
 Spond. Dact. Spond. Spond. Dact. Spond. 
 
 Placatumque nitet diffuse lumine coelum. Lucr. 
 
 In the former, the pause falls in the middle of a word, which is a 
 great blemish, and the accent is disturbed by a harsh elision of the 
 vowel a upon the particle et. In the latter, the pauses and the accent 
 are all of them distinct and full : there is no elision ; and the words 
 are more liquid and sounding. In these particulars consists the 
 beauty of an Hexameter line with respect to melody: and by neglect- 
 ing these, many lines in the satires and epistles of Horace are less 
 agreeable than plain prose ; for they are neither the one nor the 
 other in perfection. To draw melody from these lines, they must 
 be pronounced without relation to the sense: it must not be regarded, 
 that words are divided by pauses, nor that harsh elisions are multi-
 
 293 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 plied. To add to the account, prosaic low-sounding words are intro- 
 duced ; and which is still worse, accents are laid on them. Of such 
 faulty lines take the following instances. 
 
 Candida rectaque sit, munda hactenus sit neque longa. 
 Jupiter exclamat simul atque audirit ; at in se 
 Custodes, lectica, ciniflones, parasitae 
 Optimus, est modulator, ut Alfenus Vafer omni 
 Nunc illud tantum quaeram, meritone tibi sit. 
 
 Next in order comes English heroic verse, which shall be exam- 
 ined under the whole five heads, of number, quantity, arrange- 
 ment, pause, and accent. This verse is of two kinds ; one named 
 rhyme or metre, and one blank verse. In the former, the lines are 
 connected two and two by similarity of sound in the final syllables ; 
 and two lines so connected are termed a couplet: similarity of sound 
 being avoided in the latter, couplets are banished. These two sorts 
 must be handled separately, because there are many peculiarities in 
 each. Beginning with rhyme or metre, the first article shall be 
 discussed in a few words. Every line consists of ten syllables, five 
 short and five long ; from which there are but two exceptions, both 
 of them rare. The first is, where each line of a couplet is made 
 eleven syllables, by an additional syllable at the .end : 
 
 There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases, 
 And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. 
 
 The piece, you think, is incorrect ? Why, take it ; 
 I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it. 
 
 This license is sufFerablein a single couplet; but if frequent, would 
 give disgust. 
 
 The other exception concerns the second line of a couplet, which is 
 sometimes stretched out to twelve syllables, termed an Alexan- 
 drine line : 
 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
 
 That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
 
 It does extremely well when employed to close a period with a cer- 
 tain pomp and solemnity, where the subject makes that tone proper. 
 With regard to quantity, it is unnecessary to mention a second 
 time, that the quantities employed in verse are but two, the one dou- 
 ble of the other ; that every syllable is reducible to one or other of 
 these standards ; and that a syllable of the larger quantity is termed 
 long, and of the lesser quantity short. It belongs more to the pre- 
 sent article, to examine what peculiarities there may be in the 
 English language as to long and short syllables. Every language 
 has syllables that may be pronounced long or short at pleasure; but 
 the English above all abounds in syllables of that kind : in words 
 of three or more syllables, the quantity for the most part is invaria- 
 ble : the exceptions are more frequent in dissyllables : but as to mono- 
 syllables, they may, without many exceptions, be pronounced either 
 long or short; nor is the ear hurt by a liberty that is rendered 
 familiar by custom. This shows, that the melody of English verse
 
 Ch. 18.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 299 
 
 must depend less upon quantity, than upon other circumstances : in 
 which it differs widely from Latin verse, where every syllable, hav- 
 ing but one sound, strikes the ear uniformly with its accustomed 
 impression ; and a reader must be delighted to find a number of such 
 syllables, disposed so artfully as to be highly melodious. Syllables 
 variable in quantity cannot possess this power : for though'custom 
 may render familiar, both a long and a short pronunciation of the 
 same word ; yet the mind wavering between the two sounds, cannot 
 be""so much affected as where every syllable has one fixed sound. 
 What I have farther to say upon quantity, will come more properly 
 under the following head, of arrangement. 
 
 And with respect to arrangement, which may be brought within 
 a narrow compass, the English heroic line is commonly Iambic, the 
 first syllable short, the second long, and so on alternately through 
 the whole line. , One exception there is, pretty frequent, of lines 
 commencing with a Trochaeus, i. e. a long and a short syllable : but 
 this affects not the order of the following syllables, which go on 
 alternately as usual, one short and one long. The following couplet 
 affords an example of each kind. 
 
 Some in the fields of pQrest ether play, 
 and bask and whiten In tho blaze 5f day. 
 
 It is a great imperfection in English verse, that it excludes the 
 bulk of polysyllables, which are the most sounding words in our 
 language ; for very few of them have such alteration of long and 
 short syllables as to correspond to either of the arrangements men- 
 tioned. English verse accordingly is almost totally reduced to dis- 
 syllables and monosyllables : magnanimity, is a sounding word 
 totally excluded : impetuosity is still a finer word, by the resemblance 
 of the sound and sense ; and yet a negative is put upon it, as well as 
 upon numberless words of the same kind. Polysyllables composed 
 of syllables long and short alternately, make a good figure in verse ; 
 for example, observance, opponent, ostensive, pindaric, productive, 
 prolific, and such others of three syllables. Imitation, imperfection, 
 misdemeanor, mitigation, moderation, observator, ornamental, regu- 
 lator, and others similar of four syllables, beginning with two short 
 syllables, the third long, and the fourth short, may find a place in a 
 line commencing with a Trochasus. I know not if there be any of 
 five syllables. One I know of six, viz. misinterpretation: but 
 words so composed are not frequent in our language. 
 
 One would not imagine without trial, how uncouth false quantity 
 
 appears in verse ; not less than a provincial tone or idiom. The 
 
 article the is one of the few monosyllables that is invariably short ; 
 
 observe how harsh it makes a line where it must be pronounced long : 
 
 This nymph, to the destruction of mankind. 
 
 Again, 
 
 Th' advent'rous baron the bright locks admir'd. 
 
 Let it be pronounced short, and it reduces the melody almost to 
 nothing : better so however than false quantity. In the following 
 examples we perceive the same defect :
 
 300 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [CL 18. 
 
 And old impertinence II expel by new 
 
 With varying vanities II from ev'ry part 
 
 Love in these laybrinths II his slaves detains 
 
 New stratagems II the radiant lock to gain 
 
 Her eyes half languishing II half drown'd in tears 
 
 Roar'd for the handkerchief II that caus'd his pain 
 
 Passions like elements II though born to fight. 
 
 The great variety of melody conspicuous in English verse, arises 
 chiefly from the pauses and accents ; which are of greater import- 
 ance than is commonly thought. There is a degree of intricacy in 
 this branch of our subject, and it will be difficult to give a distinct 
 view of it ; but it is too late to think of difficulties after we are en- 
 gaged. The pause, which paves the way to the accent, offers itself 
 first to our examination ; and from a very short trial, the following 
 facts will be verified. 1st, A line admits but one capital pause. 2d, 
 In different lines, we find this pause after the fourth syllable, after 
 the fifth, after the sixth, and after the seventh. These four places of 
 the pause lay a solid foundation for dividing English heroic lines into 
 four kinds ; and I warn the reader beforehand, that unless he attend 
 to this distinction, he cannot have any just notion of the richness and 
 variety of English versification. Each kind or order has a melody 
 peculiar to itself, readily distinguishable by a good ear : and I am 
 not without hopes to make the cause of this peculiarity sufficiently 
 evident. It must be observed, at the same time, that the pause cannot 
 be made indifferently at any of the places mentioned : it is the sense 
 that regulates the pause, as will be seen afterward ; and consequently, 
 it is the sense that determines of what order every line must be : 
 there can be but one capital musical pause in a line ; and that pause 
 ought to coincide, if possible, with a pause in the sense, in order that 
 the sound may accord with the sense. 
 
 What is said shall be illustrated by examples of each sort or 
 order. And first of the pause after the fourth syllable : 
 
 Back through the paths II of pleasing sense I ran. 
 
 Again, 
 
 Profuse of bliss II and pregnant with delight. 
 
 After the 5th : 
 
 So when an angel II by divine command, 
 With rising tempests II shakes a guilty land. 
 
 After the 6th: 
 
 Speed the soft intercourse II from soul to soul 
 
 Again, 
 
 Then from his closing eyes II thy form shall part. 
 
 After the 7th : 
 
 And taught the doubtful battle II where to rage. 
 
 Again, 
 
 And in the smooth description II murmur still-
 
 Sec. 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 301 
 
 Besides the capital pause now mentioned, inferior pauses will be 
 discovered by a nice ear. Of these there are commonly two in each 
 line : one before the capital pause, and one after it. The formeT 
 comes invariably after the first long syllable, whether the line begin, 
 with a long syllable or a short one. The other in its variety imi- 
 tates the capital pause : in some lines it comes after the 6th syllable, 
 in some after the 7th, and in some after the 8th. Of these semi- 
 pauses take the following examples. 
 
 1st and 8th: 
 
 Led | through a sad II variety | of wo. 
 1st and 7th: 
 
 Still | on that breast II enamor'd | let me lie. 
 2d and 8th : 
 
 From storms | a shelter II and from heat | a shade. 
 2d and 6th : 
 
 Let wealth | let honor II wait | the wedded dame. 
 2d and 7th : 
 
 Above | all pain II all passion | and all pride. 
 
 Even from these few examples it appears, that the place of the 
 last semipause, like that of the full pause, is directed in a good mea- 
 sure by the sense. Its proper place with respect to the melody is 
 after the eighth syllable, so as to finish the line with an Iambus dis- 
 tinctly pronounced, which, by a long syllable after a short, is a 
 preparation for rest : but sometimes it comes after the 6th, and some- 
 times after the 7th syllable, in order to avoid a pause in the middle 
 of a word, or between two words intimately connected ; and so far 
 melody is justly sacrificed to sense. 
 
 In discoursing of Hexameter verse, it was laid down as a rule, 
 that a full pause ought never to divide a word : such licence deviates 
 too far from the coincidence that ought to be between the pauses of 
 sense and of melody. The same rule must obtain in an English 
 line ; and we shall support reason by experiments : 
 
 A noble superfluity it craves 
 Abhor, a perpelltuity should stand. 
 
 Are these lines distinguishable from prose ? Scarcely, I think. 
 
 The same rule is not applicable to a semipause, which being short 
 and faint, is not sensibly disagreeable when it divides a word: 
 
 Relent | less walls II whose darksome round | contains 
 
 For her | white virgins II hymejneals sing 
 
 In these | deep solitudes II and awjful cells. 
 
 It must, however, be acknowledged, that the melody here suffers 
 in some degree : a word ought to be pronounced without any rest 
 between its component syllables : a semipause that bends to this rule, 
 is scarcely perceived. 
 
 The capital pause is so essential to the melody, that one cannot be 
 too nice in the choice of its place, in order to have it clear and dis- 
 26
 
 302 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [CL 18. 
 
 tinct. It cannot be in better company than with a pause in the 
 sense; and if the sense require but a comma after the fourth, fifth, 
 sixth, or seventh syllable, it is sufficient for the musical pause. But 
 to make such coincidence essential, would cramp versification too 
 much ; and we have experience for our authority, that there may be 
 a pause in the melody where the sense requires none. We must 
 not, however, imagine, that a musical pause may come after any 
 word indifferently : some words, like syllables of the same word, are 
 so intimately connected, as not to bear a separation even by a pause. 
 The separating, for example, of a substantive from its article would 
 be harsh and unpleasant : witness the following line, which cannot 
 be pronounced with a pause as marked, 
 
 If Delia smile, the II flow'rs begin to spring. 
 But ought to be pronounced in the following manner, 
 
 If Delia smile, II the flow'rs begin to spring. 
 
 If then it be not a matter of indifference \vhere to make the pause, 
 there ought to be rules for determining what words may be sepa- 
 rated by a pause, and what are incapable of such separation. I shall 
 endeavor to ascertain these rules ; not chiefly for their utility, but in 
 order to unfold some latent principles, that tend to regulate our taste 
 even where we are scarcely sensible of them : and to that end, the 
 method that appears the most promising, is to run over the verbal 
 relations, beginning with the most intimate. The first that presents 
 itself is that of adjective and substantive, being the relation of sub- 
 ject and quality, the most intimate of all : and with respect to such 
 intimate companions, the question is, whether they can bear to be 
 separated by a pause. What occurs is, that a quality cannot exist 
 independent of a subject ; nor are they separable even in imagina- 
 tion, because they make parts of the same idea : and for that reason, 
 with respect to melody as well as sense, it must be disagreeable, to 
 bestow upon the adjective a sort of independent existence, by inter- 
 jecting a pause between it and its substantive. I cannot therefore 
 approve the following lines, nor any of the sort ; for to my taste 
 they are harsh and unpleasant. 
 
 Of thousand bright II inhabitants of air 
 The sprites of fiery II termagants inflame 
 The rest, his many-colour'd II robe conceal'd 
 The same, his ancient II personage to deck 
 Ev'n here, where frozen II Chastity retires 
 I sit, with sad II civility, I read 
 Back to my native II moderation slide 
 Or shall we ev'ry II decency confound 
 Time was, a sober II Englishman would knock 
 And place, on good II security, his gold 
 Taste, that eternal II wanderer, which flies 
 But ere the tenth II revolving day was run 
 First let the just II equivalent be paid.
 
 Sect. 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 303 
 
 Go, threat thy earth-born II Myrmidons ; but here 
 Haste to the fierce II Achilles' tent (he cries) 
 All but the ever-wakeful II eyes of Jove 
 Your own resistless II eloquence employ. 
 
 I have upon this article multiplied examples, that in a case where I 
 have the misfortune to dislike what passes current in practice, every 
 man' upon the spot may judge by his own taste. And to taste I 
 appeal ; for though the foregoing reasoning appears to me just, it is. 
 however, too subtle to afford conviction in opposition to taste. 
 
 Considering this matter superficially, one might be apt to imagine, 
 that it must be the same, whether the adjective go first, which is the 
 natural order, or the substantive, which is indulged by the laws of 
 inversion. But we soon discover this to be a mistake : color, for 
 example, cannot be conceived independent of the surface colored ; 
 but a tree may be conceived, as growing in a certain spot, as of a 
 certain kind, and as spreading its extended branches all around, 
 without ever thinking of its color. In a word, a subject may be 
 considered with some of its qualities independent of others ; though 
 we cannot form an image of any single quality independent of the 
 subject. Thus then though an adjective named first be inseparable 
 from the substantive, the proposition does not reciprocate : an image 
 can be formed of the substantive independent of the adjective ; and 
 for that -reason, they may be separated by a pause, when the sub- 
 stantive takes the lead. 
 
 For thee the fates II severely kind ordain 
 
 And curs'd with hearts II unknowing how to yield. 
 
 The verb and adverb are precisely in the same condition with the 
 substantive and adjective. An adverb, which modifies the action 
 expressed by the verb, is not separable from the verb even in imagi- 
 nation ; and therefore I must also give up the following lines : 
 
 And which it much II becomes you to forget 
 
 'Tis one thing madly II to disperse my store. 
 
 But an action may be conceived with some of its modifications, 
 leaving out others; precisely as a subject may be conceived with 
 some of its qualities, leaving out others: and, therefore, when by 
 inversion the verb is first introduced, it has no bad effect to interject 
 a pause between it and the adverb that follows. This may be done 
 at the close of a line, where the pause is at least as full as that is 
 which divides the line : 
 
 While yet he spoke, the Prince advancing drew 
 Nigh to the lodge, <f-c. 
 
 The agent and its action come next, expressed in grammar by 
 the active substantive and its verb. Between these, placed in their 
 natural order, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pause : an active 
 being is not always in motion, and therefore it is easily separable in 
 idealfrom its action : when in a sentence the substantive takes the 
 Jead, we know not that action is to follow ; and as rest must precede
 
 304 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 the commencement of motion, this interval is a proper opportunity 
 for a pause. 
 
 But when by inversion the verb is placed first, is it lawful to 
 separate it by a pause from the active substantive ? I answer, No ; 
 because an action is not an idea separable from the agent, more than 
 a quality from the subject to which it belongs. Two lines of the 
 first rate for beauty, have always appeared to me exceptionable, 
 upon account of the pause thus interjected between the verb and the 
 consequent substantive; and I have now discovered a reason to 
 support my taste : 
 
 In these deep solitudes and awful cells, 
 
 Where heav'nly pensive II Contemplation dwells, 
 
 And ever musing II Melancholy reigns. 
 
 The point of the greatest delicacy regards the active verb and the 
 passive substantive placed in their natural order. On the one hand, 
 it will be observed, that these words signify things which are not 
 separable in idea. Killing cannot be conceived without a being 
 that is put to death, nor painting without a surface upon which the 
 colors are spread. On the other hand, an action and the thing on 
 which it is exerted, are not, like subject and quality, united in one 
 individual object: the active substantive is perfectly distinct from 
 that which is passive ; and they are connected by one circumstance 
 only, that the action of the former is exerted upon the latter. This 
 makes it possible to take the action to pieces, and to consider it first 
 with relation to the agent, and next with relation to the patient. 
 But after all, so intimately connected are the parts of the thought, 
 that it requires an effort to make a separation even for a moment : 
 the subtilizing to such a degree is not agreeable, especially in works 
 of imagination. The best poets, however, taking advantage of this 
 subtlety, scruple not to separate, by a pause, an active verb from the 
 thing upon which it is exerted. Such pauses in a long work may 
 be indulged ; but taken singly, they certainly are not agreeable ; 
 and I appeal to the following examples : 
 
 The peer now spreads II the glitt'ring forfex wide 
 A.S ever sully'd II the fair face of light 
 Repair'd to search II the gloomy cave of Spleen 
 Nothing, to make II Philosophy thy friend 
 Shou'd chance to make II the well dress'd rabble stare 
 Or cross, to plunder li provinces, the main 
 These madmen ever hurt II the church or state 
 How shall we fill II a library with wit 
 What better teach II a foreigner the tongue 
 
 Sure, if I spare II the minister, no rules 
 Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools. 
 
 On the other hand, when the passive substantive is by inversion 
 first named, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pause between it 
 and the verb, more than when the active substantive is first named. 
 The same reason holds in both, that though a verb cannot be sepa-
 
 Sect. 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 305 
 
 rated in idea from the substantive which governs it, and scarcely 
 from the substantive it governs ; yet a substantive may always be 
 conceived independent of the verb : when the passive substantive is 
 introduced before the verb, we know not that an action is to be 
 xerted upon it ; therefore we may rest till the action commences. 
 for the sake of illustration take the following examples : 
 
 Shrines ! where their vigils I! pale-ey'd virgins keep 
 
 Soon as thy letters II trembling I unclose 
 
 No happier task II these faded eyes pursue. 
 
 What is said about the pause, leads to a general observation, that 
 (he natural order of placing the active substantive and its verb, is 
 more friendly to a pause than the inverted order ; but that in all the 
 other connections, inversion affords a far better opportunity for a 
 pause. And hence one great advantage of blank verse over rhyme ; 
 its privilege of inversion giving it a much greater choice of pauses 
 than can be had in the natural order of arrangement. 
 
 We now proceed to the slighter connections, which shall be dis- 
 cussed in one general article. Words connected by conjunctions 
 and prepositions admit freely a pause between them, which will be 
 clear from the following instances : 
 
 Assume what sexes II and what shape they please 
 The light militia II of the lower sky. 
 
 Connecting particles were invented to unite in a period two sub- 
 stances signifying things occasionally united in the thought, but 
 which have no natural union : and between two things not only 
 separable in idea, but really distinct, the mind, for the sake of 
 melody, cheerfully admits by a pause a momentary disjunction of 
 their occasional union. 
 
 One capital branch of the subject is still upon hand, to which I 
 am directed by what is just now said. It concerns those parts of 
 speech which singly represent no idea, and which become not sig- 
 nificant till they are joined to other words. I mean conjunctions, 
 prepositions, articles, and such like accessories, passing under the 
 name of particles. Upon these the question occurs, whether they 
 can be separated by a pause from the words that make them signifi- 
 cant ? Whether, for example, in the following lines, the separation 
 of the accessory preposition from the principal substantive be accord- 
 ing to rule ? 
 
 The goddess with II a discontented air 
 
 And heighten'd by II the diamond's circling rays 
 
 When victims at II yon altar's foot we lay 
 
 So take it in II the very words of Creech 
 
 An ensign of II the delegates of Jove 
 
 Two ages o'er II his native realm he reign'd 
 
 While angels with II their silver wings o'ershade. 
 
 Or the separation of the conjunction from the word that is connected 
 by it with the antecedent word : 
 26*
 
 306 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [CL 18. 
 
 TaUhybius and II Eurybates the good 
 
 It will be obvious at the first glance, that the foregoing reasoning 
 upon objects naturally connected, is not applicable to words which 
 of themselves are mere ciphers : we must, therefore, have recourse 
 to some other principle for solving the present question. These 
 particles out of their place are totally insignificant : to give them a 
 meaning, they must be joined to certain words ; and the necessity 
 of this junction, together with custom, forms an artificial connection 
 that has a strong influence upon the mind : it cannot bear even a 
 momentary separation, which destroys the sense, and is at the same 
 time contradictory to practice. Another circumstance tends still 
 more to make this separation disagreeable in lines of the first and 
 third order, that it bars the accent, which will be explained after- 
 ward, in treating of the accent. 
 
 Hitherto we have spoken of that pause only which divides the 
 line. We proceed to the pause that concludes the line ; and the 
 question is, whether the same rules are applicable to both ? This 
 must be answered by making a distinction. In the first line of a 
 couplet, the concluding pause differs little, if at all, from the pause 
 that divides the line ; and for that reason, the rules are applicable to 
 both equally. The concluding pause of the couplet is in a different 
 condition : it resembles greatly the concluding pause in an Hex- 
 ameter line. Both of them indeed are so remarkable, that they 
 never can be graceful, unless where they accompany a pause in the 
 sense. Hence it follows, that a couplet ought always to be finished 
 with some close in the sense ; if not a point, at least a comma. The 
 truth is, that this rule is seldom transgressed. In Pope's works, I 
 find very few deviations from the rule. Take the following in- 
 stances : 
 
 Nothing is foreign : parts relate to whole ; 
 
 One all-extending, all-preserving soul 
 
 Connects each being 
 
 Another : 
 
 To draw fresh colors from the vernal flow'rs, 
 
 To steal from rainbows ere they drop in show'rs 
 
 A brighter wash 
 
 I add, with respect to pauses in general, that supposing the con- 
 nection to be so slender as to admit a pause, it follows not that a 
 pause may in every such case be admitted. There is one rule to 
 which every other ought to bend, that the sense must never be 
 wounded or obscured by the music ; and upon that account I con- 
 demn the following lines : 
 
 Ulysses, first li in public cares, she found 
 And, 
 
 Who rising, high II th 1 imperial sceptre rais'd. 
 
 With respect to inversion, it appears, both from reason ana ex- 
 periments, that many words which cannot bear a separation in their 
 natural order, admit a pause when inverted. And it may be added, 
 that when two words, or IAVO members of a sentence, in their natural 
 order, can be separated by a pause, such separation can never be
 
 Sect. 41 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 307 
 
 amiss in an inverted order. An inverted period, which deviates from 
 the natural train of ideas, requires to be marked in some measure 
 even by pauses in the sense, that the parts may be distinctly known. 
 Take the following examples : 
 
 As with cold lips II I kiss'd the sacred veil 
 With other beauties II charm my partial eyes 
 Full in my view II set all the bright abode 
 With words like these II the troops Ulysses rul'd 
 Back to th' assembly roll II the thronging train 
 Not for their grief II the Grecian host I blame. 
 
 The same where the separation is made at the close of the first line 
 of the couplet : 
 
 For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease, 
 Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. 
 
 The pause is tolerable even at the close of the couplet, for the 
 reason just now suggested, that inverted members require some 
 slight pause in the sense : 
 
 'Twas where the plane tree spreads its shades around : 
 The altars heav'd ; and from the crumbling ground 
 A mighty dragon shot. 
 
 Thus a train of reasoning has insensibly led us to conclusions 
 with regard to the musical pause, very different from those in the 
 first section, concerning the separating by a circumstance of words 
 intimately connected. One would conjecture, that wherever words 
 are separable by interjecting a circumstance, they should be equally 
 separable by interjecting a pause : but, upon a more narrow inspec- 
 tion, the appearance of analogy vanishes. This will be evident 
 from considering, that a pause in the sense distinguishes the differ- 
 ent members of a period from each other ; whereas, when two 
 words of the same member are separated by a circumstance, all the 
 three make still but one member ; and therefore that words may be 
 separated by an interjected circumstance, though these words are 
 not separated by a pause in the sense. This sets the matter in a 
 clear light: for, as observed above, a musical pause is intimately 
 connected with a pause in the 'sense, and ought, as far as possible, 
 to be governed by it : particularly a musical pause ought never to 
 be placed where a pause is excluded by the sense ; as, for example, 
 between the adjective and following substantive, which make parts 
 of the same idea ; and still less between a particle and the word that 
 makes it significant. 
 
 Abstracting at present from the peculiarity of melody arising 
 from the different pauses, it cannot fail to be observed in general, 
 that they introduce into our verse no slight degree of variety. A 
 number of uniform lines having all the same pause, are extremely 
 fatiguing; which is remarkable in French versification. This 
 imperfection will be discerned by a fine ear even in the shortest suc- 
 cession, and becomes intolerable in a long poem. Pope excels in the
 
 308 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 variety of his melody ; which, if different kinds can be compared, is 
 indeed no less perfect than that of Virgil. 
 
 From what is last said, there ought to be one exception. Uni- 
 formity in the members of a thought demands equal uniformity in 
 the verbal members which express that thought. When therefore 
 resembling objects or things are expressed in a plurality of verse- 
 lines, these lines in their structure ought to be as uniform as possible ; 
 and the pauses in particular ought all of them to have the same 
 place. Take the following examples : 
 
 By foreign hands II thy dying eyes were cloa'd, 
 By foreign hands II thy decent limbs compos'd, 
 By foreign hands II thy humble grave adorn'd. 
 Again : 
 
 Bright as the sun II her eyes the gazers strike ; 
 And. like the sun, II they shine on all alike. 
 
 Speaking of Nature, or the God of Nature : 
 
 Warms in the sun II refreshes in the breeze, 
 Glows in the stars II and blossoms in the trees ; 
 Lives through all life II extends through all extent, 
 Spreads undivided II operates unspent. 
 
 Pauses will detain us longer than was foreseen; for the subject is 
 not yet exhausted. It is laid: down above, that English heroic verse 
 admits no more than four capital pauses ; and that the capital pause 
 of every line is determined by the sense to be after the fourth, the 
 fifth, the sixth, or seventh syllable. That this doctrine holds true 
 as far as melody alone is concerned, will be testified by every good 
 ear. At the same time, I admit, that this rule may be varied where 
 the sense or expression requires a variation, and that so far the 
 melody may justly be sacrificed. Examples accordingly are not 
 unfreqaent, in Milton especially, of the capital pause being after the 
 first, the second, or the third syllable. And that this license may 
 be taken, even gracefully, when it adds vigor to the expression, will 
 be clear from the following example. Pope, in his translation of 
 Homer, describes a rock broke off from a mountain, and hurling to 
 the plain, in the following words : 
 
 From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds ; 
 At every shock the crackling wood resounds ; 
 Still gatlvring force, it smokes ; and urg'd amain, 
 Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain : 
 There stops. I! So Hector. Their whole force he prov'd, 
 Resistless when he rag'd ; and when he stopt, unmov'd. 
 
 In the penult line, the proper place of the musical pause is at the end 
 of the fifth syllable ; but it enlivens the expression by its coincidence 
 with that of the sense at the end of the second syllable : stopping 
 short before the usual pause in the melody, aids the impression that 
 is made by the description of the stone's stopping short ; and what 
 is lost to the melody by this artifice, is more than compensated by 
 the force that is added to the description. Milton makes a happy 
 use of this license : witness the following examples from his Para- 
 dise Lost :
 
 Sect - 4.J BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE, 309 
 
 -Thus with the year 
 
 Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 
 Day II or the sweet approach of even or morn. 
 
 Celestial voices to the midnight-air 
 Sole II or responsive each to other's note. 
 
 And over them triumphant Death his dart 
 Shook II but delay'd to strike. 
 
 -And wild uproar 
 
 Stood rul'd II stood vast infinitude confin'd. 
 
 -And hard'ning in his strength 
 
 Glories II for never since created man 
 Met such embodied force. 
 
 Prom his slack hand the garland wreath'd for Eve 
 Down dropp'd II and all the faded roses shed. 
 
 Of unessential night, receives him next, 
 Wide gaping II and with utter loss of being, 
 Threatens him, &c. 
 
 -For now the thought 
 
 Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 
 
 Torments him II round he throws his baleful eyes, & . 
 
 If we consider the foregoing passages with respect to melody 
 singly, the pauses are undoubtedly out of their proper place ; but 
 being united with those of the sense, they enforce the expression, 
 and enliven it greatly ; for, as has been more than once observed, 
 the beauty of expression is communicated to the sound, which by 
 a natural deception, makes even the melody appear more perfect 
 than if the musical pauses were regular. 
 
 To explain the rules of accenting, two general observations must 
 be premised. The first is, that accents have a double effect : they 
 contribute to the melody, by giving it air and spirit ; they contribute 
 no less to the sense, by distinguishing important words from others.* 
 These two effects never can be separated, without impairing the 
 concord that ought to subsist between the thought and the melody : an 
 accent, for example, placed on a low word, has the effect to burlesque 
 it, by giving it an unnatural elevation ; and the injury thus done to 
 the sense does not rest there, for it seems also to injure the melody. 
 Let us only reflect what a ridiculous figure a particle must make 
 with an accent or emphasis put upon it a particle that of itself has 
 no meaning, and that serves only, like cement, to unite words sig- 
 nificant. The other general observation is, that a word of whatever 
 number of syllables, is not accented upon more than one of them. 
 The reason is, that the object is set in its best light by a single accent, 
 so as to make more than one unnecessary for the sense : and if 
 another be added, it must be for the sound merely ; which would be 
 a transgression of the foregoing rule, by separating a musical accent 
 from that which is requisite for the sense. 
 
 Keeping in view the foregoing observations, the doctrine of 
 accenting English heroic verse is extremely simple. In the first 
 place, accenting is confined to the long syllables ; for a short sylla- 
 ble is not capable of an accent. In the next place, as the melody is 
 * An accent considered with respect to sense is tenned emphasis.
 
 310 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 enriched in proportion to the number of accents, every word that has 
 a long syllable may be accented ; unless the sense interpose, which 
 rejects the accenting of a word that makes no figure by its signifi- 
 cation. According to this rule, a line may admit five accents a case 
 by no means rare. 
 
 But supposing every long syllable to be accented, there is, in every 
 line, one accent that makes a greater figure than the rest, being that 
 which precedes the capital pause. It is distinguished into two 
 kinds ; one that is immediately before the pause, and one that is 
 divided from the pause by a short syllable. The former belongs to 
 lines of the first and third order ; the latter to those of the second 
 and fourth. Examples of the first kind : 
 
 Smooth flow the waves II the zephyrs gently play, 
 Belinda smil'd I! and all the world was gay. 
 
 He rais'd his azure wand II and thus began. 
 Examples of the other kind : 
 
 There lay three garters II half a pair of gloves, 
 And all the trophies II of his former loves. 
 
 Our humble province II is to tend the fair, 
 Not a less pleasing II though less glorious care. 
 
 And hew triumphal arches II to the ground 
 
 These accents make different impressions on the mind, which will 
 be the subject of a following speculation. In the mean time, it may 
 be safely pronounced a capital defect in the composition of verse, to 
 pat a low word, incapable of an accent, in the place where this accent 
 should be : this bars the accent altogether ; than which I know no 
 fault more subversive of the melody, if it be not the barring of a 
 pause altogether. I may add affirmatively, that no single circum- 
 stance contributes more to the energy of verse, than to put an import- 
 ant word where the accent should be, a word that merits a peculiar 
 emphasis. To show the bad effect of excluding the capital accent, I 
 refer the reader to some instances given above,* where particles are 
 separated by a pause from the capital words that make them signifi 
 cant ; and which particles ought, for the sake of melody, to b<- 
 accented, were they capable of an accent. Add to these the follow- 
 ing instances from the Essay on Criticism. 
 
 Of leaving what II is natural and fit line 448. 
 
 Not yet purg'd off, II of spleen and sour disdain 
 No pardon vile II obscenity should find 
 When love was all II an easy monarch's care 
 For 'tis but half ii a judge's task to know 
 "Pis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join 
 That only makes II superior sense belov'd 
 
 .528. 
 .531. 
 . 537. 
 .56 
 .563. 
 578. 
 
 Whose right it is, II uncensur'd. to be dull 1. 590. 
 
 ! Tis best sometimes, II your censure to restrain. 1. 597. 
 
 When this fault is at the end of a line that closes a couplet, it 
 leaves not the slightest trace of melody : 
 * Pages 308, 309
 
 Sec. 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 311 
 
 But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, 
 The strong connections, nice dependencies. 
 
 In' a line expressive of what is humble or dejected, it improves the 
 resemblance between the sound and sense to exclude the capital 
 This, to my taste, is a beauty in the following lines. 
 In these deep solitudes II and awful cells 
 The poor inhabitant II beholds in vain. 
 
 o conclude this article, the accents are not, like the syllables, con- 
 fined to a certain number : some lines have no fewer than five, and 
 there are lines that admit not above one. This variety, as we have 
 seen, depends entirely on the different powers of the component words : 
 particles, even where they are long by position, cannot be accented ; 
 and polysyllables whatever space they occupy, admit but one accent. 
 Polysyllables have another defect, that they generally exclude the 
 full pause. It is shown above, that few polysyllables can find place 
 in the construction of English verse ; and here are reasons for exclu- 
 ding them, could they find place. 
 
 I am now ready to fulfil a promise concerning the four sorts of 
 lines that enter into English heroic verse. That these have, each of 
 them, a peculiar melody distinguishable by a good ear, I ventured to 
 suggest, and promised also to account for it : and though the subject 
 is extremely delicate, I am not without hopes of making good my en- 
 gagement. But first, by way of precaution, I warn the candid reader 
 not to expect this peculiarity of modulation in every instance. The 
 reason why it is not always perceptible has been mentioned more 
 than once, that the thought and expression have a great influence 
 upon the melody ; so great, as in many instances to make the poorest 
 melody pass for rich and spirited. This consideration makes me 
 insist upon a concession or two that will not be thought unreasonable : 
 first, that the experiment be tried upon lines equal with respect to 
 the thought and expression ; for otherwise one may easily be misled 
 in judging of the melody : and next, that these lines be regularly 
 accented before the pause ; for upon a matter abundantly refined in 
 itself, I would not willingly be embarrassed with faulty and irregular 
 lines. 
 
 These preliminaries adjusted, I begin with some general observa- 
 tions, that will save repeating the same thing over and over upon 
 every example. And first, an accent succeeded by a pause, as in 
 lines of the first and third order, makes a much greater figure than 
 where the voice goes on without a stop. The fact is so certain, that 
 no person who has an ear can be at a loss to distinguish that accent 
 from others. Nor have we far to seek for the efficient cause : the 
 elevation of an accenting tone produces in the mind a similar eleva- 
 tion, which continues during the pause ;* but where the pause is sepa- 
 * Hence the liveliness of the French language as to sound, above the English ; 
 the last syllable in the former being generally long and accented, the long s; 
 in the latter being generally as far back in the word as possible, and often wiU; 
 accent. For this difference I find no cause so probable as temperament and dl* 
 position ; the French being brisk and lively, the English sedate and reserved : and 
 this, if it hold, is a pregnant instance of a resemblance between the characi 
 people and that of their language.
 
 812 BEAtTTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18 
 
 rated from the accent by a short syllable, as in lines of the second and 
 fourth order, the impression made by the accent is more slight when 
 there is no stop, and the elevation of the accent is gone in a moment 
 by the falling of the voice in pronouncing the short syllable that 
 follows. The pause also is sensibly affected by the position of the 
 accent. In lines of the first and third order, the close conjunction 
 of the accent and pause, occasions a sudden stop without prepara- 
 tion, which rouses the mind, and bestows on the melody a spirited 
 air. When, on the other hand, the pause is separated from the 
 accent by a short syllable, which always happens in lines of the 
 second and fourth order, the pause is soft and gentle : for this short 
 unaccented syllable, succeeding one that is accented, must of course 
 be pronounced with a falling voice, which naturally prepares for a 
 pause ; and the mind falls gently from the accented syllable, and 
 slides into rest as it were insensibly. Farther, the lines themselves 
 derive different powers from the position of the pause, which will 
 thus appear. A pause after the fourth syllable divides the line into 
 two unequal portions, of which the larger comes last : this circum- 
 stance resolving the line into an ascending series, makes an impres- 
 sion in pronouncing like that of ascending ; and to this impression 
 contribute the redoubled effort in pronouncing the larger portion, 
 which is last in order. The mind has a different feeling when the 
 pause succeeds the fifth syllable, which divides the line into two 
 equal parts : these parts, pronounced with equal effort, are agreeable 
 by their uniformity. A line divided by a pause after the sixth syl- 
 lable, makes an impression opposite to that first mentioned : being 
 divided into two unequal portions, of which the shorter is last in 
 order, it appears like a slow descending series ; and the second por- 
 tion being pronounced with less effort than the first, the diminished 
 effort prepares the mind for rest. And this preparation for rest is 
 still more sensibly felt where the pause is after the seventh syllable, 
 as in lines of the fourth order. 
 
 To apply these observations is an easy task. A line of the first 
 order is of all the most spirited and lively : the accent, being fol- 
 lowed instantly by a pause, makes an illustrious figure : the elevated 
 tone of the accent elevates the mind : the mind is supported in its 
 elevation by the sudden unprepared pause, which rouses and ani- 
 mates : and the line itself, representing by its unequal division an 
 ascending series, carries the mind still higher, making an impres- 
 sion similar to that of going upward. The second order has a 
 modulation sensibly sweet, soft, and flowing ; the accent is not so 
 sprightly as in the former, because a short syllable intervenes be- 
 tween it and the pause : its elevation, by the same means, vanishes 
 instantaneously: the mind, by a falling voice, is gently prepared for 
 a stop : and the pleasure of uniformity from the division of the line 
 into two equal parts, is calm and sweet. The third order has a 
 modulation not so easily expressed in words : it in part resembles 
 the first order, by the liveliness of an accent succeeded instantly by 
 a full pause: but then the elevation occasioned by this circumstance, 
 is balanced in some degree by the remitted effort in pronouncing the
 
 Sect. 4,] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 313 
 
 second portion, which remitted effort has a tendency to rest. Another 
 circumstance distinguishes it remarkably : its capital accent conies 
 late, being placed on the sixth syllable: and this circumstance 
 bestows on it an air of gravity and solemnity. The last order 
 resembles the second in the mildness of its accent, and softness of 
 its pause ; it is still more solemn than the third, by the lateness of 
 its capital accent : it also possesses in a higher degree than the third, 
 the tendency to rest: and by that circumstance is of all the best, 
 qualified for closing a period in the completest manner. 
 
 But these are not all the distinguishing characters of the different 
 orders. Each order, also, is distinguished by its final accent and 
 pause : the unequal division in the first order, makes an impression 
 of ascending; and the mind at the close is in the highest elevation, 
 which naturally prompts it to put a strong emphasis upon the con- 
 cluding syllable, whether by raising the voice to a sharper tone, or 
 by expressing the word in a fuller tone. This order accordingly is 
 of all the least proper for concluding a period, where a cadence is 
 proper and not an accent. The second order being destitute of tin- 
 impression of ascent, cannot rival the first order in the elevation of 
 its concluding accent, nor consequently in the dignity of its conclud- 
 ing pause ; for these have a mutual influence. This order, however, 
 with respect to its close, maintains a superiority over the third and 
 fourth orders : in these, the close is more humble, being brought 
 down by the impression of descent, and by the remitted effort in 
 pronouncing; considerably in the third order, and still more consi- 
 derably in the last. According to this description, the concluding 
 accents and pauses of the four orders being reduced to a scale, will 
 form a descending series probably in an arithmetical progression. 
 
 After what is said, will it be thought refining too much to suggest, 
 that the different orders are qualified for different purposes, and that 
 a poet of genius will naturally be led to make a choice accordingly? 
 I cannot think this altogether chimerical. As it appears to me, the 
 first order is proper for a sentiment that is bold, lively, or impetuous; 
 the third order is proper for what is grave, solemn, or lofty; the 
 second for what is tender, delicate, or melancholy, and in general 
 for all the sympathetic emotions ; and the last for subjects of the same 
 kind, when tempered with any degree of solemnity. I do not con- 
 tend, that any one order is fitted for no other task but th.at assigned 
 it ; for at that rate, no sort of melody would be left for accompanying 
 thoughts that have nothing peculiar in them. I only venture to 
 suggest, and I do it with diffidence, that each of the orders is pecu- 
 liarly adapted to certain subjects, and better qualified than the others 
 for expressing them. The best way to judge is by experiment ; and 
 to avoid the imputation of a partial search, I shall confine my 
 instances to a single poem, beginning with the 
 
 First order. 
 
 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 : 
 27
 
 314 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; 
 Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
 Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, 
 And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
 Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 
 Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide 
 If to her share some female errors fall, 
 Look on her face ; and you'll forget 'em all. 
 
 Rape of the Lock. 
 
 In accounting for the remarkable liveliness of this passage, it will 
 be acknowledged by every one who has an ear, that the melody 
 must come in for a share. The lines, all of them, are of the first 
 order : a very unusual circumstance in the author of this poem, so 
 eminent for variety in his versification. Who can doubt, that he 
 has been led by delicacy of taste to employ the first order preferably 
 to the others ? 
 
 Second order. 
 
 Our humble province is to tend the fair, 
 
 Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care ; 
 
 To save the powder from tpo rude a gale, 
 
 Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale ; 
 
 To draw fresh colors from the venial flow'rs ; 
 
 To steal from rainbows, ere they drop their show'rs, &c. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Oh, thoughtless mortals ! ever blind to fate, 
 Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. 
 Sudden, these honors shall be snatch'd away, 
 And curs'd for ever this victorious day. 
 
 Third order. 
 
 To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note, 
 We trust th' important charge, the petticoat. 
 Again : 
 
 Oh say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd, 
 Could make a gentle belle reject a lord 1 
 
 A plurality of lines of the fourth order, would not have a good effect 
 in succession ; because, by a remarkable tendency to rest, their pro- 
 per office is to close a period. The reader, therefore, must be satis- 
 fied with instances where this order is mixed with others. 
 
 Not louder shrieks to pitying Heav'n are cast, 
 
 When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their last. 
 Again : 
 
 Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, 
 
 And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 
 Again : 
 
 She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, 
 
 Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. 
 Again: 
 
 With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, 
 
 He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case. 
 
 And this suggests another experiment, which is, to set the diffe- 
 rent orders more directly in opposition, by giving examples where 
 they are mixed in the same passage.
 
 Sect. 4.] 
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 3 If 
 
 First and second orders. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Sol through white curtains shot a tim'rous ray, 
 And op'd those eyes that must eclipse the day. 
 
 Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive, 
 Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, 
 Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, 
 Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss, 
 Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, 
 Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinn'd awry, 
 E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, 
 As thou, sad virgin ! for thy ravish'd hair. 
 
 First and third. 
 
 am: 
 
 gam 
 
 Again ; 
 
 Think what an equipage thou hast in air, 
 And view with scorn two pages and a chair. 
 
 What guards the purity of melting maids, 
 In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, 
 Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark, 
 The glance by day, the whisper in the dark ? 
 
 With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre, 
 And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire ; 
 Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes, 
 Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. 
 
 Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around, 
 Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound, 
 Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives waj 
 And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day ! 
 
 Second and third. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Sunk in Thalestris' arms, the nymph he found, 
 Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. 
 
 On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head, 
 Which with a sigh she raised ; and thus she said. 
 
 Musing on the foregoing subject, I begin to doubt whether all this 
 while I have been in a reverie, and whether the scene before me, 
 full of objects new and singular, be not mere fairy-land. Is there 
 any truth in the appearance, or is it wholly a work of imagination ? 
 We cannot doubt of its reality; and we may with assurance pronounce, 
 that great is the merit of English heroic verse : for though unifor- 
 mity prevails in the arrangement, in the equality of the lines, and in 
 the resemblance of the final sounds ; variety is still more conspicu- 
 ous in the pauses and in the accents, which are diversified in a 
 surprising manner. Of the beauty that results from a due mixture 
 of uniformity and variety,* many instances have already occurred, 
 but none more illustrious than English versification ; however rude 
 it may be in the simplicity of its arrangement, it is highly melodious 
 by its pauses and. accents, so as already to rival the most perfect 
 species known in Greece or Rome ; and it is no disagreeable pros- 
 pect to find it susceptible of still greater refinement. 
 
 We proceed to blank verse, which has so many circumstances m 
 * See Chap. 9.
 
 316 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 common with rhyme, that its peculiarities may be brought within a 
 narrow compass. With respect to form, it differs from rhyme in 
 rejecting the jingle of similar sounds, which purifies it from a 
 childish pleasure. But this improvement is a trifle compared with 
 what follows. Our verse is extremely cramped by rhyme ; and the 
 peculiar advantage of blank verse is, that it is at liberty to attend 
 the imagination in its boldest flights. Rhyme necessarily divides 
 verse into couplets ; each couplet makes a complete musical period, 
 the parts of which are divided by pauses, and the whole summed 
 up by a full close at the end : the melody begins anew with the 
 next couplet : and in this manner a compositionjn rhyme proceeds 
 couplet after couplet. I have often had occasion to mention the 
 correspondence and concord that ought to subsist between sound 
 and sense : from which it is a plain inference, that if a couplet be a 
 complete period with regard to melody, it ought regularly to be the 
 same with regard to sense. As it is extremely difficult to support 
 such strictness of composition, licenses are indulged, as explained 
 above ; which, however, must be used with discretion, so as to pre- 
 serve some degree of concord between the sense and the music : 
 there ought never to be a full close in the sense but at the end of a 
 couplet ; and there ought always to be some pause in the sense at 
 tne end of every couplet: the same period as to sense may be 
 extended through several couplets ; but each couplet ought to con- 
 tain a distinct member, distinguished by a pause in the sense as well 
 MS in the sound ; and the whole ought to be closed with a complete 
 cadence.* Rules such as these, must confine rhyme within very 
 narrow bounds : a thought of any extent, cannot be reduced within 
 is compass: the sense must be curtailed and broken into parts, to 
 make it square with the curtness of the melody ; and beside, short 
 periods afford no latitude for inversion. 
 
 I have examined this point with the stricter accuracy, in order to 
 g-ive a just notion of blank verse ; and to show, that a slight difference 
 in form may produce a great difference in substance. Blank verse 
 has the same pauses and accents with rhyme, and a pause at the 
 end of every line, like what concludes the first line of a couplet. In 
 a word, the rules of melody in blank verse, are the same that obtain 
 with respect to the first line of a couplet ; but being disengaged from 
 rhyme, or from couplets, there is access to make every line run into 
 another, precisely as to make the first line of a couplet run into 
 the second. There must be a musical pause at the end of every 
 line; but this pause is so slight as not to require a pause in the 
 sense : and accordingly the sense may be carried on with or without 
 pauses, till a period of the utmost extent be completed by a full close 
 both in the sense and the sound : there is no restraint, other than 
 that this full close be at the end of a line; and this restraint is 
 necessary, in order to preserve a coincidence between sense and 
 
 * This rule is quite neglected in French versification. Even Boileau makes no 
 difficulty, to close one subject with the first line of a couplet, and to begin a new 
 subject with the second. Such license, however sanctioned by practice, is un- 
 pleasant by the discordance between the pauses of the sense and of the melody.
 
 SeC. 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 317 
 
 sound, which ought to be aimed- at in general, and is indispensable 
 in the case of a full close, because it has a striking effect. Hence 
 the fitness of blank verse for inversion : and consequently the lustre 
 of its pauses and accents ; for which, as observed above, there is 
 greater scope in inversion, than when words run in their natural 
 order. 
 
 In the second section of this chapter it is shown, that nothing 
 contributes more than inversion to the force and elevation of lan- 
 guage: the couplets of rhyme confine inversion within narrow 
 limits ; nor would the elevation of inversion, were there access for 
 it in rhyme, readily accord with the humbler tone of that sort of 
 verse. It is universally agreed, that the loftiness of Milton's style 
 supports admirably the sublimity of his subject ; and it is not less 
 certain, that the loftiness of his style arises chiefly from inversion. 
 Shakspeare deals little in inversion ; but his blank verse being a 
 sort of measured prose, is perfectly well adapted to the stage, where 
 labored inversion is highly improper, because in dialogue it never 
 can be natural. 
 
 Hitherto I have considered that superior power of expression 
 which verse acquires by laying aside rhyme. But this is not the 
 only ground for preferring blank verse : it has another preferable 
 quality not less signal ; and that is, a more extensive and more 
 complete melody. Its music is not, like that of rhyme, confined to a 
 single couplet ; but takes in a great compass, so as in some measure 
 to rival music properly so called. The interval between its 
 cadences may be long or short at pleasure ; and, by that means, its 
 melody, with respect both to richness and variety, is superior far 
 to that of rhyme, and superior even to that of the Greek and Latin 
 Hexameter. Of this observation no person can doubt who is 
 acquainted with the Paradise Lost: in which work there are 
 indeed many careless lines ; but at every turn the richest melody 
 as well as the sublimest sentiments are conspicuous. Take the 
 Rowing specimen : 
 
 Now Morn her rosy steps in th' eastern clime 
 Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl ; 
 When Adam wak'd, so custom'd for his sleep 
 Was aery light from pure digestion bred 
 And temp'rate vapors bland, which th' only sound 
 Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan, 
 Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill matin song 
 Of birds on every bough ; so much the more 
 His wonder was to find unwaken'd Eve 
 With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek, 
 As through unquiet rest : he on his side 
 Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial love 
 Hung over her enamor'd, and beheld 
 Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, 
 Shot forth peculiar graces ; then with voice 
 Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes, 
 Her hand soft touching, whisper'd thus : Awoke, 
 My fairest, my espous d, my latest found, 
 Heaven's last best gift, my ever-new delight, 
 Awake ; the morning shines, and the fresh field 
 Calls us : we lose the prime, to mark how spring 
 27*
 
 318 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 Our tended plants, how blows the citron grove, 
 
 What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, 
 
 How nature paints her colors, how the bee 
 
 Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet. Book V. 1. I. ' 
 
 Comparing Latin Hexameter with English heroic rhyme, the 
 former has obviously the advantage in the following particulars. It 
 is greatly preferable as to arrangement, by the latitude it admits in 
 placing the long and short syllables. Secondly, the length of 
 an Hexameter line hath a majestic air : ours, by its shortness, is 
 indeed more brisk and lively, but much less fitted for the sublime. 
 And, thirdly, the long high-sounding words that Hexameter admits, 
 add greatly to its majesty. To compensate these advantages, 
 English rhyme possesses a greater number and greater variety both 
 of pauses and of accents. These two sorts of verse stand indeed 
 pretty much in opposition : in Hexameter, great variety of arrange- 
 ment, none in the pauses nor accents ; in English rhyme, great 
 variety in the pauses and accents, very little in the arrangement. 
 
 In blank verse are united, in a good measure, the several proper- 
 ties of Latin Hexameter and English rhyme ; and it possesses beside 
 many signal properties of its own. It is not confined, like Hexa- 
 meter, by a full close at the end of every line ; nor, like rhyme, 
 by a full close at the end of every couplet. Its construction, 
 which admits the lines to run into each other, gives it a still greater 
 majesty than arises from the length of an Hexameter line. By the 
 same means, it admits inversion even beyond the Latin or Greek 
 Hexameter ; for these suffer some confinement bv the regular closes 
 at the end of every line. In its music it is illustrious above all : 
 the melody of Hexameter verse is circumscribed to a line ; and or 
 English rhyme, to a couplet : the melody of blank verse is under 
 no confinement, but enjoys the utmost privilege, of which melody 
 of verse is susceptible ; which is to run hand in hand with the 
 sense. In a word, blank verse is superior to Hexameter in many 
 articles ; and inferior to it in none, save in the freedom of arrange- 
 ment, and in the use of long words. 
 
 In French heroic verse, there are found, on the contrary, all the 
 defects of Latin Hexameter and the English rhyme, without the 
 beauties of either : subjected to the bondage of rhyme, and to the 
 full close at the end of every couplet, it is also extremely fatiguing by 
 uniformity in its pauses and accents : the line invariably is divided 
 by the pause into two equal parts, and the accent is invariably placed 
 before the pause. 
 
 Jeune et vaillant heros II dont la haute sagesse 
 N'est point la fruit tardif II d'une lente vieillesse. 
 
 Here every circumstance contributes to a tiresome uniformity: a 
 constant return of the same pause and of the same accent, as well 
 as an equal division of every line; which fatigue the ear without 
 intermission or change. I cannot set this matter in a better light, 
 than by presenting to the reader a French translation of the follow- 
 ing passage of Milton : 
 
 Two of far nobler shape, rrect and tall. 
 
 Godlike erect, with native honor clad,
 
 Ch. 18.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 319 
 
 In naked majesty, seem'd lords of all : ' "* 
 
 And worthy seem'd ; for in their looks divine, 
 The image of their glorious Maker, shone 
 Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure ; 
 Severe, but in true filial freedom plac'd ; 
 Whence true authority in men : though both 
 Not equal, as their sex not equal seemed ; 
 For contemplation he and valor form'd, 
 For softness she and sweet attractive grace ; 
 He for God only, she for God in him. 
 
 Were the pauses of the sense and sound in this passage but a little 
 better assorted, nothing in verse could be more melodicus. In gene- 
 ral, the great defect in Milton's versification, in other respects admira- 
 ble, is the want of coincidence between the pauses of the sense and 
 sound. The translation is in the following words : 
 
 Ce lieux delicieux, ce paradis charmant, 
 
 Recoil de deux objets son plus bel ornement 
 
 Leur port majestueux, et leur demarche altiere, 
 
 Semble leur meriter sur la nature entiere 
 
 Ce droit de commander que Dieu leur a donne. 
 
 Sur leur auguste front de gloire couronne', 
 
 Du souveram du ciel brille la ressemblance : 
 
 Dans leurs simples regards eclate 1'innocence, 
 
 L'adorable candeur, T'aimable verit6 
 
 La raison, la sagesse, et la severite 
 
 GLu'adoucit la prudence, et cet air de droiture 
 
 Du visage des rois respectable parure. 
 
 Ces deux objets divin n'ont pas les m&mes traits, 
 
 Us paroissent formes, quoique tous deux parfaits; 
 
 L'un pour la majeste, la force, et la noblesse ; 
 
 L'autre pour la douceur, la grace, et la tendresse ; 
 
 Celui-ci pour Dieu seul, 1'autre pour 1'homme encor. 
 
 Here the sense is fairly translated, the words are of equal power, 
 and yet how inferior the melody ! 
 
 Many attempts have been made to introduce Hexameter verse into 
 the living languages, but without success. The English language, 
 I am inclined to think, is not susceptible of this melody ' and my 
 reasons are these. First, the polysyllables in Latin and Greek are 
 finely diversified by long and short syllables, a circumstance that qua- 
 lifies them for the melody of Hexameter verse : ours are extremely 
 ill qualified for that service, because they superabound in short 
 syllables. Secondly, the bulk of our monosyllables are arbitrary 
 with regard to length, which is an unlucky circumstance in Hexa- 
 meter : for although custom, as observed above, may render familiar 
 a long or a short pronunciation of the same word, yet the mind 
 wavering between the two sounds, cannot be so much affected with 
 either, as with a word that has always the same sound ; and for that 
 reason, arbitrary sounds are ill fitted for a melody which is chiefly 
 supported by quantity. In Latin and Greek Hexameter, invariable 
 sounds direct and ascertain the melody. English Hexameter would 
 be destitute of melody, unless by artful pronunciation; because of 
 necessity the bulk of its sounds must be arbitrary. The pronuncia- 
 tion is easy in a simple movement of alternate long and short sylla- 
 bles ; but would be perplexing and unpleasant in the diversified 
 movement of Hexameter verse.
 
 320 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. {Ch. 18. 
 
 Rhyme makes so great a figure in modern poetry, as to deserve 
 a solemn trial. I have for that reason reserved it to be examined 
 with deliberation ; in order to discover, if I can, its peculiar beau- 
 ties, and its degree of merit. The first view of this subject leads 
 naturally to the following reflection : " That rhyme having no rela- 
 tion to sentiment, nor any effect upon the ear other than a mere 
 jingle, ought to be banished all compositions of any dignity, as 
 affording but a trifling and childish pleasure." It will also be ob- 
 served, " That a jingle of words hath in some measure a ludicrous 
 effect : witness the double rhymes of Hudibras, which contribute no 
 small share to its drollery : that in a serious work this ludicrous 
 effect would be equally remarkable, were it not obscured by the 
 prevailing gravity of the subject : that having however a constant 
 tendency to give a ludicrous air to the composition, more than ordi- 
 nary fire is requisite to support the dignity of the sentiments against 
 such an undermining antagonist."* 
 
 These arguments are specious, and have undoubtedly some 
 weight. Yet, on the other hand, it ought to be considered, that in 
 modern tongues rhyme has become universal among men as well 
 as children ; and that it cannot have such a currency without some 
 foundation in human nature. In fact, it has been successfully em- 
 ployed by poets of genius, in their serious and grave compositions, 
 as well as in those which are more light and airy. Here in weighing 
 authority against argument, the scales seem to be upon a level ; and 
 therefore, to come at any thing decisive, we must pierce a little deeper. 
 
 Music has great power over the soul ; and may successfully be 
 employed to inflame or soothe passions, if not actually to raise them. 
 A single sound, however sweet, is not music ; but a single sound 
 repeated after intervals, may have the effect to rouse attention, and 
 to keep the hearer awake : and a variety of similar sounds, succeed- 
 ing each other after regular intervals, must have a still stronger 
 effect. This consideration is applicable to rhyme, which connects 
 two verse-lines by making them close with two words similar in 
 sound. And considering attentively the musical eifect of a couplet, 
 we find, that it rouses the mind, and produces an emotion moderately 
 gay without dignity or elevation : like the murmuring of a brook 
 gliding through pebbles, it calms the mind when perturbed, and 
 gently raises it when sunk. These effects are scarcely perceived 
 when the whole poem is in rhyme : but are extremely remarkable 
 by contrast, in the couplets that close the several acts of our later 
 tragedies ; the tone of the mind is sensibly varied by them, from 
 anguish, distress, or melancholy, to some degree of ease and alacrity. 
 For the truth of this observation, I appeal to the speech of Jane 
 Shore in the fourth act, when her doom was pronounced by Glo'ster ; 
 to the speech of Lady Jane Gray at the end of the first act ; and to 
 that of Calista, in the Fair Penitent, when she leaves the stage, 
 about the middle of the third act. The speech of Alicia, at the close 
 of the fourth act of Jane Shore, puts the matter beyond doubt : in a 
 
 * Vossius, De Poematum Cantu, p. 26, says, " Nihil eeque gravitati orationia 
 affici, quam in sono ludere syllabarurn."
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 321 
 
 scene of deep distress, the rhymes which finish the act, produce ft 
 certain gayety and cheerfulness, far from according with the tone of 
 the passion : 
 
 Alicia. For ever 1 Oh ! For ever ! 
 Oh ! who can bear to be a wretch for ever ! 
 My rival too ! his last thoughts hung on her : 
 And. as he parted, left a blessing for her : 
 Shall she be bless'd, and I be curs'd, for ever ! 
 No ; since her fatal beauty was the cause 
 Of all my suff 'rings, let her share my pains ; 
 Let her, like me of ev'ry joy forlorn, 
 Devote the hour when such a wretch was born ! 
 Like me to deserts and to darkness run, 
 Abhor the day, and curse the golden sun ; 
 Cast ev'ry good and ev'ry hope behind; 
 Detest the works of nature, loathe mankind : 
 Like me with cries distracted fill the air, 1 
 Tear her poor bosom, and her frantic hair, > 
 And prove the torments of the last despair. ) 
 
 aving described, in the best way I can, the impression that rhyme 
 makes on the mind, I proceed to examine whether there be any sub- 
 jects to which rhyme is peculiarly adapted, and for what subjects it 
 is improper. Grand and lofty subjects, which have a powerful 
 influence, claim precedence in this inquiry. In the chapter of Gran- 
 deur and Sublimity, it is established, that a grand or sublime object, 
 inspires a warm enthusiastic emotion disdaining strict regularity and 
 order ; which emotion is very different from that inspired by the 
 moderately enlivening music of rhyme. Supposing then an elevated 
 subject to be expressed in rhyme, what must be the effect? The inti- 
 mate union of the music with the subject, produces an intimate union 
 of their emotions ; one inspired by the subject, which tends to elevate 
 and expand the mind ; and one inspired by the music, which, con- 
 fining the mind within the narrow limits of regular cadence and 
 similar sound, tends to prevent all elevation above its own pitch. 
 Emotions so little concordant, cannot in union have a happy effect. 
 
 But it is scarcely necessary to reason upon a case that never did, 
 and probably never will happen, viz. an important subject clothed in 
 rhyme, and yet supported in its utmost elevation. A happy thought 
 or warm expression, may at times give a sudden bound upward ; 
 but it requires a genius greater than has hitherto existed, to support 
 a poem of any length in a tone elevated much above that of the 
 melody. Tasso and Ariosto ought not to be made exceptions, and 
 still less Voltaire. And after all, where the poet has the dead weight 
 of rhyme constantly to struggle with, how can we expect an uniform 
 elevation in a high pitch ; when such elevation, with all the support 
 it can receive from language, requires the utmost effort of the human 
 genius? 
 
 But now, admitting rhyme to be an unfit dress for grand and lofty 
 images ; it has one advantage however, which is, to raise a low sub- 
 ject to its own degree of elevation. Addison* observes, " That rhyme, 
 without any other assistance, throws the language off from prose, 
 and very often makes an indifferent phrase pass unregarded ; but 
 * Spectator, No. 285.
 
 322 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 where the verse is not built upon rhymes, there, pomp of sound, and 
 energy of expression are indispensably necessary, to support the style, 
 and keep it from falling into the flatness of prose." This effect of 
 rhyme is remarkable in French verse: which, being simple, and 
 little qualified for inversion, readily sinks down to prose where not 
 artificially supported : rhyme is, therefore, indispensable in French 
 tragedy, and may be proper even in French comedy. Voltaire* 
 assigns that very reason for adhering to rhyme in these composi- 
 tions. He indeed candidly owns, that, even with the support of 
 rhyme, the tragedies of his country are little better than conversa- 
 tion-pieces ; which seems to infer, that the French language is weak, 
 and an improper dress for any grand subject. Voltaire was sensible 
 of the imperfection ; and yet Voltaire attempted an epic poem in that 
 language. 
 
 The cheering and enlivening power of rhyme, is still more 
 remarkable in poems of short lines, where the rhymes return upon 
 the ear in a quick succession ; for which reason rhyme is perfectly 
 well adapted to gay, light, and airy subjects. Witness the following : 
 
 O the pleasing, pleasing anguish, 
 When we love and when we languish ! 
 
 Wishes rising, 
 
 Thoughts surprising, 
 
 Pleasure courting, 
 
 Charms transporting, 
 
 Fancy viewing, 
 
 Joys ensuing, 
 O the pleasing, pleasing anguish ! Rosamond, Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 For that reason, such frequent rhymes are very improper for any 
 severe or serious passion : the dissonance between the subject and 
 the melody is very sensibly felt. Witness the following : 
 
 Now under hanging mountains, 
 Beside the fall of fountains, 
 Or where Hebrus wanders, 
 Rolling in meanders 
 All alone, 
 
 Unheard, unknown, 
 He makes his moan, 
 And calls her ghost, 
 For ever, ever, ever lost ; 
 Now with furies surrounded, 
 Despairing, confounded, 
 He trembles, he glows, 
 Amidst Rodope's snows. Pope, Ode for Music, 1. 97. 
 
 Rhyme is not less unfit for anguish or deep distress, than for sub- 
 jects elevated and lofty ; and for that reason has been long disused 
 in the English and Italian tragedy. In a work where the subject is 
 serious though not elevated, rhyme has not a good effect; because 
 the airiness of the melody agrees not with the gravity of the subject : 
 the Essay on Man, which treats a subject great and important, would 
 make a better figure in blank verse. Sportive love, mirth, gayety, 
 humor, and ridicule, are the province of rhyme. The boundaries 
 assigned it by nature, were extended in barbarous and illiterate ages ; 
 
 * Preface to his Oedipus, and in his discourse upon tragedy, prefixed to the tra- 
 gedy of Brutus.
 
 Sect 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 323 
 
 and in its usurpations it has long been protected by custom : but 
 taste in the fine arts, as well as in morals, improves daily ; and 
 makes a progress toward perfection, slow indeed but uniform ; and 
 there is no reason to doubt, that rhyme, in Britain, will in time be 
 forced to abandon its unjust conquest, and to confine itself within its 
 natural limits. 
 
 Having said what occurred upon rhyme, I close the section with 
 a^general observation, that the melody of verse so powerfully 
 enchants the mind, as to draw a veil over very gross faults and 
 imperfections. Of this power a stronger example cannot be given 
 than the episode of Aristasus, which closes the fourth book of the 
 Georgics. To renew a stock of bees when the former is lost, Vir- 
 gil asserts, that they may be produced in the entrails of a bullock, 
 slain and managed in a certain manner. This leads him to say, 
 how this strange receipt was invented ; which is as follows. Aristaeus 
 having lost his bees by disease and famine, never dreams of employ- 
 ing the ordinary means for obtaining a new stock ; but, like a fro- 
 ward child, complains heavily to his mother Gyrene, a water-nymph. 
 She advises him to consult Proteus, a sea-god, not how he was to 
 obtain a new stock, but only by what fatality he had lost his former 
 stock : adding, that violence was necessary, because Proteus would 
 say nothing voluntarily. Aristaeus, satisfied with this advice, though 
 it gave him no prospect of repairing his loss, proceeds to execution. 
 Proteus is caught sleeping, bound with cords, and compelled to speak. 
 He declares, that Aristseus was punished with the loss of his bees, 
 for attempting the chastity of Eurydice the wife of Orpheus; she 
 having been stung to death by a serpent in flying his embraces. 
 Proteus, whose sullenness ought to have been converted into wrath 
 by the rough treatment he met with, becomes on a sudden courteous 
 and communicative. He gives the whole history of the expedition 
 to hell which Orpheus undertook in order to recover his spouse : a 
 very entertaining story, but without the least relation to what was in 
 view. Aristaeus, returning to his mother, is advised to deprecate by 
 sacrifices the wrath of Orpheus, who was now dead. A bullock is 
 sacrificed, and out of the entrails spring miraculously a swarm of 
 bees. Does it follow, that the same may be obtained without a mira- 
 cle, as is supposed in the receipt ? 
 
 A LIST of the different FEET, and of their NAMES. 
 \. PHVRRHICUS, consists of two short syllables. Examples, Deus, 
 given, cannot, hillock, running. 
 
 2. SPONDEUS, consists of two long syllables : omnes, possess, fore- 
 
 warn, mankind, sometime. 
 
 3. IAMBUS, composed of a short and a long: pios, intent, degree, 
 
 appear, consent, repent, demand, report, suspect, affront, event. 
 
 4. TROCH^EUS, or CHOREUS, a long and short: fervat, whereby, 
 
 after, legal, measure, burden, holy, lofty. 
 
 5. TRIBRACHYS, three short: melius, property. 
 
 6. MOLOSSUS, three long : delectant. 
 
 7. ANAP^STUS, two short and a long : animos, condescend, apprt-
 
 324 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18. 
 
 kend, overheard, acquiesce, immature, overcharge, serenade, 
 opportune. 
 
 8. DACTYLUS, a long and two short : carmi/ia, evident, excellence, 
 estimate, wonderful, altitude, burdened, minister, tenement. 
 
 9. BACCHIUS, a short and two long : dolores. 
 
 10. HYPPOBACCHIUS or ANTIBACCHIUS, two long and a short: 
 pelluntur. 
 
 1 1. CRETICUS, or AMPHIMACER, a short syllable between two leng : 
 
 insito, afternoon. 
 
 12. AMPHIBRACHYS, a long syllable between two short: honore, 
 
 consider, imprudent, procedure, attended, proposed, respondent, 
 concurrence, apprentice, respective, revenue. 
 
 13. PROCELEUSMATICUS, four short syllables : homi?iibus, necessary. 
 
 14. DISPONDEUS, four long syllables: infinitis. 
 
 15. DIIAMBUS, composed of two Iambi : severitas. 
 
 16. DITROCH.EUS, of two Trochsei: per manere, procurator. 
 
 17. IONICUS, two short syllables and two long: properabant. 
 
 18. Another foot passes under the same name, composed of two long 
 
 syllables and two short : calcaribus, possessory. 
 
 19. CHORIAMBUS, two short syllables between two long : nobilitas. 
 
 20. ANTISPASTUS, two long syllables between two short: Alexander. 
 
 21. PJEON 1st, one long syllable and three short: temporibus, 
 ordinary, inventory, temperament. 
 
 22. P^EON 2d, the second syllable long, and the other three short : 
 
 rapidity, solemnity, minority, considered, imprudently, extrava- 
 gant, respectfully, accordingly. 
 
 23. P^EON 3d, the third syllable long and the other three short : 
 animatus, independent, condescendence, sacerdotal, reimburse- 
 ment, manufacture. 
 
 24. P.EON 4th, the last syllable long and the other three short : 
 celeritas. 
 
 25. EPITRITUS 1st, the first syllable short and the other three long: 
 
 voluptates. 
 
 26. EPITRITUS 2d, the second syllable short and the other three 
 
 long : posnitentes. 
 
 27. EPITRITUS 3d, the third syllable short and the other three long : 
 
 discordias. 
 
 28. EPITRITUS 4th, the last syllable short and the other three long : 
 fortunatus. 
 
 29. A word of five syllables composed of a Pyrrhichius and Dac- 
 
 tylus : ministerial. 
 
 30. A word of five syllables composed of a Trochaeus and Dactylus : 
 
 singularity. 
 
 31. A word of five syllables, composed of a Dactylus and Trochaeus : 
 precipitation, examination. 
 
 32. A word of five syllables, the second only long : significancy. 
 
 33. A word of six syllables composed of two Dactyles : impetuosity. 
 
 34. A word of six syllables composed of a Tribrachys and Dac- 
 tylae : pusillanimity. 
 
 N. B. Every word may be considered as a prose foot, because
 
 Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 325 
 
 every word is distinguished by a pause ; and every foot in verse 
 may be considered as a verse word, composed of syllables pro- 
 nounced at once without a pause. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 COMPARISONS. 
 
 Comparisons serve to instruct and to please They suggest some unusual contrast 
 or resemblance They set objects in their proper light They associate them 
 with other objects that are agreeable They elevate objects They depress 
 them Objects of different senses not to be compared Things of the same kind 
 not to be compared Things of different kinds not to be contrasted Abstract 
 terms not the subject of comparison, unless personified Two kinds of compari- 
 sons Comparisons not proper for every occasion Illustrated Not disposed 
 to pathetic nights, when cool and sedate, or when oppressed with care Similes 
 delightful, when the mind is elevated or animated by passion The mind often 
 in a tone to relish embellishing comparisons The severe passions enemies to 
 comparisons A comparison faulty, though properly introduced By being too 
 faint By being too low By being too high A comparison not to be drawn 
 from a disagreeable object Comparisons existing in words only, the most 
 objectionable A species of comparison that excites gayety. 
 
 COMPARISONS, as observed above,* serve two purposes; when 
 addressed to the understanding, their purpose is to instruct ; when 
 to the heart, their purpose is to please. Various means contribute 
 to the latter ; first, the suggesting of some unusual resemblance or 
 contrast ; second, the setting of an object in the strongest light ; 
 third, the associating of an object with others that are agreeable ; 
 fourth, the elevating of an object ; and, fifth, the depressing of it. 
 .And that comparisons may give pleasure by these various means, 
 appears from what is said in the chapter above cited; and will be 
 made still more evident by examples, which shall be given after 
 premising some general observations. 
 
 Objects of different senses cannot be compared together ; for such 
 objects, being entirely separated from each other, have no circum- 
 stance in common to admit either resemblance or contrast. Objects 
 of hearing may be compared together, as also of taste, of smell, and 
 of touch : but the chief fund of comparison are objects of sight 
 because, in writing or speaking, things can only be compared in 
 idea, and the ideas of sight are more distinct and lively than thosr 
 of any other sense. 
 
 ' When a nation emerging out of barbarity begins to think of t 
 fine arts, the beauties of language cannot long lie concealed ; and 
 when discovered, they are generally, by the force of novelty, carm-i 
 beyond moderation. Thus, in the early poems of every nation, n 
 find metaphors and similes founded on slight and distant res 
 blances, which, losing their grace with their novelty, wear grad 
 out of repute; and noAv, by the improvement of taste, none but coi 
 rect metaphors and similes are admitted into any polite composition. 
 
 * Chap. 8. 
 28
 
 326 COMPARISONS. [Ch. 19. 
 
 To illustrate this observation, a specimen shall be given afterward 
 of such metaphors as I have been describing ; with respect to similes, 
 take the following specimen : 
 
 Behold, thou art fair, my love : thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from 
 Mount Gilead : thy teeth are like a flock of sheep from the washing, every one 
 bearing twins : thy lips are like a thread of scarlet : thy neck like the tower of 
 David built for an armory, whereon hang a thousand shields of mighty men : 
 thy two breasts like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies : 
 thy eyes like the fish-pools in Heshbon, by the gate of Bath-rabbim : thy nose 
 like the tower of Lebanon, looking toward Damascus. 
 
 Song of Solomon. 
 
 Thou art like snow on the heath; thy hair like the mist of Cromla, when it 
 curls on the rocks, and shines to the beam of the west : thy breasts are like two 
 smooth rocks seen from Branno of the streams ; thy arm's like two white pillars 
 in the hall of the mighty Fingal. Fingal. 
 
 It has no good effect to compare things by way of simile that are 
 of the same kind ; nor to compare by contrast things of different 
 kinds. The reason is given in the chapter quoted above ; and the 
 reason shall be illustrated by examples. The first is a comparison 
 built upon a resemblance so obvious as to make little or no impression. 
 
 This just rebuke inflam'd the Lycian crew, 
 
 They join, they thicken, and th : assault renew 
 
 Unmov'd th' embody'd Greeks their fuiy dare, 
 
 And fix'd support the weight of all the war ; 
 
 Nor could the Greeks repel the Lycian pow'rs, 
 
 Nor the bold Lycians force the Grecian tow'rs. 
 
 As on the confines of adjoining grounds, 
 
 Two stubborn swains with blows dispute their bounds; 
 
 They tug, they sweat ; but neither gain, nor yield, 
 
 One foot, one inch, of the contended field: 
 
 Thus obstinate to death, they fight, they fall ; 
 
 Nor these can keep, nor those can win the wall. 
 
 Iliad, XII. 505. 
 
 Another, from Milton, lies open to the same objection. Speaking of 
 the fallen angels searching for mines of gold, 
 
 A numerous brigade hasten'd : as when bands 
 Of pioneers with spade and pick-ax arm'd, 
 Forerun the royal camp to trench a field 
 Or cast a rampart. 
 
 The next shall be of things contrasted that are of different kinds. 
 
 Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind 
 Transfprm'd and weak? Hath Bolingbroke,depos : d 
 Thine intellect 7 Hath he been in thy heart'? 
 The lion thrusteth forth his paw, 
 And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage 
 To be o'erpower'd : and wilt thou. pupil-like, 
 Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod, 
 And fawn on rage with base humility 1 
 
 Richard II. Act V. Sc. 1. 
 
 This comparison has scarcely any force: a man and a lion are of 
 different species, and therefore are proper subjects for a simile ; but 
 there is no such resemblance between them in general, as to pro- 
 duce any strong effect by contrasting particular attributes or circum- 
 stances. 
 
 A third general observation is, that abstract terms can never be
 
 Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 327 
 
 the subject of comparison, otherwise than by being personified. 
 Shakspeare compares adversity to a toad, and slander to the bite of 
 a crocodile ; but in such comparisons these abstract terms must be 
 imagined sensible beings. 
 
 To have a just notion of comparisons, they must be distinguished 
 into two kinds ; one common and familiar, as where a man is com- 
 pared to a lion in courage, or to a horse in speed ; the other more 
 distant and refined, where two things that have in themselves no 
 resemblance or opposition, are compared with respect to their effects. 
 This sort of comparison is occasionally explained above ;* and for 
 farther explanation take what follows. There is no resemblance 
 between a flower-pot and a cheerful song; and yet they may be 
 compared with respect to their effects, the emotions they produce 
 being similar. There is as little resemblance between fraternal 
 concord and precious ointment ; and yet observe how successfully 
 they are compared with respect to the impressions they make : 
 
 Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity. 
 It is like the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon Aaron's beard, 
 and descended to the skirts of his garment. Psalm 133. 
 
 For illustrating this sort of comparison,, I add some more ex- 
 amples : 
 
 Delightful is thy presence, O Fingal ! it is like the sun on Cromla, when the 
 hunter mourns his absence for a season, and sees him between the clouds. 
 
 Did not Ossian hear a voice 1 or is it the sound of days that are no more 1 
 Often, like the evening sun, comes the memory of former times on my soul. 
 
 His countenance is settled from war ; and is calm as the evening-beam, that 
 from the cloud of the west looks on Cona's silent vale. 
 
 Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessammor. 
 
 The music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to 
 the soul. 
 
 Pleasant are the words of the song, said Cuchullin, and lovely are the tales of 
 other times. They are like the calm dew of the morning on the hill of roes, when 
 the sun is faint on its side, and the lake is settled and blue in the vale. 
 
 These quotations are from the poems of Ossian, who abounds 
 with comparisons of this delicate kind, and appears singularly happy 
 
 in them.f 
 
 I proceed to illustrate by particular instances the different means, 
 by which comparisons, whether of the one sort or the other, can 
 afford pleasure ; and, in the order above established, I begin with 
 such instances as are agreeable, by suggesting some unusual resem- 
 blance or contrast : 
 
 Sweet are the uses of Adversity, 
 Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in her head. 
 
 As YouLikeIt,A.ctll.Sc. 1. 
 
 Gardener, Bolingbroke hath seized the wasteful King. 
 What pity is't that lie had not so trimm'd 
 And dress'd his land, as we this garden dress, 
 
 t Thf nature and merit of Ossian's comparisons is fully grated in a Dis- 
 sertation on the poems of that Author, by Dr. Blair, Professor of Rhetoric m the 
 College of Edinb"r$;h a delicious morsel of criticism.
 
 328 COMPARISONS. [Ch. 19, 
 
 And wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees ; 
 Lest, being over proud with sap and blood, 
 With too much riches it confound itself. 
 Had he done so to great and growing men, 
 They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste 
 Their fruits of duty. All superfluous branches 
 We lop away, that bearing boughs may live : 
 Had he done so, himself had borne the crown. 
 Which waste and idle hours have quite thrown down. 
 
 Richard II. Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 See, how the Morning opes her golden gates. 
 And takes her farewell of the glorious Sun; 
 How well resembles it the prime of youth, 
 Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love ! 
 
 Second Part, Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 Brutus. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, 
 That carries anger as the flint bears fire : 
 Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
 And straight is cold again. Julius C&sar, Act IV. Sc. 3. 
 
 Thus they their doubtful consultations dark 
 Ended, rejoicing in their matchless chief: 
 As when from mountain-tops, the dusky clouds 
 Ascending, while the North-wind sleeps, o'erspread 
 Heav'n's cheerful face, the lowering element 
 Scowls o'er the darken 'd landscape, snow and show'r 
 If chance the radiant sun with farewell sweet 
 Extends his ev'ning-beam, the fields revive, 
 The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds 
 Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book 2. 
 
 As the bright stars, and milky way, 
 
 Show'd by the night, are hid by day : 
 
 So we in that accomplish'd mind, 
 
 Help'd by the night, new graces find, 
 
 Which by the splendor of her view, 
 
 Dazzled before, we never knew. Waller. 
 
 The last exertion of courage compared to the bla^e of a lamp 
 before extinguishing, Tasso Gierusalem, canto 19. st. 22. 
 
 None of the foregoing similes, as they appear to me, tend to illus- 
 trate the principal subject : and therefore the pleasure they afford 
 must arise from suggesting resemblances that are not obvious : I 
 mean the chief pleasure; for undoubtedly a beautiful subject intro- 
 duced to form the simile affords a separate pleasure, which is felt in 
 the similes mentioned, particularly in that cited from Milton. 
 
 The next effect of a comparison in the order mentioned, is to place 
 an object in a strong point of view ; which effect is remarkable in 
 the following similes : 
 
 As when two scales are charg'd with doubtful loads, 
 
 From side to side the trembling balance nods, 
 
 (Whilst some laborious matron, just and poor, 
 
 With nice exactness weighs her woolly store,) 
 
 Till pois'd aloft, the resting beam suspends 
 
 Each equal weight ; nor this nor that descends 
 
 So stood the war, till Hector's matchless might. 
 
 With fates prevailing, turn'd the scale of fight, 
 
 Fierce as a whirlwind up the wall he flies, 
 
 And fires his host with loud repeated cries. Iliad, b. XII. 521.
 
 Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 329 
 
 Ut flos in septis secretis nascitur hortis, 
 
 Ignotus pecori, nullo contusus aratro, 
 
 Q.uem mulcent aura, firmat sol, educat imber, 
 
 Multi ilium pueri, multse cupiS re puellae ; 
 
 Idem, cum tenui carptus defloruit ungui, 
 
 Nulli ilium pueri, nullse cupiere puellse : 
 
 Sic virgo, dum intacta manet, dum cara suis ; sed 
 
 Cum castum amisit, pollute corpore, florem, 
 
 Nee pueris jucunda manet, nee cara puellis. Catullus. 
 
 As the fair flower doth in the garden grow 
 Safe from the flock, and touched not by the plough, 
 Soothed by the wind and strengthened by the sun, 
 Nursed by the shower, sought for by every one, 
 But rudely plucked, its beauty doth expire, 
 Nor longer ooys and girls the flower desire, 
 So is the untouched virgin very dear, 
 But virtue lost, she worthless doth appear. 
 
 The imitation of this beautiful simile by Ariosto, canto 1. st. 42. falls 
 short of the original. It is also in part imitated by Pope.* 
 
 L/ucetta. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, 
 But qualify the fire's extreme rage, 
 Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. 
 
 Julia. The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns : 
 The current, that with gentle murmur glides, 
 Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage ; 
 But when his fair course is not hindered, 
 He makes sweet music with th' enamel'd stones, 
 Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 
 He overtaketh in his pilgrimage : 
 And so by many winding nooks he strays 
 With willing sport to the wild ocean. 
 Then let me go, and hinder not my course : 
 I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, 
 And make a pastime of each weary step, 
 Till the last step have brought me to my love ; 
 And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil, 
 A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act II. Sc. 7. 
 
 She never told her love ; 
 
 But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
 
 Feed on her damask cheek : she pin'd in thought; 
 
 And with a green and yellow melancholy, 
 
 She sat like Patience on a monument, 
 
 Smiling at Grief. Twelfth-Night, Act II. Sc. 4. 
 
 York. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, 
 Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, 
 Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know, 
 With slow but stately pace, kept on his course : 
 While all tongues cry'd, God save thee, Bolingbroke. 
 
 Dutchess. Alas ! poor Richard, where rides he the while ! 
 
 York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, 
 After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage, 
 Are idly bent on him that enters next, 
 Thinking his prattle to be tedious : 
 Even so, or with much more contempt, men s eyes 
 Did scowl on Richard ; no man cry'd, God save him : 
 No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home ; 
 But dust was thrown upon his sacred head : 
 Which with such gentle sorrow he shook o^ 
 
 * Dunciad, b. IV. 1. 405. 
 28*
 
 33J COMPARISONS. [Ch. 19. 
 
 His face sti'.l combating with tears and smiles, 
 The badges of his grief and patience ; 
 That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd 
 The hearts of men. they must perforce have melted, 
 And barbarism itself have pitied him. 
 
 Richard. II. Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 Northumberland. How doth my son and brother ? 
 Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek 
 Is apter than thy tongue to teil thy errand. 
 Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless 
 So dull, so dead in look, so wo-be-gone, 
 Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night, 
 And would have told him, half his Troy was burn'd : 
 But Priam found the fire, ere he his tongue : 
 And I my Percy's death, ere thou report's! it. 
 
 Second Part, Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Why, then I do but dream on sov'reignty, 
 Like one that stands upon a promontory, 
 And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, 
 Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, 
 And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, 
 Saying, he'll lave it dry to have his way : 
 So do I wish, the crown being so far ofl^ 
 And so I chide the means that keep me from it, 
 And so (I say) I'll cut the causes off, 
 Flatt'ring my mind with things impossible. 
 
 Third Part, Henry VI. Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 -Out, out, brief candle ! 
 
 Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 And then is heard no more. 
 
 Macbeth, ActV. Sc. 5. 
 
 O thou Goddess, 
 
 Thou divine Nature ! how thyself thou blazon's! 
 
 In these two princely boys ! they are as gentle 
 
 As zephyrs blowing below the violet, 
 
 Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as rough, 
 
 (Their royal blood inchafd) as the rudest wind, 
 
 That by the top doth take the mountain pine, 
 
 And make him stoop to th' vale. 
 
 Cymbeline, Act IV. Sc. 2. 
 
 Why did not I pass away in secret, like the flower of the rock that lifts its fair 
 head unseen, and strows its withered leaves on the blast? Fingal. 
 
 Theje is a joy in grief when peace dwells with the sorrowful. But they are 
 v.-asted with mourning, O daughter of Toscar, and their days are few. They fall 
 away like the flower on which the sun looks in his strength, after the mildew has 
 passed over it, and its head is heavy with the drops of night. Fn _ 
 
 The sight obtained of the city of Jerusalem by the Christian army, 
 compared to that of land discovered after a long voyage, Tasso's 
 Gierusalem, canto 3. st. 4. The fury of Rinaldo subsiding when 
 not opposed, to that of wind or water when it has a free passage, 
 canto 20. st. 58. 
 
 As wofds convey but a faint and obscure notion of great numbers, 
 
 a poet, to give a lively notion of the object he describes with regard 
 
 to number, does well to compare it to what is familiar and commonly 
 
 known. Thus Homer* compares the Grecian army in point of 
 
 * Book II. 1. 111.
 
 Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 331 
 
 number to a swarm of bees : in another passage* he compares it to 
 that profusion of leaves and flowers which appear in the spring, or 
 of insects in a summer's evening : and Milton, 
 
 As when the potent rod 
 
 Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day, 
 VVav'd round the coast, up call'd a pitchy cloud 
 Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind, 
 That o'er the realm of impious Pharao hung 
 Like night, and darkened all the land of Nile:" 
 So numberless were those bad angels seen, 
 Hovering on win; under the cope of hell, 
 'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires. 
 
 Paradise Lost, B. I. 
 
 Such comparisons have, by some writers,! been condemned for the 
 lowness of the images introduced : but surely without reason ; for, 
 with regard to numbers, they put the principal subject in a strong 
 light. 
 
 The foregoing comparisons operate by resemblance ; others have 
 the same effect by contrast. 
 
 York. I am the last of noble Edward's sons, 
 Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first ; 
 In war, was never lion rag'd more fierce ; 
 In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild ; 
 Than was that young and princely gentleman. 
 His face thou hast, for even so look'd he, 
 Accomplished with the number of thy hours. 
 But when he frown'd it was against the French, 
 And not against his friends. His noble hand 
 Did win what he did spend ; and spent not that 
 Which his triumphant father's hand had won. 
 His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood, 
 But bloody with the enemies of his kin. 
 Oh, Richard ! York is too far gone with grief, 
 Or else he never would compare between. 
 
 Richard II. Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 Milton has a peculiar talent in embellishing the principal subject 
 by associating it with others that are agreeable ; which is the third 
 end of a comparison. Similes of this kind have, beside, a separate 
 effect : they diversify the narration by new images that are not 
 strictly necessary to the comparison : they are short episodes, which, 
 without drawing us from the principal subject, afford great delight 
 by their beauty and variety : 
 
 He scarce had ceas'd, when the superior fiend 
 
 Was moving toward the shore ; his pond'rous shield, 
 
 Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, 
 
 Behind him cast ; the broad circumference 
 
 Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb 
 
 Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views 
 
 At ev'ning from the top of Fesole, 
 
 Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 
 
 Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. 
 
 Thus far these, beyond 
 
 Compare of mortal prowess, yet observ'd 
 Their dread commander. He, above the rest 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 
 * Book II. 1. 551. t See Vidse Poetic, lib. II. 282.
 
 332 COMPARISONS. [Ch. 19. 
 
 Stood like a tow'r ; his form had yet not lost 
 All her original brightness, nor appear'd 
 Less than archangel ruhvd and th' excess 
 Of glory obscur'd : as when the sun new-risen 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air 
 Shorn of his beams ; or from behind the moon 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilights sheds 
 On half the nations, and with fear of change 
 Perplexes raonarchs. Milton, B. I. 
 
 As when a vulture on Imaus bred, 
 Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds, 
 Dislodging from a region scarce of prey 
 To gorge the flesh of lambs, or yeanling kids, 
 On hills where flocks are fed. flic towards the springs 
 Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams, 
 But in his way lights on the barren plains 
 Of Sericana, where Chineses drive 
 With sails and wind their cany wagons light : 
 So on this windy sea of land, the fiend 
 WaUrd up and down alone, bent on his prey. Milton. B. III. 
 
 Yet higher than their tops 
 
 The verdurous wall of paradise up sprung : 
 
 Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
 
 Into this nether empire neighboring round. 
 
 And higher than that wall, a circling row 
 
 Of goodliest trees loaden with fairest fruit, 
 
 Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, 
 
 Appear'd. with gay enamel'd colours mix'd, 
 
 On which the sun more glad impress'd his beams 
 
 Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, 
 
 When God had show'r'd the earth ; so lovely seem'd 
 
 That landscape : and of pure now purer air 
 
 Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
 
 Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
 
 All sadness but despair ; now gentle gales 
 
 Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense 
 
 Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
 
 Those balmy spoils. As when to them who sail 
 
 Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 
 
 Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow 
 
 Sabean odour from the spicy shore 
 
 Of Araby the blest ; with such delay 
 
 Well-pleas : d they slack their course, and many a league 
 
 Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. 
 
 Milton, B. IV. 
 
 With regard to similes of this kind, it will readily occur to the 
 reader, that when a resembling subject is once properly introduced 
 in a simile, the mind is transitorily amused with the new object, 
 and is not dissatisfied with the slight interruption. Thus, in fine 
 weather, the momentary excursions of a traveller for agreeable 
 prospects or elegant buildings, cheer his mind, relieve him from the 
 languor of uniformity, and without much lengthening his journey, 
 in reality, shorten it greatly in appearance. 
 
 Next of comparisons that aggrandize or elevate. These afTect us 
 more than any other sort : the reason of which may be gathered 
 from the chapter of Grandeur and Sublimity; and, without reasoning, 
 will be evident from the following instances : 
 
 As when a flame the winding valley fills, 
 And runs on crackling shrubs between the hills,
 
 Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 333 
 
 Then o'er the stubble, up the mountain flies, 
 Fires the high woods, and blazes to the skies, 
 - This way and that, the spreading torrent roars; 
 So sweeps the hero through the wasted shores. 
 Around nim wide, immense destruction pours, 
 And earth is delug'd with the sanguine show'rs. 
 
 Iliad, XX. 569. 
 
 Through blood, through death, Achilles still proceeds, 
 
 O'er slaughtered heroes, and o'er rolling steeds. 
 
 As when avenging flames with fury dnv'n 
 
 On guilty towns exert the wrath of Heav'n, 
 
 The pale inhabitants, some fall, some fly, 
 
 And the red vapors purple all the sky : 
 
 So raged Achilles ; Death and dire dismay, 
 
 And toils, and terrors, filled the dreadful day. Iliad, XXI. 605. 
 
 Methinks, King Richard and myself should meet 
 With no less terror than the elements 
 Of fire and water, when their thund'ring shock, 
 At meeting, tears the cloudy cheeks of heav'n. 
 
 Richard II. Act HI. Sc. 3. 
 
 As rusheth a foamy stream from the dark shady steep of Cromla, when thunder 
 is rolling above, and dark brown night rests on the hill : so fierce, so vast, so ter- 
 rible, rush forward the sons of Erin. The chief, like a whale of Ocean followed 
 by all its billows, pours valor forth as a stream, rolling its might along the shore. 
 
 Fingal, b. I. 
 
 As roll a thousand waves to a rock, so Swaran's host came on ; as meets a rock 
 a thousand waves, so Inisfail met Swaran. Ibid. 
 
 I beg peculiar attention to the following simile for a reason that 
 shall be mentioned : 
 
 Thus breathing death, in terrible array, 
 
 The close compacted legions urg'd their way : 
 
 Fierce they drove on, impatient to destroy : 
 
 Troy charg'd the first, and Hector first of Troy, 
 
 As from some mountain's craggy forehead torn, 
 
 A rock's round fragment flies with fury borne, 
 
 (Which from the stubborn stone a torrent rends) 
 
 Precipitate the pond'rous mass descends ; 
 
 From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds ; 
 
 At every shock the crackling wood resounds ; 
 
 Still gath'ring force, it smokes ; and urg'd amain, 
 
 Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the olwn : 
 
 There stops So Hector. Their whole force he prov d : 
 
 Resistless when he rag'd ; and when he stopt, unmov d 
 
 Iliad, Alii, lov. 
 
 The image of a falling rock is certainly not elevating;* and yet 
 undoubtedly the foregoing simile fires and swells the mind : it is 
 grand therefore, if not sublime. And the following simile will 
 afford additional evidence, that there is a real, though nice, distinc- 
 tion between these two feelings : 
 
 So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high, 
 Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fel 
 On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight, 
 Nor motion of swift thought, less could his shield 
 Such ruin intercept. Ten paces huge 
 He back recoil ! d ; the tenth on bended knee 
 His massy spear upstaid ; as if on earth 
 * See Chap. IV. 

 
 S34 COMPARISONS. [Ch. 19. 
 
 Winds under ground or waters forcing way, 
 Sidelong had push'd a mountain from his seat 
 Half-sunk with all his pines. Milton, b. VI. 
 
 A comparison "by contrast may contribute to grandeur or elevation, 
 no less than by resemblance ; of which the following comparison 
 of Lucan is a remarkable instance : 
 
 Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Catoni.* 
 
 Considering that the Heathen deities possessed a rank but one 
 degree above that of mankind, I think it would not be easy, by a 
 single expression, to exalt more one of the human species, than is 
 done in this comparison. I am sensible, at the same time, that 
 such a comparison among Christians, who entertain more exalted 
 notions of the Deity, would justly be reckoned extravagant and 
 absurd. 
 
 The last article mentioned, is that of lessening or depressing a 
 hated or disagreeable object ; which is effectually done by resem- 
 bling ,t to any thing low or despicable. Thus Milton, in his 
 desci ' a i:ion of the rout of the rebel-angels, happily expresses their 
 terro' and dismay in the following simile : 
 
 As a herd 
 
 Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd, 
 
 Drove them before him thunder-struck, pursu'd 
 
 With terrors and with furies to the bounds 
 
 And crystal wall of heav'n. which op'ning wide, 
 
 Roll'd inward, and a spacious gap disclos'd 
 
 Into the wasteful deep : the monstrous sight 
 
 Struck them with horror backward, but far worse 
 
 Urg'd them behind ; headlong themselves they threw 
 
 Down from the verge of heav'n. Milton, b. VI. 
 
 In the same view, Homer, I think, may be justified in comparing 
 the shouts of the Trojans in battle to the noise of cranes, f and to the 
 bleating of a flock of sheep : | it is no objection that these are low 
 images ; for it was his intention to lessen the Trojans by opposing 
 their noisy march to the silent and manly march of the Greeks. 
 Addison,^ describing the figure that men make in the sight of a 
 superior being, takes opportunity to mortify their pride by com- 
 paring them to a swarm of pismires. 
 
 A comparison that has none of the good effects mentioned in this 
 discourse, but is built upon common and trifling circumstances, 
 makes a mighty silly figure: 
 
 Non sum nescius, grandia consilia a multis plerumque causis. ceu magna 
 navigia a plurimis remis, impelli.ll Strada, de hello Belgico. 
 
 By this time, I imagine the different purposes of comparison, and 
 the various impressions it makes on the mind, are sufficiently illus- 
 trated by proper examples. This was an easy task. It is more 
 difficult to lay down rules about the propriety or impropriety of 
 
 * The victorious cause pleased the gods, but the vanquished, Cato. 
 t Beginning of book III. 
 $ Book IV.l 498. 
 Guardian, No. 153. 
 
 I I am not ignorant that great designs are impelled by many causes, as are 
 great ships by many oars.
 
 Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 335 
 
 comparison ; in what circumstances they may be introduced, and 
 in what circumstances they are out of place. It is evident that a 
 comparison is not proper on every occasion : a man when cool 
 and sedate, is not disposed to poetical flights, nor to sacrifice 
 truth and reality to imaginary beauties : far less is he so dis- 
 posed when oppressed with care, or interested in some important 
 transaction that engrosses him totally. On the other hand, a man, 
 whn elevated or animated by passion', is disposed to elevate or 
 animate all his objects : he avoids familiar names, exalts objects by 
 circumlocution and metaphor, and gives even life and voluntary 
 action to inanimate beings. In this heat ofmind, the highest poetical 
 flights are indulged, and the boldest similes and metaphors relished.* 
 But without soaring so high, the mind is frequently in a tone to 
 relish chaste and moderate ornament ; such as comparisons that set 
 the principal object in a strong point of view, or that embellish and 
 diversify the narration. In general, when by any animating pas- 
 sion, whether pleasant or painful, an impulse is given to the imagi- 
 nation : we are in that condition disposed to every sort of figurative 
 expression, and in particular to comparisons. This in a great 
 measure is evident from the comparisons already mentioned ; and 
 shall be farther illustrated by other instances. Love, for example, 
 in its infancy, rousing the imagination, prompts the heart to display 
 itself in figurative language, and in similes : 
 
 Truilus. Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love, 
 What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we? 
 Her bed is, India; there she lies, a pearl: 
 Between our Ilium, and where she resides, 
 Let it be call'd the wild and wandering flood ; 
 Ourself the merchant; and the sailing Pandar 
 Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark. 
 
 Troilus and, Cressida, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Come, gentle Night; come, loving black-brow'd Night! 
 Give me my Romeo ; and when he shall die, 
 Take him, and cut him out in little stars, 
 And he will make the face of heav'n so fine. 
 That all the world shall be in love with Night, 
 And pay no worship to the garish Sun. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 The dread of a misfortune, however imminent, involving always some 
 doubt and uncertainty, agitates the mind and excites the imagination ; 
 Wohey. Nay, then, farewell : 
 
 I've touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, 
 
 And from that full meridian of my g' or y 
 
 I haste now to my setting. I shall fall, 
 
 Like a bright exhalation in the evening, 
 
 And no man see me more. Henry VIII Act I 
 
 But it will be a better illustration of the present head, to give 
 examples where comparisons are improperly introduced 
 had already occasion to observe, that similes are not the language 
 
 * It is accordingly observed by Longinus, in his Treatise of the Sublime that 
 the proper time for metaphor, is when the passions are so swelled as 
 like a torrent.
 
 336 COMPARISONS. [Ch. 19. 
 
 of a man in his ordinary state of mind, dispatching his daily and 
 usual work. For that reason, the following speech of a gardener 
 to his servants, is extremely improper : 
 
 Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricots, 
 Which, like unruly children, make their sire 
 Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight : 
 Give some suppprtance to the bending twigs, 
 Go thou ; and like an executioner, 
 Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays, 
 That look too lofty in our commonwealth ;. 
 All must be even in our government. 
 
 Richard II. Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 The fertility of Shakspeare's vein betrays him frequently into this 
 error. There is the same impropriety in another simile of his : 
 
 Hero. Good Margaret, run thee into the parlor ; 
 There shall thou find my cousin Beatrice ; 
 Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula 
 Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse 
 Is all of her ; say that thou overheard'st us : 
 And bid her steal into the pleached bower, 
 Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun, 
 Forbid the sun to enter ; like to favorites, 
 Made proud by princes that advance their pride 
 Against that power that bred it. 
 
 Muck Ado about Nothing, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 Rooted grief, deep anguish, terror, remorse, despair, and all the 
 sevree dispiriting passions, are declared enemies, perhaps not to 
 figurative language in general, but undoubtedly to the pomp and 
 solemnity of comparison. Upon that account, the simile pronounced 
 by young Rutland, under terror of death from an inveterate enemy, 
 and praying mercy, is unnatural : 
 
 So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch 
 That trembles under his devouring paws ; 
 And so he walks insulting o'er his prey, 
 And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder. 
 Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, 
 And not with such a cruel threat'ning look. 
 
 Third Part Henry VI. Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 Nothing appears more out of place, nor more awkwardly introduced, 
 than the following simile : 
 
 L^tcia. Farewell, my Portius, 
 
 Farewell, though death is in the word, for-ever! 
 
 Portius. Stay, Lucia, stay; what dost thou say 1 for-ever'.' 
 
 iMcia. Have I not sworn 1 If, Portius, thy success 
 Must throw thy brother on his fate, farewell. 
 Oh. how shall I repeat the word, for-ever? 
 
 Portius. Thus, o'er the dying lamp th' unsteady flame 
 Hangs quivering on a point, leaps off by fits, 
 And falls again, as loath to quit its hold.* 
 
 Thou must not go, my soul still hovers o'er thee, 
 
 And can't get loose. Goto, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 Nor does the simile which closes the first act of the same tragedy 
 make a better appearance ; the situation there represented being too 
 
 * This simile would have a fine effect pronounced by the chorus in a Greek 
 tragedy.
 
 Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 337 
 
 dispiriting for a simile. A simile is improper for one who dreads 
 the discovery of a secret machination : 
 
 Zara. The mute not yet return'd ! Ha ! 'twas the King, 
 The King that parted hence! frowning he went; 
 His eyes like meteors roll'd, then darted down 
 Their red and angry beams ; as if his sight 
 Would, like the raging Dog-star, scorch the earth, 
 And kindle ruin in its course. 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act V. Sc. 3. 
 
 A man spent and dispirited after losing a battle, is not disposed to 
 heighten or illustrate his discourse by similes : 
 
 York. With this we charg'd again ; but out, alas ! 
 We bodg'd again ; as I have seen a swan 
 With bootless labor swim against the tide, 
 And spend her strength with over-matching waves. 
 Ah ! hark, the fatal followers do pursue ; 
 And I an? faint and cannot fly their fury. 
 The sands are number'd that make up my life ; 
 Here must I stay, and here my life must end. 
 
 Third, Part Henry VI. Act I. Sc. 4. 
 
 Far less is a man disposed to similes who is not only defeated in a 
 pitched battle, but lies at the point of death mortally wounded: 
 
 Warwick. My mangled body shows 
 
 My blood, my want of strength; my sick heart shows 
 That I must yield my body to the earth, 
 And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. 
 Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, 
 Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle ; 
 Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, 
 Whose top-branch over-peer'd Jove's spreading tree, 
 And kept low shrubs from winter's pow'rful wind. 
 
 Third Part Henry VI. Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 Queen Katherme, deserted by the King, and in the deepest afflie 
 tion on her divorce, could not be disposed to any sallies of imagina- 
 tion : and for that reason, the following simile, however beautiful in 
 the mouth of a spectator, is scarcely proper in her own : 
 I am the most unhappy woman living, 
 Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, 
 No friends, no hope ! no kindred weep for me ! 
 Almost no grave allow'd me ! like the lily, 
 That once was mistress of the field, and flourish d, 
 I'll hang my head, and perish..^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ , 
 
 Similes thus unseasonably introduced, are finely ridiculed in the 
 
 Rehearsal. 
 
 Baycs. Now here she must make a simile. 
 
 Smith Where's the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes 1 
 
 Ses. Because she's surprised ; that's a general rule; you must ever make , 
 simile when you are surprised ; 'tis a new way of writu 
 
 A comparison is not always faultless, even where it is properly 
 introduced. I have endeavored above to give a general 
 different ends to whichacomparisonmay contribute, a compnso, 
 like other human productions, may fall short of its aim, of wta 
 defect instances are not rare even among good writers; and to com- 
 29
 
 338 COMPARISONS. [Ch. 19. 
 
 plete the present subject, it will be necessary to make some obser- 
 vations upon such faulty comparisons. I begin with observing, that 
 nothing can be more erroneous than to institute a comparison too 
 faint : a distant resemblance or contrast fatigues the mind with its 
 obscurity, instead of amusing it : and tends not to fulfil any one end 
 of a comparison. The following similes seem to labor under this 
 defect. 
 
 Albus ut obscuro deterget nubila coelo 
 
 Ssepe Notus, neque parturit imbres 
 
 Perpetuos : sic tu sapiens imire memento 
 
 Tristitiam, vitseque labores, 
 
 Molli, Plance, mere. Horat. Carm. \. I. ode 7. 
 
 As the white south at times serenes the skies, 
 Nor are his gathering showers for ever rife. 
 So thou, oh Plancus, 'gainst thy cares be wise ; 
 With mellow wine dismiss the toils of life. 
 
 Medio dux agmine Turnus 
 
 Vertitur arma tenens. et toto vertice supra est. 
 
 Ceu septem surgens sedatis amnibus alms 
 
 Per taciturn Ganges : aut pingui flumine Nilus 
 
 Cum refluit campis, et jam se condidit alveo. jEneid, IX. 28. 
 
 In the main battle, with his flaming crest, 
 The mighty Turnus towers above the rest 
 Silent they move, majestically slow, 
 Like ebbing Nile, or Ganges in his flow. 
 
 Talibus orabat, talesque miserrima fletus 
 Fertque refertque soror : sed nullis ille movetur 
 Fletibus, aut voces ullas tractabilis audit. 
 Fata obstant : placidasque viri Deus obstruit aures. 
 Ac veluti annoso validam cum robore quercum 
 Alpini Boreas, nunc hinc, nunc flatibus illinc 
 Eruere inter se certant : it stridor, et alte 
 Consternunt terrain concusso stipite frondes : 
 Ipsa hseret scopulis : et quantum vertice ad auras 
 jEthereas, tantum radice in Tartara tendit. 
 Haud secus assiduis hinc atque hinc vocibus heros 
 Tunditur, et magno persentit pectore curas : 
 Mens immota manet, lacrymse volvuntur inanes. 
 
 JEneid, IV. 437. 
 
 This mournful message pious Anna bears 
 
 And seconds, with her own, her sister's tears; 
 
 But all her arts are still employed in vain, 
 
 Again she comes, and is refused again. 
 
 His hardened heart, nor prayers nor threatnings more, 
 
 Fate and the Gods had stopped his ears to love. 
 
 As when the winds their airy quarrel try 
 
 Justling from every quarter of the sky, 
 
 This way and that the mountain oak they bend, 
 
 His boughs they shatter, and his branches rend, 
 
 With leaves and falling masts they spread the ground. 
 
 The hollow vallies echo to the sound : 
 
 Unmoved the royal plant their fury mocks, 
 
 Or, shaken, clings more closely to the rocks : 
 
 Far as he shoots his towering head on high, 
 
 So deep in earth his fix'd foundations lie. 
 
 No less a storm the Trojan hero bears, 
 
 Thick messages and loud complaints he hears, 
 
 And bandied words still beating on his ears.
 
 Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 339 
 
 Sighs, groans, and tears, proclaim his inward pains, 
 But the firm purpose of his heart remains. 
 
 K. Rich: Give me the crown. Here. Cousin, seize the crown, 
 Here, on this side, my hand : on that side, thine. 
 Now is this golden crown like a deep well, 
 That owes two buckets, filling one another ; 
 The emptier ever dancing in the air, 
 The other down, unseen and full of water : 
 That bucket down, and full of tears, am I, 
 Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high. 
 
 Richard II. Act IV. Sc. 1. 
 
 K. John. Oil ! Cousin, thou art come to set mine eye ; 
 The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burnt; 
 And all the shrowds wherewith my life should sail, 
 Are turned to one thread, one little hair : 
 My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, 
 Which holds but till thy news be uttered. 
 
 King John, Act V. Sc. 7. 
 
 York. My uncles both are slain in rescuing me : 
 And all my followers, to the eager foe 
 Turn back, and fly like ships before the wind, 
 Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves. 
 
 Third Part, Henry VI. Act I. Sc. 4. 
 
 A he latter of the two similes is good : the former, by its faintness of 
 resemblance, has no effect but to load the narration with an useless 
 image. 
 
 The next error I shall mention is a capital one. In an epic poem, 
 or in a poem upon any elevated subject, a writer ought to avoid rais- 
 ing a simile on a low image, which never fails to bring down the 
 principal subject. In general, it is a rule, that a grand object ought 
 never to be resembled to one that is diminutive, however delicate 
 the resemblance may be ; for it is the peculiar character of a grand 
 object to fix the attention, and swell the mind ; in which state, to 
 contract it to a minute object, is unpleasant. The resembling of an 
 object to one that is greater, has, on the contrary, a good effect, by 
 raising or swelling the mind : for one passes with satisfaction from 
 a small to a great object; but cannot be drawn down, without reluc 
 tance, from great to small. Hence the following similes are faulty 
 
 Meanwhile the troops beneath Patroclus' care, 
 Invade the Trojans, and commence the war. 
 As wasps, provok'd by children in their play. 
 Pour from their mansions by the broad highway, 
 In swarms the guiltless traveller engage, 
 Whet all their stings, and call forth all their rage 
 All rise in arms, and with a general cry 
 Assert their waxen domes, and buzzing progeny : 
 Thus from the tents the fervent legion swarms, 
 So loud their clamors, and so keen their amis. 
 
 XVI. .51.2. 
 
 So burns the vengeful hornet (soul all o'er) 
 Repuls'd in vain, and thirsty still of gore; 
 (Bold son of air and heat) on angry wings 
 Untam'd, untir'd, he turns, attacks, and stings. 
 Fir'd with like ardor fierce At rides flew, 
 And sent his soul with ev'ry lance he threw. 
 
 Mtad, XVII.
 
 340 COMPARISONS. [Ch. 19. 
 
 Instant ardentes Tyrii : pars ducere muros, 
 Molirique arcem, et manibus subvolvere saxa : 
 Pars aptare locum tecto, et concludere sulco. 
 Jura magistratusque legunt, sanctumque senatum. 
 Hie portus alii enbdiunt : hie alta theatris 
 Fundamenta locant alii, immanesque coiumnas 
 Rupibus excidunt, scenis decora alta futuris. 
 dualis apes aestate nova per florea rura 
 Exercet sub sole labor, cum gentis adultos 
 Educunt foetus, aut cum liquentia melia 
 Stipant, et dulci distendunt nectare cellas. 
 Aut onera accipiunt venientum, aut agmine facto 
 Ignavum fucos pecus a prsesepibus arcent. 
 Fervet opus, redolentque thymo fragrantia mella. 
 
 JEneid, I. 427. 
 
 The toiling Tyrians on each other call, 
 To ply their labor ; some extend the wall ; 
 Some build the citadel ; the brawny thong 
 Or dig or push unwieldy stones along. 
 Some for their dwelling choose a spot of ground, 
 Which, first design'd, with ditches they surround. 
 Some laws ordain and some attend the choice 
 Of holy senate, and elect by voice. 
 Here, some design a mole, while others there 
 Lay deep foundations for a theatre, 
 From marble quarries mighty columns hew 
 For ornaments of scenes and future view. 
 Such is their toil, and such their busy pains, 
 As exercise the bees in flowery plains, 
 When winter past, and summer scarce begun, 
 Invites them forth to labor in the sun : 
 Some lead their youth abroad, while some condense 
 Their liquid store, and some in cells dispense : 
 Some at the gate stand ready to receive 
 The golden burden, and their friends relieve : 
 All with united force combine to drive 
 The lazy drones from the laborious hive. 
 With envy stung they view each other's deeds ; 
 The fragrant work with diligence proceeds. 
 
 To describe bees gathering honey as resembling the builders of 
 Carthage, would have a much better effect.* 
 
 Turn vero Teucri incumbunt, et littore celsas 
 
 Deducunt toto naves : natat uncta carina ; 
 
 Frondentesque ferunt remos, et robora sylvis 
 
 Infabricata, fugae studio. 
 
 Migrantes cernas, totaque ex urbe ruentes. 
 
 Ac veluti ingentem formicse farris acervum 
 
 Cum populant, hyemis memores, tectoque reponunt: 
 
 It nigrum campis agmen, praedamque per herbas 
 
 Convectant calle angusto : pars grandia trudunt 
 
 Obnixse frumenta humeris : pars agmina cogunt, 
 
 Castigantque moras : opere omnk semita fervet. 
 
 Mneid, IV. 397. 
 
 They with early care 
 
 Unmoor their vessels, and for sea prepare. 
 The fleet is soon afloat, in all its pride ; 
 And well caulked galleys in the harbor ride. 
 Then oaks for oars they felled ; or, as they stood, 
 Of its green arms despoiled the growing wood, 
 
 * And accordingly Demetrius Phalerius (of Elocution, sect. 85.) observes, that 
 it has a better effect to compare small things to great than great things to small.
 
 Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 341 
 
 Studious of flight. The beach is covered o'er 
 With Trojan bands that blacken all the shore 
 On every side are seen, descending down, 
 Thick swarms of soldiers, loaden from the town. 
 Thus, in battalia, march embodied ants, 
 Fearless of winter, and of future wants 
 T'invade the corn, and to their cells convey 
 The plundered forage of their yellow prey. 
 The sabte troops, along the narrow traclfs, 
 Scarce bear the weighty burden on their backs. 
 Some set their shoulders to the pond'rous grain ; 
 Some guard the spoil, some lash the lagging train : 
 All ply their several tasks, and equal toil sustain. 
 
 The following simile has not any one beauty to recommend it. 
 The subject is Amata, the wife of King Latinus. 
 
 Turn vero infelix, ingentibus excita monstris, 
 Immensam sine more furit lymphata per urbem : 
 Ceu quondam torto volitans sub verbere turbo, 
 GLuem pueri magno in gyro vacua atria circum 
 Intent! ludo exercent. Ifle actus habena 
 Curvatis fertur spatiis : stupet inscia turba, 
 Impubesque manus, mirata volubile buxum ; 
 Dant animos plagae. Non cursu segnior illo 
 Per medias urbes agitur, populosque feroces. 
 
 JSneid,yil. 376. 
 
 She flew to rage ; for now the snake possess'd 
 Her vital parts, and poisoned all her breast. 
 She raves she runs with a distracted pace, 
 And fills, with horrid howls, the public place. 
 And, as young striplings whip the top for sport, 
 On the smooth pavement of an empty court ; 
 The wooden engine flies and whirls about, 
 Admired, with clamors, of the beardless rout: 
 They lash aloud each other they provoke, 
 And lend their little souls at every stroke : 
 Thus fares the queen ; and thus her fury blows 
 Amidst the crowd, and kindles as she goes. 
 
 This simile seems to border upon the burlesque. 
 
 An error, opposite to the former, is the introducing of a resem- 
 bling image, so elevated or great as to bear no proportion to the 
 principal subject. Their remarkable disparity, seizing the mind 
 never fails to depress the principal subject by contrast, instead of 
 raising it by resemblance: and if the disparity be very great, 
 simile degenerates into burlesque ; nothing being more ridic 
 than to force an object out of its proper rank in nature, by _ equa 
 it with one greatly superior or greatly inferior, 
 dent, from the following comparisons. 
 
 Fervet opus, redolentque thymp fragrantia mella. 
 Ac veluti lentis Cyclopes fulmina massis 
 Cum properant : alii taurinis follibus auras 
 Accipumt, redduntque: alii stridentia tingunt 
 ^Era lacu ; gemit impositis incudibus ./Etna: 
 Illi inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt 
 In numerum ; versantque tenaci forcipe fcrrum. 
 Non aliter (si parva licet componere magi 
 Cecropias innatus apes amor urget habendi, 
 Munere quamque suo. Grandaevis oppida cur*, 
 Et munire favos, et Dasdala fingere tecta. 
 29*
 
 342 COMPARISONS. iCh. 13. 
 
 At fessae multa referunt se nocte minores, 
 Crura thymo plenae: pascuntur et arbuta passim, 
 Et glaucas salices, casiamque crocumque rubentem, 
 Et pinguem tiliam, et fermgineos hyacinthos. 
 Omnibus una quies operum, labor omnibus unus. 
 
 Georgic. IV. 169. 
 
 With diligence the fragrant work proceeds, 
 As whenlhe Cyclopes, at th ! almighty nod, 
 New thunder hasten for their angry god, 
 Subdued in fire the stubborn metal lies ; 
 One brawny smith the puffing bellows plies, 
 And draws and blows reciprocating air ; 
 Others to quench the hissing mass prepare ; 
 With lifted arms they order every blow, 
 And chime their sounding hammers in a row, 
 With labored anvils JEtna. groans below. 
 Strongly they strike, huge flakes of flames expire, 
 With tongs they turn the steel, and vex it in the fire. 
 If little things with great we may compare, 
 Such are the bees, and such their busy care, 
 Studious of honey, each in his degree 
 The youthful swain, the grave experienced bee 
 That, in the field, this, in affairs of state. 
 Employed at home, abides within the gate, 
 To fortify the combs, to build the wall, 
 To prop the ruins lest the fabric fall : 
 But. late at night, with weary pinions come 
 The laboring youth, and heavy-laden home. 
 Plains, meads, and orchards, all the day he plies, 
 The gleans of yellow thyme distend his thighs: 
 He spoils the saffron flowers, he sips the blues 
 Of violets, wilding blooms, and willow dews. 
 Their toil is common, common is their sleep. 
 
 The Cyclopes make a better figure in the following simile: 
 
 The Thracian leader prest, 
 
 With eager courage, far before the rest ; 
 
 Him Ajax met. inflam'd with equal rage : 
 
 Between the wond'ring hosts the chiefs engage ; 
 
 Their weighty weapons round their heads they throw, 
 
 And swift, and heavy, falls each thund'ring blow. 
 
 As when in ./Etna's "caves the giant brood, 
 
 The one-eyed servants of the Lemnian god, 
 
 In order round the burning anvil stand, 
 
 And forge, with weighty strokes, the forked brand 
 
 The shaking hills their fervid toils confess, 
 
 And echoes rattling through each dark recess : 
 
 So rag'd the fight. 
 
 Epigomod, B. 8. 
 
 Turn Bitian ardentem oculis animisque frementem ; 
 Non jaculo. neque enim jaculo vitam ille dedisset ; 
 Sed magnum stridens contorta falarica venit 
 Fulmims acta modo, quam nee duo taurea terga, 
 Nee duplici squama lorica fidelis et auro 
 Sustinuit : collapsa ruunt immania membra: 
 Dat tellus gemitum, et clypeum super intonat ingens. 
 dualis in Euboico Baiarum littore quondam 
 Saxea pila cadit, magnis quam molibus ante 
 Constructam jaciunt ponto : sic ilia ruinam 
 Prona trahit. penitusque vadis illisa recumbit : 
 Miscent se maria, et m'grce attolluntur arenas:
 
 Ch. 19.] 
 
 COMPARISONS. 
 
 343 
 
 Turn sonitu Prochyta alta tremit, duramquc cubile 
 Inarime Jovis imperils imposta TyphoSo. 
 
 jEneid, IX. 703. 
 
 ; The gigantic size 
 
 Of Bitias, threatening with his ardent eyes. 
 
 Not by the feeble dart he fell oppressed, 
 
 (A dart was lost within that roomy breast,) 
 
 But from a knotted lance, large, heavy, strong, 
 
 Which roared like thunder as it whirl'd along ; 
 
 Not two bull-hides the impetuous force withhold, 
 
 Nor coat of double mail with scales of gold. 
 
 Down sunk the monster-bulk, and press'd the ground, 
 
 (His arms and clattering shield on the vast body sound,) 
 
 Nor with less ruin than the Baian mole, 
 
 Raised on the seas, the surges to control, 
 
 At once come tumbling down the rocky wall 
 
 Prone to the deep the stones disjointed fall 
 
 Of the vast pile the scattered ocean flies, 
 
 Black sands, discolored froth, and mingled mud arise; 
 
 The frighted billows roll, and seek the shores 
 
 Then trembles Prochyta, then Ischia roars, 
 
 Typhoeus, thrown beneath by Jove's command, 
 
 Astonished at the flaw that shakes the land, 
 
 Soon shifts his weary side, and scarce awake, 
 
 With wonder feels the weight press lighter on his back. 
 
 Loud as a bull makes hill and valley ring, 
 So roar'd the lock when it releas'd the spring. 
 
 Odyssey, XXI. 51. 
 
 Such a simile upon the simplest of all actions, that of opening a door, 
 is pure burlesque. 
 
 A writer of delicacy will avoid drawing his comparisons from 
 any image that is nauseous, ugly, or remarkably disagreeable : for, 
 however strong the resemblance may be, more will be lost than 
 gained by such comparison. Therefore I cannot help condemning, 
 though with some reluctance, the following simile, or rather meta- 
 phor : 
 
 O thou fond many ! with what loud applause 
 Didst thou beat heav'n with blessing Bolingbroke 
 Before he was what thou would'st have him be 7 
 And now being trimm'd up in thine own desires, 
 Thou, beastly feeder, an so full of him, 
 That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up. 
 And so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge 
 Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard, 
 And now thou would'st eat thy dead vomit up, 
 And howPst to find it. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 The strongest objection that can lie against a comparison is, that 
 it consists in words only, not in sense. Such false coin, or bastard 
 wit, does extremely well in burlesque ; but is far below the dignity 
 of the epic, or of any serious composition : 
 
 The noble sister of Publicola, 
 The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle 
 That's curled by the frost from purest snow, 
 And hangs on Dian's temple. 
 
 Coriolanus, Act V. Sc. 3. 
 
 There is evidently no resemblance between an icicle and a woman,
 
 344 COMPARISONS. [Ch. 19. 
 
 chaste or unchaste : but chastity is cold in a metaphorical sense, 
 and an icicle is cold in a proper sense : and this verbal resemblance, 
 in the hurry and glow of composing, has been thought a sufficient 
 foundation for the simile. Such phantom similes are mere witticisms, 
 which ought to have no quarter, except where purposely introduced 
 to provoke laughter. Lucian, in his dissertation upon history, talking 
 of a certain author, makes the following comparison, which is verbal 
 merely : 
 
 This author's descriptions are so cold that they surpass the Caspian snow, and 
 all the ice of the north. 
 
 Virgil has not escaped this puerility: 
 
 Galatheea thymo mihi dulcior Hyblse. 
 
 Bucol. VII. 37. 
 Galatea, sweeter to me than Hyblean thyme. 
 
 Ego Sardois videar tibi amarior herbis. 
 
 Ibid. 41. 
 I may appear more bitter to thee than Sardian herbs. 
 
 Gallo, cujus amor tantum mihi crescit in horas, 
 Quantum vere novo viridis se subjicit alnus. - 
 
 Bucol. X. 37 
 
 Gallus, for whom my love increases hourly, as the green alder subjects itself to 
 the new spring. 
 
 Nor Boileau, the chastest of all writers ; and that even in his art of 
 
 poetry : 
 
 Ainsi tel autrefois, qu'on vit avec Faret 
 Charbonner de ses vers les murs d'un cabaret, 
 S'en va ma] a propos d : une voix insolente, 
 Chanter du peuple Hebreu la fuite triomphant* 
 Et poursuivant Moise au travers des deserts, 
 Court avec Pharaon se noyer dans les mers. 
 
 Chant 1. 1. 21. 
 
 Mais allons voir le Vrai, jusqu'en sa source me'me. 
 Un devot aux yeux creux, et d'abstinence bleme. 
 S'il n'a point le cceur juste, est affreux devant Dieu. 
 L'Evangile au Chretien ne dit, en aucun lieu, 
 Sois devot: elle dit, Sois doux, simple, equitable: 
 Car d'un devot souvent au Chr6tien veritable 
 La distance est deux fois plus longue, a mon avis, 
 due du Pole Antarctique au Detroit de Davis. 
 
 Boileau, Satire XL 
 
 But for their spirits and souls 
 
 This word rebellion had froze them up 
 As fish are in a pond. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Queen. The pretty vaulting sea refus'd to drown me ; 
 Knowing, that thou would'st have me dro\yn'd on shore ; 
 With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness. 
 
 Second Part Henry VI. Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 Here there is no manner of resemblance but in the word drown ; 
 fo'r there is no real resemblance between being drowned at sea, and 
 dying of grief at land. But perhaps this sort of tinsel wit may have 
 a propriety in it, when used to express an affected, not a real passion, 
 which was the Queen's case. 
 
 Pope has several similes of the same stamp. I shall transcribe
 
 Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 345 
 
 one or two from the Essay on Man, the gravest and most instructive 
 of all his performances : 
 
 And hence one master passion in the breast, 
 
 Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. Epist. II. 1. 131. 
 
 And again, talking of this same ruling or master passion : 
 
 Nature its mother, habit is its nurse ; 
 
 Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse ; 
 
 Reason itself but gives it edge and power ; 
 
 As heav'n's bless'd beam turns vinegar more sour. Ib. 1. 145. 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke, speaking of historians : 
 
 Where their sincerity as to fact is doubtful, we strike out truth by the confronta- 
 tion of different accounts; as we strike out sparks of fire by the collision of flints 
 and steel. 
 
 Let us vary the phrase a very little, and there will not remain a 
 shadow of resemblance. Thus, 
 
 We discover truth by the confrontation of different accounts ; as we strike out 
 sparks of fire by the collision of flints and steel. 
 
 Racine makes Pyrrhus say to Andromaque, 
 
 Vaincu, charge de fers, de regrets consume, 
 Brule de plus de feux que je n'en allumai, 
 Helas ! fus-je jamais si cruel que vous I'Stes ! 
 
 And Orestes in the same strain : 
 
 due les Scythes sont moinscruelsqu' Hermoine. 
 Similes of this kind put one in mind of a ludicrous French song : 
 
 Je croyois Janneton 
 Aussi douce que belle : 
 Je croyois Janneton 
 Plus douce qu'un mouton ; 
 
 Helas! Helas! 
 
 Elle est cent fois, mille fois, plus cruelle 
 due n'est le tigre aux bois. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Helas ! 1'amour m'a pris, 
 Comme le chat fait la souris. 
 
 A vulgar Irish ballad begins thus : 
 
 I have as much love in store 
 As there's apples in Portmore. 
 
 Where the subject is burlesque or ludicrous, such similes are far 
 from being improper. Horace says pleasantly, 
 duanquam tu levior cortice.* 
 
 And Shakspeare, 
 
 In breaking oaths he's stronger than Hercules. 
 
 And this leads me to observe, that beside the foregoing compari- 
 sons, which are all serious, there is a species, the end and purpose 
 of which is to excite gayety or mirth. Take the following example 
 
 Falstaff, speaking to his page : 
 
 Although you are of less value than the rind. 
 
 .
 
 346 COMPARISONS. [Ch. 19. 
 
 I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer ; but for his verity in love, I 
 do think him as concave as a covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut. 
 
 As You Like It, Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 This sword a dagger had his page, 
 That was but little for his age ; 
 And therefore waited on him so, 
 As dwarfs upon knights-errant do. 
 
 Hudibras, Canto I. 
 
 Description of Hudibras's horse : 
 
 He was well stay'd, and in his gait 
 
 Preserv'd a grave, majestic state. 
 
 At spur or switch no more he skipt. 
 
 Or mended pace than Spaniard whipt : 
 
 And yet so fiery, he would bound 
 
 As if he griev'd to touch the ground : 
 
 That Caesar's horse, who, as fame goes, 
 
 Had corns upon his feet and toes, 
 
 Was not by half so tender hooft, 
 
 Nor trod upon the ground so soft. 
 
 And as that beast would kneel and stoop, 
 
 (Some write) to take his rider up ; 
 
 So Hudibras his ('tis well known) 
 
 Would often do to set him down. Canto I. 
 
 Honor is, like a widow won 
 
 With brisk attempt and putting on, 
 
 With entering manfully and urging ; 
 
 Not slow approaches, like a virgin. Canto I. 
 
 The sun had long since in the lap 
 
 Of Thetis taken out his nap ; 
 
 And, like a lobster boiPd, the morn 
 
 From black to red began to turn. Part II. Canto II. 
 
 Books, like men their authors, have but one way of coming into the world j 
 but there are ten thousand to go out of it, and return no more. Tale of a Tub. 
 
 And in this the world may perceive the difference between the integrity of a 
 generous author, and that of a common friend. The latter is observed to adhere 
 close in prosperity ; but on the decline of fortune, to drop suddenly off: whereas 
 the generous author, just on the contrary, finds his hero on the dunghill, from 
 thence by gradual steps raises him to a throne, and then immediately withdraws, 
 expecting not so much as thanks for his pains. Ibid. 
 
 The most accomplished way of using books at present is, to serve them as some 
 do lords, learn their titles, and then brag of their acquaintance. Ibid. 
 
 Box'd in a chair, the. beau impatient sits, 
 While spouts run clatt'ring o er the roof by fits 
 And ever and anon with frightful din 
 The leather sounds ; he trembles from within. 
 So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, 
 Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed, 
 (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, 
 Instead of paying chairmen run them through,) 
 Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, 
 And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear. 
 
 Description of a City Shower. Swift. 
 
 Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, 
 With throngs promiscuous strow the level green. 
 Thus when dispers'd a routed army runs, 
 Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, 
 With like confusion, different nations fly, 
 Of various habit, and of various dye,
 
 Ch. 20.] FIGURES. 347 
 
 The pierc'd battalions disunited, fall 
 
 In heaps on heaps ; one fate o'erwhelms them all. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, Canto III. 
 He does not consider that sincerity in love is as much out of fashion as sweet 
 snuff; nobody takes it now. Careless Husband. 
 
 - Lady Easy. My dear, I am afraid you have provoked her a little too far. 
 
 Sir Charles. O ! not at all. You shall see, I'll sweeten her, and she'll cool like 
 a dish of tea. ibid. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 FIGURES. 
 
 The bestowing of sensibility and voluntary motion upon inanimate things, a bold 
 figure Illustrations Personification of two kinds The former attended with 
 conviction Abstract terms not well adapted to poetry The difficulty of dis- 
 tinguishing between descriptive personification and a figure of speech Dis- 
 piriting passions unfavorable to passionate personification Passionate per- 
 inification to be exclusively confined to the gratification of the passion 
 'escriptive personification The writer always to confine himself to easy 
 __ iersonification Personification of low objects, ridiculous The same remark 
 applicable to abstract terms Terms of dignity excepted Preparation neces- 
 sary to personification Descriptive personification to be especially restrained 
 within due bounds Descriptive personification to be dispatched in few words. 
 
 THE endless variety of expressions brought under the head of 
 tropes and figures by ancient critics and grammarians, makes it 
 evident, that they had no precise criterion for distinguishing tropes 
 and figures from plain language. It was, accordingly, my opinion, 
 that little could be made of them in the way of rational criticism ; 
 till discovering, by a sort of accident, that many of them depend on 
 principles formerly explained, I gladly embrace the opportunity to 
 show the influence of these principles where it would be the least 
 expected. Confining myself, therefore, to such figures, I am luckily 
 freed from much trash; without dropping, as far as I remember, 
 any trope or figure that merits a proper name. And I begin with 
 Prosopopoeia or personification, which is justly entitled to the first 
 place. 
 
 SECTION I. PERSONIFICATION. 
 
 THE bestowing of sensibility and voluntary motion upon things 
 inanimate, is so bold a figure, as to require, one should imagine, 
 very peculiar circumstances for operating the delusion : and yet, in 
 the language of poetry, we find variety of expressions, which, though 
 commonly reduced to that figure, are used without ceremony, or 
 any sort of preparation ; as, for example, thirsty ground, hungry 
 church-yard, furious dart, angry ocean. These epithets, in then 
 proper meaning, are attributes of sensible beings : what is their 
 meaning when applied to things inanimate? do they make us con- 
 ceive the ground, the churchyard, the dart, the ocean, to be endued 
 with .animal functions ? This is a curious inquiry ; and whether 
 so or not, it cannot be declined in handling the present subject.
 
 348 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 The mind, agitated by certain passions, is prone to bestow sensi- 
 bility, upon things inanimate.* This is an additional instance of 
 the influence of passion upon our opinions and belief, f I give 
 examples. Antony, mourning over the body of Caesar murdered in 
 the senate-house, vents his passion in the following words : 
 
 Antony. O pardon me thou bleeding piece of earth, 
 4 That I am meek and gentle with these butchers. 
 Thou art the ruins of the noblest man 
 That ever lived in the tide of time. 
 
 Julius Casar, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 Here Antony must have been impressed with a notion, that the body 
 of Caesar was listening to him, without which the speech would be 
 foolish and absurd. Nor will it appear strange, considering what 
 is said in the chapter above cited, that passion should have such 
 power over the mind of man. In another example of the same kind, 
 the earth, as a common mother, is animated to give refuge against a 
 father's unkindness : 
 
 Almeria. O Earth, behold, I kneel upon thy bosom, 
 And bend my flowing eyes to stream upon 
 Thy face, imploring thee that thou wilt yield ! 
 Open thy bowels of compassion, take 
 Into thy womb the last and most forlorn 
 Of all thy race. Hear me, thou common parent ; 
 
 1 have no parent else. Be thou a mother, 
 
 And step between me and the curse of him, 
 Who was who was, but is no more a father ; 
 But brands my innocence with horrid crimes : 
 And for the tender names of child and daughter, 
 Now calls me murderer and parricide. 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act IV. Sc. 7. 
 
 Plaintive passions are extremely solicitous for vent ; and a solilo- 
 quy commonly answers the purpose : but when such passion 
 becomes excessive, it cannot be gratified but by sympathy from 
 others ; and if denied that consolation in a natural way, it will con- 
 vert even things inanimate into sympathising beings. Thus Phi- 
 loctetes complains to the rocks and promontories of the isle of Lem- 
 nos ; \ and Alcestes dying, invokes the sun, the light of day, the 
 clouds, the earth, her husband's palace, &c. Moschus, lamenting 
 the death of Bion, conceives, that the birds, the fountains, the trees, 
 lament with him. The shepherd, who in Virgil bewails the death 
 of Daphnis, expresseth himself thus : 
 
 Daphni, tuum Pcenos etiam ingemuisse leones 
 
 Inwritum, montesque feri sylvseque loquuntur. Eclogue V. 27. 
 
 The death of Daphnis woods and hills deplore, 
 They cast the sound to Lybia's desert shore; 
 The Lybian lions hear, and hearing roar. 
 Again : 
 
 Ilium etiam lauri, ilium etiam flevere myricas. 
 
 Pinifer ilium etiam sola sub rupejacentem 
 
 Masnalus, et gelidi fleverunt saxa Lycaei Eclogue X. 13. 
 
 * Page 335. * Philoctetes of Sophocles, Act IV. Sc. 2. 
 
 t Chap. 2. part 5. 5 Alcestes of Euripides, Act II. Sc. 1.
 
 Sect. l.J FIGURES. 349 
 
 For him the lofty laurel stands in tears, 
 And hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears. 
 Maenalean pines the godlike swain bemoan, 
 When spread beneath a rock, he sighed alone ; 
 And cold Lycus wept from every dropping stone. 
 
 That such personification is derived from nature, will not admit 
 the least remaining doubt, after finding it in poems of the darkest 
 ages and remotest countries. No figure is more frequent in Ossian'; 
 works ; for example : 
 
 The battle is over, said the king, and I behold the blood of my friends. Sad is 
 the heath of Lena, and mournful the oaks of Cromla. 
 
 Again : 
 The sword of Gaul trembles at his side, and longs to glitter in his hand. 
 
 King Richard having got intelligence of Bolingbroke's invasion, 
 says, upon landing in England from his Irish expedition, in a mixture 
 of*fby and resentment : 
 
 -I weep for joy 
 
 To stand upon my kingdom once again. 
 Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, 
 Though rebels wound thee with their horses', hoofs. 
 As a long parted mother with her child 
 Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting; 
 So weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, 
 And do thee favor with my royal hands. 
 Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth, 
 Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense 
 But let thy spiders that suck up thy venom, 
 And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way ; 
 Doing annoyance to the treach'rous feet, 
 Which with usurping steps do trample thee. 
 Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies ; 
 And, when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, 
 Guard it, I pr'ythee, with a lurking adder ; 
 Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch 
 Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies. 
 jMock not my senseless conjuration, lords : 
 This earth shall have a feeling ; and these stones 
 Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king 
 Shall falter under foul rebellious arms. 
 
 Richard II. Ad III. Sc. 1. 
 
 After a long voyage it was customary among the ancients to 
 salute the natal soil. A long voyage being of old a greater 
 prise than at present, the safe return to one's country after ra 
 fatigue and danger, was a delightful circumstance ; and 
 natural to give the natal soil a temporary life, m order to sym 
 thise with the traveller. See an example, Agamemnon of JE& 
 Act III. in the beginning. Regret for leaving a place 
 has been accustomed, has the same effect.* 
 
 Terror produces the same effect : it is communicate 
 to every thing around, even to things inanimate : 
 Speaking of Polyphemus, 
 
 Clamorem immensum tollit, quo pontus et omnes 
 Intremuere undae, penitusque externta tellus 
 
 >neidm.( 
 
 30
 
 350 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 With that he roared aloud, the dreadful cry 
 Shakes earth, and air, and seas; the billows fly 
 Before the bellowing noise to distant Italy. 
 
 As when old Ocean roars. 
 
 And heaves huge surges to the trembling shores. Iliad,, II. 249. 
 Go view the settling sea. The stormy wind is laid ; but the billows still trem- 
 ble on the deep, and seem to fear the blast. Fingal. 
 
 Racine, in the tragedy of Phedra, describing the sea-monster that 
 destroyed Hippolytus, conceives the sea itself to be struck with ter- 
 ror as well as the spectators : 
 
 Le flot qui 1'apporta recule epouvante. 
 
 A man also naturally communicates his joy to all objects arouud, 
 animate or inanimate : 
 
 As when to them who sail 
 
 Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 
 
 Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow 
 
 Sabean odor from the spicy shore 
 
 Of Araby the Blest; with such delay 
 
 Well pleas'd, they slack their course, and many a league 
 
 Cheer d with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles. Paradise Lost, b. IV. 
 
 I have been profuse of examples, to show what power many pas- 
 sions have to animate their objects. In all the foregoing examples, 
 the personification, if I mistake not, is so complete as to afford con- 
 viction, momentary indeed, of life and intelligence. But it is evi- 
 dent, from numberless instances, that personification is not always so 
 complete : it is a common figure in descriptive poetry, understood to 
 be the language of the writer, and not of the persons he describes : in 
 this case, it seldom or never comes up to conviction, even momentary, 
 of life and intelligence. I give the following examples. 
 
 First in Ms east the glorious lamp was seen, 
 
 Regent of dav, and all th' horizon round 
 
 Invested with bright rays ; jocund to run 
 
 His longitude through heav'n's high road : the gray 
 
 Dawn and the Pleiades before him danc'd, 
 
 Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the moon, 
 
 But opposite, in levell'd west was set 
 
 His mirror, with full face borrowing her light 
 
 From kirn ; for other flight she needed none. 
 
 Paradise, Lost, b. VII. 1. 370.t 
 
 Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day 
 Stands tiptoe on the rnisty mountain-tops. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, Act III. Sc. 5. 
 
 But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad. 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill. 
 
 Hamlet. Act I. Sc. I. 
 
 It may, I presume, be taken for granted, that in the foregoing instan- 
 ces, the personification, either with the poet or his reader, amounts 
 not to a conviction of intelligence : that the sun, the moon, the day, 
 the morn, are not here understood to be sensible beings. What then 
 
 * Philoctetes of Sophocles, at the close. 
 
 t The chastity of the English language, which in common \isage distinguishes 
 by genders no words but what signify beings male and female, gives thus a fine 
 opportunity for the prosopopoeia ; a beauty unknown in other languages, where 
 every word is masculine or feminine.
 
 Sect. 1.] FIGURES. 351 
 
 is the nature of this personification? I think it must be referred to 
 the imagination : the inanimate object is imagined to be a sensible 
 being, but without any conviction, even for a moment, that it really 
 is so. Ideas or fictions of imagination have power to raise emotions 
 in the mind ;* and when any thing inanimate is, in imagination, 
 supposed to be a sensible being, it makes by that means a greater 
 figure than when an idea is formed of it according to truth. This 
 sow. of personification, however, is far inferior to the other in eleva- 
 tion. Thus personification is of two kinds. The first, being more 
 noble, may be termed passionate personification : the other, more 
 humble, descriptive personification ; because seldom or never is per- 
 sonification in a description carried to conviction. 
 
 The imagination is so lively and active, that its images are raised 
 with very little effort : and this justifies the frequent use of descrip- 
 tive personification. This figure abounds in Milton's Allegro, and 
 Penseroso. 
 
 Abstract and general terms, as well as particular objects, are often 
 necessary in poetry. Such terms, however, are not well adapted to 
 poetry, because they suggest not any image : I can readily form an 
 image of Alexander or Achilles in wrath ; but I cannot form an 
 image of wrath in the abstract, or of wrath independent of a person. 
 Upon that account, in works addressed to the imagination, abstract 
 terms are frequently personified ; but such personification rests upon 
 imagination merely, not upon conviction. 
 
 Sed mihi vel Tellus optem prius ima dehiscat ; 
 Vel Pater omnipotens adigat me fulmine ad umbras, 
 Pallentes umbras Erebi, noctemque profundam, 
 Ante pudor quam te violo. aut tua jura resolvo. 
 
 But first let yawning earth a passage rend, 
 And let me through the dark abyss descend ; 
 First let avenging Jove with flames from high 
 Drive down this body to the nether sky, 
 Condemned with ghosts in endless night to lie 
 Before I break the plighted faith I gave ! 
 
 Thus, to explain the effects of slander, it is imagined to be a volun- 
 tary agent. 
 
 - No, 'tis Slander ; 
 
 Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue 
 
 Out- venoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath 
 
 Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie 
 
 All corners of the world, kings, queens, and states, 
 
 Maids, matrons : nay, the secrets of the grave 
 
 This viperous Slander enters. 
 
 Shakspea.re, Cymbdine, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 As also human passions: take the following example: 
 
 For Pleasure and Revenge 
 
 Have ears more deaf than adders, to the voice 
 
 Of any true decision. Troilus and Cressida, Act : 
 
 Virgil explains fame and its effects by a still greater variety of action, t 
 * See Appendix, containing definitions and explanations of terms * 28. 
 f .Eneid, IV. 173.
 
 352 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 And Shakspeare personifies death and its operations in a manner 
 singularly fanciful : 
 
 Within the hollow crown 
 
 That rounds the mortal temples of a king, 
 
 Keeps Death his court ; and there the antic sits, 
 
 ScolHng his state, and grinning at his pomp ; 
 
 Allowing him a breath, a little scene 
 
 To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks ; 
 
 Infusing him with self and vain conceit, 
 
 As if this flesh, which walls about our life, 
 
 Were brass impregnable ; and humor'd thus, 
 
 Comes at the last, and with a little pin 
 
 Bores through his castle-walls, and farewell king. 
 
 Richard II. Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 Not less successfully is life and action given even to sleep : 
 
 King Henry. How many thousands of my poorest subjects 
 Are at this hour asleep ! O gentle Sleep, 
 Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
 That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down, 
 And steep my senses in forgetfulness 1 
 Why rather, Sleep, ly'st thou in smoky cribs, 
 Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, 
 And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber 
 Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, 
 Under the canopies of costly state, 
 And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody'? 
 O thou dull god, why ly'st thou with the vile 
 In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch, 
 A watch-case to a common larum-bell ? 
 Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast, 
 Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 
 In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 
 And in the visitation of the winds, 
 Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
 Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
 With deaf 'ning clamors in the slippery shrouds, 
 That, with the hurly, Death itself awakes 7 
 Can'st thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repose 
 To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ; 
 And, in the calmest and the stillest night, 
 With all appliances and means to boot, 
 Deny it to a King 1 Then, happy low ! lie down 
 Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 I shall add one example more, to show that descriptive personifica- 
 tion may be used with propriety, even where the purpose of the 
 discourse is instruction merely : 
 
 Oh ! let the steps of youth be cautious, 
 
 How they advance into a dangerous world ; 
 
 Our duty only can conduct us safe. 
 
 Our passions are seducers : but of all 
 
 The strongest Love. He first approaches us 
 
 In childish play, wantoning in our walks : 
 
 If heedlessly we wander after him, 
 
 As he will pick out all the dancing-way, 
 
 We're lost, and hardly to return again. 
 
 We should take warning : he is painted blind, 
 
 To show us. if we fondly follow him, 
 
 The precipices we may fall imo.
 
 Sect. 1.] FIGURES. 353 
 
 Therefore let Virtue take him by the hand : 
 
 Directed so, he leads to certain joy. Southern, 
 
 Hitherto success has attended our steps : but whether we shall com- 
 plete our progress with equal success, seems doubtful ; for when we 
 look back to the expressions mentioned in the beginning, thirsty 
 ground, furious dart, and such like, it seems no less difficult than 
 at first, to say whether there is in them any sort of personification. 
 Such expressions evidently raise not the slightest conviction of sen- 
 sibility: nor do I think they amount to descriptive personification; 
 because, in them, we do not even figure the ground or the dart to 
 be animated. If so, they cannot at all come under the present sub- 
 ject. To show which, I shall endeavor to trace the effect that such 
 expressions have in the mind. Does not the expression angry ocean, 
 for example, tacitly compare the ocean in a storm to a man in wrath ? 
 By this tacit comparison, the ocean is elevated above its rank in 
 nature; and yet personification is excluded, because, by the very 
 nature of comparison, the things compared are kept distinct, and 
 the native appearance of each is preserved. It will be shown after- 
 ward, that expressions of this kind belong to another figure, which 
 I term a figure of speech, and which employs the seventh section 
 of the present chapter. 
 
 Though thus in general we can distinguish descriptive personifi- 
 cation from what is merely a figure of speech, it is, however, often 
 difficult to say, with respect to some expressions, whether they are 
 of the one kind or of the other. Take the following instances : 
 
 The moon shines bright : in such a night as this, 
 
 When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, 
 
 And they did make no noise; in such a ni^ht, 
 
 Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan wall, 
 
 And sigh'd his soul towards the Grecian tents, 
 
 Where Cressid lay that night. 
 
 Merchant of Venice, Act V. Sc. 1. 
 
 1 have seen 
 
 Th' ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, 
 To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds. 
 
 Julius Casar, Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 With respect to these, and numberless other examples of the same 
 kind, it must depend upon the reader, whether they are examples of 
 personification, or of a figure of speech merely: a sprightly imagi- 
 nation will advance them to the former class; with a plain reader 
 they will remain in the latter. 
 
 Having thus at large explained the present figure, its difle 
 kinds, and the principles upon which it is founded; what c 
 next in order, is, to show in what cases it may be introduced 
 propriety, when it is suitable, when unsuitable. I begin with observ- 
 mo- that passionate personification is not promoted by every passion 
 indifferently. All dispiriting passions are averse to it; and : 
 in particular, is too serious and severe to be gratified with a phantom 
 of the mind. I cannot therefore approve of the following spee 
 Enobarbus, who had deserted his master Antony : 
 
 Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon, 
 
 When men revolted shall upon record 
 30*
 
 354 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did 
 
 Before thy face repent 
 
 Oh soven ; - of true melancholy, 
 
 The poisonous damp of night dispunge upon me, 
 That life, a very rebel to my will, 
 May hang no longer on me. 
 
 Anthony and Cleopatra, Act IV. Sc. 9. 
 
 If this can be justified, it must be upon the Heathen system of theo- 
 logy, which converted into deities the sun, moon, and stars. 
 
 Secondly, after a passionate personification is properly introduced, 
 it ought to be confined to its proper province, that of gratifying the 
 passion, without giving place to any sentiment or action but what 
 answers that purpose ; for personification is at any rate a bold figure, 
 and ought to be employed with great reserve. The passion of love, 
 for example, in a plaintive tone, may give a momentary life to woods 
 and rocks, in order to make them sensible of the lover's distress ; 
 but no passion will support a conviction so far-stretched, as that 
 these woods and rocks should be living witnesses to report the dis- 
 tress to others : 
 
 Ch' i' t'ami piu de la mia vita 
 
 Se tu nol sai, crudele, 
 
 Chiedilo a queste selve 
 
 Che te'l diranno, et te r l diran con esse 
 
 Le fere loro e i duri sterpi, e i sassi 
 
 Di questi alpestri monti, 
 
 Ch' i' ho si spesse volte 
 
 Inteneriti al suon de' miei lamenti. 
 
 Pastor Fido, Act III. Sc. 3. 
 
 No lover who is not crazed will utter such a sentiment : it is plainly 
 the operation of the writer, indulging his inventive faculty without 
 regard to nature. The same observation is applicable to the follow- 
 ing passage. 
 
 In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire 
 
 With good old folks, and let them tell their tales 
 
 Of woful ages, long ago betid : 
 
 And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief, 
 
 Tell them the lamentable fall of me, 
 
 And send the hearers weeping to their beds. 
 
 For why ! the senseless brands will sympathise 
 
 The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, 
 
 And in compassion weep the fire out. 
 
 Richard II. Act V. Sc. 1. 
 
 One must read this passage very seriously to avoid laughing. The 
 following passage is quite extravagant : the different parts of the 
 human body are too intimately connected with self, to be personified 
 by the power of any passion ; and after converting such a part into 
 a sensible being, it is still \vorse to make it be conceived as rising 
 -in rebellion against self: 
 
 Cleopatra. Haste, bare my ami, and rouse the serpent's fury. 
 
 Coward flesh 
 
 Would'st thou cfinspiiv with C'resar. to betray me, 
 4 s thou weri none of mine 1 111 force thee to't. 
 
 n~..7~- .*n for Love, Act V.
 
 Sect, l.j FIGURES. 
 
 355 
 
 Next comes descriptive personification ; upon which I must 
 observe, in general, that it ought to be cautiously used. A person- 
 age in a tragedy, agitated by a strong passion, deals in warm senti- 
 ments ; and the reader, catching fire by sympathy, relishes the 
 boldest personifications : but a writer even in the most lively descrip- 
 tion, taking a lower flight, ought to content himself with such easy 
 personifications as agree with the tone of mind inspired by the 
 description. Nor is even such easy personification always admitted ; 
 for in plain narrative, the mind, serious and sedate, rejects personi- 
 fication altogether. Strada, in his history of the Belgic wars, has 
 the following passage, which, by a strained elevation above the tone 
 of the subject, deviates into burlesque. 
 
 Vix descenderat a pi-Eetoria navi Caesar ; cum fceda illico exorta in portu tem- 
 p^estas, classem impetu disjecit, pretoriam hausit; quasi non veeturam amplius 
 Caesarem, Caesarisque fortunam.* Dec. I. L. 1. 
 
 Neither do I approve, in Shakspeare, the speech of King John, 
 gravely exhorting the citizens of Angiers to a surrender ; though a 
 tragic writer has much greater latitude than a historian. Take the 
 "blowing specimen : 
 
 The cannons have their bowels full of wrath; 
 
 And ready mounted are they to spit forth 
 
 Their iron-indignation 'gainst your walls. Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 Secondly, if extraordinary marks of respect to a person of low 
 rank be ridiculous, no less so is the personification of a low subject. 
 This rule chiefly regards descriptive personification ; for a subject 
 can hardly be low that is the cause of a violent passion ; in that 
 circumstance, at least, it must be of importance. But to assign any 
 rule other than taste merely, for avoiding things below even descrip- 
 tive personification, will, I am afraid, be a hard task. A poet of 
 superior genius, possessing the power of inflaming the mind, may 
 take liberties that would be too bold in others. Homer appears not 
 extravagant in animating his darts and arrows : nor Thomson in 
 animating the seasons, the winds, the rains, the dews; he even 
 ventures to animate the diamond, and does it with propriety : 
 
 That polish'd bright 
 
 And all its native lustre let abroad, 
 
 Dares, as it sparkles on the fair one's breast, 
 
 With vain ambition emulate her eyes. 
 
 But there are things familiar and base, to which personification 
 cannot descend. In a composed state of mind, to animate a lump 
 of matter even in the most rapid flight of fancy, degenerates into 
 burlesque : 
 
 How now ! What noise ! that spirit's possessed with haste, 
 That wounds th' unresisting postern with these strokes. ^ 
 
 Skakspcare, Measure for Measure, Act IV. . - 
 
 Or from the shore 
 
 The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath, 
 
 And sin<' their wild notes to the listViinK 
 
 Thomson. Spring, I 2J. 
 
 * Scarcely had Caesar descended from the Praetorian ship when a boisterous 
 tempest broke out in that harbor, scattered the fleet bv its violence, and sunk the 
 Prwt -ian, as if it was no more to carry Caesar and Ciesar a fortune
 
 356 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 Speaking cf a man's hand cut off in battle : 
 
 Te decisa suum, Laride, dextera quserit: 
 Semianimesque micant digiti : ferrumque retractant. 
 
 JEneii,, X. 395. 
 
 Laris' hand 
 
 Dismembered, sought its owner on the strand, 
 The trembling fingers yet the falchion strain, 
 And threaten still the extended stroke in vain. 
 
 The personification here of a hand is insufferable, especially in a 
 plain narration : not to mention that such a trivial incident is too 
 minutely described. 
 
 The same observation is applicable to abstract terms, which ought 
 not to be animated unless they have some natural dignity. Thomson, 
 in this article, is licentious ; witness the following instances out of 
 many : 
 
 O vale of bliss ! O softly swelling hills ! 
 
 On which the power of cultivation, lies, 
 
 And joys to see the wonders of his toil. Summer, 1. 1435. 
 
 Then sated Hunger bids his brother Thirst 
 
 Produce the mighty bowl : 
 
 Nor wanting is the brown October, drawn 
 
 Mature and perfect, from Ms dark retreat 
 
 Of thirty years, and now his honest front 
 
 Flames in the light refulgent. Autumn, 1. 516. 
 
 Thirdly, it is not sufficient to avoid improper subjects : some 
 preparation is necessary, in order to rouse the mind: for the imagi- 
 nation refuses its aid, till it be warmed at least, if not inflamed. 
 Yet Thomson, without the least ceremony or preparation, introduces 
 each season as a sensible being : 
 
 From brightening fields of aether fair disclos'd, 
 
 Child of me sun, refulgent Summer comes, 
 
 In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth. 
 
 He conies attended by the sultry hours, 
 
 And ever fanning breezes, on his way ; 
 
 While from his ardent look, the turning Spring 
 
 Averts her blushful face, and earth and skies 
 
 All smiling to his hot dominion leaves. Summer, 1. 1. 
 
 See Winter comes, to rule the vary'd year, 
 
 Sullen and sat! with all his rising train, 
 
 Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Winter, \. 1 . 
 
 This has violently the air of writing mechanically without taste. 
 It is not natural that the imagination of a writer should be so much 
 heated at the very commencement ; and, at any rate, he cannot expect 
 such ductility in his readers. But if this practice can be justified by 
 authority, Thomson has one of no mean note : Vida begins his first 
 eclogue in the following words : 
 
 Dicite, vos Musre, et juvenum memorate querelas 
 
 Dicite ; nam motas ipsas ad carmina cautes 
 
 Et requiesse suos perhibent vaga flumina cursus. 
 
 Sing, ye Muses, and record the repinings of youth sing, for song has moved 
 the rocks and stopped the course of the wandering rivers.
 
 Sect. l.J FIGURES. 357 
 
 Even Shakspeare is not always careful to prepare the mind for this 
 bold figure. Take the following instance : 
 
 Upon these taxations, 
 
 The clothiers all, not able to maintain 
 
 The many to them 'longing, have put off 
 
 The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers ; who, 
 
 Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger, 
 
 And lack of other means, in desp'rate manner 
 
 Daring tli' event to th' teeth, are all in uproar, 
 
 And Danger serves among them. Henry VIII. Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 Fourthly, descriptive personification, still more than what is pas- 
 sionate, ought to be kept within the bounds of moderation. A reader 
 warmed with a beautiful subject, can imagine, even without passion, 
 the winds, for example, to be animated : but still the winds are the 
 subject ; and any action ascribed to them beyond or contrary to their 
 usual operation, appearing unnatural, seldom fails to banish the illu- 
 sion altogether : the reader's imagination, too, far strained, refuses 
 its aid ; and the description becomes obscure, instead of being more 
 lively and striking." In this view, the following passage, describing 
 Cleopatra on shipboard, appears to me exceptionable : 
 
 The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, 
 Burnt on the water : the poop was beaten gold, 
 Purple the sails, and so perfum'd, that 
 The winds were love-sick with 'em. 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra, Act II. Sc. 2. 
 
 The winds in their impetuous course have so much the appearance 
 of fury, that it is easy to figure them wreaking their resentment 
 against their enemies, by destroying houses, ships, &c. ; but to 
 figure them love-sick, has no resemblance to them in any circum- 
 stance. In another passage, where Cleopatra is also the subject, 
 the personification of the air is carried beyond all bounds : 
 
 . The city cast 
 
 Its people out upon her ; and Antony 
 Inthron'd i' th' market-place, did sit alone, 
 Whistling to th' air, which but for vacancy, 
 Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, 
 And made a gap in nature. 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra, Act II. Sc. 2. 
 
 The following personification of the earth or soil is not less wild 
 
 She shall be dignified with this high honor, 
 To bear my lady's train ; lest the base earth 
 Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss; 
 And of so great a favor growing proud, 
 Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower, 
 And make rough winter everlastingly. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 11. He. 4. 
 
 Shakspeare, far from approving such intemperance of imagination 
 puts this speech in the mouth of a ranting lover, 
 relish what follows : 
 
 Omnia quee, Phoebe quondam meditante, beatus 
 
 Audit Eurotas.jussitqueediscerel ros, , ^
 
 S58 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 Whatever songs besides the Delphian god 
 Had taught the laurels and the Spartan flood 
 Silenus sung. 
 
 The cheerfulness singly of a pastoral song, will scarcely support 
 personification in the lowest degree. But admitting, that a river 
 gently flowing may be imagined a sensible being listening to a 
 song, I cannot enter into the conceit of the river's ordering his 
 laurels to learn the song : here all resemblance to any thing real 
 is quite lost. This however is copied literally by one of our greatest 
 poets ; early indeed, before maturity of taste or judgment : 
 
 Thames heard the numbers as he flow'd along, 
 And bade his willows learn the moving song. 
 
 Pope's Pastorals, Past. IV. 1. 13. 
 
 This author, in riper years, is guilty of a much greater deviation 
 from the rule. Dulness may be imagined a deity or idol, to be wor- 
 shipped by bad writers ; but then some sort of disguise is requisite, 
 some bastard virtue must be bestowed, to make such worship in 
 some degree excusable. Yet in the Dunciad, Dulness, without the 
 least disguise, is made the object of worship. The mind rejects 
 such a fiction as unnatural ; for dulness is a defect, of which even 
 the dullest mortal is ashamed : 
 
 Then he : Great tamer of all human art ! 
 
 First in my care, and ever at my heart ; 
 
 Dulness ! whose good old cause I yet defend, 
 
 With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end, 
 
 E'er since Sir FopHng's penwig was praise, 
 
 To the last he "tors of the Bull and Bays ! 
 
 O thou ! of bus'ness the directing soul ! 
 
 To this our head, like bias to the bowl, 
 
 Which as more pond'rous, made its aim more true, 
 
 Obliquely waddling to the mark in view : 
 
 O ! ever gracious to perplex'd mankind, 
 
 Still spread a healing mist before the mind : 
 
 And. lest we err by Wit's wild dancing light, 
 
 Secure us kindly in our native night. 
 
 Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence, 
 
 Guard the sure barrier between that and sense ; 
 
 Or quite unravel all the reas'ning thread, 
 
 And hang some curious cobweb in its stead ! 
 
 As, forc'd from wind-guns, lead itself can fly. 
 
 And pond'rous slugs cut swiftly through the sky ; 
 
 As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe, 
 
 The wheels above urg'd by the load below : 
 
 Me Emptiness and Dulness could inspire, 
 
 And were my elasticity, and fire. B. I. 163. 
 
 Fifthly, the enthusiasm of passion may have the effect to prolong 
 passionate personification : but descriptive personification cannot be 
 dispatched in too few words : a circumstantiate description dissolves 
 the charm, and makes the attempt to personify appear ridiculous. 
 Homer succeeds in animating his darts and arrows : but such per- 
 sonification, spun out in a French translation, is mere burlesque : 
 
 Et la fleche en furie, avide de son sang, 
 Part, vole a lui, 1'atteint, et lui perce le flanc.
 
 Sect. 2.] FIGURES. 359 
 
 Horace says happily, 
 
 Post equitem sedet atra Cura. 
 Dark Care sits behind the horseman. 
 
 Observe how this thought degenerates by being divided, like the 
 former, into a number of minute parts : 
 
 Un fou rempli d'erreurs, que le trouble accompagne 
 Et malade a la ville ainsi qu' a la campagne, 
 En vain monte a cheval pour tromper son ennui, 
 Le Chagrin monte en croupe, et gaiope avec lui. 
 
 A poet, in a short and lively expression, may animate his muse, his 
 genius, and even his verse : but to animate his verse, and to address 
 a whole epistle to it, as Boileau does,* is insupportable. 
 The following passage is not less faulty : 
 
 Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze, 
 And told in sighs to all the trembling trees ; 
 The trembling trees, in ev'ry plain and wood, 
 Her fate remurmur to the silver flood ; 
 The silver flood, so lately calm, appears 
 Swell'd with new passion, and o'erflows with tears ; 
 The winds, and trees, and floods, her death deplore, 
 Daphne, our grief! our glory ! now no more. 
 
 Pope's Pastorals, IV. 61. 
 
 Let grief or love have the power to animate the winds, the trees, 
 the floods, provided the figure be dispatched in a single expression : 
 even in that case, the figure seldom has a good effect ; because grief 
 or love of the pastoral kind, are causes rather too faint for so violent 
 an effect as imagining the winds, trees, or floods, to be sensible beings. 
 But when this figure is deliberately spread out, with great regularity 
 and accuracy, through many lines, the reader, instead of relishing it, 
 is struck with its ridiculous appearance. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 APOSTROPHE. 
 
 Apostrophe, the bestowing of a momentary presence on an absent person Illustra- 
 tions The mind to be agitated. 
 
 THIS figure and the former are derived from the same principle. 
 If, to humor a plaintive passion, we can bestow a momentary si 
 bility upon an inanimate object, it is not more difficult to I 
 momentary presence upon a sensible being who is absent : 
 Hinc Drepani me portus et illaetabilis ora. 
 Accipit. Hie, pelagi tot tempestatibus actus, 
 Heu ! genitorem, omnis curae casusque levamen, 
 Amitto Anchisen : hicme pater optime fessvm 
 Deseris, heu ! tantis nequicquam erepte periclis 
 Nee vates Helenus, cum multa horrenda moneret 
 Hos mini prsedixit luctus ; non dira Celaeno. 
 At length on shore the weary fleet arrived, 
 Which Drepanum's unhappy port received. 
 
 * Epistle 10.
 
 360 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 Here after endless labors, often tossed 
 By raging storms and driven on every coast, 
 " My father ! thou didst leave me thee I lost.'' 
 Ease of my cares and solace of my pain, 
 Saved through a thousand toils, but saved in vain. 
 The prophet who my future woes revealed 
 Yet this the greatest and the worst concealed, 
 And dire Celaeno, whose foreboding skill 
 Denounced all else, was silent of this ill. 
 
 Strike the harp in praise of Bragela, whom I left in the isle of mist, the spouse 
 of my love. Dost thou raise thy fair face from the rock to find the sails of Cu- 
 chulhn 1 The sea is rolling far distant, and its white foam shall deceive thee for 
 my sails. Retire, for it is night, my love, and the dark winds sigh in thy hair. 
 Retire to the hall of my feasts, and think of the times that are past ; for I will not 
 return till the storm of war is gone. O Connal, speak of wars and arms, and send 
 her from my mind ; for lovely with her raven-hair is the white-bosom'd daughter 
 of Sorglan. Fungal, B. I. 
 
 Speaking of Fingal absent : 
 
 Happy are thy people, O Fingal ; thine arm shall fight their battles. Thou 
 art the first in their dangers ; the wisest in the days of their peace : thou speakest, 
 and thy thousands obey ; and armies tremble at the sound of thy steel. Happy 
 are thy people, O Fingal. 
 
 This figure is sometimes joined with the former : things inanimate, 
 to qualify them for listening to a passionate expostulation, are not 
 only personified, but also conceived to be present : 
 
 Et si fata Deum, si mens non lava fuisset, 
 Impulerat ferro Argolicas foedare latebras : 
 Trojaqiie nunc stares, Priamique arx alta maneres. 
 
 sEneid, II. 54. 
 
 And had not Heaven the fall of Troy designed, 
 Or had not men been fated to be blind. 
 Then had our lances pierced the treacherous wood, 
 And Ilion's towers and Priam's empire stood. 
 
 Helena. Poor Lord, is't I 
 
 That chase thee from thy country, and expose 
 
 Those tender limbs of thine'to the event, 
 
 Of non-sparing war 1 And is it I 
 
 That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou 
 
 Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark 
 
 Of smoky muskets 7 O you leaden messengers, 
 
 That ride upon the violent speed of fire. 
 
 Fly with false aim ; pierce the still moving air 
 
 That sings with piercing; do not touch my Lord. 
 
 All's Well that Ends Well, Act III. Sc. 
 
 And let them lift ten thousand swords, said Nathos, with a smile : the sons of 
 car-borne Usnoth will never tremble in danger. Why dost thou roll with all thy 
 foam, thou roaring sea of Ullin'? why do ye rustle on your dark wings, ye whist- 
 ling tempests of the sky 1 Do ye think, ye storms, that ye keep Nathos on the 
 coast? No; his soul detains him; children of the night! Althos, bring my 
 father's arms, &c. Fingal. 
 
 Whither hast thou fled, O wind, said the King of Morven ! Dost thou rustle in 
 the chambers of the south, and pursue the shower in other lands'? Why comest 
 not thou to my sails, to the blue face of my seas 1 The foe is in the land of Mor- 
 ven, and the King is absent. Fingal. 
 
 Hast thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired son of the sky ! Tli 
 west hath opened its gates ; the bed of thy repose is there. The waves gather to 
 behold thy beauty : they lift their trembling heads ; they see thee loveiy in thy 
 sleep ; but they shrink away with fear. Rest in thy shadowy cave, O Sun ! and 
 let tny return be in joy. Fingal.
 
 3.] FIGURES. 361 
 
 Daughter of Heaven, fair art thou ! the silence of thy face is pleasant Thou 
 comest forth m loveliness : the stars attend thy blue steps in the east The clouds 
 rejoice m thy presence, O Moon ! and brighten their dark brown sides Who is 
 3 thee in heaven, daughter of the night? The stars are ashamed in thy pre- 
 sence, and turn aside their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy 
 course, when the darkness of thy countenance grows! Hast thou thy hall like 
 Ussianl Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief 1 Have thy sisters fallen from 
 
 eaven 1 and are they who rejoiced with thee at night no more 1 Yes they 
 
 have fallen, fair light; and often dost thou retire to mourn. But thou thyself 
 
 shalt one night, fail; and leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars will then 
 frtiieir heads : they, who in thy presence were ashamed, will rejoice. 
 
 Fingal. 
 
 This figure, like all others, requires an agitation of mind. In 
 plain narrative, as, for example, in giving the genealogy of a family, 
 it has no good effect : 
 
 Fauno Picus pater; isque parentem 
 
 Te, Saturne, refert ; tu sanguinis ultimus auctor. 
 
 ^neid, VII. 48. 
 
 But Faunus came from Picus Picus drew 
 His birth from Saturn, if records be true; 
 Thus king Latinus in the third degree 
 Had Saturn author of his family. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 HYPERBOLE. 
 
 Magnifying or diminishing an object beyond due bounds, an hyperbole Objects 
 more successfully magnified than diminished Hyperbole .proper when the 
 subject exceeds the common measure An hyperbole not to be introduced in the 
 description of an ordinary thing Not suitable to a dispiriting passion Not to 
 be introduced till the reader is warmed Not to be overstrained To comprehend 
 the fewest words possible. 
 
 IN this figure, by which an object is magnified or diminished 
 beyond truth, we have another effect of the foregoing principle. An 
 object of an uncommon size, either very great of its kind or very 
 little, strikes us with surprise ; and this emotion produces a mo- 
 mentary conviction that the object is greater or less than it is in 
 reality:* the same effect, precisely, attends figurative grandeur or 
 littleness ; and hence the hyperbole, which expresses that momentary 
 conviction. A writer, taking advantage of this natural delusion, 
 warms his description greatly by the hyperbole: and the reader, 
 even in his coolest moments, relishes the figure, being sensible that 
 it is the operation, of nature upon a glowing fancy. 
 
 It cannot have escaped observation, that a writer is commonly 
 more successful in magnifying by an hyperbole than in diminishing 
 The reason is, that a minute object contracts the mind, and fetter* 
 its power of imagination ; but that the mind, dilated and inflamed 
 with a grand object, moulds objects for its gratification with great 
 facility. Longinus, with respect to diminishing hyperbole, quou-s 
 the following ludicrous thought from a comic poet: He wa-< 
 owner of a bit of ground no larger than a Lacedemonian letter.' 
 But, for the reason now given, the hyperbole has by far the greater 
 force in magnifying objects ; of which take the following examples : 
 * See Chap. VIII. t Chap. XXXI. of his Treatise on the Sublime. 
 31
 
 362 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 For all the land which thou seest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed for ever. 
 And I will make thy seed as the dust of the earth ; so that if a man can number 
 the dust of the earth, then shall thy seed also be numbered. 
 
 Genesis, XIII. 15, 16. 
 Ilia vel intactae segetis per summa volaret 
 Gramina : nee teneras cursu lasisset aristas. jEneid t VII. 808. 
 
 Outstripped the winds in speed upon the plair 
 lew o'er the field, nor hurt the bearded grain. 
 
 Atque imo barathri ter gurgite vastos 
 
 Sorbet in abruptum fluctus, rursusque sub auras 
 
 Erigit alternos, et sidera verberat unda. JEneid, III. 421. 
 
 And in her greedy whirlpool sucks the tides, 
 Then spouts them from below ; with fury driven, 
 The waves mount up. and wash the face of heaven. 
 
 Horificis juxta tonat JEtna minis, 
 
 Interdumque atram prorumpit ad eethera nubem, 
 
 Turbine fumantem piceo et candente favilla : 
 
 Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera lambit. jEneid, III. 571. 
 
 The port capacious and secure from wind 
 Is to the foot of thundering ^Etna joined, 
 By turns a patchy cloud she rolls on high, 
 By turns hot embers from her entrails fly, 
 And flakes of mountain flames that lick the sky. 
 
 Speaking of Polyphemus : 
 
 Ipse arduus, altaque pulsat 
 
 Sidera. Mneid, III. 619. 
 
 Erects his head, and stares within the skies. 
 
 When he speaks 
 
 The air, a charter'd libertine, is still. Henry V. Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Now shield with shield, with helmet helmet clos'd, 
 
 To armor armor, lance to lance oppos'd. 
 
 Host against host with shadowy squadrons drew, 
 
 The sounding darts in iron tempests flew. 
 
 Victors and vanquish'd join promiscuous cries, 
 
 And shrilling shouts and dying groans arise; 
 
 With streaming blood the slipp'ry fields are dy'd, 
 
 And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide. Iliad, IV. 508. 
 
 The following may also pass, though far stretched : 
 
 E conjungendo a temerario ardire 
 
 Estrema forza, e infaticabil lena 
 
 Vien che si'impetuoso il ferro gire, 
 
 Che ne trema la terra, e ; l ciel balena. Gierusalem, Cant. VI. St. 46. 
 
 Uniting force extreme, with endlesse wrath, 
 
 Supporting both with youth and strength untired, 
 His thundering blows so fast about lie la'th. 
 
 That skies and earth the flying sparkles fired. Fairfax. 
 
 Gluintillian t is sensible that this figure is natural : " For," says 
 he, " not contented with truth, we naturally incline to augment or 
 diminish beyond it ; and for that reason the hyperbole is familiar 
 even among the vulgar and illiterate :" and he adds very justly, 
 " That the hyperbole is then proper, when the subject of itself 
 exceeds the common measure." From these premises, one would 
 not expect the following inference, the only reason he can find for 
 justifying this figure of speech, " Conceditur enim amplius dicere, 
 * Camilla, the Volscian heroine. t L. VIII. cap. 6. in fin.
 
 Sect. 3.] FiotREs. 363 
 
 quia dici quantum est non potest : meliusque ultra quam citra stat 
 oratio." (We are indulged to say more than enough, because we 
 cannot say enough; and it is better to be above than under.) In 
 the name of wonder, why this childish reasoning, after observing 
 that the hyperbole is founded on human nature ? I could not resist 
 this personal stroke of criticism ; intended not against our author, 
 for no human creature is exempt from error, but against the blind 
 veneration that is paid to the ancient classic writers, without distin- 
 guishing their blemishes from their beauties. 
 
 Having examined the nature of this figure, and the principle on 
 which it is erected, I proceed, as in the first section, to the rules by 
 which it ought to be governed. And, in the first place, it is a 
 capital fault, to introduce an hyperbole in the description of any 
 thing ordinary or familiar ; for in such a case, it is altogether 
 unnatural, being destitute of surprise, its only foundation. Take 
 the following instance, where the subject is extremely familiar. ?.-*- 
 swimming to gain the shore after a shipwreck. 
 
 I saw him beat the surges under him, 
 
 And ride upon their backs ; he trode the water, 
 
 Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
 
 The surge most swoln that met him : his bold head 
 
 'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd 
 
 Himself with his good arms, in lusty strokes 
 
 To th 1 shore, that o'er his wave-borne basis bow'd, 
 
 As stooping to relieve him. Tempest, Act II. Sc. I. 
 
 In the next place, it may be gathered from what is said, that an 
 hyperbole can never suit the tone of any dispiriting passion : sorrow, 
 in particular, will never prompt such a figure ; for which reason the 
 following hyperboles must be condemned as unnatural : 
 
 K. Rich. Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin ! 
 We'll make foul weather with despised tears : 
 Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer-corn, 
 And make a dearth in this revolting land. 
 
 Richard II. Act III. Sc. 3. 
 
 Draw them to Tyber's bank, and weep your tears 
 
 Into the channel, till the lowest stream 
 
 Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. Julius Casar, Act I 
 
 Thirdly, a Avriter, if he wish to succeed, ought always to have the 
 reader in his eye : he ought in particular never to venture a bold 
 thought or expression, till the reader be warmed and prepared, 
 that reason, an hyperbole in the beginning of a work can neve 
 in its place. Example : 
 
 Jam pauca aratro jugera regise 
 
 Moles relinquent. Horat. Carm. 1. 2. ode 
 
 So great our palaces are now, 
 
 They'll leave few acres for the plough. 
 
 The nicest point of all, is to ascertain the natural limits of an 
 hyperbole, beyond which being overstrained it has a bad effect. 
 Loncrinus, in the above-cited chapter, with great propriety of thought, 
 enters a caveat against an hyperbole of this kind: he compares it to 
 a bow-string, which relaxes by overstraining, and produces an ef
 
 364 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 directly opposite to what is intended. To ascertain any precise boun- 
 dary, would be difficult, if not impracticable. Mine shall be an 
 humbler task, which is, to give a specimen of what I reckon over- 
 strained hyperbole ; and I shall be brief upon them, because exam- 
 ples are to be found every where ; no fault is more common among 
 writers of inferior rank ; and instances are found even among classi- 
 cal writers ; witness the following hyperbole, too bold even for an 
 Hotspur. 
 Hotspur talking of Mortimer : 
 
 In single opposition hand to hand, 
 
 He did confound the best part of an hour 
 
 In changing hardiment with great Glendower. 
 
 Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink, 
 
 Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood, 
 
 "Who then affrighted with their bloody looks, 
 
 Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, 
 
 And hid his crisp'd head in the hollow bank, 
 
 Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. 
 
 First Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 3. 
 Speaking of Henry V., 
 
 England ne'er had a king until his time : 
 
 Virtue he had, deserving to command : 
 
 His brandish'd sword did blind men with its beams : 
 
 His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings : 
 
 His sparkling eyes, replete with awful fire, 
 More dazzled, and d 
 
 and drove back his enemies, 
 Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. 
 What should I say 1 his deeds exceed all speech : 
 He never lifted up his hand, but conquer'd. 
 
 First Part Henry VI. Act I. Sc. I. 
 
 Lastly, an hyperbole, after it is introduced with all advantages, 
 ought to be comprehended within the fewest words possible : as it 
 cannot be relished but in the hurry and swelling of the mind, a 
 leisurely view dissolves the charm, and discovers the description to 
 be extravagant at least, and perhaps also ridiculous. This fault is 
 palpable in a sonnet which passes for one of the most complete in 
 the French language. Phillis, in a long and florid description, is 
 made as far to outshine the sun as he outshines the stars. 
 
 Le silence regnoit sur la terre et sur I'onde, 
 
 L'air devenoit serein et 1'Olympe vermeil, 
 
 Et 1'amoureux Zephir affranchi du sommeil, 
 
 Ressuscitoit les fleurs d'une haleine feconde. 
 
 L'Aurore deployoit 1'or de sa tresse blonde, 
 
 Et semoit de rubis le chemin du soleil ; 
 
 Enfin ce Dieu venoit au plus grand appareil 
 
 Glu'il soit jamais venu pour eclairer le monde. 
 
 duand la jeune Phillis au visage riant, 
 
 Sortant de son palais plus clair que 1'orient, 
 
 Fit voir une lumiere et plus vive et plus belle. 
 
 Sacre flambeau du jour, n'en soyez point jaloux. 
 
 Vous parutes alors aussi peu devant elle, 
 
 due les feux de la nuit avoient fait devant vous. Malleville. 
 
 There is in Chaucer a thought expressed in a single line, which 
 gives more lustre to a young beauty, than the whole of this much- 
 labored poem : 
 
 Up rose the sun, and up rose Emelie.
 
 Sect. 5.] FIGURES. 365 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 The means or instrument, conceived to be the agent Examples. 
 
 WHEN we survey a number of connected objects, that which makes 
 the greatest figure employs chiefly our attention ; and the emotion it 
 raises, if lively, prompts us even to exceed nature in the conception 
 wejbrm of it. Take the following examples : 
 
 For Neleus' son Alcides' rage had slain. 
 
 A broken rock the force of Pirns threw. 
 
 In these instances, the rage of Hercules and the force of Pirus, being 
 the capital circumstances, are so far exalted as to be conceived the 
 agents that produce the effects. 
 
 In the following instances, hunger being the chief circumstance 
 in the description, is itself imagined to be the patient. 
 
 Whose hunger has not tasted food these three days. Jane Shore. 
 
 As when the force 
 
 Of subterranean wind transports a hill. Paradise Lose, 
 
 As when the potent rod 
 
 Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day 
 
 Wav'd round the coast, upcall'd a pitchy cloud 
 
 Of locusts. Paradise Lost. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 A figure which, among related objects, extends the properties of one to another 
 Without a name The foundation of this figure Not warrantable, except 
 amor.0" things intimately connected An attribute of a cause for an attribute of 
 an effect An effect as of a cause An effect expressed as an attribute of a 
 cause An attribute of a subject bestowed on one of its parts A quality of an 
 agent ascribed to an instrument The object on which it operates Quality one 
 subject gives another Circumstances expressed as a quality of a subject The 
 property of one object transferred to another. 
 
 THIS figure is not dignified with a proper name, because it has 
 been overlooked by writers. It merits, however, a place in this 
 work; and must be distinguished from those formerly handled, as 
 depending on a different principle. Giddy brink, jovial wine, da / 
 wound, are examples of this figure. Here are adjectives that cannot 
 be made to signify any quality of the substantives to which they are 
 joined: a brink, for example, cannot be termed giddy in a sense, 
 either proper or figurative, that can signify any of its qualities or 
 attributes. When we examine attentively the expression, we dis- 
 cover, that a brink is termed giddy from producing that effect in 
 those who stand on it. In the same manner a wound is said to be 
 daring, not with respect to itself, but with respect to the boldness of 
 the person who inflicts it : and wine is said to be jovial, as inspi 
 mirth and jollity. Thus the attributes of one subject are extende< 
 to another with which it is connected ; and the expression of such a 
 thought must be considered as a figure, because the attribute is not 
 applicable to the subject in any proper sense. 
 31*
 
 366 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 How are \ve to account for this figure, which we see lies in the 
 thought, and to what principle shall we refer it? Have poets a privi- 
 lege to alter the nature of things, and at pleasure to bestow attributes 
 upon a subject to which they do not belong ? We have had often 
 occasion to inculcate, that the mind passes easily and sweetly along 
 a train of connected objects ; and, where the objects are intimately 
 connected, that it is disposed to carry along the good or bad proper- 
 ties of one to another; especially when it is in any degree inflamed 
 with these properties.* From this principle is derived the figure 
 under consideration. Language, invented for the communication of 
 thought, would be imperfect, if it were not expressive even of the 
 slighter propensities and more delicate feelings : but language cannot 
 remain so imperfect among a people who have received any polish ; 
 because language is regulated by internal feeling, and is gradually 
 improved to express whatever passes in the mind. Thus, for 
 example, when a sword in the hand of a coward, is termed a covnr,! 
 sword, the expression is significative of an internal operation ; for the 
 mind, in passing from the agent to its instrument, is disposed to 
 extend to the latter the properties of the former. Governed by the 
 same principle, we say listening fear, by extending the attribute 
 listening of the man who listens, to. the passion with which he is 
 moved. In the expression, bold deed, or audax facinus, we extend 
 to the effect what properly belongs to the cause. But not to Avaste 
 time by making a commentary upon every expression of this kind, 
 the best way to give a complete view of the subject, is to exhibit a 
 table of the different relations that may give occasion to this figure. 
 And in viewing the table, it will be observed, that the figure can 
 never have any grace but where the relations are of the most inti- 
 mate kind. 
 
 1. An attribute of the cause expressed as an attribute of the effect. 
 Audax facinus.t 
 
 Of yonder fleet a bold discovery make. 
 An impious mortal gave the d-aring wound. 
 
 -To my adrent'rous song, 
 
 That with no middle flight intends to soar. Paradise Lost. 
 
 2. An attribute of the effect expressed as an attribute of the cause. 
 
 duos periisse ambos misera censebam in mari.t Pla u 
 
 No wonder, fallen such a pernicious height. Paradise Lost. 
 
 3. An effect expressed as an attribute of the cause. 
 
 Jovial wine, Giddy brink, Drowsy night, Musing midnight, Panting height, 
 Astonish'd thought, Mournful gloom. 
 
 Casting a dim religious light. flfilton, Comus. 
 
 And the merry bells ring round, 
 
 And the jocund rebecks sound. Milton. Allegro. 
 
 4. An attribute of a subject bestowed upon one of its parts or 
 members. 
 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 5. t A bold deed, 
 
 t Both of whom perished in the miserable ocean.
 
 Sect. 5.] FIGURES. 367 
 
 Longing arms. 
 
 It was the nightingale and not the lark, 
 
 That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear. 
 
 Romeo and, Juliet, Act III. Sc. 5. 
 Oh, lay by 
 
 Those moat ungentle looks and angry weapons ; 
 Unless you mean my griefs and killing fears 
 Should stretch me out at your relentless feet. 
 
 Fair Penitent, Act III. 
 
 And ready now 
 
 To stoop with wearied wing and willing feet, 
 
 On the bare outside of this world. Paradise Lost, B. III. 
 
 5. A quality of the agent given to the instrument v/ith which it 
 operates. 
 
 Why peep your coward swords half out their shells ! 
 
 6. An attribute of the agent given to the subject upon which it 
 operates. 
 
 High-climbing hill. Milton. 
 
 7. A quality of one subject given to another. 
 
 Icci, beatis nunc Arabum invides 
 
 Gazis.* Horat. Carm. 1. 1. ode 29. 
 
 When sapless age, and weak unable limbs, 
 Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. Shakspeare. 
 
 By art, the pilot through the boiling deep 
 And howling tempest, steers the fearless ship. 
 
 Mad, XXIII. 385. 
 
 Then, nothing loath, th' enamour'd fair he led, 
 
 And sunk transported on the conscious bed. Odyssey, VIII. 337. 
 
 A stupid moment motionless she stood. Summer, \. 1336. 
 
 8. A circumstance connected with a subject, expressed as a quality 
 of the subject. 
 
 Breezy summit. 
 
 'Tis ours the chance of fighting fields to try. Iliad, I. 301. 
 
 Oh ! had I dy'd before that well-fought wall. Odywu, V. 395. 
 From this table it appears, that the adorning of a cause with an 
 attribute of the effect, is not so agreeable as the opposite expression. 
 The progress from cause to effect is natural and easy : the opposite 
 progress resembles retrograde motion;! and therefore junl 
 height, astonisttd thought, are strained and uncouth expressions, 
 which a writer of taste will avoid. 
 
 It is not less strained to apply to a subject in its present state, an 
 epithet that may belong to it in some future state : 
 Submersasque obrue puppes.* 
 
 And mighty ruins fall. Jliad > v 41 * 
 
 Impious sons their mangled fathers wound. 
 
 Another rule regards this figure, that the property of one subject 
 ought not to be bestowed upon another with which that property u 
 incongruous : 
 
 * Iccus, you now envy the happy treasures of the Arabians, 
 t See Chap. I. * Overwhelm this sunken ship.
 
 368 riGUREs. [Ch. 20. 
 
 King Rich. How dare thy joints forget 
 To pay their awful duty to our presence 1 
 
 Richard II. Act III. Sc. 3. 
 
 The connection between an awful superior and his submissive de- 
 pendent is so intimate, that an attribute may readily be transferred 
 from the one to the other : but awfulness cannot be so transferred, 
 because it is inconsistent with submission. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 METAPHOR AND ALLEGORY. 
 
 The difference between a metaphor and a simile The meaning of metaphor 
 The meaning of allegory The two rules that govern metaphor and allegory 
 Of construction Not agreeable where the resemblance is too faint or too 
 strong not agreeable if not proportionable Not to be crowded with minute 
 circumstances Words literally applicable to the imagined nature of the subject 
 to be used Different metaphors not to be jumbled Plain language and meta- 
 phor not to be jumbled Metaphors excluded from common conversation Im- 
 proper in severe passions that wholly occupy the mind Proper when a man 
 struggles to bear up against misfortunes. 
 
 A METAPHOR differs from a simile, in form only, not in sub- 
 stance: in a simile, the two subjects are kept distinct in the 
 expression, as well as in the thought ; in a metaphor, the two sub- 
 jects are kept distinct in the thought only, not in the expression. A 
 hero resembles a lion, and, upon that resemblance, many similes 
 have been raised by Homer and other poets. But instead of resem- 
 bling a lion, let us take the aid of the imagination, and feign or 
 figure the hero to be a lion : by that variation the simile is con- 
 verted into a metaphor : which is carried on by describing all the 
 qualities of a lion that resemble those of the hero. The fundamental 
 pleasure here, that of resemblance, belongs to the thought. An 
 additional pleasure arises from the expression : the poet, by figuring 
 his hero to be a lion, goes on to describe the lion in appearance, but 
 in reality the hero; and his description is peculiarly beautiful, by 
 expressing the virtues and qualities of the hero in new terms, which, 
 properly speaking, belong not to him, but to the lion. This will bet- 
 ter be understood by examples. A family connected with a common 
 parent, resembles a tree, the trunk and branches of which are con- 
 nected with a common root: but let us suppose, that a family is 
 figured, not barely to be like a tree, but to be a tree and then the 
 simile will be converted into a metaphor, in the following manner : 
 
 Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one, 
 Were sev'n fair branches, springing from one root : 
 Some of these branches by the dest'nies cut : 
 But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glo'ster, 
 One flourishing branch of his most royal root, 
 Is hack'd down, and his summer-leaves all faded, 
 By Envy's hand and Murder's bloody axe. 
 
 Richard II. Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 Figuring human life to be a voyage at sea: 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of men, 
 Which; taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
 
 FIGURES. 369 
 
 Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
 Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 
 On such a full sea are we now afloat, 
 And we must take the current while it serves, 
 Or lose our ventures. Julius Cczsar, Act IV. Sc. 3. 
 
 Figuring glory and honor to be a garland of flowers. 
 
 Hotspur Wou'd to heav'n, 
 
 Thy name in arms were now as great as mine ! 
 
 Pr. Henry. I'll make it greater, ere I part from thee, 
 And all the budding honors on thy crest' 
 I'll crop, to make a garland for my head! 
 
 First Part Henry IV. Act V. Sc. 4. 
 
 Figuring a man who hath acquired great reputation and honour to 
 be a tree full of fruit: 
 
 -Oh, boys, this story 
 
 The world may read in me : my body's mark'd 
 With Roman swords ; and my report was once 
 First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me ; 
 And when a soldier was the theme, my name 
 Was not far off: then was I as a tree, 
 Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night, 
 A storm or robbery, call it what you will, 
 Shook down my mellow hangings, nay my leaves ; 
 And left me bare to weather. Cymbeline, Act III. Sc. 3. 
 
 Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells, said Swaran of the dark-brown shield- 
 In peace thou art the gale of spring ; in war, the oountain-storm. Take now 
 my hand in friendship, thou noble king of Morven. Fungal. 
 
 Thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty Ossian. My sighs arise 
 with the beam of the east : my tears descend with the drops of night. I was a 
 lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me : out thy death 
 came like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low : the spring returned 
 with its showers, but no leaf of mine arose. Fingal. 
 
 I am aware that the term metaphor has been used in a more ex- 
 tensive sense than I give it ; but I thought it of consequence, in a 
 disquisition of some intricacy, to confine the term to its proper sense, 
 and to separate from it things that are distinguished by different 
 names. An allegory differs from a metaphor ; and what I would 
 choose to call a figure of speech, differs from both. I proceed to 
 explain these differences. A metaphor is defined above to be an act 
 of the imagination, figuring one thing to be another. An allegory 
 requires no such operation, nor is one thing figured to be another : 
 it consists in choosing a subject having properties or circumstances 
 resembling those of the principal subject ; and the former is described 
 in such a manner as to represent the latter ; the subject thus repre- 
 sented is kept out of view; we are left to discover it by reflection ; 
 and we are pleased with the discovery, because it is our own work. 
 duintilian* gives the following instance of an allegory : 
 
 O navis, referent in mare te novi 
 
 Fluctus. O quid agis 1 fortiter occupa port urn. 
 
 Herat, lib. I. ode 14. 
 
 New floods of strife that swell the main 
 Oh ship, shall bring thee out again 
 Oh, wherefore venture 1 'tis your fort 
 To keep your station in the port. 
 
 * L. 8. cap. 6. sect. 2.
 
 370 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 and explains it elegantly in the following words : " Totusque ille 
 Horatii locus, quo navim pro republica, fluctuum tempestates pro 
 bellis civilibus, portum pro pace, atque concordia, dicit." 
 
 A finer or more correct allegory is not to be found than the fol- 
 lowing, in which a vineyard is made to represent God's own people 
 the Jews. 
 
 Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt: thou hast cast out the heathen, and 
 planted it. Thou didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the land. The hills 
 were covered with its shadow, and the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. 
 Why hast thou then broken down her hedges, so that all which pass do pluck her 1 
 The boar out of the wood doth waste it, and the wild beast doth devour it. Return, 
 we beseech thee, O God of hosts : look down from heaven, and behold and visit 
 this vine, and the vineyard thy right hand hath planted, and the branch thou 
 madest strong for thyself. Psalm LXXX. 
 
 In a word, an allegory is in every respect similar to an hiero- 
 glyphical painting, excepting only that words are used instead of 
 colors. Their effects are precisely the same : a hieroglyphic raises 
 two imagas in the mind ; one seen, which represents one not seen: 
 an allegory does the same ; the representative subject is described ~, 
 and resemblance leads us to apply the description to the subject 
 represented. In a figure of speech, there is no fiction of the 
 imagination employed, as in a metaphor, nor a representative sub- 
 ject introduced, as in an allegory. This figure, as its name implies, 
 regards the expression only, not the thought; and it may be defined, 
 the using of a word in a sense different from what is proper to it. 
 Thus youth, or the beginning of life, is expressed figuratively by 
 morning of life: morning is the beginning of the day; and in that 
 view it is employed to signify the beginning of any other series, life 
 especially, the progress of which is reckoned by days. 
 
 Figures of speech are reserved for a separate section ; but meta- 
 phor and allegory are so much connected, that they must be handled 
 together : the rules particularly for distinguishing the good from the 
 bad, are common to both. We shall therefore proceed to these rules, 
 after adding some examples to illustrate the nature of an allegory. 
 Horace, speaking of his love to Pyrrha, which was now extin- 
 guished, expresses himself thus : 
 
 Me tabula sacer 
 
 Votiva paries indicat uvida 
 
 Suspendisse potenti 
 
 Vestimenta maris Deo. Carm. 1. 1. ode 5. 
 
 For me the temple witness bears 
 Where I my dropping weeds have hung, 
 And left my votive chart behind 
 To him that rules both wave and wind. 
 Again : 
 
 Phoebus volentem prselia me loqui, 
 
 Victas et urbes, increpuit lyra : 
 
 Ne parva Tyrrhenum per asquor 
 
 Vela darem. Carm. 1. 4. ode 15. 
 
 Willing to sing upon my lyre, 
 
 The fights we dare, the towers we scale, 
 
 Apollo bade me check my fond desire, 
 
 Nor on the vast Tyrrhenian spread my little sail.
 
 Sect. 6.] FIGURES. 371 
 
 Queen. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss. 
 But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. 
 What though the mast be now thrown overboard, 
 The cable broke, the holding anchor lost, 
 And half our sailors swallow'd in the flood ; 
 Yet lives our pilot still. Is't meet, that he 
 Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad, 
 With tearful eyes, add water to the sea, 
 And give more strength to that which hath too much ; 
 While in his moan the ship splits on the rock, 
 Which industry and courage might have sav'd 1 
 Ah, what a shame ! ah, what a fault were this ! 
 
 Third Part Henry VI. Act V. Sc. 4. 
 
 OroonoJco. Ha ! thou hast rous'd 
 The lion in his den : he stalks abroad, 
 And the wide forest trembles at his roar. 
 I find the danger now. OroonoJco, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 My well-beloved hath a vineyard in a very fruitful hill. He fenced it, gathered 
 out the stones thereof, planted it with the choicest vines, built a tower in the midst 
 of it, and also made a wine-press therein : he looked that it should bring forth 
 grapes, and it brought forth wild grapes. And now, O inhabitants of Jerusalem, 
 and men of Judah, judge, I pray you, betwixt me and my vineyard. What could 
 have been done more to my vineyard, that I have not done ? Wherefore, when I 
 looked that it should bring forth grapes, brought it forth wild grapes 1 And now 
 go to ; I will tell you what I will do to my vineyard : I will take away the hedge 
 thereof, and it shall be eaten up ; and break down the wall thereof, and it shall be 
 trodden down. And I will lay it waste : it shall not be pruned, nor digged, but 
 there shall come up briers and thorns : I will also command the clouds that they 
 rain no rain upon it. For the vineyard of the Lord of hosts is the house of Israel, 
 and the men of Judah his pleasant plant. Isaiah, V. 1. 
 
 The rules that govern metaphors, and allegories, are of two kinds : 
 the construction of these figures comes under the first kind : the pro- 
 priety or impropriety of introduction comes under the other. I 
 begin with rules of the first kind ; some of which coincide with those 
 already given for similes ; some are peculiar to metaphors and alle- 
 gories. 
 
 And, in the first place, it has been observed, that a simile cannot 
 be agreeable where the resemblance is either too strong or too faint. 
 This holds equally in metaphor and allegory ; and the reason is the 
 same in all. In the following instances, the resemblance is too faint 
 to be agreeable. 
 
 Malcolm. But there's no bottom, none 
 
 In my voluptuousness : your wives, your daughters, 
 
 Your matrons and your maids, could not fill up 
 
 The cistern of my lust. Macbeth, Act IV. Sc. J. 
 
 The best way to judge of this metaphor, is to convert it into a simile ; 
 which would be bad, because there is scarcely any resemblance b 
 tween lust and a cistern, or betwixt enormous lust and a large cistern. 
 
 Again : 
 
 He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause 
 
 Within the belt of rule, v Macbeth, Act V. Sc. ft 
 
 There is no resemblance between a distempered cause and any body 
 that can be confined within a belt. 
 
 Steep me in poverty to the very lips. OthcUo, Act IV. Sc. 2
 
 372 FIGURES. [Ch. 20, 
 
 Poverty here must be conceived a fluid, which it resembles not in 
 any manner. 
 
 Speaking to Bolingbroke banished for six years : 
 
 The sullen passage of thy weary steps 
 
 Esteem a soil wherein thou art to set 
 
 The precious jewel of thy home-return. 
 
 Richard II. Act I. Sc. 3. 
 Again : 
 
 Here is a letter, lady, 
 
 And every word in it a gaping wound 
 
 Issuing life-blood. Merchant of Venice, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 Tantae molis erat Romanam condere genteih.* JEneid, I. 37. 
 The following metaphor is strained beyond all endurance : Timur- 
 bec, known to us by the name of Tamerlane the Great, writes to 
 Bajazet, Emperor of the Ottomans, in the following terms : 
 
 Where is the monarch who dares resist us 7 where is the potentate who doth 
 not glory in being numbered among our attendants 1 As for thee, descended from 
 a Turcoman sailor, since the vessel of thy unbounded ambition hath been wreck d 
 in the gulf of thy self-love, it would be proper, that thou should'st take in the sails 
 of thy temerity, and cast the anchor of repentance in the port of sincerity and jus- 
 tice, which is the port of safety ; lest the tempest of our vengeance make thee 
 perish in the sea of the punishment thou deservest. 
 
 Such strained figures, as observed above,f are not unfrequent in the 
 first dawn of refinement : the mind in a new enjoyment knows no 
 bounds, and is generally carried to excess, till taste and experience 
 discover the proper limits. 
 
 Secondly, whatever resemblance subjects may have, it is wrong to 
 put one for another, where they bear no mutual proportion : upon 
 comparing a very high to a very low subject, the simile takes on an 
 air of burlesque ; and the same will be the effect, where the one is 
 imagined to be the other, as in a metaphor ; or made to represent the 
 other, as in an allegory. 
 
 Thirdly, these figures, a metaphor especially, ought not to be 
 crowded with many minute circumstances ; for in that case it is 
 scarcely possible to avoid obscurity. A metaphor above all ought 
 to be short : it is difficult, for any time, to support a lively image of 
 a thing being what we know it is not ; and for that reason, a meta- 
 phor drawn out to any length, instead of illustrating or enlivening 
 the principal subject, becomes disagreeable by overstraining the 
 mind. Here Cowley is extremely licentious- take the following 
 instance. 
 
 Great and wise conqu'ror, who where-e'er 
 
 Thou com'st, doth fortify and settle there ! 
 
 Who canst defend as well as get, 
 And never hadst one quarter beat up yet ; 
 
 Now thou art in, thou ne'er will part 
 
 With one inch of my vanquish'd Heart ; 
 For since thou took'st it by assault from me, 
 'Tis garrison'd so strong with thoughts of thee, 
 
 It fears no beauteous enemy. 
 
 For the same reason, however agreeable longallegories may at first be 
 by their novelty, they never afford any lasting pleasure: witness the 
 
 * So great a weight was it to build up the Roman nation. 
 t Chap. 19. Comparisons.
 
 Sect - 6 -l FIGURES. 373 
 
 Fairy-Queen, which with great power of expression, variety of 
 images, and melody of versification, is scarcely ever read a second 
 time. 
 
 In the fourth place, the comparison carried on in a simile, being 
 in a metaphor sunk by imagining the principal subject to be that 
 very thing which it only resembles ; an opportunity is furnished to 
 describe it in terms taken strictly or literally with respect to its 
 imagined nature. This suggests another rule, that in constructing 
 a metaphor, the writer ought to make use of such words only as are 
 applicable literally to the imagined nature of his subject : figurative 
 words ought carefully to be avoided ; for such complicated figures, 
 instead of setting the principal subject in a strong light, involve it in 
 a cloud ; and it is well if the reader, without rejecting by the lump, 
 endeavors patiently to gather the plain meaning regardless of the 
 figures : 
 
 A stubborn and unconquerable flame 
 
 Creeps in his veins, and drinks the streams of life. 
 
 Lady Jane Grey, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 Copied from Ovid, 
 
 Sorbent avidae praecordia flammse. Mdamorph. Lib. IX. 17'2. 
 The greedy flames drink his heart. 
 
 Let us analyze this expression. That a fever may be imagined a 
 flame, I admit ; though more than one step is necessary to come at the 
 resemblance : a fever, by heating the body, resembles fire ; and it is 
 no stretch to imagine a fever to be a fire : again, by a figure of speech, 
 flame may be put for fire, because they are commonly conjoined ; 
 and, therefore, a fever may be termed a flame. But now admitting 
 a fever to be a flame, its effects ought to be explained in words that 
 agree literally to a flame. This rule is not observed here; for a 
 flame drinks figuratively only, not properly. 
 King Henry to his son Prince Henry : 
 
 Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, 
 
 Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart 
 
 To stab at half an hour of my frail life. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. 2. 
 
 Such faulty metaphors are pleasantly ridiculed in the Rehearsal: 
 Physician. Sir, to conclude, the place you fill has more than amply exacted the 
 
 talents of a wary pilot ; and all these threatening storms, which like impregnata 
 
 clouds, hover o'er our heads, will, when they on ceare grasp'd but by the eye of 
 
 reason, melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the people. 
 Bayes. Pray mark that allegory. Is not that good 1 
 Johnson. Yes, that grasping of a storm with the eye is admirable. 
 
 Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 Fifthly, the jumbling of different metaphors in the same sentence, 
 beginning 'with one metaphor and ending with another, commonly 
 called a mixt metaphor, ought never to be indulged. Quintilian 
 bears testimony against it in the bitterest terms : " Nam id quoque in 
 primis est custodiendum, ut quo ex genere cceperis translations, hoc 
 desinas. Multi enim, cum initium a tempestate sumpserunt, incen^ 
 dio aut ruina finiunt : quas est inconsequentia rerum foedissima. 
 Jj. 8. cap. 6. $ 2. 
 
 * This also must be most cautiously observed, that you end with the kind of 
 32
 
 374 FIGURES. iCh. 20. 
 
 K. Henry. "Will you again unknit 
 
 This churlish knot of all-abhorred war, 
 And move in that obedient orb again, 
 Where you did give a fair and natural light 1 
 
 First Part Henry VI. Act V. Sc. 1. 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
 The stings and arrows of outrag'ous fortune; 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
 And by opposing end them. Hamlet, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 In the sixth place, it is unpleasant to join different metaphors in 
 the same period, even where they are preserved distinct : for when 
 the subject rs imagined to be first one thing, and then another in the 
 same period without interval, the mind is distracted by the rapid 
 transition; and when the imagination is put on such hard duty, its 
 images are too faint to produce any good effect: 
 At regina gravi jamdudum saucia cura, 
 Vulnus alit venis, et cseco carpitur igni. ^Eneid, IV. 
 But anxious cares already seize the queen, 
 She fed within her veins a flame unseen. 
 Motum ex Metello consule civicum, 
 Bellique causas, et vitia, et modos, 
 Ludumque fortunae, gravesque 
 
 Principum amicitias, et anna 
 Nondum expiatis uncta cruoribus, 
 Periculosae plenum opus alese, 
 Tractas, et incedis per ignes 
 
 Subpositos cineri doloso. Horat. Carm. 1. ii. Ode 1. 
 The war that rose from civil hate, 
 In that Metellian consulate, 
 Our vices, measures, and the sport of chance, 
 The famous triple league, the Roman shield and lance. 
 With gore unexpiated, smeared, 
 A work whose fate is to be feared, 
 You treat, and on those treacherous ashes tread. 
 Beneath wh6se seeming surface glow the embers dead. 
 
 In the last place, it is still worse to jumble together metaphorical 
 and natural expression, so as that the period must be understood in 
 part metaphorically, in part literally ; for the imagination cannot fol- 
 low with sufficient ease changes so sudden and unprepared : a meta- 
 phor begun and not carried on has no beauty; and instead of light 
 there is nothing but -obscurity and confusion. Instances of such 
 incorrect composition are without number. I shall, fora specimen, 
 select a few from different authors. 
 
 Speaking of Britain, 
 
 This precious stone set in the sea, 
 
 Which serves it in the office of a wall, 
 
 Or as a moat defensive to a house 
 
 Against the envy of less happier lands. Richard II. Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 In the first line Britain is figured to be a precious stone : in the fol- 
 lowing lines, Britain, divested of her metaphorical dress, is presented 
 to the reader in her natural appearance. 
 
 These growing feathers, pluck'd from Cajsar's wing, 
 
 metaphor with which you begin. For many, when they have commenced with a 
 storm, end with a conflagration, or the fall of a building; which incongruity is 
 most vile.
 
 Sect. 6.] FIGURES. 375 
 
 Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, 
 
 Who else would soar above the view of men, 
 
 And keep us all in servile Tearfulness. 
 
 Julius Ccesar, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Rebus angustis animosus atque 
 Fortis adpare : sapienter idem 
 Contrahes vento minium secundo 
 
 Turgida vela. HOT. 
 
 When times are hardest, then a face 
 Of constancy and spirit wear; 
 But wise contract your sails apace 
 When once tne wind's too fair. 
 
 The followingsis a miserable jumble of expressions, arising from an 
 unsteady view of the subject, between its figurative and natural 
 appearance : 
 
 But now from gath'ring clouds destruction pours, 
 
 Which ruins with mad rage our halcyon hours : 
 
 Mists from black jealousies the tempest form, 
 
 Whilst late divisions reinforce the storm. Dispensary, canto 3. 
 
 To thee, the world it present homage pays, 
 The harvest early, but mature the praise. 
 
 Pvpe's faiilation of Horace, b. iL 
 
 Oui, sa pudeur n'est que franche grimace, 
 du'une ombre de vertu qui garde mal la place, 
 Et qui s'evanouit, comme 1'on peut savoir, 
 Aux rayons du soleil qu'une bourse fait voir. 
 
 Moliire, VEtourdi, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 Et son feu, dcpourvu de sens et de lecture, 
 S'eteint a chaque pas, faute de nourriture. 
 
 Boileau, I' Art Poctique, Chant 3. 1. 319. 
 
 Dryden, in his dedication of the translation of Juvenal, says, 
 
 When thus, as I may say, before the use of the load-stone, or knowledge of the 
 compass, I was sailing in a vast ocean, without other help than the pole-star of the 
 ancients, and the rules of the French stage among the moderns, &c. 
 
 There is a time when factions, by the vehemence of their own fermentation, 
 stun and disable one another. JSolingbroke. 
 
 This fault of jumbling the figure and plain expression into one 
 confused mass, is not less common in allegory than in metaphor. 
 Take the following examples : 
 
 Heu ! quoties fidem, 
 
 Mutatosque Deos flebit, et aspera 
 Nigris sequora ventis 
 
 Emirabitur insolens, 
 Q.ui nunc te fruiturcredulus aured, 
 dui semper tacuam, semper amabilem 
 Sperat, nescius aurae 
 Fallacis. Horat. Carm. \. 1. ode 5. 
 
 Alas ! how oft shall he protest 
 Against his confidence misplaced, 
 And love's inconstant powers deplore, 
 And wondrous winds, which, as they roar, 
 Throw black upoij the altered scene 
 Who now so well himself deceives, 
 And thee all sunshine, all serene 
 For want of better skill believes.
 
 376 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 Pour moi sur cette mer, qu'ici has nous courons, 
 Je songe a me pourvoir d'esquif et d'avirons, 
 A regler mcs desirs, a prevenir 1'orage, 
 Et sauver, s'il se peut, ma Raison du naufrage. 
 
 Boileau, Epitre 5. 
 
 Lord Halifax, speaking of the ancient fabulists : " They (says he) 
 wrote in signs, and spoke in parables : all their fables carry a double 
 meaning; the story is one and entire; the characters the same 
 throughout ; not broken or changed, and always conformable to the 
 nature of the creature they introduce. They never tell you, that the 
 dog which snapp'd at a shadow, lost his troop of horse ; that would 
 be unintelligible. This is his (Dryden's) new way of telling a story, 
 and confounding the moral and the fable together." After instancing 
 from the hind and panther, he goes on thus : " What relation has 
 the hind to our Saviour ; or what notion have we of a panther's 
 Bible? If you say he means the church, how does the church feed 
 on lawns, or range in the forest? Let it be always a church, or 
 always a cloven-footed beast, for we cannot bear his shifting the 
 scene every line." 
 
 A few words more upon allegory. Nothing gives greater plea- 
 sure than this figure, when the representative subject bears a strong 
 analogy, in all its circumstances, to that which is represented: but 
 the choice is seldom so lucky ; the analogy being generally so faint 
 and obscure, as to puzzle and not please. An allegory is still more 
 difficult in painting than in poetry : the former can show no resem- 
 blance but what appears to the eye ; the latter has many other resour- 
 ces for showing the resemblance. And therefore, with respect to 
 what the Abbe du Bos* terms mixt allegorical compositions, these 
 may do in poetry .; because, in writing, the allegory can easily be 
 distinguished from the historical part: no person, for example, mis- 
 takes Virgil's Fame for a real being. But such a mixture in a pic- 
 ture is intolerable; because in a picture the objects must appear all 
 of the same kind, wholly real or wholly emblematical. For this rea- 
 son, the history of Mary de Medicis, in the palace of Luxembourg, 
 painted by Rubens, is unpleasant by a perpetual jumble of real and 
 allegorical personages, which produce a discordance of parts, and an 
 obscurity upon the whole : witness, in particular, the tablature repre- 
 s^nting the arrival of Mary de Medicis at Marseilles ; where, together 
 with the real personages, the Nereids and Tritons appear sounding 
 their shells : such a mixture of fiction and reality in the same group, 
 is strangely absurd. The picture of Alexander and Roxana, described 
 by Lucian, is gay and fanciful ; but it suffers by the allegorical 
 figures. It is not in the wit of man to invent an allegorical repre- 
 sentation deviating farther from any shadow of resemblance, than 
 one exhibited by Lewis XIV. anno 1664; in which an enormous 
 chariot, intended to represent that of the sun, is dragg'd along, sur- 
 rounded with men and women, representing the four ages of the 
 world, the celestial signs, the seasons, the hours, &c. ; a monstrous 
 composition, suggested probably by Guide's tablature of Aurora, and 
 still more absurd. 
 
 * Reflections sur la Poesie, TO!. I. sect. 34.
 
 Sect. 6.] FIGURES. 377 
 
 In an allegory as well as in a metaphor, terms ought to be chosen 
 that properly and literally are applicable to the representative sub- 
 ject : nor ought any circumstance to be added that is not proper to 
 the representative subject, however justly it may be applicable pro- 
 perly or figuratively to the principal. The following allegory is 
 therefore faulty : 
 
 Ferus et Cupido, 
 Semper ardentes acuens sagittas 
 
 Cote cruentd. Horal. 1. II. ode 8. 
 
 And love, still whetting on a stone 
 His darts in crimson dyed. 
 
 For though blood may suggest the cruelty of love, it is an improper 
 or immaterial circumstance in the representative subject: water, not 
 blood, is proper for a whetstone. 
 
 We proceed to the next head, which is, to examine in what cir- 
 cumstance these figures are proper, in what improper. This inquiry 
 is not altogether superseded by what is said upon the same subject 
 in the chapter of Comparisons; because upon trial it will be found, 
 that a short metaphor or allegory may be proper, where a simile, 
 drawn out to a greater length, and in its nature more solemn, would 
 scarcely be relished. 
 
 And, first, a metaphor, like a simile, is excluded from common 
 conversation, and from the description of ordinary incidents. 
 
 Second, in expressing any severe passion that wholly occupies the 
 mind, metaphor is improper. For which reason, the following 
 speech of Macbeth is faulty. 
 
 Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more ! 
 Macbeth doth murder sleep ; the innocent sleep ; 
 Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of Care, 
 The birth of each day's life, sore Labour's bath, 
 Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course, 
 Chief nourisher in Life's feast. Act II. Sc. 2. 
 
 The following example, of deep despair, beside the highly figurative 
 style, has more the air of raving than of sense: 
 
 Calista. Is it the voice of thunder, or my father T 
 Madness ! Confusion ! let the storm come on, 
 Let the tumultuous roar drive all upon me. 
 Dash my devoted bark ; ye surges, break it; 
 "Tis for my ruin that the tempest rises. 
 When I am lost, sunk to the bottom low, 
 Peace shall return, and all be calm again. Fair Penitent, Act IV. 
 
 The metaphor I next introduce, is sweet and lively, but it suits not 
 a fiery temper inflamed with passion : parables are not the language 
 of wrath venting itself without restraint : 
 
 Chamtmt. You took her up a little tender flower, 
 Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost 
 Had nip'd ; and with a careful loving hand, 
 Transplanted her into your own fair garden, 
 Where the sun always shines : there long she flourish d, 
 Grew sweet to sense and lovely to the eye, 
 Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, 
 Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness, 
 Then cast it like a loathsome weed away. Orphan, Act IT. 
 
 32*
 
 378 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 The following speech, full of imagery, is not natural in grief and 
 dejection of mind : 
 
 Gonsalez. O my son ! from the blind dotage 
 Of father's fondness these ills arose. 
 For thee I've been ambitious, base and bloody : 
 For thee I've plung'd into this sea of sin ; 
 Stemming the tide with only one weak hand, 
 While t'other bore the crown (to wreathe thy brow,) 
 Whose weight has sunk me ere I reach'd the shore. 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act V. Sc. 6. 
 
 There is an enchanting picture of deep distress in Macbeth,* where 
 MacdurT is represented lamenting his wife and children, inhumanly 
 murdered by the tyrant. Stung to the heart with the news, he ques- 
 tions the messenger over and over: not that he doubted the fact, but 
 that his heart revolted against so cruel a misfortune. After strug- 
 gling some time with his grief, he turns from his wife and children 
 to their savage butcher ; and then gives vent to his resentment, but 
 still with manliness and dignity : 
 
 O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, 
 
 And braggart "with my tongue. But, gentle Heav'n ! 
 
 Cut short all intermission ; front to front 
 
 Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; 
 
 Within my sword's length set him If he 'scape, 
 
 Then Heav'n forgive him too. 
 
 The whole scene is a delicious picture of human nature. . One 
 expression only seems doubtful : in examining the messenger, Mac- 
 duff expresses himself thus : 
 
 He hath no children all my pretty ones ! 
 Did you say, all? what, all? Oh, hell-kite ! all? 
 What, all my pretty little chickens and their dam, 
 At one fell swoop ! 
 
 Metaphorical expression, I am sensible, may sometimes be used with 
 grace, where a regular simile would be intolerable : but there are 
 situations so severe and dispiriting, as not to admit even the slightest 
 metaphor. It requires great delicacy of taste to determine with firm- 
 ness, whether the present case be of that kind : I incline to think it 
 is ; and yet I would not willingly alter a single word of this admi- 
 rable scene. 
 
 But metaphorical language is proper when a man struggles to 
 bear with dignity or decency a misfortune however great : the strug- 
 gle agitates and animates the mind : 
 
 Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
 Tliis is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
 The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
 And bears his blushing honours thick upon him j 
 The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
 And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
 His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, 
 And then he falls as I do. Henry VIII. Act III. St. 3 
 
 * Act IV. Se. 3.
 
 FIGURES. 379 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 FIGURE OF SPEECH. 
 
 The using of a word in a sense which is not proper to it Two objects presented 
 he principal and the accessory Aggrandizes its object Prevents the fami- 
 liarity of proper names Enriches and renders language more copious. 
 
 IN the section immediately foregoing, a figure of speech is defined, 
 The using of a word in a sense different from what is proper to 
 it ;" and the new or uncommon sense of the word is termed the figu- 
 rative sense. The figurative sense must have a relation to that which 
 is proper ; and the more intimate the relation is, the figure is the 
 more happy. How ornamental this figure is to language, will not 
 be readily imagined by any one who has not given peculiar attention ; 
 and therefore I shall endeavor to unfold its capital beauties and advan- 
 tages. In the first place, a word used figuratively or in a new sense, 
 suggests at the same time the sense it commonly bears: and thus it 
 has the effect to present two objects; one signified by the figurative 
 sense, which may be termed the principal object; and one signified 
 by the proper sense which may be termed accessory : the principal 
 makes a part of the thought ; the accessory is merely ornamental. 
 In this respect, a figure of speech is precisely similar to concordant 
 sounds in music, which without contributing to the melody, makes 
 it harmonious. I explain myself by examples, youth, by a figure 
 of speech, is termed the morning of life. This expression signifies 
 youth, the principal object, which enters into the thought: it suggests, 
 at the same time, the proper sense of morning; and this accessory 
 object, being in itself beautiful, and connected by resemblance to the 
 principal object, is not a little ornamental. Imperious ocean is an 
 example of a different kind, where an attribute is expressed figura- 
 tively : together with stormy, the figurative meaning of the epithet 
 imperious, there is suggested its proper meaning, viz. the stern 
 authority of a despotic prince ; and these two are strongly connected 
 by resemblance. Upon this figurative power of words, Vida des- 
 cants with elegance : 
 
 Nonne vides, verbis ut veris saepe relictis 
 Accersant simulata, aliundeque nomina porro 
 Transportent, aptentque aliis ea rebus ; ut ipsse, 
 Exuviasque novas, res, insolitosque colores 
 Indutse, sscpe externi mirentur amictus 
 Unde illi, Isetavpe aliena luce fruantur, 
 MnMtoque habitu, nee jam sua nomina malent 1 
 Ssepc ideo, cum bella canunt, incendia credas 
 Cernere, diluviumque ingens surgentibus undis 
 Contra etiam Martis pugnas imitabitur ignis, 
 Cum furit accensis acies Vulcunia campis. 
 Nee turbato oritur quondam minor acquore pugna: 
 Confligunt animosi Euri certamine vaato 
 Inter se, pugnantque adversis molibus undae. 
 Usque adeo passim sua res insignia laetae 
 Permutantque, j'uvantquevicissim ; et mutua seae 
 Altera in alterius transfonnat protinus 01 a.
 
 380 FIGURES. [Ch, 20. 
 
 Turn specie capti gaudent spectare legentes : 
 Nam diversa simul datur e re cernere eadem 
 Multarum simulacra animo subeuntia rerum. 
 
 Poet. lib. III. 1. 44. 
 
 See how the poet banishes with grace 
 
 A native term to give a stranger ]> 
 
 From different images with just success 
 
 He clothes his mutter in the borrowed dress : 
 
 The borrowed dress the things themselves admire, 
 
 And wonder whence they drew the strange attire; 
 
 Proud of their ravis!i?d spoils, they now disclaim 
 
 Their former color, and their genuine name, 
 
 And ii! another garb more beauteous grown, 
 
 Prefer the foreign habit to their own. 
 
 Oil os he pain's a l,;itrle on the plain, 
 
 '!' i - battle's inland by the roaring main; 
 
 Now he the fijrht a fiery deluge names, 
 
 That pours along the fiVlds a flood of flames; 
 
 In airy conflict now the winds appear, 
 
 Alarm the deeps, and wa<:e the stormy war ; 
 
 To the fierce shock th' embattled tempests pour, 
 
 Waves charge on waves, th' encountering billows roar. 
 
 Thus in a varied dress the subject shines. 
 
 By turns the objects shift their proper signs ; 
 
 From shape to shape alt-^vnatfly '.hf-y run. 
 
 To borrow others' charms, and l<>nd their own ; 
 
 Pleased with the borrowed charms, the readers find 
 
 A crowd of ditferent images combined, 
 
 Rise from a single object to the mind. 
 
 In the next place, this figure possesses a signal power of aggran- 
 dizing an object, by the following means. Words which have no 
 original teauty but what arises from their sound, acquire an adventi- 
 tious beauty from their meaning : a word signifying any thing that 
 is agreeable, becomes by that means agreeable; for the agreeableness 
 of the objoct is communicated to its name.* This acquired beauty 
 by the force of custom, adheres to the word even when used figura- 
 tively; and the beauty received from the thing it properly signifies, 
 is communicated to the thing which it is made to signify figuratively. 
 Consider the foregoing expression Imperious ocean, how much more 
 elevated it is than Stormy ocean. 
 
 Thirdly, this figure has a happy effect by preventing the familiarity 
 of proper names. The familiarity of a proper name, is communi- 
 cated to the thing it signifies by means of their intimate connection ; 
 and the thing is thereby brought down in our feeling.f This bad 
 effect is prevented by using a figurative word instead of one that is 
 proper ; as, for example, when we express the sky by terming it the 
 blue vavll of heaven; for though no work of art can compare with 
 the sky in grandeur, the expression however is relished, because it 
 prevents the object from being brought down by the familiarity of its 
 proper name. With respect to the degrading familiarity of proper 
 names, Vida has the following passage : 
 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 5. 
 
 t I have often regretted, that a factious spirit of opposition to the reigning 
 family makes it necessary in public worship to distinguish the king by his proper 
 name. One will scarce imagine who has not made the trial, how much better it 
 winds to pray for our sovereign lord the king, without any addition.
 
 Sect. 7.] FIGURES. 381 
 
 Hinc si dura mihi passus dicendus Ulysses, 
 
 Non ilium verp memorabo nomine, sed qui 
 
 Et mores hominum multorum vidit, et urbes, 
 
 Naufragus eversse post saeva incendia Trojae. 
 
 Poet. lib. H. 1. 46. 
 
 Thus great Ulysses' toils were I to choose, 
 For the main theme that should employ my muse ; 
 By his long; labors of immortal fame, 
 Should shine my hero, but conceal his name ; 
 As one, who lost at sea, had nations seen, 
 And marked their towns, their manners, and their men, 
 Since Troy was levelled to the dust by Greece. 
 
 Lastly, by this figure language is enriched, and rendered more 
 copious ; in which respect, were there no other, a figure of speech is 
 a happy invention. This property is finely touched by Vida: 
 
 duinetiam agricolas ea fandi nota voluptas 
 Exercet, dum laeta seges, dum trudere gemmas 
 Incipiunt vites, sitientiaque a:theris imbrem 
 Praia bibunt, rideftque satis surgentibus agri. 
 Hanc vulgo speciem proprise penuria vocis 
 Intulit, indictisque urgens in rebus egestas. 
 GLuippe ubi se vera ostendebant nomina nusquam, 
 Fas erat hinc atque hinc transferre simillima veris. 
 
 Poet. lib. III. 1. 90. 
 
 Ev'en the rough hinds delight in such a strain, 
 
 When the glad harvest waves with golden grain, 
 
 And thirsty meadows drink the pearly rain ; 
 
 On the proud vine her purple gems appear ; 
 
 The smiling fields rejoice, and hail the pregnant year. 
 
 First from necessity the figure sprung, 
 
 For, things, that would not suit our scanty tongue, 
 
 When no true names were offered to the view, 
 
 Those they transferred that bordered on the true; 
 
 Thence by degrees the noble license grew. 
 
 The beauties I have mentioned belong to every figure of speech. 
 Several other beauties peculiar to one or other sort, I shall have occa- 
 sion to remark afterward. 
 
 Not only subjects, but qualities, actions, effects, may be expressed 
 figuratively. Thus, as to subjects, the gates of breath for the lips, 
 the watery kingdom for the ocean. As to qualities, fierce for stormy, 
 in the expression Fierce winter: Altus for profundus ; Altusputeus, 
 Altummare; Breathing for perspiring; Breathing plants. Again, 
 as to actions, the sea rages, Time will melt her frozen thoughts. 
 Time kills grief. An effect is put for the cause, as lux for the sun ; 
 and a cause for the effect, as bourn labores for corn. The relation of 
 resemblance is one plentiful source of figures of speech; and nothing 
 is more common than to apply to one object the name of another that 
 resembles it in any respect: height, size, and worldly greatness, 
 resemble not each other ; but the emotions they produce resemble 
 each other, and prompted by this resemblance, we naturally express 
 worldly greatness by height or size : one feels a certain uneasiness 
 in seeing a great depth ; and hence depth is made to express any 
 thing disagreeable by excess, as depth of grief, depth of despair 
 again, height of place, and time long past, produce similar ft 
 and hence the expression, Ut altius repetam : distance in past time,
 
 332 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 producing a strong feeling, is put for any strong feeling. Nihil mihi 
 antiquius nostra amicitia: shortness with relation to space, for short- 
 ness with relation to time, Brevis esse laboro, obscurus fio : suffering 
 a punishment resembles paying a debt; hence pendere pasnas. In 
 the same manner light may be put for glory, sunshine for prosperity, 
 and weight for importance! 
 
 Many words, originally figurative, having by long and constant 
 use, lost their figurative power, are degraded to the inferior rank of 
 proper terms. Thus the words lhat express the operations of the 
 mind, have in all languages been originally figurative: the reason 
 holds in all, that when these operations came first under considera- 
 tion, there was no other way of describing them than by what they 
 resembled : it was not 'practicable to give them proper names, as 
 may be done to objects that can be ascertained by sight and touch. 
 A soft nature, jarring tempers, weight of wo, pompous phrase, beget 
 compassion, assuage grief, break a vow, bend the eye downward, 
 shower down curses, drowrid in tears, in-apt in joy, waririd with 
 eloquence, loaded, with spoils, and a thousand other expressions of 
 the like nature, have lost their figurative sense. Some terms there 
 are, that cannot be said to be either altogether figurative or altogether 
 proper: originally figurative, they are tending to simplicity, without 
 having lost altogether their figurative power. Virgil's Regina sau- 
 cia cur a, is perhaps one of these expressions : with ordinary readers, 
 saucia will be considered as expressing simply the effect of grief; 
 but one of a lively imagination will exalt the phrase into a figure. 
 
 For epitomising this subject, and at the same time for giving a 
 clear vrew of it, I cannot think .of a better method, than to present 
 to the reader a list of the several relations upon which figures of 
 speech are commonly founded. This list I divide into two tables : 
 one of subjects expressed figuratively, and one of attributes. 
 
 FIRST TABLE. 
 
 Subjects expressed figuratively. 
 
 1 . A word proper to one subject employed figuratively to express 
 a resembling subject. 
 
 There is no figure of speech so frequent, as what is derived from 
 the relation of resemblance. Youih, for example, is signified figu- 
 ratively by the morning of life. The life of a man resembles a 
 natural day in several particulars: the morning is the beginning of 
 day, youth the beginning of life ; the morning is cheerful, so is 
 youth, &c. By another resemblance, a bold warrior is termed the 
 thunderbolt of war ; a multitude of troubles, a sea of troubles. 
 
 This figure, above all others, affords pleasure to the mind by va- 
 riety of beauties. Besides the beauties above mentioned, common 
 to all sorts, it possesses in particular the beauty of a metaphor or of 
 a simile : a figure of speech built upon resemblance, suggests 
 always a comparison between the principal subject and the acces- 
 sory ; whereby every good effect of a metaphor or simile, may in a 
 short and lively manner, be produced by this figure of speech.
 
 Sect. 7.] FIGURES. 383 
 
 2. A word proper to the effect employed figuratively to express 
 
 I JIG CuUSG. 
 
 Lux for the sun. Shadow for cloud. A helmet is signified by 
 the expression glittering terror. A tree by shadow or umbrage. 
 Hence the expression: 
 
 Nee habet Pelion umbras.* Ovid. 
 
 Where the dun umbrage hangs. Spring, 1. 1023. 
 
 A Wound is made to signify an arrow : 
 
 Vulnere non pedibus te consequar.t Ovid. 
 
 There is a peculiar force and beauty in this figure : the word 
 which signifies figuratively the principal subject, denotes it to be a 
 cause by suggesting the effect. 
 
 3. A word proper to the cause, employed figuratively to express 
 4he effect. 
 
 Boumque labores, for corn. Sorrow or grief, for tears. 
 
 Again, Ulysses veil'd his pensive head ; 
 Again, unmann'd, a sliow'r of sorrow shed. 
 
 Streaming Grief his faded cheek bedew 'd. 
 Blindness for darkness : 
 
 Caecis erramus in undis.t jEneid, III. 200. 
 
 There is a peculiar energy in this figure, similar to that in the 
 former : the figurative name denotes the subject to be an effect, by 
 suggesting its cause. 
 
 4. Two things being intimately connected, the proper name of 
 the one employed figuratively to signify the other. 
 
 Day for light. Night for darkness ; and hence, A sudden night. 
 Winter for a storm at sea : 
 
 Interea magno misceri murmure pontum, 
 
 Emissamque Hyemem sensit Neptunus. jEneid, 1. 128. 
 
 Meantime imperial Neptune heard the sound 
 Of raging winter breaking on the ground. 
 
 This last figure would be too bold for a British writer, as a storm 
 at sea is not inseparably connected with winter in this climate. 
 
 5. A word proper to an attribute, employed figuratively to denote 
 the subject. 
 
 Youth and beauty for those who are young and beautiful : 
 
 Youth and beauty shall be laid in dust. 
 Majesty for the King : 
 
 What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night, 
 
 Together with that fair and warlike form, 
 
 In which the Majesty of buried Denmark 
 
 Did sometime march"'? Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Or have ye chosen this place 
 
 After the toils of battle, to repose 
 
 Your weary'd virtue. Paradise Lost. 
 
 * Nor hath Pelion shadows. 
 
 t I will follow thee with a wound, not with feet 
 
 * We wander midst the blind waves.
 
 384 FIGURES. [CL 20. 
 
 Verdure for a green field. Summer, 1. 301. 
 Speaking of cranes, 
 
 The pigmy nations wounds and death they bring, 
 
 And all the war descends upon the wing. Iliad, III. 10. 
 
 Cool age advances venerably wise. Iliad, III. 149. 
 
 The peculiar beauty of this figure arises from suggesting an 
 attribute that embellishes the subject, or puts it in a stronger light. 
 
 6. A complex term employed figuratively to denote one of the 
 component parts. 
 
 Funus* for a dead body. Burial for a grave. 
 
 7. The name of one of the component parts instead of the com- 
 plex term. 
 
 Tasda] for a marriage. The East for a country situated east 
 from us. Jovis vestigia $ervat,\ for imitating Jupiter in general. 
 
 8. A word signifying time or place, employed figuratively to de- 
 note what is connected with it. 
 
 Clime for a nation, or for a constitution of government : hence the 
 expression Merciful clime, Fleecy winter for snow, Seculum feliz.t) 
 
 9. A part for the whole. 
 
 The Pole for the earth. The head for the person: 
 
 Triginta minas pro capite tuo dedi.ll PlaiUus. 
 
 . Tergum for the man : 
 
 Fugiens terguni.lT Ovid. 
 
 Vultus for the man : 
 
 Jam fulgor armorum fugaces 
 
 Terret equos, equitumque vultus. Horat. 
 
 Men in armor bright, 
 
 The routed horse and horsemen with their lightnings fright 
 
 Gluis desiderio sit pudor aut modus 
 
 Tarn chari capitis 1 Horat. 
 
 What can abash the mournful strains 
 Or bounds prescribe to grief like this 
 For those most precious dear remains. 
 
 Dumque virent geuua ?** Horat. 
 
 Thy growing virtues justify'd my cares, 
 
 And promis'd comfort to my silver hairs. Iliad, IX. 616. 
 
 -Forthwith from the pool he rears 
 
 His mighty stature. Paradise Lost. 
 
 The silent heart with grief assails Parnett. 
 
 The peculiar beauty of this figure consists in marking that part 
 which makes the greatest figure. 
 
 10. The name of the container, employed figuratively to signify 
 what is contained. 
 
 Grove for the birds in it, Vocal grove. Ships for the seamen, 
 
 * A funeral. t A marriage torch. * He follows the steps of Jove. 
 A happy age. II I gave thirty pounds for thy head. 
 
 V Fleeing from his back. ** Whilst my knees have strength,
 
 Sect. 7.] FIGURES. 385 
 
 Agonizing ships. Mountains for the sheep pasturing upon them, 
 Bleating mountains. Zacynthus, Ithaca, &c. for the inhabitants. 
 Ex mcestis domibus, Livy. 
 
 11. The name of the sustainer, employed figuratively to signify 
 what is sustained. 
 
 Altar for the sacrifice. Field for the battle fought upon it, Well- 
 fought field. 
 
 , ^.2. The name of the materials, employed figuratively to signify 
 the things made of them. 
 
 Ferrum for gladius. 
 
 13. The names of the Heathen deities, employed figuratively to 
 signify what they patronise. 
 
 Jove, for the air, Mars for war, Venus for beauty, Cupid for love, 
 Ceres for corn, Neptune for the sea 1 , Vulcan for fire. 
 
 This figure bestows great elevation upon the subject ; and there- 
 fore ought to be confined to the higher strains of poetry. 
 
 SECOND TABLE. 
 
 Attributes expressed figuratively. 
 
 When two attributes are connected, the name of the one may be 
 employed figuratively to express the other. 
 
 1. Purity and virginity are attributes of the same person: hence 
 the expression, Virgin snow, for pure snow. 
 
 2. A word signifying properly an attribute of one subject, em- 
 ployed figuratively to express a resembling attribute of another 
 subject. 
 
 Tottering state. Imperious ocean. Angry flood. Raging 
 tempest. Shallow fears. 
 
 My sure divinity shall bear the shield, 
 
 And edge thy sword to reap the glorious field. Odyssey, XX. 61. 
 
 Black omen, for an omen that portends bad fortune. 
 
 Ater odor. Virgil. 
 
 The peculiar beauty of this figure arises from suggesting a fcom- 
 parison. 
 
 3. A word proper to the subject, employed to express one of its 
 attributes. 
 
 Mens for intellectus. Mens for a resolution : 
 
 Istam, oro, exue mentem. 
 
 4 When two subjects have a resemblance %y a common quality, 
 the name of the one subject may be employed figuratively to denoU 
 that quality in the other. 
 
 Summer life for agreeable life. 
 
 5. The name of the instrument made to signify the power 
 employing it. 
 
 Melpomene, cui liquidam pater 
 
 Vocem cum cithera, dedit. 
 
 The ample field of figurative expression displayed in these tables, 
 33
 
 386 FIGURES. [Ch. 20 
 
 affords great scope for reasoning. Several of the observations relating 
 to metaphor, are applicable to figures of speech : these I shall slightly 
 retouch, with some additions peculiarly adapted to the present 
 subject. 
 
 In the first place, as the figure under consideration is built upon 
 relation, we find from experience, and it must be obvious from reason, 
 that the beauty of the figure depends on the intimacy of the relation 
 between the figurative and proper sense of the word. A slight resem- 
 blance, in particular, will never make this figure agreeable: the 
 expression, for example, Drink down a secret, for listening to a secret 
 with attention, is harsh, and uncouth, because there is scarcely any 
 resemblance between listening and drinking. The expression 
 weighty crack, used by Ben Jonson for loud crack, is worse if possi- 
 ble : a loud sound has not the slightest resemblance to a piece of 
 matter that is weighty. The following expression of Lucretius is 
 not less faulty, " Et lepido quae sunt fucata sonore." i. 645. 
 
 Sed magis 
 
 Pugnas et exactos tyrannos 
 Densum humeris bibit aure vulgus. 
 
 Herat. Carm. 1. 2. Ode 13 
 
 But most 
 
 The attention and the thick'ning throng augment, 
 To hear of patriot fights, and kings in exile sent. 
 
 Phemius ! let acts of gods and heroes old, 
 
 What ancient bards in hall and bow'r have told, 
 
 Attemper'd to the lyre, your voice employ, 
 
 Such the pleas'd ear will drink with silent joy. Odyssey, I. 433. 
 
 Strepitumque exterritus hausit. dEneid, VI. 559. 
 
 And terrified, drank the tumult. 
 Write, my Q,ueen. 
 
 And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send. 
 
 Cymbeline, Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 As thus th' effulgence tremulous I drink. Summer, 1. 1684. 
 
 Neque audit currus habenas. Georg. I. 514. 
 
 Nor does the chariot hear the reins. 
 
 O Prince! (Lycaon's valiant son reply'd). 
 
 As thine the steeds, be thine the task to guide. 
 
 The horses practis'd to their lord's command, 
 
 Shall hear the rein, and answer to thy hand. Iliad, V. 288. 
 
 The following figures of speech seem altogether wild and extra- 
 vagant, the figurative and proper meaning having no connection 
 whatever. Moving softness, Freshness breathes, Breathing pros- 
 pect, Flowing spring, Deicy light, Lucid coolness, and many others 
 of this false coin, may be found in Thomson's Seasons. 
 
 Secondly, the proper sense of the word ought to bear some pro- 
 portion to the figurative sense, and not soar much above it, nor sink 
 much below it. This rule, as well as the foregoing, is finely illus- 
 trated by Vida : 
 
 Haec adeo cum sint, cum fas audere poetis 
 
 Multa modis multis ; tamen observare memento 
 
 Si quando haud propriis rem mavis dicere verbis, . :
 
 7.] FIGURES. 387 
 
 Translatisque aliunde nods, longeque petitis, 
 
 Ne nimiam ostendas, quaerendo talia, curam. 
 
 Namque aliqui exercent vim duram, et rebus inique 
 
 Nativam eripiunt formam, indignantibus ipsis 
 
 Invitasque jubent alienos sumere vultus 
 
 Haud magis imprudens mihi erit, et luminis expers, 
 
 Q.ui puero ingentes habitus det ferre gigantis, 
 
 Quam siquis stabula alta lares appellet equinos, 
 
 Aut crines magnae genitricis gramina dicat. Poet. III. 148. 
 
 But though our fond indulgence grants the muse 
 A thousand liberties in different views, 
 Whene'er you choose an image to express 
 In foreign terms, and scorn the native dress ; 
 Yet be discreet, nor strain the point too far, 
 Let the transition still enforced appear, 
 Nor e'er discover an excess of care : 
 For some, we know, with awkward violence 
 Quite change the genuine figure, and deface 
 The native shape with every living grace ; 
 And force unwilling objects to put on 
 An alien face, and features not their own. 
 A low conceit in disproportioned terms, 
 Looks like a boy dressed up in giant's arms ; 
 Blind to the truth, all reason they exceed, 
 Who name a stall the palace of the steed, 
 Or grass the tresses of great Rhaea's head. 
 
 Thirdly, in a figure of speech, every circumstance ought to be 
 avoided that agrees with the proper sense only, not the figurative 
 sense ; for it is the latter that expresses the thought, and the former 
 serves for no other purpose than to make harmony : 
 
 Zacynthus green with ever-shady groves, 
 
 And Ithaca, presumptuous boast their loves ; 
 
 Obtruding on my choice a second lord, 
 
 They press the Hymenean rite abhorr'd. Odyssey, XIX. 152. 
 
 Zacynthus here standing figuratively for the inhabitants, the descrip- 
 tion of the island is quite out of place : it puzzles the reader, by 
 making him doubt whether the word ought to be taken in its proper 
 or figurative sense. 
 
 Write, my Glueen, 
 
 And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, 
 
 Though ink be made of gall. CymAeline, Act I. Sc. 2 
 
 The disgust one has to drink ink in reality, is not to the purpose 
 where the subject is drinking ink figuratively. 
 
 In the fourth place, to draw consequences from a figure of speech, 
 as if the word were to be understood literally, is a gross absurdity, 
 for it is confounding truth with fiction. 
 
 Be Moubray's sins so heavy in his bosom, 
 That they may break his foaming courser's back, 
 And throw the rider headlong in the lists, 
 A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford. 
 
 Richard II. Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 Sin may be imagined heavy in a figurative sense : but weight in a 
 proper sense belongs to the accessory only ; and therefore to describe 
 the effects of weight, is to desert the principal subject, and to convert 
 the accessory into a principal :
 
 388 FIGURES. [Ch. 20. 
 
 Cromwell. How does your Grace 1 
 
 Wolsey. Why, well ; 
 
 Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
 I know myself now, and I feel within me 
 A peace above all earthly dignities, 
 A still and quiet conscience.^ The King has cur'd me, 
 I humbly thank his Grace ; and from these shoulders, 
 These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken 
 A load would sink a navy, too much honor. 
 
 Henry VIII. Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 Ulysses speaking of Hector : 
 
 I wonder now how yonder city stands, 
 When we have here the base and pillar by us. 
 
 Troilus and Cressida, Act IV. Sc. 5. 
 
 Othello. No ; my heart is turn'd to stone : I strike it, and it hurts my hand. 
 
 Othello, Act IV. Sc. 1. 
 Not less, even in this despicable now, 
 Than when my name fill'd Afric with affrights, 
 And froze your hearts beneath your torrid zone. 
 
 Don Sebastian, King of Portugal. Act I. 
 
 How long a space, since first I lov'd, it is ! 
 
 To look into a glass I fear, 
 And am surpris'd with wonder when I miss 
 
 Gray hairs and wrinkles there. Cowley, Vol. I. p. 86. 
 
 I chose the flourishing'st tree in all the park. 
 
 With freshest boughs and fairest head ; 
 I cut my love into his gentle bark, 
 
 And in three days behold 'tis dead ; 
 My very written flames so violent be, 
 They've burnt and wither'd up the tree 
 
 Cowley, Vol. I. p. 136. 
 
 Ah, mighty Love, that it were inward heat 
 Which made this precious limbeck sweat ! 
 
 But what, alas ! ah what does it avail, 
 That she weeps tears so wondrous cold, 
 As scarce the ass's hoof can hold, 
 
 So cold, that I admire they fall not hail. 
 
 Cowley, Vol. I. p. 132. 
 
 Such a play of words is pleasant in a ludicrous poem. 
 
 Almeria. Alphonso, Alphonso ! 
 Devouring seas have wash'd thee from my sight. 
 No time shall rase thee from my memory ; 
 No, I will live to be thy monument : 
 The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb ; 
 But in my heart thou art interr'd. 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 This would be very right, if there were any inconsistence, in being; 
 interred in one place really, and in another place figuratively. 
 
 Je crains que cette saison 
 
 Ne nous amene la peste ; 
 
 La gueule du chien celeste 
 
 Vomit feu sur 1'horison. 
 
 Afin que je m'en delivre, 
 
 Je veux lire ton gros livre 
 
 Jusques au dernier feuillet : 
 
 Tout ce que ta plume trace, 
 
 Robinet, a de la glace 
 
 A faire trembler Juillet Maynard.
 
 Sect. 7.] FIGURES. 389 
 
 In me tota ruens Venus 
 Cyprum deseruit. Horat. Carm. 1. 1. Ode 19. 
 
 Her Cyprus now deserting quite, 
 Venus on me careers with all her might. 
 
 From considering that a word used in a figurative sense suggests 
 at the same time its proper meaning, we discover a fifth rule, that we 
 ought not to employ a word in a figurative sense, the proper sense of 
 which is inconsistent or incongruous with the subject : for every 
 inconsistency, and even incongruity, though in the expression only 
 and not real, is unpleasant : 
 
 Interea genitor Tyberini ad fluminis undam 
 
 Vulnera siccabat lymphis 
 
 jEneid, X. 833. 
 
 Meantime his father, now no father stood, 
 And dried his wounds by Tyber's yellow flood. 
 
 Tres adeo incertos caeca caligine soles 
 Erramus pelago, totidem sine sidere noctes. 
 
 jEneid, III. 303. 
 
 Three starless nights the doubtful navy stays 
 Without distinction, and three sunless days. 
 
 The foregoing rule may be extended to form a sixth, that no epi- 
 thet ought to be given to the figurative sense of a word that agrees 
 not also with its proper sense : 
 
 Dicat Opuntise 
 
 Frater Megillas, quo beat/us 
 
 Vulnere. Horat. Carm. lib. I. Ode 27. 
 
 Let the brother of the Opuntian fair 
 
 Rather his lovesick joys, and darling flame declare. 
 
 Parcus deorum cultor, et infrequens, 
 Znsanientis dum sapientiae 
 
 Consultus erro. Horat. Carm. lib. I. Ode 34. 
 
 A sparing and unfrequent guest, 
 In Jove's high temple at the best, 
 While mad philosophy my mind pursued. 
 
 Seventhly, the crowding into one period or thought of different 
 figures of speech, is not less faulty than crowding metaphors in that 
 manner: the mind is distracted in the quick transition from one 
 image to another, and is puzzled instead of being pleased : 
 
 I am of ladies most deject and wretched, 
 
 That suck'd the honey of his music-vows. Hamlet. 
 
 My bleeding bosom sickens at the sound. Odyssey, I. 439, 
 
 Ah miser, 
 
 Quanta laboras in Charybdi ! 
 Digne puer meliore/mmd. 
 due saga, quis te solvere Thessalis 
 Magus venenis, quis poterit deus 1 
 Vix illigatum te triform) 
 Pegasus expediet Chimera. 
 
 Horat. Carm. lib. I. Ode 27. 
 
 Ah wretch, how thou art hampered in a strait 
 A lad whose matchless worth deserved a better fate. 
 
 What sorceress, what magic art, 
 What power divine can ease thy smart ! 
 33*
 
 390 FIGURES. [Ch. 20 
 
 E V-n Pegasus to clear thee will be loth 
 
 From one composed of whimsy, wantonness and wrath. 
 
 Eighthly, if crowding figures be bad, it is still worse to graft one 
 figure upon another : for instance, 
 
 While his keen falchion drinks the warriors' lives. ' Iliad, XI. 811. 
 
 A falchion drinking the warriors' blood is a figure built upon resem- 
 blance, which is passable. But then in the expression, lives is again 
 put for blood ; and by thus grafting one figure upon another, the 
 expression is rendered obscure and unpleasant. 
 
 Ninthly, intricate and involved figures that can scarcely be ana- 
 lyzed, or reduced to plain language, are least of all tolerable : 
 
 Votis incendimus aras. JEneid, III. 279. 
 
 We inflame the altars with vows. 
 
 Onerantque canistris 
 
 Dona laboratae Cereris. jEneid, VIII. 180. 
 
 They load the baskets with the gifts of labored Ceres. 
 Vulcan to the Cyclopes : 
 
 Arma acri facienda viro : nunc viribus usus, 
 Nunc manibus rapidis, cmni nunc arte magistra: 
 Precipitate moras. jEneid, VIII. 441. 
 
 Arms for a hero forge arms that require 
 Your force hasten dslay prepare your fire. 
 
 Huic gladio, perque aerea suta 
 
 Per tunicam squalentem auro, latus haurit apertum. 
 
 jEneid, X. 313. 
 
 But armor scaled with gold was no defence 
 Against the fated sword which opened wide 
 His plated shield and drank his open side. 
 
 Semotique prius tarda necessitas 
 
 Lethi, corripuit gradum. Horat. Carm. lib. I. Ode 3. 
 
 And for a long delay at first designed 
 
 The last extremity advanced 
 
 And urged the march of death, and all his pangs enhanced. 
 Scriberis Vario fortis, et hostium 
 Victor, Maeonii carminis alite. 
 
 Horat. Carm. lib. L Ode 6. 
 Brave and victorious in the fight 
 Our Varius with Maeonian flight 
 Shall thine achievements blaze. 
 
 Else shall our fates be number'd with the dead. Iliad, V. 294. 
 
 Commutual death the fate of war confounds. 
 
 Iliad, VIII. 85. and XI. 117. 
 
 Speaking of Proteus, 
 
 Instant he wears, elusive of the rape, 
 
 The mimic force of every savage shape. Odyssey, IV. 563. 
 
 Rolling convulsive on the floor, is seen 
 
 The piteous object of a prostrate queen. Ibid. IV. 952. 
 
 The mingling tempest waves its gloom. Autumn, 337. 
 
 A various sweetness swells the gentle race. Ibid. 640. 
 
 A sober calm fleeces unbounded ether. Rid. 967. 
 
 The distant waterfall swells in the breeze. Winter, 738.
 
 Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 391 
 
 In the tenth place, when a subject is introduced by its proper 
 name, it is absurd to attribute to it the properties of a different sub- 
 ject to which the word is sometimes applied in a figurative sense : 
 
 Hear me, oh Neptune ! thou whose arms are hurl'd 
 From shore to shore, and gird the solid world. 
 
 Odyssey, IX. 617. 
 
 Neptune is here introduced personally, and not figuratively for the 
 ocean : the description therefore, which is only applicable to the lat- 
 ter, is altogether improper. 
 
 It is not sufficient, that a figure of speech be regularly constructed, 
 and be free from blemish : it requires taste to discern when it is pro- 
 per, and when improper ; and taste, I suspect is our only guide. 
 One, however, may gather from reflection and experience, that orna- 
 ments and graces suit not any of the dispiriting passions, nor are 
 proper for expressing any thing grave and important. In familiar 
 conversation, they are in some measure ridiculous: Prospero, in 
 the Tempest, speaking to his daughter Miranda, says, 
 
 The fringed curtains of thine eyes advance, 
 And say what thou ssest yond. 
 
 No exception can be taken to the justness of the figure ; and cir- 
 cumstances may be imagined to make it proper ; but it is certainly 
 not proper in familiar conversation. 
 
 In the last place, though figures of speech have a charming effect 
 when accurately constructed and properly introduced, they ought, 
 however, to be scattered with a sparing hand: nothing is more 
 luscious, and nothing consequently more satiating, than redundant 
 ornaments of any kind. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 
 
 Writers should choose subjects adapted to their genius In history, the reflections 
 to be chaste and solid The commencement of an epic poem to be modest 
 Subjects intended for entertainment solely, to be described as they appear, and 
 not as they really are Objects in both narration and description, to be painted 
 with great accuracy A useless circumstance to be suppressed The power of 
 a simple circumstance happily selected The drawing of characters, the master 
 stroke in description In this Tacitus, Shakspeare, and Ossian excel Verbal 
 dress The emotion raised by the sound and the sense to be concordant A 
 stronger impression made' by an incident upon an eye- witness than when heard 
 at second hand The effect of abstract or general terms in composition for 
 amusement, not good In the fine arts, the capital object to be placed in the 
 strongest point of view A concise comprehensive style, a great ornament in 
 narration Tautology to be avoided An object ugly to the sight, not so 
 when represented by colors or by words Illustrated, from painting, and from 
 language. 
 
 HORACE, and many critics after him, exhort writers to choose a 
 subject adapted to their genius. Such observations would multiply 
 rules of criticism without end ; and at any rate belong not to the
 
 392 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch. 21 
 
 present work, the object of which is human nature in general, and 
 what is common to the species. But though the choice of a subject 
 comes not under such a plan, the manner of execution comes 
 under it ; because the manner of execution is subjected to general 
 rules, derived from principles common to the species. These rules, 
 as they concern the things expressed as well as the language or 
 expression, require a division of this chapter into two parts ; first 
 of thoughts, and next of words. I pretend not to justify this division 
 as entirely accurate : for in discoursing of thoughts, it is difficult to 
 abstract altogether from the words ; and still more difficult, in dis- 
 coursing of words, to abstract altogether from the thought. . 
 
 The first rule is, that in history the reflections ought to be chaste 
 and solid ; for while the mind is intent upon truth, it is little dis- 
 posed to the operations of the imagination. Strada's Belgic History 
 is full of poetical images, which discording with the subject, are 
 unpleasant ; and they have a still \vorse effect, by giving an air of 
 fiction to a genuine history. Such flowers ought to be scattered 
 with a sparing hand, even in epic poetry ; and at no rate are they 
 proper, till the reader be wanned, and by an enlivened imagination 
 be prepared to relish them : in that state of mind they are agreeable ; 
 but while we are sedate and attentive to an historical chain of facts, 
 we reject with disdain, every fiction. This Belgic History is indeed 
 wofully vicious both in matter and in form: it is stuffed with frigid 
 and unmeaning reflections ; and its poetical flashes, even laying 
 aside their impropriety, are mere tinsel. 
 
 Second, Vida,* following Horace, recommends a modest com- 
 mencement of an epic poem ; giving for a reason, that the writer 
 ought to husband his fire. This reason has weight; but what is 
 said above suggests a reason still more weighty : bold thoughts and 
 figures are never relished till the mind be heated and thoroughly 
 engaged, which is not the reader's case at the commencement. 
 Homer introduces not a single simile in the first book of the Iliad, 
 nor in the first book of the Odyssey. On the other hand, Shak- 
 speare begins one of his plays with a sentiment too bold for the 
 most heated imagination : 
 
 Bedford. Hung be the heav'ns with black, yield day to night ! 
 Comets, importing change of times and states, 
 Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, 
 And with them scourge the bad revolting stars, 
 That have consented unto Henry's death ! 
 Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long ! 
 England ne'er lost a king of so much worth. 
 
 F*irst Part Henry VI. 
 
 The passage with which Strada begins his history, is too poetical 
 for a subject of that kind ; and at any rate too high for the beginning 
 of a grave performance. A third reason ought to have no less 
 influence than either of the former, that a man, who, upon his first 
 appearance, strains to make a figure, is too ostentatious to be relished. 
 Hence the first sentences of a work ought to be short, natural and 
 simple. Cicero, in his oration pro Archia poeta, errs against this 
 * Poet. lib. II. 1. 30.
 
 Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION, 393 
 
 rule : his reader is out of breath at the very first period ; which 
 seems never to end. Burnet begins the History of his Own Times 
 with a period long and intricate. 
 
 A third rule or observation is, that where the subject is intended 
 for entertainment solely, not for instruction, a thing ought to be 
 described as it appears, not as it is in reality. In running, for 
 example, the impulse upon the ground is proportioned, in some 
 degree, to the celerity of motion : though in appearance it is other- 
 wise for a person in swift motion seems to skim the ground, and 
 scarcely to touch it. Virgil, with great taste, describes quick 
 running according to appearance ; and raises an image far more 
 lively than by adhering scrupulously to truth : 
 
 Hos super advenit Volsca de gente Camilla, 
 
 Agmen agens equitum et florentes sere catervas, 
 
 Bellatrix : non ilia colo calathisve Minervae 
 
 Foemineas assueta manus ; sed praelia virgo 
 
 Dura pati, cursuque pedum praevertere ventos. 
 
 Ilia vel intactse segetis per summa volaret 
 
 Gramina : nee teneras cursu leesisset aristas : 
 
 Vel mare per medium, fluctu suspensa tumenti, 
 
 Ferret iter ; celeres nee tingeret Eequore plantas. 
 
 JEneid, VII. 803. 
 
 Last from the Volscians fair Camilla came 
 
 And led her warlike troops, a warrior dame, 
 
 Unbred to spinning, in the loom unskilled, 
 
 She chose the nobler Pallas of the field. 
 
 Mixed with the first the fierce virago fought 
 
 Sustained the toils of arms, the danger sought, 
 
 Outstripped the winds in speed upon the plain, 
 
 Flew o'er the field, nor hurt the bearded grain. 
 
 She swept the seas, and as she skimmed along, 
 
 Her flying feet unbathed on billows hung. 
 
 This example is copied by the author of Telemachus : 
 
 Les Brutiens sont legeres a la course comme les cerfs, et comme lea claims; 
 On croiroit que 1'herbe meme la plus tendre n'est point foulee sous leurs pieda. 
 a peine laissent-ils dans le sable quelques traces de leurs pas. Liv. X. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Deja il avoit abattu Eusilas si leger a la course, qu'a peine il imprimoit la 
 trace de ses pas dans le sable, et qui devanjoit dans son pays les plus rapides flots 
 de 1'Eurotas et de 1'Alphee. Liv. XX. 
 
 Fourth, In narration as well as in description, objects ought to be 
 painted so accurately as to form in the mind of the reader distinct 
 and lively images. Every useless circumstance ought indeed to be 
 suppressed, because every such circumstance loads the narration ; 
 but if a circumstance be necessary, however slight, it cannot be 
 described too minutely. The force of language consists in raising 
 complete images ;* which have the effect to transport the reader as 
 by magic into the very place of the important action, and to convert 
 him as it were into a spectator, beholding every thing that passes. 
 The narrative in an epic poem ought to rival a picture in the liveli- 
 ness and accuracy of its representations : no circumstance must be 
 omitted that tends to make a complete image ; because an imperfect 
 image, as well as any other imperfect conception, is cold and unin- 
 '*Chap. 2. Parti. Sect. 7.
 
 394 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch. 21. 
 
 teresting. I shall illustrate this rule by several examples, giving 
 the first place to a beautiful passage from Virgil : 
 
 Quails populea mcerens Philomela sub umbra 
 
 Amissos queritur feetus, quos durus arator 
 
 Observans nido implumes detraxit. Georg. lib. IV. 1. 511. 
 
 So close in poplar shades, her children gone, 
 
 The mother nightingale laments alone, 
 
 Whose nest some prying churl had found, and thence 
 
 By stealth conveyed the unfeathered innocence. 
 
 The poplar, ploughman, and unfledged young, though not essential 
 in the description, tend to make a complete image, and upon that 
 account are an embellishment. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Hie viridem JEneas frondenti ex ilice metam 
 
 Constituit, signum nautis. jEneid, V. 129. 
 
 On this, the hero fixed an oak in sight 
 The mark to guide the mariners aright. 
 
 Horace, addressing to Fortune : 
 
 Te pauper ambit sollicita prece 
 Ruris.colonus : te dpminam aequoris, 
 duicumque Bythina lacessit 
 
 Carpathium pelagus carina. Carm, lib. I. ot* 36. 
 
 Thee the poor farmer's anxious prayer 
 Solicits, that'his fields may bear 
 Thee, mistress of the main, the sailor hails, 
 As his Bythinian bark o'er Cretan billows sails. 
 
 Ilium ex mcenibus hosticis 
 
 Matrona bellantis tyranni 
 
 Prospiciens, et adulta virgo, 
 Suspiret : Eheu, ne rudis agminum 
 Sponsus lacessat regius asperum 
 Tactu leonem, quern cruenta 
 
 Per medias rapit ira caedes. Carm. lib. III. odt 2. 
 
 Hun from the wall the tyrant's consort spies, 
 And marriageable virgin sends her broken sighs. 
 Ah me for fear my royal spouse 
 Should this ungoverned lion rouse, 
 And with inferior skill provoke his rage, 
 Which breaks through thickest ranks the midmost war to wage. 
 
 Shakspeare says,* " You may as well go about to turn the sun to 
 ice by fanning in his face with a peacock's feather." The peacock's 
 feather, not to mention the beauty of the object, completes the image: 
 an accurate image cannot be formed of that fanciful operation, with- 
 out conceiving a particular feather ; and one is at a loss when this 
 is neglected in the description. Again, " the rogues slighted me 
 into the river with as little remorse as they would have drown'd a 
 bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i' th' litter." f 
 
 Old Lady. You would not be a queen 1 
 Anne. No, not for all the riches under heav'n. 
 
 Old Lady. 'Tis strange : a threepence bow'd would hire me, old as I am, to 
 queen it. Henry VIII. Act II. Sc. 3. 
 
 In the following passage, the action, with all its material circum- 
 stances, is represented so much to the life, that it would scarcely 
 Henry V. Act IV. Sc. 4. t Merry Wives of Windsor, Act III. Sc. 5.
 
 Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 395 
 
 appear more distinct to a real spectator ; and it is the manner of 
 description that contributes greatly to the sublimity of the passage. 
 
 He spake ; and to confirm his words, out flew 
 
 Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
 
 Of mighty cherubim ; the sudden blaze 
 
 Far round illumined hell : highly they rag'd 
 
 Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms 
 
 Clash'd on their sounding shields the din of war, 
 
 Hurling defiance toward the vault of heav'n. Milton, B. 1. 
 
 A passage I am to cite from Shakspeare, falls not much short of 
 that now mentioned in particularity of description : 
 
 O you hard hearts ! you cruel men of Rome ! 
 
 Knew you not Pompey 1 Many a time and oft 
 
 Have you climb'd up to walls arid battlements, 
 
 To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, 
 
 Your infants in your arms ; and there have sat 
 
 The live-long day with patient expectation 
 
 To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome ; 
 
 And when you saw his chariot but appear, 
 
 Have you not made an universal shout, 
 
 That Tyber trembled underneath his banks, 
 
 To hear the replication of your sounds, 
 
 Made in his concave shores'? Julius Ccesar, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 The following passage is scarce inferior to either of those men- 
 tioned : 
 
 Far before the rest, the son of Ossian comes ; bright in the smiles of youth, 
 fair as the first beams of the sun. His long hair waves on his back : his dark 
 brow is half 'beneath his helmet. The sword hangs loose on the hero's side; und 
 his spear glitters as he moves. I fled from his terrible eye, King of high Temora. 
 
 Fingal. 
 
 The Henriade of Voltaire errs greatly against the foregoing rule : 
 every incident is touched in a summary way, without ever descend- 
 iug to circumstances. This manner is good in a general history, 
 the purpose of which is to record important transactions : but in a 
 fable it is cold and uninteresting ; becanse it is impracticable to form 
 distinct images of persons or things represented in a manner so 
 superficial. 
 
 It is observed above, that every useless circumstance ought to be 
 suppressed. The crowding of such circumstances, is, on the one 
 hand, no less to be avoided, than the conciseness for which Voltaire 
 is blamed, on the other. In the JEneid* Barce, the nurse of Sichasus, 
 whom we never hear of before nor after, is introduced for a purpose 
 not more important than to call Anna to her sister Dido: and that 
 it might not be thought unjust in Dido, even in this trivial circum- 
 stance, to prefer her husband's nurse before her own, the poet takes 
 care to inform his reader, that Dido's nurse was dead. To this I 
 must oppose a beautiful passage in the same book, where, after 
 Dido's last speech, the poet, without detaining his readers by describ- 
 ing the manner of her death, hastens to the lamentation of her 
 attendants : 
 
 Dixerat : atque illam media inter talia ferro 
 
 Collapsam aspiciunt comites, ensemque cruore 
 
 * lab. iv. 1. 632.
 
 396 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Oh. 21. 
 
 Spumantem, sparsasque manus. It clamor ad alta 
 Atria, concussam bacchatur fama per urbem ; 
 Lamentis gemituque et foemineo ululatu 
 Tecta fremunt, resonat magnis plangoribus aether. 
 
 Lib. IV. 1. 663. 
 
 She said and struck ; deep entered in her side 
 The piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed, 
 Clogged in the wound the cruel weapon stands, 
 The spouting blood came streaming o'er her hands. 
 Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke, 
 And with loud cries the sounding palace shook. 
 Distracted from the fatal sight they fled, 
 And through the town the dismal rumor spread. 
 First from the frighted court the yell began, 
 Redoubled thence, from house to house it ran ; 
 The groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and cries 
 Of mixing women, mount the vaulted skies. 
 
 As an appendix to the foregoing rule, I add the following obser- 
 vation, that to make a sudden and strong impression, some single 
 circumstance happily selected, has more power than the most labored 
 description. Macbeth, mentioning to his lady some voices he heard 
 while he was murdering the King, says, 
 
 There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cry'd Murder ! 
 They wak'd each other ; and I stood and heard them ; 
 But they did say their prayers, and address them 
 Again to sleep. 
 
 Lady. There are two lodg'd together. 
 
 Macbeth. One cry'd, God bless us ! and Amen the other ; 
 As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. 
 Listening their fear, I could not say Amen, 
 When they did say, God bless us. 
 
 Lady. Consider it not so deeply. 
 
 Macbeth. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen *? 
 I had most need of blessing, and Amen 
 Stuck in my throat. 
 
 Lady. These deeds must not be thought 
 After these ways ; so, it will make us mad, 
 
 Macbeth. Methought I heard a voice cry, 
 
 Sleep no more ! 
 Macbeth doth murder sleep, &c. Act II. Sc. 2. 
 
 Alphonso, in the Mourning Bride, shut up in the same prison 
 where his father had been confined : 
 
 In a dark corner of my cell I found 
 This paper, what it is this light will show. 
 
 " If my Alphonso" Ha! [Reading. 
 
 " If my Alphonso live, restore him, Heav'n; 
 
 Give more weight, crush my declining years 
 
 With bolts, with chains, imprisonment and want ; 
 
 But bless my son, visit not him for me." 
 
 It is his hand ; this was his pray'r Yet more: 
 
 " Let ev'ry hair, which sorrow by the roots [Reading. 
 
 Tears from my hoary and devoted head, 
 
 Be doubled in thy mercies to my son : 
 
 Not for myself, but him, hear me, all-gracious" 
 
 'Tis wanting what should follow Heav'n should follow, 
 
 But 'tis torn off Why should that word alone 
 
 Be torn from his petition'? 'Twas to Heav'n, 
 
 But Heav'n was deaf, Heav'n heard him not ; but thus, 
 
 Thus as the name of Heav'n from this is torn, 
 
 So did it tear the ears of mercy from'
 
 Cfa. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 397 
 
 His voice, shutting the gates of pray'r against him. 
 
 If piety be thus dcbarr'd access 
 
 On high, and of good men the very best 
 
 Is singled out to bleed, and bear the scourge, 
 
 What is reward 1 or what is punishment 7 
 
 But who shall dare to tax eternal justice 7 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 This incident is a happy invention, and a mark of uncommon 
 gem us. 
 
 Describing Prince Henry: 
 
 I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, 
 tlis cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd, 
 Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury ; 
 And vaulted with such ease into his seat, 
 As if an angel dropt down from the clouds, 
 To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, 
 And witch the world with noble horsemanship. 
 
 First Part Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. 1. 
 
 King Henry. Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on Heaven's bliss, 
 Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. 
 He dies, and makes no sign ! 
 
 Second Part Henry VI. Act III. Sc. 3. 
 
 The same author, speaking ludicrously of an army debilitated with 
 diseases, says, 
 
 Half of them dare not shake the snow from off their c ssocks, lest they shake 
 themselves to pieces. 
 
 I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The flames had 
 resounded in the halls ; and the voice of the people is 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 from 
 the windows : and the rank grass of the wall waved round his head. Desolate 
 is the dwelling of Morna : silence is in the house of her fathers. Fingal. 
 
 To draw a character is the master-stroke of description. In this 
 Tacitus excels: his portraits are natural and lively, not a feature 
 wanting nor misplaced. Shakspeare, however, exceeds Tacitus in 
 liveliness, some characteristical circumstance being generally in- 
 vented or laid hold of, which paints more to the life than many words. 
 The following instances will explain my meaning, and at the same 
 time prove my observation to be just : 
 
 Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, 
 
 Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster 1 
 
 Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice, 
 
 By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio, 
 
 (I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,) 
 
 There are a sort of men, whose visages 
 
 Do cream and mantle like a standing pond; 
 
 And do a wilful stillness entertain, 
 
 With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion 
 
 Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; 
 
 As who should say, I am Sir Oracle, 
 
 And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark ! 
 
 O my Antonio, I do know of those, 
 
 That therefore only are reputed wise, 
 
 For saying nothing. Merchant of Venice, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any wan in aH Venice: 
 34
 
 398 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [CL 21. 
 
 bis reasons are two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek 
 all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 In the following passage a character is completed by a single 
 stroke. 
 
 Shallow. O the mad days that I have spent ; and to see how many of mine old 
 acquaintance are dead. 
 
 Silence. We shall all follow, Cousin. 
 
 Shallow. Certain, 'tis certain, very sure, very sure; Death (as the Psalmist 
 saith) is certain to all : all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford 
 fair! 
 
 Slender. Truly, Cousin, I was not there. 
 
 Shallow. Death is certain. Is old Dovble of your town living yet 1 
 
 Silence. Dead, Sir. 
 
 Shallow. Dead! see, see; he drew a good bow: and dead. He shot a fine 
 shoot. How a score of ewes now ? 
 
 Silence. Thereafter as they be. A score of good ewes may be worth ten 
 pounds. 
 
 Shallow. And is old Dovble dead 1 Second Part Henry IV. Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 Describing a jealous husband: 
 
 Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the 
 remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note. There is no hiding 
 you in the house. Merry Wives of Windsor, Act IV. Sc. 2. 
 
 Congreve has an inimitable stroke of this kind in his comedy of 
 Love for Love: 
 
 Ben Legend. Well, father, and how do all at homel how does brother Dick, 
 and brother Val 1 
 
 Sir Sampson. Dick : body o' me, Dick has been dead these two years. I writ 
 you word when you were at Leghorn. 
 
 Ben. Mess, that's true : marry, I had forgot. Dick's dead, as you say. 
 
 Act III. Sc. 6. 
 
 Falstaff speaking of ancient Pistol: 
 
 He's no swaggerer, hostess : a tame cheater i'faith ; you may stroak him as 
 gently as a puppy-greyhound ; he will not swagger with a Barbary hen, if her fea- 
 thers turn back in any shew of resistance. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 4. 
 
 Ossian, among his other excellencies, is eminently successful in 
 drawing characters ; and he never fails to delight his reader with 
 the beautiful attitudes of his heroes. Take the following instances: 
 
 O Oscar ! bend the strong in arm ; but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream 
 of many tides against the foes of thy people ; but like the gale that moves the grass 
 to those who ask thine aid. So Tremor lived ; such Trathalwas; and such has 
 Fingal been. My arm was the support of the injured ; and the weak rested behind 
 the lightning of my steel. 
 
 We heard the voice of joy on the coast, and we thought that the mighty Cath- 
 more came. Cathmore the friend of strangers, the brother of red-haired Cairbar. 
 But their souls were not the same; for the light of heaven was in the bosom of 
 Cathmore. His towers rose on the banks of Atha : seven paths led to his halls : 
 seven chiefs stood on these paths, and called the stranger to the feast. But Cath- 
 more dwelt in the wood to avoid the voice of praise. 
 
 D" ermid and Oscar were one : they reaped the battle together. Their friendship 
 was strong as their steel ; and death walked between them to the field. They rush 
 on the foe like two rocks falling from the brow of- Ardven. Their swords are 
 stained with the blood of the valiant : warriors faint at their name. Who is equal 
 to Oscar but Dermid 1 who to Dermid but Oscar 1
 
 Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 399 
 
 Son of Comhal, replied the chief, the strength of Morni's arm has failed ; I at- 
 tempt to draw the sword of my youth, but it remains in its place: I throw 
 the spear, but it falls short of the mark : and I feel the weight of my shield. We 
 decay like the grass of the mountain, and our strength returns no more. I have a 
 son, O Fingul, his soul has delighted in the actions of Morni's youth ; but his 
 sword has not been fitted against the foe, neither has his fame begun. I come with 
 him to battle, to direct his arm. His renown will be a sun to my soul, in the dark 
 hour of my departure. O that the name of Morni were forgot among the people ! 
 thatthe heroes would only say, " Behold the father of Gaul." 
 
 Some writers, through heat of imagination, fall into contradiction; 
 some are guilty of downright absurdities ; and some even rave like 
 madmen. Against such capital errors one cannot be mere effectually 
 warned than by collecting instances ; and the first shall be of a con- 
 tradiction, the most venial of all. Virgil speaking of Neptune, 
 
 Interea magno misceri murmure pontum, 
 Emissamque hyemem sensit Neptunus, et imis 
 Stagna refusa vadis : graviter commotus, et alto 
 Prospiciens, summa placidum caput extulit unda. 
 
 sEneid, I. 128. 
 
 Meantime imperial Neptune heard the sound 
 Of raging billows breaking on the ground, 
 Displeased, and fearing for his watery reign, 
 He reared his placid head above the main. 
 
 Again : 
 
 When first young Maro, in his boundless mind, 
 A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd. 
 
 Essay on Criticism, 1, 130. 
 
 The following examples are of absurdities : 
 
 Alii pulsis e tormento catenis discerpti sectique, dimidiate corpore pugnabant 
 sibi superstites, ac perempta; partis ultores.* Strada, Dec. II. 1. 2. 
 
 He fled ; but flying, left his life behind. Iliad, XI. 433. 
 
 Full through his neck the weighty falchion sped : 
 Along the pavement roll'd the mutt'ring head. 
 
 Odyssey, XXII. 3G5. 
 
 The last article is of raving like one mad. Cleopatra speaking 
 to the aspic, 
 
 Welcome, thou kind deceiver, 
 
 Thou best of thieves : who, with an easy key, 
 
 Dost open life, and unperceiv'd by us, 
 
 E'en steal us from ourselves ; discharging so 
 
 Death's dreadful office, better than himself; 
 
 Touching our limbs so gently into slumber, 
 
 That Death stands by, deceiv'd by his own image, 
 
 And thinks himself but sleep. Dryden, All for Love, Act V. 
 
 Reasons that are common and known to every one, ought to be 
 taken for granted : to express them is childish, and interrupts the 
 narration. Quintus Curtius, relating the battle of Issus, 
 
 Jam in conspectu, sed extra teli jactum, utraque acies erat ; quum priores Persae 
 incpnditum et trucem sustulcre clamorem. Redditur et a Macedonibus major, ei- 
 ercitus impar numero, sed jugis montium vastisque saltibus repercussus : quippe 
 
 * Others, being torn to pieces and divided, after breaking their tormenting 
 chains, fought with half a body, surviving themselves, and avengers of the limbs 
 they bad lost.
 
 400 , NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. fCh. 21. 
 
 semper circumjecta nemora petrceque, quantumcunque accepere vocem, multiplicaia 
 sono referunt* 
 
 Having discussed what observations occurred upon the thoughts 
 or things expressed, I proceed to what more peculiarly concern the 
 language or verbal dress. The language proper for expressing pas- 
 sion being handled in a former chapter, several observations there 
 made are applicable to the present subject ; particularly, that as 
 words are intimately connected with the ideas they represent, the 
 emotions raised by the sound and by the sense ought to be concord- 
 ant. An elevated subject requires an elevated style ; what is fami- 
 liar, ought to be familiarly expressed : a subject that is serious and 
 important, ought to be clothed in plain nervous language : a descrip- 
 tion, on the other hand, addressed to the imagination, is susceptible 
 of the highest ornaments that sounding words and figurative expres- 
 sion can bestow upon it. 
 
 I shall give a few examples of the foregoing rules. A poet of any 
 genius is not apt to dress a high subject in low words ; and yet 
 blemishes of that kind are found even in classical works. Horace, 
 observing that men are satisfied with themselves, but seldom with 
 their, condition, introduces Jupiter indulging to each his own choice : 
 
 Jam faciam quod vultis ; eris tu, qui modo miles, 
 Mercator : tu, consultus modo, rusticus : liinc vos, 
 Vos hinc mutatis discedite partibus : eia, 
 Ctuid statis 1 nolint : atqui licet esse beatis. 
 Quid caussc est, merito quin illis, Jupiter ambas 
 Iratas buccas in/let ? neque se fore posthac 
 Tarn facilem dicat. votis ut prtebeat aurem 1 
 
 Sat. Lib. I. Sat. I. L 16. 
 
 1 will to each assign 
 
 The part he chooses I decree 
 
 The soldier shall a merchant be ; 
 
 And he, a counsellor of late, 
 
 Shall have the country squire's estate 
 
 Do you corne here to shift the scene, 
 
 And you go there, what dp you mean ! 
 
 They hesitate with all their hearts, 
 
 Tho' in their power to change their parts. 
 
 What cause now therefore can they show 
 
 But Jupiter should puff and blow 
 
 In wrath, and for the future swear 
 
 He'll not consent to hear their prayer. 
 
 Jupiter in wrath puffing up both cheeks, is a low and even ludicrous 
 expression, far from being suitable to the gravity and importance of 
 the subject : every one must feel the discordance. The following 
 couplet, sinking far below the subject, is no less ludicrous. 
 
 Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, 
 
 Yet ne'er looks forward farther than his nose. 
 
 Essay on Man, Ep. IV. 223. 
 
 Le Rhin tremble et fremit a ces tristes nouvelles ; 
 
 Le feu sort a travers ses humides prunelles. 
 
 * Now both armies were in sight, but not within the cast of an arrow, when the 
 Persians gave a rude and fierce shout, A louder was returned by the Macedo- 
 nians, although smaller in number, for it was re-echoed from the ridges of the 
 mountains and the vast lawns ; because circumjacent graves and rocks always re- 
 turn a voice with multiplied sounds.
 
 Ch, 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 401 
 
 C'est done trop peu, dit-il, que PEscaut en deur mois 
 
 Ait appris a couler sous de nouvelies loix ; 
 
 Et de mille remparts mon onde environnee 
 
 De ces fleuves sans nom suivra la destinee 1 
 
 Ah ! perissent mes eaux, ou par d'illustres coups 
 
 Montrons qui doit ceder des mortels ou de nous. 
 
 A ces mots essuyantsa barbc limoneuse, 
 
 II prend d'un vieux guerrier la figure poudreuse. 
 
 Son front cicatrise rend son air furieux, 
 
 Et 1'ardeur du combat etincelle en ses yeux. 
 
 Boileau, Epitre IV. 1. 61. 
 
 A god wiping his dirty beard is proper for burlesque poetry only ; 
 and altogether unsuitable to the strained elevation of this poem. 
 
 On the other hand, to raise the expression above the tone of the 
 subject, is a fault than which none is more common. Take the fol- 
 lowing instances : 
 
 Orcan le plus fidele a servir ses desseins, 
 
 Ne sous le cioi brulant des plus noirs Africains. 
 
 Bajazet, Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 Les ombres par trois fois ont obscurci les cieux 
 Depuis que le sommeil n'est entre dans vos yeux : 
 Et le jour a trots fois chasse la nuit obscure 
 Depuis que votre corps languit sans nourriture. 
 
 Pkedra, Act I. Sc. 3. 
 
 Assuerus. Ce mortel, qui montra tant de zele pour moi, Vit-il encore? 
 
 Asaph. II voit 1'astre qui vous eclaire. 
 
 Esther, Act II. Sc. 3. 
 
 Oui, c'est Agamemnon, c'est ton roi qui t'eveille; 
 
 Viens, reconnois la voix qui frappe ton oreille. Iphigenie. 
 
 No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day, 
 
 But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell ; 
 
 And the King's rowse the heav'ns shall bruit again, 
 
 Respeaking earthly thunder. Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 In the inner room 
 
 I spy a winking lamp, that weakly strikes 
 The ambient air, scarce kindling into light. 
 
 Southern, Fate of Capua, Act III. 
 
 In the funeral orations of the Bishop of Meaux, the following pas- 
 sages are raised far above the tone of the subject : 
 
 L'Ocean etonne de se voir traverse tant de fois, en des appareils si divers, et 
 pour des causes si differentes, &c. P. 6. 
 
 Grand Reine, je satisfais a vos plus tendres desirs, quand je celebre ce mo- 
 narqxie ; et son coeur qui n'a jamais vecu que pour lui, s' eveille, tout poudre qu'il 
 est, et devient sensible, mcme sous ce drap mortuaire, au com d'un epoux si 
 cher. P. 32. 
 
 Montesquieu, in a didactic work, L? Esprit des Loix, gives too great 
 indulgence to imagination: the tone of his language swells fre- 
 quently above his subject. I give an example : 
 
 M. le Comte de Boulainvilliers et M. 1'Abbe Dubos ont fait chacun un systeme, 
 dont 1'un semble 6tre une conjuration contre le tiers-etat, et 1'autre une conjuration 
 centre la noblesse. Lorsque le Soleil donna a Phaeton son char a conduire, il lui 
 dit, Si vous montez trop haut, vous brulerez la demeure celeste ; si vous descender. 
 trop bas, vous reduirez en cendres la terre : n'allez point trop a droite, vous tom- 
 benez dans la constellation du serpent; n'allez point trop a gauche, vous iriez 
 dans celle de 1'autel : tenez-vous entre les deux. L. 30. ch. 10. 
 
 34*
 
 402 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch. 21. 
 
 The following passage, intended, one would imagine, as a receipt to 
 boil water, is altogether burlesque by the labored elevation of the 
 diction : 
 
 A massy caldron of stupendous frame 
 
 They brought, and plac'd it oVr the rising flame : 
 
 Then heap the lighted wood ; the flame divides 
 
 Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides : 
 
 In its wide womb, they pour the rushing stream: 
 
 The boiling water bubbles to the brim. Iliad, XVIII. 405. 
 
 In a passage at the beginning of the 4th book of Telemachus, one 
 feels a sudden bound upward without preparation, which accords not 
 with the subject : 
 
 Calypso, qui avoit ete jusqu' a ce moment immobile et transportee de plaisir en 
 ecoutant les aventures de Telemaque, 1'interrompit pour lui fairc prendre quelquo 
 r"})s. II est terns, lui dit-elle, qui vous alliez goutev la douceur du sommeii apres 
 tant de travaux. Vous n'avez rien a craindre ici ; tout vous est favorable. Aban- 
 donnez vous done a la joie. Goutez la paix, et tous les autres dons des dieux 
 riont vous allez etre comblfi. Demain, quand I'Aurore avec ses doigts de roses 
 r:t'.'r'ffiivrira les portes dorees de V Orient, el quclesChevaux du Soldi sortans de 
 Vimdt amtrc repandront les flarnmesdu jour, pour cluisscr devant eux toutes les 
 t'n'i.'iks du del, nous reprendrons, mon cher Telemaque,- 1'histoire de vos malheurs. 
 
 This obviously is copied from a similar passage in the ^neid, which 
 ought not to have been copied, because it lies open to the same cen- 
 sure ; but the force of authority is great : 
 
 At regina gravi jamdudnm saucia cura 
 
 Vulnus alit venis, et caeco cn.rpitur igni. 
 
 Multa viri virtus animo, multusque recursat 
 
 Gentis honos : harent infixi pectore vultus, 
 
 Verbaque; nee placidam membris dat cura quietem. 
 
 Postera Phaebea luslrabat lampade terras, 
 
 Hwrnentemquc Aurora polo di'nioverat vmbram ; 
 
 Cum sic unanimem alloquiturmale sana sororem. Lib. IV. 1. 
 
 But anxious cares already seized the queen, 
 
 She fed within her veins a flame tfnseen 
 
 The hero's valor, acts, and birth inspire 
 
 Her soul with love, and fun the secret fire. 
 
 His wordj, his looks, imprinted in her heart, 
 
 Improve the passion and increase the smart. 
 
 Now when the purple morn had chased away 
 
 The dewy shadows, and restored the day, 
 
 Her sister first with early care she sought, 
 
 And thus, in mournful accents, eased her thought. 
 
 Take another example where the words rise above the subject : 
 
 Ainsi les peuples v aceoururent bientot en foule ds toutes parts ; le commerce do 
 rette ville etoit semblable au flux et au reflux de. la mer. Les tresors y entroient 
 comme les flots viennent 1'un sur 1'autre. Tout y etoit apporte et en sortoit libre- 
 ment ; tout ce qui y entroit, etoit utile ; tout ce qui en sortoit, laissoit en sonant 
 d'autres richesses en sa place. La justice severe presidoit dans le port au milieu 
 de tant de nations. La franchise, la bonne foi, la candeur, sernbloient du haul de 
 c'.-s superbes tours appeler les marchands des terres les plus eloignees: chaeun de 
 ces marchands, soit qu'il mnt des rives orientals oil le soldi sort chaque y<rur dii 
 sfin des ondes, soit qu'Ufut parti de eette grande mer au le soleil las.se de son eov.rs 
 va, eteindre ses feuz, vevoitpaisibleetansuretedansSalentecommedans sa patrie I 
 
 Telemaqve, 1. 12. 
 
 The language of Homer is suited to his subject, no less accurately 
 than the actions and sentiments of his heroes are to their characters.
 
 Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 403 
 
 Virgil, in that particular, falls short of perfection : his language is 
 stately throughout ; and though he descends at times to the simplest 
 branches of cookery, roasting and boiling for example, yet he never 
 relaxes a moment from the high tone.* In adjusting his language 
 to his subject, no writer equals Swift. I can recollect but one excep- 
 tion, which at the same time is far from being gross : The journal 
 of a modern lady is composed in a style blending sprightliness with 
 familiarity, perfectly suited to the subject : in one passage, however, 
 the poet deviating from that style, takes a tone above his subject. 
 The passage I have in view begins, I. 116. But let me now a while 
 survey, &c. and ends at I. 135. 
 
 It is proper to be observed upon this head, that writers of inferior 
 rank are continually upon the stretch to enliven and enforce their 
 subject by exaggeration and superlatives. This unluckily has an 
 effect contrary to what is intended ; the reader, disgusted with lan- 
 guage that swells above the subject, is led by contrast to think more 
 meanly of the subject than it may possibly deserve. A man of pru- 
 dence, beside, will be no less careful to husband his strength in wri- 
 ting than in walking: a writer too liberal of superlatives, exhausts 
 his whole stock upon ordinary incidents, and reserves no share to 
 express, with greater energy, matters of importance.! 
 
 Many writers of that kind abound so in epithets, as if poetry 
 consisted entirely in high-sounding words. Take the following 
 instance : 
 
 When black-brow'd Night her dusky mantle spread, 
 
 And wrapt in solemn gloom the sable sky : 
 When soothing Sleep her opiate dews had shed, 
 
 And seal'd in silken slumbers ev'ry eye : 
 My wakeful thoughts admit no balmy rest, 
 
 Nor the sweet bliss of soft oblivion share : 
 But watchful wo distracts my aching breast, 
 
 My heart the subject of corroding care : 
 From haunts of men with wand'ring steps and slow 
 I solitary steal, and sooth my pensive wo. 
 
 Here every substantive is faithfully attended by some tumid epithet ; 
 like young master, who cannot walk abroad without having a lac'd 
 livery-man at his heels. Thus in reading without taste, an emphasis 
 is laid on every word ; and in singing without taste, every note is 
 grac'd. Such redundancy of epithets, instead of pleasing, produce 
 satiety and disgust. 
 
 The power of language to imitate thought, is not confined to the 
 capital circumstances above mentioned: it reaches even the slighter 
 modifications Slow action, for example, is imitated by words pro- 
 nounced slow : labor or toil, by words harsh or rough in their 
 sound. But this subject has been already handled. : 
 
 * Se.e jEneid, lib. 1. 188219. 
 
 t Montaigne, reflecting upon the then present modes, observes, that there nerer 
 was at any other time, so abject and servile prostitution of words in the addresseg 
 made by people of fashion to one another; the humblest tenders of life and soul, 
 no professions under that of devotion and adoration ; the writer constantly de- 
 claring himself a vassal, nay a slave: so that when anymore serious occasion of 
 friendship or gratitude requires more genuine professions, words are wanting to 
 express them. * Chap. 18. Sect. 3.
 
 404 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch. 21. 
 
 In dialogue-writing, the condition of the speaker is chiefly to be 
 regarded in framing the expression. The sentinel in Hamlet, in- 
 terrogated with relation to the ghost, whether his watch had been 
 quiet, answers with great propriety for a man in his station, " Not a 
 mouse stirring."* 
 
 I proceed to a second remark, no less important than the former. 
 No person of reflection but must be sensible, that an incident makes 
 a stronger impression on an eye-witness, than when heard at second 
 hand. Writers of genius, sensible that the eye is the best avenue to 
 the heart, represent every thing as passing in our sight ; and, from 
 readers or hearers, transform us, as it were, into spectators : a skilful 
 writer conceals himself, and presents his personages: in a word, 
 every thing becomes dramatic as much as possible. Plutarch de 
 gloria Athenicnsium, observes, that Thucydides makes his reader a 
 spectator, and inspires him with the same passions as if he were an 
 eye-witness ; and the same observation is applicable to our country- 
 man Swift. From this happy talent arises that energy of style 
 which is peculiar to him: he cannot always avoid narration; but 
 the pencil is his choice, by which he bestows life and coloring upon 
 his objects. Pope is richer in ornament, but possesses not, in the 
 same degree, the talent of drawing from the life. A translation of 
 the sixth satire of Horace, begun by the former and finished by the 
 latter, affords the fairest opportunity for a comparison. Pope obvi- 
 ously imitates the picturesque manner of his friend : yet every one of 
 taste must be sensible, that the imitation, though fine, falls short of 
 the original. In other instances, where Pope writes in his own 
 style, the difference of manner is still more conspicuous. 
 
 Abstract or general terms have no good effect in any composition 
 for amusement ; because it is only of particular objects that images 
 can be formed.f Shakspeare's style in that respect is excellent: 
 every article in his descriptions is particular, as in nature; and if 
 accidentally a vague expression slip in, the blemish is discernible by 
 the bluntness of its impression. Take the following example : Fal- 
 stafF, excusing himself for running away at a robbery, says, 
 
 By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my mas- 
 ters ; was it for me to kill the heir-apparent 1 should I turn upon the true prince "\ 
 Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules ; but beware instinct, the lion 
 will not touch the true prince : instinct is a great matter. I was a coward on 
 instinct : I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my life ; I for a vio- 
 lent lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, 1 am glad you have 
 the money. Hostess, clap to the doors, watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gal- 
 lants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you ! 
 What ! shall we be merry 1 shall we have a play extempore ? 
 
 First Part Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 4. 
 
 The sentence I object to is, instinct is a great matter, which makes 
 but a poor figure, compared with the liveliness of the rest of the 
 
 * One can scarcely avoid smiling at the blindness of a certain critic, who, with 
 an air of self-sufficiency, condemns this expression as low and vulgar. A French 
 poet, says he, would express the same thought in a more sublime manner : " Mais 
 tout dort, et 1'armee, et les vents, et Neptune." And he adds, " The English 
 poet may please at London, but the French every where else." 
 
 t See Chap. 4.
 
 Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 405 
 
 speech. It was one of Homer's advantages, that he wrote before 
 general terms were multiplied : the superior genius of Shakspeare 
 displays itself in avoiding them after they were multiplied. Addi- 
 son describes the family of Sir Roger de Coverley in the following 
 words : 
 
 You would take his valet de chambre for his brother, his butler is gray-headed, 
 his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, and his coachman has 
 thetooks of a privy counsellor. Spectator, No. 106. 
 
 The description of the groom is less lively than of the others ; plainly 
 because the expression, being vague and general, tends not to form 
 any image. " Dives opum variarum,"* is an expression still more 
 vague ; and so are the following : 
 
 Maecenas mearum 
 
 Grande decus, columenque rerum.1 
 
 Horat, Carm. Lib. II. ode 17. 
 
 et fide Teia 
 
 Dices laborantes in uno 
 
 Penelopen, vitreamque Circin.t Ibid. Lib. Ifode IT. 
 
 Ridiculum acri 
 
 Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res. 
 
 Horat. Satir. Lib. I. sat. 10. 
 
 By satire in a pleasant vein, 
 A weighty point we oftener gain 
 Than talking in severer strain ! 
 
 In the fine arts it is a rule, to put the capital objects in the strongest 
 point of view ; and even to present them oftener than once, where it 
 can be done. In history-painting, the principal figure is placed in 
 the front, and in the best light : an equestrian statue is placed in a 
 centre of streets, that it may be seen from many places at once. In 
 no composition is there greater opportunity for this rule than ia 
 writing : 
 
 Sequitur pulcherrimus Astur, 
 
 Astur equo fidens et versicoloribus armis.S JEneid, X. 180. 
 
 Full many a lady 
 
 I've ey'd with best regard, and many a time 
 
 Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
 
 Brought my too diligent ear ; for several virtues 
 
 Have I lik'd several women, never any 
 
 With so full soul, but some defect in her 
 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow'd, 
 
 And put it to the foil. But you, O you, 
 
 So perfect, and so peerless, are created 
 
 Of every creature's best. The Tempest, Act III. So. 1. 
 
 Orlando. Whate'er you arc 
 
 That in this desert inaccessible, 
 
 Under the shade of melancholy boughs, 
 
 Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; 
 
 If ever you have look'd on better days ; 
 
 If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church ; 
 
 If ever sat at any good man's feast ; 
 
 * Georg. 2. 468. t Maecenas the glory and the pillar of my affaire. 
 
 t And with Teian truth, you shall sing of Penelope, and the beautiful Circe, 
 laboring together. 
 Beautiful Astur follows Astur trusting to his horse, and many-colored arms.
 
 406 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [CL 21. 
 
 If ever from your eye-lids wip'd a tear, 
 And know what 'tis to pity and be pity'd ; 
 Let gentlneess my strong enforcement be, 
 In the which hope I blush and hide my sword. 
 
 Duke sen. True is it that we have seen better days ; 
 And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church ; 
 And sat at good men's feasts ; and wip'd our eyes 
 Of drops that sacred pity had engendered : 
 And therefore sit you down in gentleness, 
 And take upon command what help we have, 
 That to your wanting may be ministered. As You Like R. 
 
 With thee conversing I forget all time ; 
 All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
 Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
 With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun 
 When first on this delightful land he spreads 
 His orient beams, on herbs, tree, fruit, and flow'r, 
 Glist'ring with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
 Aftfir soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
 Of grateful evening mild, the silent night 
 With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
 And these the gems of heav'n, her starry train. 
 But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
 With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun 
 On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flow'r, 
 Glistering with dew, nor fragrance after showers, 
 Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night, 
 With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon 
 Or glittering star light, without thee is sweet. 
 
 Paradise Lost, B. IV. 1. 634. 
 
 What mean ye, that ye use this proverb, The fathers have eaten sour grapes, 
 and the children's teeth are set on edge 1 As I live, saith the Lord God, ye snail 
 not have occasion to use this proverb in Israel. If a man keep my judgments to 
 deal truly, he is just, he shall surely live. But if he be a robber, a shedder of 
 blood ; if he have eaten upon the mountains, and defiled his neighbour's wife ; if 
 he have oppressed the poor and n3edy, have spoiled by violence, have not restored 
 the pledge, have lift up his eyes to idols, have given forth upon usury, and have 
 taken increase: shall he live 1 ? he shall not live: he shall surely die; and his blood 
 hall be upon him. Now, lo, if he beget a son, that seeth all his father's sins, 
 and considereth, and cloeth not such like ; that hath not eaten upon the mountains, 
 hath not lift up his eyes to idols, nor defiled his neighbour's wife, hath not op- 
 pressed any, nor withheld the pledge, neither hath spoiled by violence, but hath 
 given his bread to the hungry, and covered the naked with a garment ; that hath 
 not received usury nor increase, that hath executed my judgments, and walked in 
 my statutes ; he shall not die for the iniquity of his father; be shall surely live. 
 The soul that sinneth, it shall die ; the son shall not bear the iniquity of the father, 
 neither shall the father bear the iniquity of the son ; the righteousness of the 
 righteous shall be upon him, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon him. 
 Have I any pleasure that the wicked should die, saith the Lord God ; and not that 
 he should return from his ways and live 1 Ezekiel. XVIII. 
 
 The repetitions in Homer, which are frequent, have been the 
 occasion of much criticism. Suppose we were at a loss about the 
 reason, might not taste be sufficient to justify them ? At the same 
 time, we are at no loss about the reason : they evidently make the 
 narration dramatic, and have an air of truth, by making things 
 appear as passing in our sight. But such repetitions are unpardon- 
 able in a didactic poem. In one of Hesiod's poems of that kind, a 
 'long passage occurs twice in the same chapter. 
 
 A concise comprehensive style is a great ornament in narration ;
 
 Ch. 21.J NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 407 
 
 and a superfluity of unnecessary words, no less than of circumstances, 
 a great nuisance. A judicious selection of the striking circumstances 
 clothed in a nervous style, is delightful. In this style, Tacitus excels 
 all writers, ancient and modern. Instances are numberless : take the 
 following specimen. 
 
 Crebra hinc praelia, et saepius in modum latrocinii : per saltus, per paludes ; ut 
 cuique fors aut virtus : temere, proviso, ob iram, ob praedam, jussa, et aliquando 
 ignaris ducibus. Annal. lib. XII. 39. 
 
 Hence arose, frequent battles, and depredations without number, in the forests, 
 in the rharshes, according to one's courage or luck rashly cautiously on 
 account of anger for plunder, and sometimes by the orders of ignorant leaders. 
 
 After Tacitus, Ossian in that respect justly merits the place of 
 distinction. One cannot go wrong for examples in any part of the 
 book ; and at the first opening the following instance meets the eye : 
 
 Nathos clothed his limbs in shining steel. The stride of the chief is lovely : 
 the joy of his eye terrible. The wind rustles in his hair. Darthula is silent at 
 his side : her look is fixed on the chief. Striving to hide the rising sigh, two teare 
 swell in her eyes. 
 
 I add one other instance, which, beside the property under con- 
 sideration, raises delicately our most tender sympathy. 
 
 Son of Fingal ! dost thou not behold the darkness of Crothar's hall of shells 1 
 My soul was not dark at the feast, when my people lived. I rejoiced in the pre- 
 sence of strangers, when my son shone in the hall. But, Ossian, he is a beam 
 that is departed, and left no streak of light behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal, 
 
 in the battles of his father. Rothmar, the chief of grassy Tromlo, heard that 
 
 my eyes had failed ; he heard that my arms were fixed in the hall, and the pride 
 of his soul arose. He came towards Croma: my people fell before him. I took 
 my arms in the hall, but what could sightless Crothar do 1 My steps were 
 unequal; my grief was great. I wished for the days that were past: days! 
 wherein I fought, and won in the field of blood. My son returned from thechace; 
 the fair-haired Fovar-gormo. He had not lifted his sword in battle, for his arm 
 was young. But the soul of the youth was great; the fire of valor burnt in his 
 eye. He saw the disordered steps of his father, and his sigh arose. King of 
 Croma, he said, is it because thou hast no son 1 is it for the weakness of Fovar- 
 gormo's arm that thy sighs arise: I begin, my father, to feel the strength of my 
 arm ; I have drawn the sword of my youth, and I have bent the bow. Let me 
 meet this Rothmar, with the youths of Croma : let me meet him, O my father, for 
 I feel my burning soul. 
 
 And thou shall meet him, I said, son of the sightless Crothar! But let others 
 advance before thee, that I may hear the tread of thy feet at thy return ; for my 
 eyes behold thee not, fair-haired Fovar-gormo ! He went ; he met the foe ; he fell. 
 The foe advances towards Croma. He who slew my son is near, with all his 
 pointed spears. 
 
 If a concise or nervous style be a beauty, tautology must be a 
 blemish ; and yet writers, fettered by verse, are not sufficiently 
 careful to avoid this slovenly practice : they may be pitied, but they 
 cannot be justified. Take for a specimen the following instances, 
 from the best poet, for versification at least, that England has to 
 boast of. 
 
 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. Iliad, V. 5. 
 
 Strength and omnipotence invest thy throne, lhad, VIII. 576.
 
 408 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch. 21. 
 
 So silent fountains, from a rock's tall head, 
 
 In sable streams soft trickling waters shed. Iliad, IX. 19. 
 
 His clanging armor rung. Iliad, XII. 94. 
 
 Fear on their cheek, and horror in their eye. Iliad, XV. 4. 
 
 The blaze of armor flash'd against the day. Iliad, XVII. 736. 
 
 As when the piercing blasts of Boreas blow. Iliad, XIX. 380. 
 
 And like the moon, the broad refulgent shield 
 Blaz'd with long rays and gleam'd athwart the field. 
 
 Iliad, XIX. 402. 
 
 No could our swiftness o'er the winds prevail, 
 
 Or beat the pinions of the western gale, 
 
 All were in vain Iliad, XIX. 460. 
 
 The humid sweat from ev'ry pore descends. Iliad, XXIII. 829. 
 
 Redundant epithets, such as humid in the last citation, are by duin- 
 tilian disallowed to orators, but indulged to poets,* because his 
 favorite poets, in a few instances, are reduced to such epithets for 
 the sake of versification ; for instance, Praia canis albicant pruinis 
 of Horace, and liguidos fontes of Virgil. 
 
 As an apology for such careless expressions, it may well suffice, 
 that Pope, in submitting to be a translator, acts below his genius. 
 In a translation, it is hard to require the same spirit or accuracy, 
 that is cheerfully bestowed on an original work. And to support 
 the reputation of that author, I shall give some instances from Virgil 
 and Horace, more faulty by redundancy than any of those above 
 mentioned : 
 
 Saepe etiam immensum ccelo venit agmen aquarum, 
 
 Et fedam glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris 
 
 Collectse ex alto nubes : ruit arduus ether, 
 
 Et pluvia ingenti sata laeta, boumque labores 
 
 Diluit. Geo-rg. lib. I. 322. 
 
 And oft whole sheets descend of sluicy rain 
 Sucked by the spongy clouds from off the main. 
 The lofty skies at once come pouring down, 
 The promised crop and golden labors drown. 
 
 Postquam altum tenuere rates, nee jam amplius ullse 
 Apparent terra; ; ccelum undique et undique pontus : 
 Turn mini cceruleus supra caput astitit imber, 
 Noctem hyememque ferens : et irihorruit unda tenebris. 
 
 jEneid, lib. III. 192. 
 
 Now from the sight of land our galleys move, 
 With only seas around, and skies above, 
 When o'er our heads descends a burst of rain, 
 A.nd night with sable clouds involves the main. 
 The ruffling winds the foamy billows rave 
 
 Hinc tibi copia 
 
 Vfanabit ad plenum benigno 
 
 iluris honorum opulenta cornu. Horat. Carm. lib. I. ode 17. 
 
 3ere you shall fully taste a welcome guest 
 The horn of rural heaped for thee, and prest. 
 
 7idere fessos vomerem inversum boves 
 Collo trahentes languido. HoraA. epod. II. 65. 
 
 * L. VIII. cap. 6. sect. 2.
 
 Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 400 
 
 The inverted plough to see, 
 
 Which oxen o'er the lea, 
 
 With languid neck at leisure pull. 
 
 Here I can luckily apply Horace's rule against himself: 
 
 Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se 
 
 Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures. Satir. lib. I. sat. X. 9. 
 
 But that the period may run free, 
 Nor with vain words the ear be tired, 
 There is a brevity required. 
 
 I close this chapter with a curious inquiry. An object, however 
 ugly to the sight, is far from being so when represented by colors 
 or by words. What is the cause of this difference ? With respect 
 to painting, the cause is obvious: a good picture, whatever the sub- 
 ject be, is agreeable by the pleasure we take in imitation ; and this 
 pleasure overbalancing the disagreeableness of the subject, makes 
 the picture upon the whole agreeable. With respect to the descrip- 
 tion of an ugly object, the cause follows. To connect individuals in 
 the social state, no particular contributes more than language, by 
 the power it possesses of an expeditious communication of thought, 
 and a lively representation of transactions. Bui nature has not beun 
 satisfied to recommend language by its utility merely : independent 
 of utility, it is made susceptible of many beauties, which are directly 
 felt, without any intervening reflection.* And this unfolds the 
 mystery; for the pleasure of language is so great, as in a lively 
 description to overbalance the disagreeableness of the image raised 
 by it.f This, however, is no encouragement to choose a disagree- 
 able subject; for the pleasure is incomparably greater where the 
 subject and the description are both of them agreeable. 
 
 The folloAving description is upon the whole agreeable, though 
 the subject described is in itself dismal : 
 
 Nine times the space that measures day and night 
 
 To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
 
 Lay vanquished rolling in the fiery gulf, 
 
 Confounded though immortal ! but his doom 
 
 Reserv'd him to more wrath ; for now the thought 
 
 Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 
 
 Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes 
 
 That witness'd huge affliction and dismay, 
 
 Mix'd with obdurate pride and steadfast hate: 
 
 At once as far as angels ken he views 
 
 The dismal situation waste and wild: 
 
 A dungeon horrible, on all sides round 
 
 As one great furnace flam'd ; yet from those flames 
 
 No light, but rather darkness visible 
 
 Serv'd only to discover sights of wo, 
 
 Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 
 
 And rest can never dwell, hope never comes 
 
 That comes to all ; but torture without end 
 
 Still urges, and fiery deluge, fed 
 
 With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed ! 
 
 Such place eternal justice had prepar'd 
 
 For those rebellious. Paradise Lost, book I. I. 50. 
 
 * See Chap. 18. t See Chap. 2. part 4. 
 
 35
 
 410 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch. 21. 
 
 An unmanly depression of spirits in time of danger is not an agree- 
 able sight ; and yet a fine description or representation of it will be 
 relished : 
 
 K. Rlclmrd. What must the king do now 1 must he submit ? 
 
 The king shall do it: must he be depos'd 1 
 
 The king shall be contented : must he lose 
 
 The name of King 1 i' God's name, let it go: 
 
 I'll give my jewels for a set of beads; 
 
 My gorgeous palace for a hermitage; 
 
 My gay apparel, for an almsman's gown; 
 
 My figur'd gob'lets, for a dish of wood ; 
 
 My sceptre, for a palmer's walking-staff; 
 
 My subjects, for a pair of carved saints; 
 
 And my large kingdom for a little grave; 
 
 A little, little grave ; an obscure grave. 
 
 Or, I'll be bury'd in the king's highway ; 
 
 Some way of common tread, where subjects' feet 
 
 May hourly trample on their sovereign s head ; 
 
 For on my heart they tread now, whilst I live ; 
 
 And bury'd once, why not upon my head 1 
 
 Richard II. Act III. Sc. 3. 
 
 Objects that strike terror in a spectator, have in poetry and paint- 
 ing a fine effect. The picture by raising a slight emotion of terror, 
 agitates the mind ; and in that condition every beauty makes a deep 
 impression. May not contrast heighten the pleasure, by opposing 
 our present security to the danger of encountering the object repre- 
 sented ? 
 
 The other shape, 
 
 If shape it might be call'd, that shape had none 
 
 Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb; 
 
 Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, 
 
 For each seem'd either ; black it stood as night, 
 
 Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, 
 
 And shook a dreadful dart. Paradise Lost, \ ook II. 1. 666. 
 
 Now storming fury rose, 
 
 And clamor such as heard in heaven till now 
 
 Was never: arms on armor clashing bray'd 
 
 Horrible discord, and the madding wheels 
 
 Of brazen chaviots rag'd ; dire was the noise 
 
 Of conflict: overhead the dismal hiss 
 
 Of fiery darts in naming vollies flew, 
 
 And flying vaulted either host with fire. 
 
 So under fiery cope together rush'd 
 
 Both battles main, with ruinous assault 
 
 And inextinguishable rage: all heaven 
 
 Resounded ; and had earth been then, all earth 
 
 Had to her centre shook. Paradise Lost, book VI. 1. 207 
 
 Ghott. But that I am forbid 
 
 To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
 
 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
 
 Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood 1 , 
 
 Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, 
 
 Thy knotty and combined locks to part, 
 
 And each particular hair to stand on end, 
 
 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine : 
 
 But this eternal blazon must not be 
 
 To ears of flesh and blood. Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 5. 
 
 Gratiana. Poor Desclemona ! I'm glad thy father's dead : 
 Thy match was mortal to him ; and pure grief
 
 Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 411 
 
 Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now, 
 
 This sight would make him do a desperate turn : 
 
 Yea, curse his better angel from his side, 
 
 And fall to reprobation. Othello, Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 Objects of horror must be excepted from the foregoing theory ; 
 for no description, however lively, is sufficient to overbalance the 
 disgust raised even by the idea of such objects. Every thing hor- 
 rible ought therefore to be avoided in a description. Nor is this a 
 severe law: the poet will avoid such scenes for his own sake, as 
 well as for that of his reader ; and to vary his descriptions, nature 
 affords plenty of Objects that disgust us, in some degree, without 
 raising horror. I am obliged, therefore, to condemn the picture of 
 Sin, in the second book of Paradise Lost, though a masterly per- 
 formance : the original would be a horrid spectacle ; and the horror 
 is not much softened in the copy: 
 
 Pensive here I sat 
 
 Alone ; but long I sat not, till my womb, 
 
 Pregnant by thee, and now excessive grown, 
 
 Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes. 
 
 At last this odious offspring whom thou seest. 
 
 Thine own begotten, breaking violent way, 
 
 Tore through my entrails, that with fear and pain 
 
 Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew 
 
 Transform'd ; but he my inbred enemy 
 
 Forth issu'd, brandishing his fatal dart, 
 
 Made to destroy : I fled, and cry'd out Death ; 
 
 Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighM 
 
 From all her caves, and back resounded Death. 
 
 I fled ; but he pursu'd, (though more, it seems, 
 
 Inflam'd with lust than rage,) and swifter far, 
 
 Me overtook, his mother all dismay'd, 
 
 And in embraces forcible and foul 
 
 Ingend'ring with me, of that rape begot 
 
 These yelling monsters that with ceaseless cry 
 
 Surround me, as thou saw'st, hourly conceiv'd 
 
 And hourly born, with sorrow infinite 
 
 To me ; for when they list, into the womb 
 
 That bred them they return, and howl and gnaw 
 
 My bowels, their repast ; then bursting forth, 
 
 Afresh with conscious terrors vex me round, 
 
 That rest or intermission none I find. 
 
 Before mine eyes in opposition sits 
 
 Grim Death, my son and foe, who sets them on, 
 
 And me his parent would full soon devour 
 
 For want of other prey, but that he knows, 
 
 His end with mine involv'd ; and knows that I 
 
 Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane, 
 
 Whenever that shall be. Book II. 1. 777. 
 
 lago's character in the tragedy of Othello, is insufferably monstrous 
 and satanical : not even Shakspeare's masterly hand can make th 
 picture agreeable. 
 
 Though the objects introduced in the following scenes are not 
 altogether so horrible as Sin is in Milton's description ; yet with 
 every person of delicacy, disgust will be the prevailing emotion : 
 
 Strophades Graio stant nomine dictae 
 
 Insulse lonio in magno : quas dira Celseno, 
 Harpyiaque colunt alia : Phineia postquara
 
 412 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch. 21. 
 
 Clausa domus, mensasque metu liquere priores. 
 Tristius haud illis monstrum, nee saevior ulla 
 Pestis et ira Deum Stygiis sese extulit undis. 
 Virginei volucrum vultus, foedissima ventris 
 Proluvies, unca;que manus, et pallida semper 
 Ora fame. 
 
 Hue ubi delati portus intravimus : ecce 
 Lsefa bourn passim campis armenta videmus, 
 Caprigenumque pecus, nullo custode, per herbas. 
 Irruimus ferro, et Divos ipsumque vocamus 
 In praedam partemque Jovem : tune littore curvo 
 Extruimusque toros, dapibusque epulamur opimis. 
 At subitse horrifico lapsu de montibus adsunt 
 Harpyise, et magnis quatiunt clangoribus alas: 
 Diripmmque dapes, contactuque omnia foedant 
 Immundo : turn vox tetrum dira inter odorem. 
 
 jEneid, lib. III. 210. 
 
 At length I land upon the Strophades 
 Safe from the danger of the stormy seas, 
 Those isles are compassed by th' Ionian main, 
 The dire abode where the foul harpies reign, 
 Forced by the winged warriors to repair 
 To their old homes, and leave their costly fare. 
 Monsters more fierce offended heaven ne'er sent 
 From hell's abyss for human punishment 
 With virgin-faces, but with wombs obscene, 
 Foul paunches, and with ordure still unclean, 
 With claws for hands, and looks for ever lean. 
 We landed at the port, and soon beheld 
 Fat herds of oxen graze the flowery field 
 And wanton goats without a keeper strayed 
 With weapons we the welcome prey invade, 
 Then call the gods for partners of our feast, 
 And Jove himself, the chief invited guest. 
 We spread the tables on the greensward ground, 
 We feed with hunger and the bowls go round; 
 When from the mountain tops with hideous cry 
 And clattering wings, the hungry harpies fly 
 They snatch the meat, defiling all they find, 
 And parting, leave a loathsome stench behind. 
 
 Sum patria ex Ithaca, comes infelicis Ulyssei, 
 Nomen Achemenides : Trojam, genitore Adamasto 
 Paupere (mansissetque utinam fortuna !) profectus. 
 Hie me, dum trepidi crudelia limina linquunt, 
 Immemores socii vasto Cyclopis in antro 
 Dcseruere. Domus sanie dapibusque cruentis, 
 Intus opara, ingens : ipse arduus, altaque pulsat 
 Sidera : (Dii, talcm terris avertite pestem) 
 Nee visu facilis, nee dictu affabilis ulli. 
 Visceribus miserorum. et sanguine vescitur atro, 
 Vidi egomet, duo de nainero cum corpora nostro, 
 Prensa. maim inagna, medio resupinus in antro, 
 Frangeret ad saxum, sanieque aspersa natarent 
 Limina : vidi, atro cum membra fluentia tabo 
 Manderet, et tepidi tremerent sub dentibus artus. 
 Haud impune quidem : nee talia passus Ulysses, 
 Oblitusve sui est Ithacus discrimine tanto. 
 Narn simul expletus dapibus, vinoque sepultus 
 Cervicem inrlexam posuit, jacuitque per antrum 
 Immensus, saniem enictans, ac frusta cruento 
 Per somnum commixta mero ; nos, magna precati 
 3Suinina. sortiticme vices, una uudique circurn
 
 Ch. 21.1 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 413 
 
 Fundimur, et telo lumen terebramus acuto 
 Ingens, quod torva solum sub fronte latebat. 
 
 ^Eneid, lib. III. 613. 
 
 From Ithaca, my native soil, I came 
 
 To Troy, and Achaemenides my name, 
 
 Me, my poor father with Ulysses sent, 
 
 (Oh, had I stayed with poverty content!) 
 
 But fearful for themselves, my countrymen 
 
 Left me forsaken in the Cyclops' den. 
 
 The cave, though large, was dark, the dismal floor 
 
 Was paved with mangled limbs and putrid gore. 
 
 Our monstrous host, of more than human size, 
 
 Erects his head, and stares within the skies. 
 
 Bellowing his voice and horrid is his hue, 
 
 Ye Gods, remove this plague from mortal view ! 
 
 The joints of slaughtered wretches are his food, 
 
 And for his wine he quaffs the streaming blood. 
 
 These eyes beheld when with his spacious hand 
 
 He seized two captives of the Grecian band ; 
 
 Stretch'd on his back he dashed against the stones 
 
 Their broken bodies and their crackling bones, 
 
 With spouting blood the purple pavement swims, 
 
 While the dire glutton grinds the trembling limbs-. 
 
 Not unrevenged Ulysses bore his fate, 
 
 Nor thoughtless of his own unhappy state 
 
 For, gorged with flesh and drunk with human wine, 
 
 While fast asleep the giant lay supine, 
 
 Snoring aloud and belching from his maw 
 
 His indigested foam and morsels raw 
 
 We pray, we cast the lots, and then surround 
 
 The monstrous body stretched along the ground, 
 
 Each as he could approach him lends a hand 
 
 To bore his eyeball with a flaming brand. 
 
 Beneath his frowning forehead lay his eye, 
 
 For only one did the vast frame supply 
 
 But that a globe so large, his front it filled, 
 
 Like the sun's disk, or like a Grecian shield. 
 
 35*
 
 414 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. [CL 22. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 
 
 The same end had in view, and the same means employed, in both epic and 
 dramatic poetry The advantages of dramatic poetry Aristotle's division of 
 tragedy The Pathetic and the Moral a better division Farther illustrated 
 Facts or circumstances may be invenied, but no unaccountable event to be 
 admitted Effect of pathetic poems They excite to what is right, and deter 
 from what is wrong They improve our sympathy They fortify the mind 
 against misfortunes The instructions afforded by moral poems, from the moral 
 truth they convey Tender passions, the province of tragedy ; grand and heroic 
 actions, of epic poetry Venial faults, the best subjects for tragedy Aristotle's 
 four propositions When a perfect character is fitted to the pathetic In epic 
 poetry the subject must be of distant date In tragedy and comedy, not neces- 
 sary In dramatic poetry, a pause in the action necessary at the close of every 
 act The sentiment and tone of language to be subservient to the action 
 Machinery to be excluded from epic poetry The embellishment of allegory 
 admitted in an historical poem Allegorical and real being not to be introduced 
 co-operating The character of an episode To be connected with the principal 
 subject To be lively and interesting To be short, and introduced where the 
 subject relents Drama has a double plot The nature of the under-plot 
 Violent actions not to be represented on the stage Speeches in dialogue, to be 
 connected with each other Rhyme excluded from dialogue Ordinary facts to 
 be expressed in plain language. 
 
 TRAGEDY differs not from the epic in substance: in both the 
 same ends are pursued, namely, instruction and amusement ; and 
 in both the same means is employed, namely, imitation of human 
 actions. They differ only in the manner of imitating: epic poetry 
 employs narration ; tragedy represents its facts as passing in our 
 sight : in the former, the poet introduces himself as an historian ; 
 in the latter, he presents his actors, and never himself.* 
 
 This difference regarding form only, may be thought slight: but 
 the effects it occasions, are by no means so ; for what we see makes 
 a. deeper impression than what we learn from others. A narrative 
 poem is a story told by another : facts and incidents passing upon 
 the stage, come under our own observation ; and are beside much 
 
 * The dialogue in a dramatic composition distinguishes it so clearly from other 
 ('impositions, that no writer has thought it necessary to search for any other dis- 
 t.nguishing mark. But much useless labor has been bestowed, to distinguish an 
 e'oic poem by some peculiar mark. Bossu defines it to be, " A composition in 
 VO-TSC, intended to form the manners by instructions disguised under the allegories 
 of an important action ;" which excludes every epic poem founded upon real facts, 
 and perhaps includes several of ^Esop's fables. Voltaire reckons verse so essen- 
 tial, as for that single reason to exclude the adventures of Telemachus. See his 
 /'Jss*7/ upon Epic Poetry. Others, affected with substance more than with form, 
 hesitate not to pronounce that poem to be epic. It is not a little diverting to see 
 so many profound critics hunting for what is not : they take for granted, without 
 the. least foundation, that there must be some precise criterion to distinguish epic 
 poetry from every other species of writing. Literary compositions run into each 
 osher, precisely like colors : in their strong tints they are easily distinguished ; but 
 are susceptible of so much variety, and of so many different forms, that we never 
 can say where one species ends and another begins. As to the general taste, 
 there is little reason to doubt, that a work where heroic actions are related in an 
 elevated style, will, without farther requisite, be deemed an epic poem.
 
 Ch. 22.] EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 415 
 
 enlivened by action and gesture, expressive of many sentiments 
 beyond the reach of words. 
 
 A dramatic composition has another property, independent alto- 
 gether of action ; which is, that it makes a deeper impression than 
 narration: in the former, persons express their own sentiments; in 
 the latter, sentiments are related at second hand. For that reason, 
 Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule, that in an epic 
 poem the author ought to take every opportunity of introducing his 
 actors, and of confining the narrative part within the narrowest 
 bounds.* Homer understood perfectly the advantage of this method ; 
 and his two poems abound in dialogue. Lucan runs to the opposite 
 extreme, even so far as to stuff his Pharsalia/ with cold and languid 
 reflections : the merit of which he assumes to himself, and deigns 
 not to share with his actors. Nothing can be more injudiciously 
 timed, than a chain of such reflections, which suspend the battle of 
 Pharsalia after the leaders had made their speeches, and the two 
 armies are ready to engage, t 
 
 Aristotle, regarding the fable only, divides tragedy into simple 
 and complex: but it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic 
 as well as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends 
 attained by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, 
 that has nothing in view but to move the passions and to exhibit 
 pictures of virtue and vice, may be distinguished by the name of 
 pathetic : but where a story is purposely contrived to illustrate some 
 moral truth, by showing that disorderly passions naturally lead to 
 external misfortunes ; such composition may be denominated moral.^ 
 Besides making a deeper impression than can be done by cool rea- 
 soning, a moral poem does not fall short of reasoning in affording 
 conviction : the natural connection of vice with misery, and of virtue 
 with happiness, may be illustrated by stating a fact as well as by 
 urging an argument. Let us assume, for example, the following 
 moral truths; that discord among the chiefs renders ineffectual all 
 common measures; and that the consequences of a slightly-founded 
 quarrel, fostered by pride and arrogance, are no less fatal than those 
 of the grossest injury : these truths may be inculcated, by the quar- 
 rel between Agamemnon and Achilles at the siege of Troy. If facts 
 or circumstances be wanting, such as tend to rouse the turbulent pas- 
 sions, they must be invented ; but no accidental nor unaccountable 
 event ought to be admitted ; for the necessary or probable connection 
 between vice and misery is not learned from any events but what 
 are naturally occasioned by the characters and passions of the per- 
 sons represented, acting in such and such circumstances. A real 
 event of which we see not the cause, may afford a lesson, upon the 
 
 * Poet. chap. 25. sect. G. t Lib. 7. from line 385 to line 460. 
 
 t The same distinction is applicable to that sort of fuble which is said to be the 
 invention of ^Esop. A moral, it is true, is by all critics considered as essential to 
 such a fable. But nothing is more common than to be led blindly by authority; for 
 of the numerous collections I have seen, the fables that clearly inculcate a moral, 
 make a very small part. In many fables, indeed, proper pictures of virtue and 
 vice are exhibited : but the bulk of these collections convey no instruction, nor 
 afford any amusement beyond what a child receives in reading an ordinary story.
 
 416 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. [Ch. 22. 
 
 presumption that what has happened may again happen : but this 
 cannot be inferred from a story that is known to be a fiction. 
 
 Many are the good effects of such compositions. A pathetic com- 
 position, whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by 
 exciting us to do what is right, and restraining us from what is 
 wrong.* Its frequent pictures of human woes, produce, besides, 
 two effects extremely salutary: they improve our sympathy, and 
 fortify us to bear our own misfortunes. A moral composition obvi- 
 ously produces the same good effects, because by being moral it 
 ceases not to be pathetic : it enjoys beside an excellence peculiar 
 to itself; for it not only improves the heart as above mentioned, but 
 instructs the head by the moral it contains. I cannot imagine any 
 entertainment more suited to a rational being, than a work thus hap- 
 pily illustrating some moral truth: where a number of persons of 
 different characters are engaged in an important action, some retard- 
 ing, others promoting, the great catastrophe: and where there is 
 dignity of style as well as of matter. A work of that kind has our 
 sympathy at command ; and can put in motion the whole train of 
 the social affections : our curiosity in some scenes is excited, in 
 others gratified and our delight is consummated at the close, upon 
 finding from the characters and situations exhibited at the com- 
 mencement, that every incident down to the final catastrophe is 
 natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of 
 causes and effects. 
 
 Considering that an epic and a dramatic poem are the same in 
 substance, and have the same aim or end, one will readily imagine, 
 that subjects proper for the one must be equally proper for the other. 
 But considering their difference as to form, there will be found rea- 
 son to correct that conjecture at least in some degree. Many sub- 
 jects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in either form ; but 
 the subjects are still more numerous for which they are not equally 
 qualified: and there are subjects proper for the one, and not for the 
 other. To give some slight notion of the difference, as there is no 
 room here for enlarging upon every article, I observe, that dialogue 
 is better qualified for expressing sentiments, and narrative for dis- 
 playing facts. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted courage, and 
 other elevated virtues, figure best in action : tender passions, and the 
 whole tribe of sympathetic affections, figure best in sentiment. It 
 clearly follows, that tender passions are more peculiarly the province 
 of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry, f 
 
 I have no occasion to say more upon the epic, considered as 
 peculiarly adapted to certain subjects. But as dramatic subjects are 
 more complex, I must take a narrower view of them ; which I do 
 the more willingly, in order to clear a point involved in great 
 obscurity by critics. 
 
 In the chapter of Emotions and Passions^ it is occasionally shown, 
 
 * See Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 4. 
 
 t In Racine tender sentiments prevail ; in Corneille, grand and heroic manners. 
 Hence clearly the preference of the former before the latter, as dramatic poets. 
 Corneille would have figured better in an heroic poem. t Part 4.
 
 Ch. 22.] EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 417 
 
 that the subject best fitted for tragedy is where a man has himself 
 been the cause of his misfortune; not so as to be deeply guilty, nor 
 altogether innocent: the misfortune must be occasioned by a fault 
 incident to human nature, and, therefore, in some degree venial 
 Such misfortunes call forth the social affections, and warmly interest 
 the spectator. An accidental misfortune, if not extremely singular, 
 does not greatly move our pity: the person who suffers, being inno- 
 cent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, that anguish of mind 
 which is occasioned by remorse. An atrocious criminal, on the 
 other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself, excites little pity, 
 for a different reason : his remorse, it is true, aggravates his distress, 
 and swells the first emotions of pity; but these are immediately 
 blunted by our hatred of him as a criminal. Misfortunes that are 
 not innocent, nor highly criminal, partake the advantages of each 
 extreme : they are attended with remorse to embitter the distress, 
 which raises our pity to a height ; and the slight indignation we 
 have at a venial fault, detracts not sensibly from our pity. The hap- 
 piest of all subjects accordingly for raising pity, is where a man of 
 integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an action that is inno- 
 cent, but which, by some singular means is conceived by him to be 
 criminal : his remorse aggravates his distress ; and our compassion, 
 unrestrained by indignation, knows no bounds. Pity comes thus to 
 be the ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy; and by proper represen- 
 tation, may be raised to a height scarcely exceeded by any thing felt 
 in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field ; as it not only 
 exercises our pity, but raises another passion, which, though selfish, 
 deserves to be cherished equally with the social affection. The pas- 
 sion I have in view is fear or terror ; for when a misfortune is the 
 natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, every spec- 
 tator who is conscious of such a bias in himself, takes the alarm, and 
 dreads his falling into the same misfortune : and by the emotion of 
 fear or terror, frequently reiterated in a variety of moral tragedies, 
 the spectators are put upon their guard against the disorders of pas- 
 sion. 
 
 The commentators upon Aristotle, and other critics, have been 
 much puzzled about the account given of tragedy by that author : 
 " That, by means of pity and terror, it refines or purifies in us all 
 sorts of passion." But no one who has a clear conception of the 
 end and effects of a good tragedy, can have any. difficulty about Aris- 
 totle's meaning : our pity is engaged for the persons represented ; 
 and our terror is upon our own account. Pity indeed is here made 
 to stand for all the sympathetic emotions, because of these it is the 
 capital. There can be no doubt that our sympathetic emotions are 
 refined or improved by daily exercise; and in what manner our 
 other passions are refined by terror, I have just now said. One 
 thing is certain, that no other meaning can justly be given to the 
 foregoing doctrine than that now mentioned ; and that it was really 
 Aristotle's meaning, appears from his 13th chapter, where he delivers 
 several propositions conformable to the doctrine as here explained. 
 These, at the same time, I take the liberty to mention ; because, as
 
 418 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. [Ch. 22. 
 
 far as authority can go, they confirm the foregoing reasoning about 
 subjects proper for tragedy. The first proposition is, that it being 
 the province of tragedy to excite pity and terror, an innocent person 
 falling into adversity ought never to be the subject. This proposition 
 is a necessary consequence of his doctrine as explained: a subject of 
 that nature may indeed excite pity and terror ; but in the former in 
 an inferior degree, and the latter no degree for moral instruction. 
 The second proposition is, that the history of a wicked person in a 
 change from misery to happiness, ought not to be represented. It 
 excites neither terror nor compassion, nor is agreeable in any res- 
 pect. The third is, that the misfortunes of a wicked person ought 
 not to be represented. Such representation may be agreeable in 
 some measure upon a principle of justice : but it will not move our 
 pity ; nor any degree of terror, except in those of the same vicious 
 disposition with the person represented. The last proposition is, 
 that the only character fit for representation lies in the middle, neither 
 eminently good nor eminently bad ; where the misfortune is not the 
 effect of deliberate vice, but of some involuntary fault, as our author 
 expresses it.* The only objection I find to Aristotle's account of 
 tragedy, is, that he confines it within too narrow bounds, by refus- 
 ing admittance to the pathetic kind: for if terror be essential to tra- 
 gedy, no representation deserves that name but the moral kind, where 
 the misfortunes exhibited are caused by a wrong balance of mind, or 
 some disorder in the internal constitution : such misfortunes always 
 suggest moral instruction ; and by such misfortunes only, can terror 
 be excited for our improvement. 
 
 Thus Aristotle's four propositions above mentioned relate solely 
 to tragedies of the moral kind. These of the pathetic kind, are not 
 confined within so narrow limits : subjects fitted for the theatre, are 
 not in such plenty as to make us reject innocent misfortunes which 
 rouse our sympathy, though they inculcate no moral. With respect, 
 indeed, to subjects of that kind, it may be doubted, whether the con- 
 clusion ought not always to be fortunate. Where a person of inte- 
 grity is represented as suffering to the end under misfortunes purely 
 accidental, we depart discontented, and with some obscure sense of 
 injustice: for seldom is man so submissive to Providence, as not to 
 revolt against the tyranny and vexations of blind chance ; he will be 
 tempted to say, this ought not to be. Chance, giving an impression 
 of anarchy and misrule, produces always a damp upon the mind. I 
 give for an example the Romeo and Juliet of Shakspeare, where the 
 fatal catastrophe is occasioned by Friar Laurence's coming to the 
 monument a minute too late: we are vexed at the unlucky chance, 
 and go away dissatisfied. Such impressions, which ought not to be 
 cherished, are a sufficient reason for excluding stories of that kind 
 from the theatre. The misfortunes of a virtuous person, arising from 
 necessary causes or from a chain of unavoidable circumstances, are 
 considered in a different light. A regular chain of causes and effects 
 
 * If any one can be amused with a grave discourse which promiseth much and 
 performs nothing, I refer to Brumoy in his Theatre Grec, Preliminary discourse 
 a the oritrin of Tragedy.
 
 Ch. 22.] EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 419 
 
 directed by the general laws of nature, never fails to suggest the hand 
 of Providence : to which we submit without resentment, being con- 
 scious that submission is our duty.* For that reason, we are not 
 disgusted with the distresses of Voltaire's Mariamne, though redou- 
 bled on her till her death, without the least fault or failing on her 
 part: her misfortunes are owing to a cause extremely natural, and 
 not unfrequent, the jealousy of a barbarous husband. The fate of 
 Destlemona, in the Moor of Venice, affects us in the same manner. 
 We are nft so easily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in King 
 Lear : the causes of her misfortune are by no means so evident, as 
 to exclude the gloomy notion of chance. In short, a perfect charac- 
 ter suffering under misfortunes, is qualified for being the subject of 
 a pathetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is a perfect 
 character altogether inconsistent with a moral tragedy : it may suc- 
 cessfully be introduced in an under part, if the chief place be occupied 
 by an imperfect character, from which a moral can be drawn. This 
 is the case of Desdemona and Mariamne just mentioned; and it is 
 the case of Monimia and Belvidera, in Otway's two tragedies, th' 
 Orphan, and Venice Preserved. 
 
 I had an early opportunity to unfold a curious doctrine, that fable 
 operates on our passions, by representing its events as passing in our 
 sight, and by deluding us into a conviction of reality. f Hence, in 
 epic and dramatic compositions, every circumstance ought to be 
 employed that may promote the delusion ; such as the borrowing 
 from history of some noted event, with the addition of circumstances 
 that may answer the author's purpose: the principal facts are known 
 to be true ; and we are disposed to extend our belief to every circum- 
 stance. But in choosing a subject that makes a figure in history, 
 greater precaution is necessary than where the whole is a fiction. 
 In the latter case there is full scope for invention : the author is under 
 no restraint other than that the characters and incidents be just 
 copies of nature. But where the story is founded on truth, no cir- 
 cumstances must be added, but such as connect naturally with what 
 are known to be true; history may be supplied, but must not be con- 
 tradicted : farther, the subject chosen must be distant in time, or at 
 least in place; for the familiarity of recent persons and events ought 
 to be avoided. Familiarity ought more especially to be avoided in 
 an epic poem, the peculiar character of which is dignity and eleva- 
 tion : modern manners make no figure in such a poem.f 
 
 After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of rearing an 
 epic poem upon a recent event in the history of his own country. 
 But an event of that kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for 
 tragedy : it was admitted in Greece ; and Shakspeare has employed 
 
 * See Essays on the Principles of Morality, edit. 2. p. 291. 
 t Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 7. 
 
 I 1 would not from this observation be thought to undervalue modern manners. 
 The roughness and impetuosity of ancient manners, may be better fitted for an 
 epic poem, without being better fitted for society. But without regard to thai 
 Circumstance, it is the familiarity of modern manners that unqualifies them for a 
 lofty subject. The dignity of our present manners, will be better understood in 
 future ages, when they are no longer familiar.
 
 420 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. [Ch. 22. 
 
 it successfully in several of his pieces. One advantage it possesses 
 above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tends 
 above any other circumstance to raise our sympathy. The scene 
 of comedy is generally laid at home; familiarity is no objection; 
 and we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our own man- 
 ners. 
 
 After a proper subject is chosen, the dividing of it into parts 
 requires some art. The conclusion of a book in an epic poem, 
 or of an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary ; nor be 
 intended for so slight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. 
 The supposed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at 
 the end of every act, ought always to coincide with some pause in 
 the action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem ought to 
 resemble a sentence or period in language, divided into members 
 that are distinguished from each other by proper pauses ; or it ought 
 to resemble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded 
 by imperfect closes that contribute to the melody. Every act in a 
 dramatic poem ought, therefore, to close with some incident that 
 makes a pause in the action ; for otherwise there can be no pretext 
 for interrupting the representation :. it would be absurd to break off 
 in the very heat of action ; against which every one would exclaim: 
 the absurdity still remains where the action relents, if it be not 
 actually suspended for some time. This rule is also applicable to an 
 epic poem: though in it a deviation from the rule is less remarka- 
 ble, because it is in the reader's power to hide the absurdity, ty 
 proceeding instantly to another book. The first book of Paradise 
 Lost ends without any close, perfect or imperfect : it breaks off' 
 abruptly, where Satan, seated on his throne, is prepared to harangue 
 the convocated host of the fallen angels; and the second book 
 begins with the speech. Milton seems to have copied the sEiteid, 
 of which the two first books are divided much in the same manner. 
 Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the fifth book of the 
 ./Eneid. There is no proper pause at the end of the seventh book 
 of Paradise Lost, nor at the end of the eleventh. In the Iliad, little 
 attention is given to this rule. 
 
 This branch of the subject shall be closed with a general rule 
 that action being the fundamental part of every composition whether 
 epic or dramatic, the sentiments and tone of language ought to be 
 subservient to the action, so as to appear natural, and proper for the 
 occasion. The application of this rule to our modern plays, would 
 reduce the bulk of them to a skeleton.* 
 
 * " Dn general, il y a beaucoup de discours et peu d'action sur la scene Fran- 
 coise. duelqu'un disoit en sortant d'une piece de Denis le Tiran, Je ii'ai rien vu, 
 mais j'ai entendu force paroles. Voila ce qtron peut dire en sortant des pieces 
 Francoises. Racine et Corneille, avec tout leur genie, ne sont eux-meir.es que 
 des parleurs; et leur successeur est le premier qui, a 1'iinitation des Anglois, ait 
 ose mettre quelquefois la scene en representation. Communement tout se passe 
 en beaux dialogues bien a?f>nces, bien ronflnns, ou Ton voit d'abord que le pre- 
 mier soin de chaque interlocuteur est toujours celui de briller. Presque tout 
 s'enonce en maximes generales. duelque agites qu'iis puissent &tre, ils songent 
 toujours plus au public qu'a eux rnemes ; une sentence leur coute moins qu'un 
 sentiment ; les pieces de Racine et de Moliere exceptees, le je est presque aussi
 
 Ch. 22.] EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 421 
 
 After carrying on together epic and dramatic composition, I 
 shall mention circumstances peculiar to each ; beginning with the 
 epic kind. In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both the 
 eye and the ear, it would be a gross absurdity, to introduce upon the 
 stage superior beings in a visible shape. There is no place for such 
 objection in an epic poem ; and Boileau,* with many other critics, 
 declares strongly for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. But 
 waging authority, which is apt. to impose upon the judgment, let us 
 draw what light we can from reason. I begin with a preliminary- 
 remark that this matter is but indistinctly handled by critics : the 
 poetical privilege of animating insensible objects for enlivening a 
 description, is very different from what is termed machinery, where 
 deities, angels, devils, or other supernatural powers, are introduced 
 as real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the 
 catastrophe; and yet these are constantly jumbled together in the 
 reasoning. The former is founded on a natural principle ;f but can 
 the latter claim the same authority ? far from it ; nothing is more 
 unnatural. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First, it 
 gives an air of fiction to the whole ; and prevents that impression 
 of reality, which is requisite to interest our affections, and to move 
 our passions.]: This of itself is sufficient to explode machinery, 
 whatever entertainment it may afford to readers of a fantastic taste 
 or irregular imagination. And, next, were it possible, by disguising 
 the fiction, to delude us into a notion of reality, which I think can 
 hardly be ; an insuperable objection would still remain, that the 
 aim or end of an epic poem can never be attained in any perfection, 
 where machinery is introduced ; for an evident reason, that virtuous 
 emotions cannot be raised successfully, but by the actions of those 
 who are endued with passions and affections like our own ; that is, 
 by human actions : and as for moral instruction, it is clear, that 
 none can be drawn from beings who act not upon the same princi- 
 ples with us. A fable in yEsop's manner is no objection to this 
 reasoning : his lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men in disguise : 
 they act and feel in every respect as human beings ; and the moral 
 we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it is true, intro^ 
 duces the gods into his fable : but the religion of his country autho- 
 rised that liberty ; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the 
 gods often interpose visibly and bodily in human affairs. I must, 
 however, observe, that Homer's deities do no honor to his poems : 
 
 scrupuleusement banni de la scene Francoise que des ocrits de Port Royal ; et les 
 passions humaines, aussi modestes que I'humilitfi Chretienne, n'y parlent iamais 
 que par on. II y a encore unecertaine dignite maniferee dans le geste et flans le 
 propos, quine permetjamais a la passion deparler exactement son language, ni 
 a 1'auteur de revetir son personage, etdese transporter au lieu de la scene ; mais !e 
 tient toujours enchaine sur le theatre, et sous les yeux des t.pectateurs. Aussi \?s 
 situations les plus vives ne lui font-elles jamais oublier un bcl arrangement de 
 phrases, ni des attitudes elegantes; et si le desespoir lui plonge unjxjignard dans 
 ie coeui , non content d'observer la decence en tombant comme Polixene, il ne tombe 
 point ; la decence le maintient debout apres sa mort, et tous ceux qui viennnnt 
 d'expirer s'en retournent 1'instant d'aprcs sur leurs jainbes." Rousseau. 
 
 * Third Part of his Art of Poetry. 
 
 1 Chap. 20. Sect. 1. * See Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 7. 
 
 36
 
 422 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. [Ch. 22 
 
 fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have a good 
 effect ; they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will 
 not be relished by any person of correct taste. They may be of 
 some use to the lower rank of writers ; but an author of genius has 
 much finer materials of Nature's production, for elevating his 
 subject, and making it interesting. 
 
 One would be apt to think, that Boileau, declaring for the 
 Heathen deities as above, intended them only for embellishing the 
 diction : but unluckily he banishes angels and devils, who un- 
 doubtedly make a figure in poetic language, equal to the Heathen 
 deities. Boileau, therefore, by pleading for the latter in opposition 
 to the former, certainly meant, if he had any distinct meaning, that 
 the Heathen deities may be introduced as actors. And, in fact, 
 he himself is guilty of that glaring absurdity, where it is not so 
 pardonable as in an epic poem. In his ode upon the taking of 
 Namur he demands with a most serious countenance, whether the 
 walls were built by Apollo or Neptune ? and in relating the passage 
 of the Rhine, anno 1672, be describes the god of that river as 
 fighting with all his might to oppose the French monarch ; which 
 is confounding fiction with reality at a strange rate. The French 
 writers in general run into this error : wonderful the effect of 
 custom, to hide from them how ridiculous such fictions are ! 
 
 That this is a capital error in the Gierusalemme, Liberata, Tasso's 
 greatest admirers must acknowledge : a situation can never be intri- 
 cate, nor the reader ever in pain about the catastrophe, as long as 
 there is an angel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Vol- 
 taire, in his essay upon epic poetry, talking of the Pharsalia, ob- 
 serves judiciously, " That the proximity of time, the notoriety of 
 events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined 
 with the solidity of Lucan's subjects, deprived him of poetical fic- 
 tion/' Is it not amazing, that a critic who reasons so justly with 
 respect to others, can be so blind with respect to himself? Voltaire, 
 not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisi- 
 ble and superior beings, introduces them into the action : in the sixth 
 canto of the Henriade, St. Louis appears in person, and terrifies the 
 soldiers ; in the seventh canto, St. Louis sends the god of Sleep to 
 Henry ; and, in the tenth, the demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War, 
 &c. assist Aumale in a single combat with Turenne, and are driven 
 away by a good angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend 
 such fictitious personages in the same action with mortals, makes a 
 bad figure at any rate ; and is intolerable in a history so recent as 
 that of Henry IV. But perfection is not the lot of man.* 
 
 * When I commenced author, my aim was to amuse, and perhaps to instruct, 
 but never to give pain. I accordingly avoided every living author, till the Hen- 
 riade occurred to me as the best instance I could find for illustrating the doctrine in 
 the text; and I yielded to the temptation, judging that my slight criticisms would 
 never reach M. de Voltaire. They have however reached him; and have, as I am 
 informed, stirred up some resentment. lam afflicted at this information; for 
 what title have I to wound the mind more than the body 1 It would beside show 
 ingratitude to a celebrated writer, who is highly entertaining, and who has bestowed 
 on me many a delicious morsel. My only excuse for giving offence is, that it was 
 undesigned ; for to plead that the censure is just, is no excuse. As the offence
 
 Ch. 22.] EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 423 
 
 I have tried serious reasonings upon this subject ; but ridicule, I 
 suppose, will be found a more successful weapon, which Addison 
 has applied in an elegant manner: "Whereas the time of a general 
 peace is, in all appearance, drawing near; being informed that there 
 are several ingenious persons who intend to show their talents on 
 so happy an occasion, and being willing, as much as in me lies, to 
 prevent that effusion of nonsense, which we have good cause to 
 apprehend ; I do hereby strictly require every person who shall 
 write on this subject, to remember that he is a Christian, and not to 
 sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of 
 him, in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending 
 upon Phoebus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any of 
 the muses by name. I do likewise positively forbid the sending of 
 Mercury with any particular message or dispatch relating to the 
 peace ; and shall by no means suffer Minerva to take upon her the 
 shape of any plenipotentiary concerned in this great work. I do 
 farther declare, that I shall not allow the destinies to have had an 
 hand in the deaths of the several thousands who have been slain in 
 the late war ; being of opinion that all such deaths may be well 
 accounted for by the Christian system of powder and ball. I do 
 therefore strictly forbid the fates to cut the thread of man's life upon 
 any pretence whatsoever, unless it be for the sake of the rhyme. 
 And whereas I have good reason to fear, that Neptune will have a 
 great deal of business on his hands in several poems which we may 
 now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his appearance, 
 unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short allusion ; 
 and that even here he may not be permitted to enter, but with great 
 caution and circumspection. I desire that the same rule may be ex- 
 tended to his whole fraternity of Heathen gods ; it being my design, 
 to condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or 
 exercises any other act of authority which does not belong to him. 
 In short, I expect that no Pagan agent shall be introduced, or any 
 fact related which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience. 
 Provided always, that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be 
 construed to extend, to several of the female poets in this nation, who 
 shall still be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in 
 the same manner as if this paper had never been written."* 
 
 The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by machinery, that 
 it is not wonderful to findit embraced by the plurality of writers, and 
 perhaps of readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged to 
 excess. Homer introduces his deities with no greater ceremony 
 than though they were mortals : and Virgil has still less modera- 
 tion : a pilot spent with watching cannot fall asleep, and drop into 
 the sea by natural means : one bed cannot receive the two lovers, 
 ^Eneas and Dido, without the immediate interposition of superior 
 powers. The ridiculous in such fictions, must appear even through 
 the thickest vail of gravity and solemnity. 
 
 was public, I take this opportunity to make the apology equally so. I hope it will 
 be satisfactory : perhaps not. I owe it however to my own character. 
 * Spectator, No. 523.
 
 424 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. [Ch. 22. 
 
 Angels and devils serve equally with heathen deities as mate- 
 rials for figurative language; perhaps better among Christians, be- 
 cause we believe in them, and not in heathen deities. But every 
 one is sensible, as well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in our 
 creed make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem, than 
 the invisible powers in the heathen creed did in ancient poems ; for 
 the cause of which we have not far to seek. The heathen deities, 
 in the opinion of their votaries, were beings elevated one step only 
 above mankind, subject to the same passions, and directed by the 
 same motives ; therefore not altogether improper to mix with men 
 in an important action. In our creed, superior beings are placed at 
 such a mighty distance from us, and are of a nature so different, 
 that with no propriety can we appear with them upon the same stage : 
 man, a creature much inferior, loses all dignity in the, comparison. 
 
 There can be no doubt, that an historical poem admits the embel- 
 lishment of allegory, as well as of metaphor, simile, or other figure. 
 Moral truth, in particular, is finely illustrated in the allegorical 
 manner : it amuses the fancy to find abstract terms, by a sort of 
 magic, metamorphosed into active beings ; and it is highly pleasing 
 to discover a general proposition in a pictured event. But allego- 
 rical beings should be confined within their own sphere, and never 
 be admitted to mix in the principal action, nor to co-operate in retard- 
 ing or advancing the catastrophe. This would have a still worse 
 effect than invisible powers ; and I am ready to assign the reason. 
 The impression of real existence, essential to an epic poem, is incon- 
 sistent with that figurative existence which is essential to an alle- 
 gory ;* and therefore no means can more effectually prevent the im- 
 pression of reality, than to introduce allegorical beings co-operating 
 with those whom we conceive to be really existing. The love- 
 episode, in the Henriade,] insufferable by the discordant mixture of 
 allegory with real life, is copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida, 
 in the Gierusalemme Liberala, which has no merit to entitle it to be 
 copied. An allegorical object, such as Fame in the ^Eneid, and the 
 Temple of Love in the Henriade, may find place in a description : 
 But to introduce Discord as a real personage; imploring the assist- 
 ance of Love, as another real personage, to enervate the courage of 
 the hero, is making these figurative beings act beyond their sphere, 
 and creating a strange jumble of truth and fiction. The allegory of 
 Sin and Death in the Paradise Lost, is, I presume, not generally 
 relished, though it is not entirely of the same nature with what I 
 have been condemning : in a work comprehending the achievements 
 of superior beings, there is more room for fancy than where it is con- 
 fined to human actions. 
 
 What is the true notion of an episode ? or how is it to be distin- 
 guished from the principal action ? Every incident that promotes 
 or retards the catastrophe, must be part of the principal action. This 
 clears the nature of an episode ; which may be defined, " An inci- 
 dent connected with the principal action, but contributing neither to 
 advance nor to retard it." The descent of JEneas into hell does not 
 * See Chap. 20. Sect. 6. t Canto 9.
 
 Ch 22.] EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 425 
 
 advance nor retard the catastrophe, and therefore is an episode. 
 The story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the 
 affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal action. 
 The family scene in the sixth book of the Iliad is of the same 
 nature ; for by Hector's retiring from the field of battle to visit his 
 wife, the Grecians had opportunity to breathe, and even to turn upon 
 the Trojans. The unavoidable effect of an episode, according to 
 this definition, must be, to break the unity of action ; and, therefore, 
 it ought never to be indulged, unless to unbend the mind after the 
 fatigue of a long narration. An episode, when such is its purpose, 
 requires the following conditions : it ought to be well connected with 
 the principal action : it ought to be lively and interesting : it ought 
 to be short : and a time ought to be chosen when the principal action 
 relents.* 
 
 In the following beautiful episode, which closes the second book 
 of Fingal, all these conditions are united : 
 
 Comal was the son of Albion ; the chief of a hundred hills. His deer drank of 
 a thousand streams ; and a thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. His 
 face was the mildness of youth; but his hand the death of heroes. One was his 
 love, and fair was she ! the daughter of mighty Conloch. She appeared like a 
 sun-beam among women, and her hair was like the wing of the raven. Her soul 
 was fixed on Comal, and she was his companion in the chase. Often met their 
 eyes of love, and happy were their words in secret. But Gormal loved the maid, 
 the chief of gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps on the heath, the foe of 
 unhappy Comal. 
 
 One day tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed their friends, Coma! 
 and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Ronan. It was the wonted haunt 
 of Comal. Its sides were hung with his arms ; a hundred shields of thongs were 
 there, a hundred helms of sounding steel. Rest here, said, he, my love Galvina, 
 thou light of the cave of Ronan : a deer appears on Mora's brow ; I go, but soon 
 will return. I fear, said she, dark Gormal my foe : I will rest here ; but soon 
 return, my love. 
 
 He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch, to try his love, clothed 
 her white side with his armor, and strode from the cave of Ronan. Thinking her 
 his foe, his heart beat high, and his color changed. He drew the bow : the arrow 
 flew : Galvina fell in blood. He ran to the cave with hasty steps, and called the 
 
 daughter of Conloch. Where art thou, my love 7 but no answer. He 
 
 marked, at length, her heaving heart beating against the mortal arrow. O Con- 
 loch's daughter, is it thou ! he sunk upon her breast. 
 
 The hunters found the hapless pair. Many and silent were his steps round the 
 dark dwelling of his love. The fleet of the ocean came : he fought, and the stran- 
 gers fell: he searched for death over the field; but who could kill the mighty 
 Comal 1 Throwing away his shield, an arrow found his manly breast. He 
 sleeps with his Galvina : their green tombs are seen by the mariner, when he 
 bounds on the waves of the north. 
 
 Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the first I 
 shall mention is a double plot ; one of which must resemble an epi- 
 sode in an epic poem ; for it would distract the spectator, instead of 
 entertaining him, if he were forced to attend, at the same time, to 
 two capital plots equally interesting, And even supposing it an 
 under-plot like an episode, it seldom has a good effect in tragedy, of 
 which simplicity is a chief property; for an interesting subject 
 
 * Homer's description of the shield of Achilles is properly introduced at a time 
 when the action relents, and the reader can bear an interruption. But the author 
 of Telemachus describes the shield of that young hero in the heat of battle : a very 
 improper time for an interruption. 
 36*
 
 426 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. [Ch. 22. 
 
 that engages our affections, occupies our whole attention, and leaves 
 no room for any separate concern.* Variety is more tolerable in 
 comedy, which pretends only to amuse, without totally occupying the 
 mind. But even there, to make a double plot agreeable, is no slight 
 effort of art: the under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone 
 from the principal ; for discordant emotions are unpleasant when 
 jumbled together ; which, by the way, is an insuperable objection to 
 tragi-comedy. Upon that account, the Provoked Husband deserves 
 censure : all the scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads 
 into action, feeing ludicrous and farcical, are in a very different tone 
 from the principal scenes, displaying severe and bitter expostulations 
 between Lord Townley and his lady. The same objection touches 
 not the double plot of the Careless Husband; the different subjects 
 being sweetly connected, and having only so much variety as to 
 resemble shades of colors harmoniously mixed. But this is not all. 
 The under-plot ought to be connected with that which is princi- 
 pal, so much at least as to employ the same persons : the under-plot 
 ought to occupy the intervals or pauses of the principal action; and 
 both ought to be concluded together. This is the case of the Merry 
 Wives of Windsor. 
 
 Violent action ought never to be represented on the stage. While 
 the dialogue goes on, a thousand particulars concur to delude us 
 into an impression of reality; genuine sentiments, passionate lan- 
 guage, and persuasive gesture: the spectator once engaged, is 
 willing to be deceived, loses sight of himself, and without scru- 
 ple enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From this absent state 
 he is roused by violent action : he awakes as from a pleasing 
 dream, and gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a fic- 
 tion. Horace delivers the same rule, and founds it upon the 
 same reason : 
 
 Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet ; 
 Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus ; 
 Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem : 
 duodcumque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 
 
 * Racine, in his preface to the tragedy of Berenice, is sensible that simplicity is 
 a great beauty in tragedy, but mistakes the cause. " Nothing," says he, " but 
 verisimilitude pleases in tragedy : but where is the verisimilitude, that within the 
 compass of a day, events should be crowded which commonly are extended 
 through months 1 " This is mistaking the accuracy of imitation for the probabi- 
 lity or improbability of future events. I explain myself. The verisimilitude 
 required in tragedy is, that the actions correspond to the manners, and the manners 
 to nature. When this resemblance is preserved, the imitation is just, because it is 
 a true copy of nature. But I deny that the verisimilitude of future events, mean- 
 ing the probability of future events, is any rule in tragedy. A number of extra- 
 ordinary events, are, it is true, seldom crowded within the compass of a day : but 
 what seldom happens may happen ; and when such events fall put, they appear 
 no less natural than the most ordinary accidents. To make verisimilitude in the 
 sense of probability, a governing rule in tragedy, would annihilate that sort of 
 writing altogether ; for it would exclude all extraordinary events, in which the 
 lifa of tragedy consists. It is very improbable or unlikely, pitching upon any man 
 at random, that he will sacrifice his life and fortune for his mistress or for his 
 country : yet when that event happens,, supposing it conformable to the character, 
 \ve recognize the verisimilitude as to nature, whatever want of verisimilitude or of 
 probability there was a priori that such would be the event.
 
 Ch. 22.] EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 427 
 
 Nor let Medea's hand destroy 
 Before the gaping crowd her boy 
 Nor wicked Atreus full in view 
 A dish of human entrails stew, 
 Or Cadmus turn by change absurd 
 A snake, or Progne be a bird. 
 When thus your scenes you represent, 
 Disgust forbids me to assent. 
 
 TTie French critics join with Horace in excluding blood from the 
 stage ; but overlooking the most substantial objection, they urge only 
 that it is barbarous, and shocking to a polite audience. The Greeks 
 had no notion of such delicacy, or rather effeminacy: witness the 
 murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, passing behind the 
 scene as represented by Sophocles : her voice is heard calling out for 
 mercy, bitter expostulations on his part, loud shrieks upon her being 
 stabbed, and then a deep silence. I appeal to every person of feel- 
 ing, whether this scene be not more horrible than if the deed had 
 been committed in sight of the spectators upon a sudden gust of pas- 
 sion. If Corneille, in representing the affair between Horatius and 
 his sister, upon which murder ensues behind the scene, had no other 
 view but to remove from the spectators a shocking action, he was 
 guilty of a capital mistake : for murder in cold blood, which in some 
 measure was the case as represented, is more shocking to a polite 
 audience, even where the conclusive stab is not seen, than the same 
 act performed in their presence by violent and unpremeditated pas- 
 sion, as suddenly repented of as committed. I heartily agree with 
 Addison,* that no part of this incident ought to have been repre- 
 sented, but reserved for a narrative, with every alleviating circum- 
 stance in favor of the hero. 
 
 A few words upon the dialogue ; which ought to be so conducted 
 as to be a true representation of nature. I talk not here of the sen- 
 timents, nor of the language; for these come under different heads: 
 I talk of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing ; where every 
 single speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is said by the 
 former speaker, and furnish matter for what comes after, till the end 
 of the scene. In this view, all the speeches, from first to last, repre- 
 sent so many links of one continued chain. No author, ancient or 
 modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to Shakspeare. Dry- 
 den, in that particular, may justly be placed as his opposite: he fre- 
 quently introduces three or four persons speaking upon the same 
 subject, each throwing out his own notions separately, without regard- 
 ing what is said by the rest : take for an example the first scene of 
 Aurenzebe. Sometimes he makes a number club in relating an event, 
 not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it ; but to one another, for the 
 sake merely of speaking : of which notable sort of dialogue, we 
 have a specimen in the first scene of the first part of the Conquest of 
 Granada. In the second part of the same tragedy, scene second, the 
 king, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their separate observations, like 
 so many soliloquies, upon the fluctuating temper of the mob. A 
 dialogue so uncouth, puts one in mind of two shepherds in a pastoral, 
 * Spectator, No. 44.
 
 423 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. [Ch. 22. 
 
 excited by a prize to pronounce verses alternately, each in praise of 
 his own mistress. 
 
 This manner of dialogue-writing, beside an unnatural air, has 
 another bad effect : it stays the course of the action, because it is not 
 productive of any consequence. In Congreve's comedies, the action 
 is often suspended to make way for a play of wit. But of this more 
 particularly in the chapter immediately following. 
 
 No fault is more common among writers, than to prolong a speech 
 after the impatience of the person to whom it is addressed ought to 
 prompt him or her to break in. Consider only how the impatient 
 actor is to behave in the mean time. To express his impatience in 
 violent action without interrupting, would be unnatural ; and yet to 
 dissemble his impatience, by appearing cool where he ought to be 
 highly inflamed, would be no less so. 
 
 Rhyme being unnatural and disgustful in dialogue, is happily 
 banished from our theatre: the only wonder is that it ever found 
 admittance, especially among a people accustomed to the more manly 
 freedom of Shakspeare : s dialogue. By banishing rhyme, we have 
 gained so much, as never once to dream of any farther improvement. 
 And yet, however suitable blank verse may be to elevated characters 
 and warm passions, it must appear improper and affected in the 
 mouths of the lower sort. Why then should it be a rule, that every 
 scene in tragedy must be in blank verse ? Shakspeare, with great 
 judgment, has followed a different rule ; which is, to intermix prose 
 with verse, and only to employ the latter where it is required by the 
 importance or dignity of the subject. Familiar thoughts and ordinary 
 fact ought to be expressed in plain language: to hear, for example, a 
 footman deliver a simple message in blank verse, must appear ridicu- 
 lous to every one who is not biassed by custom. In short, that variety 
 cf characters and of situations, which is the life of a play, requires 
 not only a suitable variety in the sentiments, but also in the diction.
 
 Ch. 23.] THE THREE UNITIES. 429 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE THREE UNITIES. 
 
 An entire action formed, when the incidents are connected by the relation of cause 
 and effect Unity of action, a beauty ; but a plurality of unconnected fables, a 
 fault The stating of facts in the order of time to be departed from for the sake 
 Of higher beauties In a play each scene to hasten or retard the catastrophe 
 All the facts in an historical fable, to have a natural connection by a relation to 
 the grand event The mind satisfied with a slighter degree of unity in a picture 
 than in a poem The unities of time and place rigidly adhered to on the ancient 
 stage, and inculcated by modern critics Unity of time and place not required in 
 a narrative poem The necessary limits of dramatic representation The refu- 
 tation of this observation The origin of tragedy in Greece The improve- 
 ments of Thespis and ./Eschylus The first scene the prologue In the second 
 scene the chorus introduced and continued The course pursued by Sophocles 
 and Euripides The advantages and the disadvantages of the chorus The ad- 
 vantages of the chorus supplied in English by the proper use of music Defects 
 of the Greek drama on account of its unity of place and of time The place of 
 action to be constantly occupied The stage to be constantly occupied during the 
 action Every person introduced upon the stage to be connected with those in 
 possession of it. 
 
 IN the first chapter, is explained the pleasure we have in a chain 
 of connected facts. In histories of the world, of a country, of a 
 people, this pleasure is faint, because the connections are slight or 
 obscure. We find more entertainment in biography ; because the inci- 
 dents are connected by their relation to a person who makes a figure, 
 and commands our attention. But the greatest entertainment is in 
 the history of a single event, supposing it interesting ; and the rea- 
 son is, that the facts and circumstances are connected by the strongest 
 of all relations, that of cause and effect : a number of facts that give 
 birth to each other form a delightful train ; and we have great mental 
 enjoyment in our progress from the beginning to the end. 
 
 But this subject merits a more particular discussion. When.we 
 consider the chain of causes and effects in the material world, inde- 
 pendent of purpose, design, or thought, we find a number of incidents 
 in succession, without beginning, middle, or end: every thing that 
 happens is both a cause and an effect ; being the effect of what goes 
 before, and the cause of what follows : one incident may affect us 
 more, another less ; but all of them are links in the universal chain: 
 the mind, in viewing these incidents, cannot rest or settle ultimately 
 upon any one ; but is carried along in the train without any close. 
 
 But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in conjunc- 
 tion with the material, the scene is varied. Man acts with delibera- 
 tion, will, and choice: he aims at some end, glory, for example, or 
 riches, or conquest, the procuring of happiness to individuals, or to 
 his country in general : he proposes means, and lays plans to attain 
 the end purposed. Here are a number of facts or incidents leading 
 to the end in view, the whole composing one chain by the relation of 
 cause and effect. In running over a series of such facts or incidents, 
 we cannot rest upon any one ; because they are presented to us as 
 means only, leading to some end : but we rest with satisfaction upon 
 the end or ultimate event ; because there the purpose or aim of the
 
 430 THE THREE UNITIES. [Ch. 23. 
 
 chief person or persons is accomplished. This indicates the begin- 
 ning, the middle, and the end, of what Aristotle calls an entire action* 
 The story naturally begins with describing those circumstances 
 which move the principal person to form a plan, in order to compass 
 some desired event : the prosecution of that plan and the obstruc- 
 tions, carry the reader into the heat of action : the middle is properly 
 where the action is the most involved ; and the end is where the 
 event is brought about, and the plan accomplished. 
 
 A plan thus happily accomplished after many obstructions, affords 
 wonderful delight to the reader; to produce which, a principle men- 
 tioned abovef mainly contributes, the same that disposes the mind to 
 complete every work commenced, and in general to carry every 
 thing to a conclusion. 
 
 I have given the foregoing example of a plan crowned with success, 
 because it affords the clearest conception of a beginning, a middle, 
 and an end, in which consists unity of action ; and indeed stricter 
 unity cannot be imagined than in that case. But an action may 
 have unity, or a beginning, middle, and end, without so intimate a 
 relation of parts ; as where the catastrophe is different from what is 
 intended or desired, which frequently happens in our best tragedies. 
 In the JEneid, the hero, after many obstructions, makes his plan 
 effectual. The Iliad is formed upon a different model : it begins 
 with the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon ; goes on to 
 describe the several effects produced by that cause ; and ends in a 
 reconciliation. Here is unity of action, no doubt, a beginning, a 
 middle, and an end; but inferior to that of the JEneid, which will 
 thus appear. The mind has a propensity to go forward in the chain 
 of history : it keeps always in view the expected event ; and when 
 the incidents or under-parts are connected by their relation to the 
 event, the mind runs sweetly and easily along them. This pleasure 
 we have in the jEneid. It is not altogether so pleasant, as in the 
 Iliad, to connect effects by their common cause; for such connec- 
 tion forces the mind to a continual retrospect : looking back is like 
 walking backward. 
 
 Homer's plan is still more defective, upon another account, that 
 the events described are but imperfectly connected with the wrath 
 of Achilles, their cause : his wrath did not exert itself in action ; 
 and the misfortunes of his countrymen were but negatively the 
 effects of his wrath, by depriving them of his assistance. 
 
 If unity of action be a capital beauty in a fable imitative of human 
 affairs, a plurality of unconnected fables must be a capital deformity. 
 For the sake of variety, we indulge an under-plot that is connected 
 with the principal: but two unconnected events are extremely unplea- 
 sant, even where the same actors are engaged in both. Ariosto is 
 quite licentious in that particular : he carries on at the same time a 
 plurality of unconnected stories. His only excuse is, that his plan is 
 perfectly well adjusted to his subject ; for every thing in the Orlando 
 Furioso is wild and extravagant. 
 
 Though to state facts in the order of time is natural, yet that order 
 * Poet. cap. 6. See also cap. 7. t Chap. 8. 

 
 Ch. 23.] THE THREE UNITIES. 431 
 
 may be varied for the sake of conspicuous beauties.* If, for example, 
 a noted story, cold and simple in its first movements, be made the 
 subject of an epic poem, the reader may be hurried into the heat of 
 action: reserving the preliminaries for a conversation-piece, if thought 
 necessary ; and that method, at the same time, has a peculiar beauty 
 from being dramatic.! But a privilege that deviates from nature 
 ought to be sparingly indulged ; and yet romance-writers make no 
 difficulty of presenting to the reader, without the least preparation, 
 unknown persons engaged in some arduous adventure equally 
 unknown. In Cassandra, two personages, who afterward are dis- 
 covered to be the heroes of the fable, start up completely armed 
 upon the banks of the Euphrates, and engage in a single combat.J 
 
 A play analyzed, is a chain of connected facts, of which each 
 scene makes a link. Each scene, accordingly, ought to produce 
 some incident relative to the catastrophe or ultimate event, by 
 advancing or retarding it. A scene that produces no incident, and 
 for that reason may be termed barren, ought not to be indulged, 
 because it breaks the unity of action : a barren scene can never be 
 entitled to a place, because the chain is complete without it. In the 
 Old Bachelor, the 3d scene of act 2. and all that follow to the end 
 of that act, are mere conversation-pieces, productive of no conse- 
 quence. The 10th and J 1th scenes, act 3, Double Dealer, the 10th, 
 llth, 12th, 13th, and 14th scenes, act 1, Love for Love, are of the 
 same kind. Neither is The Way of the World entirely guiltless 
 of such scenes. It will be no justification, that they help to display 
 characters : it were better, like Dryden, in his dramatis persona, 
 to describe characters beforehand, which would not break the chain 
 of action. But a writer of genius has no occasion for such artifice: 
 he can display the characters of his personages much more to the 
 life in sentiment and action. How successfully is this done by 
 Shakspeare! in whose works there is not to be found a single 
 barren scene. 
 
 Upon the whole, it appears, that all the facts in an historical fable, 
 ought to have a mutual connection, by their common relation to the 
 grand event or catastrophe. And this relation, in which the unity 
 of action consists, is equally essential to epic and dramatic composi- 
 tions. 
 
 In handling unity of action, it ought not to escape observation, 
 that the mind is satisfied with slighter unity in a picture than in a 
 poem; because the perceptions of the former are more lively than 
 the ideas of the latter. In Hogarth's Enraged Musician, we have 
 a collection of every grating sound in nature, without any mutual 
 connection except that of place. But the horror they give to the 
 delicate ear of an Italian fidler, who is represented almost in 
 
 * See Chap. 1. t See Chap. 21. 
 
 * I am sensible that a commencement of this sort is much relished by readers 
 disposed to the marvellous. Their curiosity is raised, and they are much tickled 
 in its gratification. But curiosity is at an end with the first reading-, because the 
 personages are no longer unknown ; and therefore at the second reading, a com- 
 mencement so artificial loses its power even over the vulgar. A writer of genius 
 prefers lasting beauties.
 
 432 THE THREE UNITIES. [Ch. 23. 
 
 convulsions, bestows unity upon the piece, with which the mind 
 is satisfied. 
 
 How far the unities of time and of place are essential, is a ques- 
 tion of greater intricacy. These unities were strictly observed in 
 the Greek and Roman theatres ; and they are inculcated by the 
 French and English critics, as essential to every dramatic composi- 
 tion. They are also acknowledged by our best poets, though in 
 practice they make frequent deviation, which they pretend not to 
 justify, against the practice of the Greeks and Romans, and against 
 the solemn decision of their own countrymen. But in the course of 
 this inquiry it will be made evident, that in this article we are under 
 no necessity to copy the ancients ; and that our critics are guilty of 
 a mistake, in admitting no greater latitude of place and time than 
 was admitted in Greece and Rome. 
 
 Suffer me only to premise, that the unities of place and time, are 
 not, by the most rigid critics, required in a narrative poem. In such 
 a composition, if it pretend to copy nature, these unities would be 
 absurd; because real events are seldom confined within narrow 
 limits, either of place or of time. And yet we can follow history, 
 or an historical fable, through all its changes, with the greatest 
 facility: we never once think of measuring the real time by what 
 is taken in reading; nor of forming any connection between the 
 place of action and that which we occupy. 
 
 I am sensible, that the drama differs so far from the epic, as to 
 admit different rules. It will be observed, " That an historical fable, 
 intended for reading solely, is under no limitation of time nor of 
 place, more than a genuine history ; but that a dramatic composition 
 cannot be accurately represented, unless it be limited, as its repre- 
 sentation is, to one place and to a few hours ; and therefore that it 
 can admit no fable but what has these properties ; because it would 
 be absurd to compose a piece for representation that cannot be justly 
 represented." This argument, I acknowledge, has at least a plau- 
 sible appearance ; and yet one is apt to suspect some fallacy, con- 
 sidering that no critic, however strict, has ventured to confine the 
 unities of place and of time within so narrow bounds.* 
 
 A view of the Grecian drama, compared with our own, may per- 
 haps relieve us from this dilemma : if they be differently constructed, 
 as shall be made evident, it is possible that the foregoing reasoning 
 may not be equally applicable to both. This is an article that, with 
 relation to the present subject, has not been examined by any writer. 
 
 All authors agree, that tragedy in Greece was derived from the 
 hymns in praise of Bacchus, which were sung in parts by a chorus. 
 Thespis, to relieve the singers and for the sake of variety, introduced 
 one actor, whose province it was to explain historically the subject 
 
 * Bossu, after observing, with wondrous critical sagacity, that winter is an 
 improper season for an epic poem, and night no less improper for tragedy ; admits 
 however, that an epic poem may be spread through the whole summer months, 
 and a tragedy through the whole sunshine hours of the longest summer-day. 
 Dupoeme cpique, 1. 3. chap. 12. At that rate an English tragedy may be longer 
 than a French trugedy ; and in Nova Zembla the time of a tragedy and of ar. 
 epic poem may be the same.
 
 ! h. 23.] THE THREE UNITIES. 433 
 
 of the song, and who occasionally represented one or other personage. 
 Eschylus, introducing a second actor, formed the dialogue, by which 
 the performance became dramatic ; and the actors were multiplied 
 when the subject represented made it necessary. But still, the cho- 
 rus, which gave a beginning to tragedy, was considered as an essen- 
 tial part. The first scene, generally, unfolds the preliminary cir- 
 cumstances that lead to the grand event : and this scene is by Aris- 
 totfe termed the prologue. In the second scene, where the action 
 properly begins, the chorus is introduced, which, as originally, 
 continues upon the stage during the whole performance : the chorus 
 frequently makes one in the dialogue ; and when the dialogue hap- 
 pens to be suspended, the chorus, during the interval, is employed 
 in singing. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiously. Euripides 
 is not altogether so correct. In some of his pieces, it becomes 
 necessary to remove the chorus for a little time. But when that 
 unusual step is risked, matters are so ordered as not to interrupt 
 the representation . the chorus never leave the stage of their own 
 accord, but at the command of some principal personage, who con- 
 stantly waits their return. 
 
 Thus the Grecian drama is a continued representation without 
 interruption a circumstance that merits attention. A continued 
 representation without a pause, affords no opportunity to vary the 
 place of action, nor to prolong the time of the action beyond that of 
 the representation. To a representation so confined in place and 
 time, the foregoing reasoning is strictly applicable : a real or feigned 
 action that is brought to a conclusion after considerable intervals of 
 time and frequent changes of place, cannot accurately be copied in 
 a representation that admits no latitude in either. Hence it is, that 
 the unities of place and of time, were, or ought to have been, strictly 
 observed in the Greek tragedies ; which is made necessary by the 
 very constitution of their drama, for it is absurd to compose a tragedy 
 that cannot be justly represented. 
 
 Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to establish rules 
 founded on the practice of the Greeks, are guilty of an egregious 
 blunder. The unities of place and of time were in Greece, as we 
 see, a matter of necessity not of choice; and I am now ready to 
 show, that if we submit to such fetters, it must be from choice, not 
 necessity. This will be evident upon taking a view of the constitu- 
 tion of our drama, which differs widely from that of Greece : whether 
 more or less perfect is a different point, to be handled afterward. 
 By dropping the chorus, opportunity is afforded to divide the repre- 
 sentation by intervals of time, during which the stage is evacuated, 
 and the spectacle suspended. This qualifies our drama for subjects 
 spread through a wide space both of time and of place : the time 
 supposed to pass during the suspension of the representation is not 
 measured by the time of the suspension ; and any place may be sup- 
 posed when the representation is renewed, with as much facility as 
 when it commenced: by which means, many subjects can be justly 
 represented in our theatres, that were excluded from those of ancient 
 Greece. This doctrine may be illustrated, by comparing a modern 
 37
 
 434 THE THREE UNITIES. [Ch. 23. 
 
 play to a set of historical pictures : let us suppose them five in num- 
 ber, and the resemblance will be complete. Each of the pictures 
 resembles an act in one of our plays : there must necessarily be the 
 strictest unity of place and of time in each picture ; and the same 
 necessity requires these two unities during each act of a play, 
 because during an act there is no interruption in the spectacle. 
 Now, when we view in succession a number of such historical pic- 
 tures, let it be, for example, the history of Alexander by Le Brun, 
 we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years have passed 
 between the events exhibited in two different pictures, though the 
 interruption is imperceptible in passing our eye from the one to the 
 other ; and we have as little difficulty to conceive a change of place, 
 however great. In which view, there is truly no difference between 
 five acts of a modern play, and five such pictures. Where the repre- 
 sentation is suspended, we can with the greatest facility suppose any 
 length of time or any change of place: the spectator, it is true, may 
 be conscious that the real time and place are not the same with what 
 are employed in the representation : but this is a work of reflection ; 
 and by the same reflection he may also be conscious, that Garrick is 
 not King Lear, that the playhouse is not Dover Cliffs, nor the noise 
 he hears thunder and lightning. In a word, after an interruption of 
 the representation, it is no more difficult for a spectator to imagine 
 a new place, or a different time, than at the commencement of the 
 play, to imagine himself at Rome, or in a period of time two thousand 
 years back. And indeed, it is abundantly ridiculous, that a critic, 
 who is willing to hold candle-light for sun-shine, and some painted 
 canvasses for a palace or a prison, should be so scrupulous about 
 admitting any latitude of place or of time in the fable, beyond what 
 is necessary in the representation. 
 
 There are, I acknowledge, some effects of great latitude in time 
 that ought never to be indulged in a composition for the theatre. 
 Nothing can be more absurd, than at the close to exhibit a full-grown 
 person who appears a child at the beginning : the mind rejects, as 
 contrary to all probability, such latitude of time as is requisite for a 
 change so remarkable. The greatest change from place to place 
 has not altogether the same bad effect. In the bulk of human affairs 
 place is not material ; and the mind, when occupied with an inter- 
 esting event, is little regardful of minute circumstances: these may 
 be varied at will, because they scarcely make any impression. 
 
 But though I have taken arms to rescue modern poets from the 
 despotism of modern critics, I would not be understood to justify 
 liberty without any reserve. An unbounded licence with relation to 
 place and time, is faulty, for a reason that seems to have been over- 
 looked, which is, that it seldom fails to break the unity of action. 
 In the ordinary course of human affairs, single events, such as are 
 fit to be represented on the stage, are confined to a narrow spot, and 
 commonly employ no great extent of time : we accordingly seldom 
 find strict unity of action in a dramatic composition, where any 
 remarkable latitude is indulged in these particulars. I say farther, 
 that a composition which employs but one place, and requires not a
 
 Ch. 23.] THE THREE UNITIES. 435 
 
 greater length of time than is necessary for the representation, is so 
 much the more perfect : because the confining of an event within so 
 narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of action ; and also prevents 
 that labor, however slight, which the mind must undergo in imagin- 
 ing frequent changes of place and many intervals of time. But still 
 I must insist, that such limitation of place and time as was necessary 
 in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us ; and, therefore, that though 
 such limitation adds one beauty more to the composition, it is at best 
 but a refinement, which may justly give place to a thousand beauties 
 more substantial. And I may add, that it is extremely difficult, I 
 was about to say impracticable, to contract within the Grecian limits, 
 any fable so fruitful of incidents in number and variety, as to give 
 full scope to the fluctuation of passion. 
 
 It may now appear, that critics who put the unities of place and 
 of time upon the same footing with the unity of action, making them 
 all equally essential, have not attended to the nature and constitution 
 of the modern drama. If they admit an interrupted representation, 
 with which no writer finds fault, it is absurd to reject its greatest 
 advantage that of representing many interesting subjects excluded 
 from the Grecian stage. If there needs must be a reformation, why 
 not restore the ancient chorus and the ancient continuity of action? 
 There is certainly no medium : for to admit an interruption without 
 relaxing from the strict unities of place and of time, is in effect to 
 load us with all the inconveniencies of the ancient drama, and at the 
 same time to withhold from us its advantages. 
 
 The only proper question, therefore, is, whether our model be or 
 be not a real improvement. This, indeed, may fairly be called in 
 question ; and in order to a comparative trial, some particulars must 
 be premised. When a play begins, we have no difficulty to adjust 
 our imagination to the scene of action, however distant it may be in 
 time or in place ; because we know that the play is a representation 
 only. The case is very different after we are engaged : it is the 
 perfection of representation to hide itself, to impose on the spectator, 
 and to produce in him an impression of reality, as if he were a spec- 
 tator of a real event ;* but any interruption annihilates that impres- 
 sion, by rousing him out of his waking dream, and unhappily 
 restoring him to his senses. So difficult it is to support the impres- 
 sion of reality, that much slighter interruptions than the interval 
 between two acts, are sufficient to dissolve the charm : in the fifth 
 act of the Mourning Bride, the three first scenes are in a room of 
 state, the fourth in a prison ; and the change is operated by shifting 
 the scene, which is done in a trice : but however quick the transition 
 may be, it is impracticable to impose upon the spectators, so as to 
 make them conceive that they are actually carried from the palace 
 to the prison ; they immediately reflect, that the palace and prison 
 art imaginary, and that the whole is a fiction. 
 
 From these premises, one will naturally be led, at first view, to 
 pronounce the frequent interruptions in the modern drama to be an 
 imperfection. It will occur, " That every interruption must have 
 * Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 7.
 
 436 THE THREE UNITIES. [Ch. 23. 
 
 the effect to banish the dream of reality, and with it to banish our 
 concern, which cannot subsist while we are conscious that all is a 
 fiction ; and, therefore, that in the modern drama sufficient time is 
 not afforded for fluctuation and swelling of passion, like what is 
 afforded in that of Greece, where there is no interruption." This 
 reasoning, it must be owned, has a specious appearance : but we 
 must not become faint-hearted upon the first repulse ; let us rally 
 our troops for a second engagement. 
 
 Considering attentively the ancient drama, we find that though the 
 representation is never interrupted, the principal action is suspended 
 not less frequently than in the modern drama : there are five acts 
 in each ; and the only difference is, that in the former, when the 
 action is suspended as it is at the end of every act, opportunity is 
 taken of the interval to employ the chorus in singing. Hence it 
 appears, that the Grecian continuity of representation cannot have 
 the effect to prolong the impression of reality: to banish that im- 
 pression, a pause in the action while the chorus is employed in 
 singing, is no less effectual than a total suspension of the repre- 
 sentation. 
 
 But to open a larger view, I am ready to show, that a repre- 
 sentation with proper pauses, is better qualified for making a 
 deep impression, than a continued representation without a pause. 
 This will be evident from the following considerations. Repre- 
 sentation cannot very long support an impression of reality ; for 
 when the spirits are exhausted by close attention and by the agita- 
 tion of passion, an uneasiness ensues, which never fails to banish 
 the waking dream. Now supposing the time that a man can- 
 employ with strict attention without wandering, to be no greater 
 than is requisite for a single act a supposition that cannot be far 
 from truth ; it follows, that a continued representation of longer 
 endurance than an act, instead of giving scope to fluctuation and 
 swelling of passion, would overstrain the attention, and produce a 
 total absence of mind. In that respect, the four pauses have a fine 
 effect ; for by affording to the audience a seasonable respite when 
 the impression of reality is gone, and while nothing material is in 
 agitation, they relieve the mind from its fatigue ; and consequently 
 prevent a wandering of thought at the very time possibly of the 
 most interesting scenes. 
 
 In one article, indeed, the Grecian model has greatly the advan- 
 tage. Its chorus during an interval not only preserves alive the 
 impressions made upon the audience, but also prepares their hearts 
 finely for new impressions. In our theatres, on the contrary, the 
 audience, at the end of every act, being left to trifle time away, lose 
 every warm impression ; and they begin the next act cool and 
 unconcerned, as at the commencement of the representation ; this is 
 a gross malady in our theatrical representations, but a malady 
 that luckily is not incurable. To revive the Grecian chorus, would 
 be to revive the Grecian slavery of place and time ; but I can 
 figure a detached chorus coinciding with a pause in the representa- 
 tion, as the ancient chorus did with a pause in the principal action.
 
 Ch. 23.] THE THREE UNITIES. 437 
 
 What objection, for example, can there lie against music between 
 the acts, vocal and instrumental, adapted to the subject ! Such 
 detached chorus, without putting us under any limitation of time or 
 place, would recruit the spirits, and would preserve entire the tone, 
 if not the tide of passion. The music, after an act, should commence 
 in the tone of the preceding passion, and be gradually varied till it 
 accord with the tone of the passion that is to succeed in the next act. 
 The music and the representation would both of them be gainers by 
 their conjunction; which will thus appear. Music that accords 
 with the present tone of mind, is, on that account, doubly agreeable ; 
 and accordingly, though music singly has not power to raise a 
 passion, it tends greatly to support a passion already raised. Far- 
 ther, music prepares us for the passion that follows, by making 
 cheerful, tender, melancholy, or animated impressions, as the subject 
 requires. Take for an example the first scene of the Mourning 
 Bride, where soft music, in a melancholy strain, prepares us for 
 Almeria's deep distress. In this manner, music and representation 
 support each other delightfully : the impression made upon the 
 audience by the representation, is a fine preparation for the music 
 that succeeds ; and the impression made by the music, is a fine 
 preparation for the representation that succeeds. It appears to me 
 evident, that, by some such contrivance, the modern drama may be 
 improved, so as to enjoy the advantage of the ancient chorus 
 without its slavish limitation of place and time. And as to music 
 in particular, I cannot figure any means that would tend more to 
 its improvement : composers, those for the stage at least, would be 
 reduced to the happy necessity of studying and imitating nature ; 
 instead of deviating, according to the present mode, into wild, fan- 
 tastic, and unnatural conceits. But we must return to our subject, and 
 finish the comparison between the ancient and the modern drama. 
 
 The numberless improprieties forced upon the Greek dramatic 
 poets by the constitution of their drama, may be sufficient, one 
 should think, to make us prefer the modern drama, even abstracting 
 from the improvement proposed. To prepare the reader for this 
 article, it must be premised, that as in the ancient drama the place 
 of action never varies, a place necessarily must be chosen, to which 
 every person may have access without any improbability. This 
 confines the scene to some open place, generally the court or area 
 before a palace ; which excludes from the Grecian theatre transac- 
 tions within doors, though these commonly are the most important. 
 Such cruel restraint is of itself sufficient to cramp the most preg 
 nant invention ; and accordingly Greek writers, in order to preserve 
 unity of place, are reduced to woful improprieties. In the Hippo- 
 lytus of Euripides,* Phedra, distressed in mind and body, is carried 
 without any pretext from her palace to the place of action : is there 
 laid upon a couch, unable to support herself upon her limbs, and 
 made to utter many things improper to be heard by a number of 
 women who form the chorus : and what is still more improper, her 
 female attendant uses the strongest entreaties to make her reveal the, 
 
 *Act 1. Sc. 6.' 
 37*
 
 438 THE THREE UNITIES. [Ch. 23. 
 
 secret cause of her anguish; which at last Phedra, contrary to 
 decency and probability, is prevailed upon to do in presence of that 
 very chorus.* Alcestes, in Euripides, at the point of death, is 
 brought from the palace to the place of action, groaning, and 
 lamenting her untimely fate.f In the Trachiniens of Sophocles,^ 
 a secret is imparted to Dejanira, the wife of Hercules, in presence 
 of the chorus. In the tragedy of Iphigenia, the messenger em- 
 ployed to inform Clitemnestra that Iphigenia was sacrificed, stops 
 short at the place of action, and with a loud voice calls the Queen 
 from her palace to hear the news. Again, in the Iphigenia in 
 Tauris, the necessary presence of the chorus forces Euripides into a 
 gross absurdity, which is to form a secret in their hearing ;$ and to 
 disguise the absurdity, much court is paid to the chorus, not one 
 woman but a number, to engage them to secrecy. In the Medea 
 of Euripides, that princess makes no difficulty, in presence of the 
 chorus, to plot the death of her husband, of his mistress, and of her 
 father the king of Corinth, all by poison. It was necessary to bring 
 Medea upon the stage, and there is but one place of action, which is 
 always occupied by the chorus. This scene closes the second act : 
 and in the end of the third, she frankly 'makes the chorus her con- 
 fidants in plotting the murder of her o\vn children. Terence, by 
 identity of place, is often forced to make a conversation within doors 
 be heard on the open street : the cries of a woman in labor are there 
 heard distinctly. 
 
 The Greek poets are not less hampered by unity of time than by 
 that of place. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, that prince is banished 
 at the end of the fourth act ; and in the first scene of the following 
 act, a messenger relates to Theseus the whole particulars of the death 
 of Hippolytus by the sea-monster : that remarkable event must have 
 occupied many hours ; and yet in the representation, it is confined to 
 the time employed by the chorus upon the song at the end of the 
 4th act. The inconsistency is still greater in the Iphigenia in Tau- 
 ris :|| the song could not exhaust half an hour ; and yet the incidents 
 supposed to have happened during that time, could not naturally 
 have been transacted in less than half a day. 
 
 The Greek artists are forced, no less frequently, to transgress 
 another rule, derived also from a continued representation. The 
 rule is, that as a vacuity, however momentary, interrupts the repre- 
 sentation, it is necessary that the place of action be constantly occu- 
 pied. Sophocles, with regard to that rule as well as to others, is 
 generally correct. But Euripides cannot bear such restraint: he 
 often evacuates the stage, and leaves it empty for others. Iphigenia 
 in Tauris, after pronouncing a soliloquy in the first scene, leaves the 
 place of action, and is succeeded by Orestes and Pylades : they, after 
 some conversation, walk off; and Iphigenia re-enters, accompanied 
 with the chorus. In the Alcestes, which is of the same author, the 
 place of action is void at the end of the third act. It is true, that to 
 
 * Act 2. Sc. 2. t Act 2. Sc. 1. 
 
 $ Act 2. Act 4. at the close. 
 
 II Act5.Sc.4.
 
 Ch. 23.] THE THREE UNITIES. 439 
 
 cover the irregularity, and to preserve the representation in motion, 
 Euripides is careful to fill the stage without loss of time : but this 
 still is an interruption, and a link of the chain broken ; for during 
 the change of the actors, there must be a space of time, during which 
 the stage is occupied by neither set. It makes indeed a more re- 
 markable interruption, to change the place of action as well as the 
 aetors ; but that was not practicable upon the Grecian stage. 
 
 It is hard to say upon what model Terence has formed his plays. 
 Having no chorus, there is a pause in the representation at the end 
 of every act. But advantage is not taken of the cessation, even to 
 vary the place of action : for the street is always chosen, where every 
 thing passing may be seen by every person ; and by that choice, the 
 most sprightly and interesting parts of the action, which commonly 
 pass within doors, are excluded ; witness the last act of the Eunuch. 
 He has submitted to the like slavery with respect to time. In a 
 word, a play with a regular chorus, is not more confined in place 
 and time than his plays are. Thus a zealous sectary follows 
 implicitly ancient forms and ceremonies, without once considering 
 whether their introductive cause be still subsisting. Plautus, of a 
 bolder genius than Terence, makes good use of the liberty afforded 
 by an interrupted representation : he varies the place of action upon 
 all occasions, when the variation suits his purpose. 
 
 The intelligent reader will by this time understand, that I plead 
 for no change of place in our plays but after an interval, nor for any 
 latitude in point of time but what falls in with an interval. The 
 unities of place and time ought to be strictly observed during each 
 act ; for during the representation, there is no opportunity for the 
 smallest deviation from either. Hence it is an essential requisite, 
 that during an act the stage be always occupied ; for even a momen- 
 tary vacuity makes an interval or interruption, Another rule is no 
 less essential : it would be a gross breach of the unity of action, to 
 exhibit upon the stage two separate actions at the same time ; and 
 therefore, to preserve that unity, it is necessary that each personage 
 introduced during an act, be linked to those in possession of the stage, 
 so as to join all in one action. These things follow from the very 
 conception of an act, which admits not the slightest interruption : the 
 moment the representation is intermitted, there is an end of that act ; 
 and we have no notion of a new act, but where, after a pause or 
 interval, the representation is again put in motion. French writers, 
 generally speaking, are correct in this particular. The English, on 
 the contrary, are so irregular, as scarcely to deserve a criticism. 
 Actors, during the same act, not only succeed each other in the same 
 place without connection ; but what is still less excusable, they fre- 
 quently succeed each other in different places. This change of place 
 in the same act, ought never to be indulged ; for, beside breaking the 
 unity of the act, it has a disagreeable effect. After an interval, the 
 imagination readily adapts itself to any place that is necessary, as 
 readily as at the commencement of the play ; but during the rep- 
 resentation, we reject change of place. From the foregoing censure 
 must be excepted the Mourning Bride of Congreve, where regularity
 
 440 THE THREE UNITIES. [Ch. 23. 
 
 concurs with the beauty of sentiment and of language, to make it 
 one of the most complete pieces of which England can boast. I must 
 acknowledge, however, that in point of regularity, this elegant per- 
 formance is not altogether unexceptionable. In the four first acts, 
 the unities of place and time are strictly observed : but in the last 
 act, there is a capital error with respect to unity of place ; for in the 
 first three scenes of that act, the place of action is a room of state 
 which is changed to a prison in the fourth scene : the chain also of 
 the actors is broken ; as the persons introduced in the prison, are 
 different from those who made their appearance in the room of state. 
 This remarkable interruption of the representation, makes in effect 
 two acts instead of one: and therefore, if it be a rule that a play 
 ought not to consist of more acts than five, this performance is so far 
 defective in point of regularity. I may add, that even admitting six 
 acts, the irregularity would not be altogether removed, without a 
 longer pause in the representation than is allowed in the acting ; for 
 more than a momentary interruption is requisite for enabling the 
 imagination readily to fall in with a new place, or with a wide space 
 of time. In The Way of the World, of the same author, unity of 
 place is preserved during every act, and a stricter unity of time 
 during the whole play, than is necessary.
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 441 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 Gardening, originally a useful, now a fine art Architecture also, formerly a use- 
 ful, now a fine art Two different views afforded by both Destined either for 
 wse or beauty Foundation for criticism in these arts, laid in the emotion they 
 excite Poetry holds the first place Painting and sculpture confined to objects 
 of sight Emotions of beauty, grandeur, and melancholy, raised by gardening 
 The beauties of regularity, order, and proportion, more conspicuous in archi- 
 tecture than in gardening Advantage of gardening Two things wanting to 
 bring architecture to perfection Simplicity essential to gardening The bad 
 effects of profuse ornaments A small field to be regularly laid out; not so with 
 a large garden A small spot embellished with natural objects, the simplest 
 plan for a garden Artificial statues and buildings belong to the more complex 
 To pass from a gay object to a ruin has a bad effect Vice versa, a good 
 effect Similar emotions to be raised together The best method for replenish- 
 ing a field A single garden distinguished from a plurality by its unity Regu- 
 larity required in that part of a garden adjoining a dwelling house A larger 
 prospect than can be taken at one view, never to be taken Unnatural objects to 
 be rejected Paint imitations of nature to be avoided Things trivial to be 
 excluded A labyrinth not justified A winding walk An oblique avenue- 
 A garden on a flat to be highly ornamented A ruin to be in the Gothic form 
 An animal spouting water unnatural Summer and winter gardens in hot and 
 cold countries The practice of the Chinese The effect of rough uncultivated 
 grounds ; and of a garden A garden necessary to a college Different kinds of 
 buildings Those designed for utility to correspond to that design A heathen 
 temple A palace A dwelling The proportions of doors, windows, and steps 
 The different forms of the rooms of a dwelling No resemblance between 
 musical proportion and architecture The comparison between proportion in 
 number, and in quantity absurd Regularity and proportion essential to build- 
 ings destined to please the eye Every building to have an expression corres- 
 ponding to its destination Climax to be observed Grandeur to be the chief 
 study of architecture Directions for ornaments Directions about the columns 
 The Grecian order The distinction between the Ionic and the Corinthian 
 Columns distinguished by their destination into three kinds The ornaments 
 that belong to each The effect of gardening and architecture upon manners. 
 
 THE books we have upon architecture and upon embellishing 
 ground, abound in practical instruction, necessary for a mechanic : 
 but in vain should we rummage them for rational principles to 
 improve our taste. In a general system, it might be thought suffi- 
 cient to have unfolded the principles that govern these and other fine 
 arts, leaving the application to the reader : but as I would neglect 
 no opportunity of showing the extensive influence of these principles, 
 the purpose of the present chapter is to apply them to gardening and 
 architecture; but without intending any regular plan of these favor- 
 ite arts, which would be unsuitable, not only to the nature of this 
 work, but to the experience of its author. 
 
 Gardening was at first a useful art : in the garden of Alcinous, 
 described by Homer, we find nothing done for pleasure merely. 
 But gardening is now improved into a fine art ; and when we talk 
 of a garden without any epithet, a pleasure garden, by way of emi- 
 nence, is understood. The garden of Alcinous, in modern language, 
 was but a kitchen-garden. Architecture has run the same course : 
 it continued many ages a useful art merely, without aspiring to be
 
 442 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24. 
 
 classed with the fine arts. Architecture, therefore, and gardening, 
 being useful arts as well as fine arts, affbrd two different views. 
 The reader, however, will not here expect rules for improving any 
 work of art in point of utility ; it being no part of my plan to treat 
 of any useful art as such : but there is a beauty in utility ; and in. 
 discoursing of beauty that of utility must not be neglected. This 
 leads us to consider gardens and buildings in different views : they 
 may be destined for use solely, for beauty solely, or for both. Such 
 variety of destination, bestows upon these arts a great command of 
 beauties, complex no less than various. Hence the difficulty of form- 
 ing an accurate taste in gardening and architecture ; and hence that 
 difference and wavering of taste in these arts, greater than in any art 
 that has but a single destination. 
 
 Architecture and gardening cannot otherwise entertain the mind, 
 than by raising certain agreeable emotions or feelings ; with which 
 we must begin, as the true foundation of all the rules of criticism 
 that govern these arts. Poetry, as to its power of raising emotions, 
 possesses justly the first place among the fine arts ; for scarcely any 
 one emotion of human nature is beyond its reach. Painting and 
 sculpture are more circumscribed, having the command of no emo- 
 tions but of what are raised by sight : they are peculiarly success- 
 ful in expressing painful passions, which are displayed by external 
 signs extremely legible.* Gardening, besides the emotions of beauty 
 from regularity, order, proportion, color, and utility, can raise emo- 
 tions of grandeur, of sweetness, of gayety, of melancholy, of wild- 
 aess, and even of surprise or wonder. In architecture, the beauties 
 of regularity, order, and proportion, are still more conspicuous than 
 in gardening ; but as to the beauty of color, architecture is far infe- 
 rior. Grandeur can be expressed in a building, perhaps more suc- 
 cessfully than in a garden ; but as to the other emotions above men- 
 tioned, architecture hitherto has not been brought to the perfection*of 
 expressing them distinctly. To balance that defect, architecture can 
 display the beauty of utility in the highest perfection. 
 
 Gardening indeed possesses one advantage, never to be equalled in 
 the other art : in various scenes, it can raise successively all the dif- 
 ferent emotions above mentioned. But to produce that delicious 
 effect, the garden must be extensive, so as to admit a slow succession : 
 for a small garden, comprehended at one view, ought to be confined 
 to one expression;! it may be gay, it may be sweet, it may be gloomy; 
 but an attempt to mix these, would create a jumble of emotions not a 
 little unpleasant.* For the same reason, a building, even the most 
 magnificent, is necessarily confined to one expression. 
 
 Architecture, considered as a fine art, instead of being a rival to 
 gardening in its progress, seems not far advanced beyond its infant 
 state. To bring it to maturity, tvyo things mainly are wanted. First, 
 a greater variety of parts and ornaments than at present it seems pro- 
 
 * See Chap. 15. t See Chap. 8. 
 
 t " The citizen, who in his villa has but an acre for a garden, must have it 
 diversified with every object that is suited to an extensive garden. There must be 
 woods, streams, lawns, statues, and temples to every goddess as well as to Cloa- 
 cina."
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 443 
 
 vided with. Gardening here has greatly the advantage : it is pro- 
 vided with plenty of materials for raising scenes without end, affect- 
 ing the spectator with variety of emotions. In architecture, on the 
 contrary, materials are so scanty, that artists hitherto have not been 
 successful in raising any emotions but of beauty and grandeur : with 
 respect to the former, there are indeed plenty of means, regularity, 
 order, symmetry, simplicity, utility ; and with respect to the latter, 
 trre addition of size is sufficient. But though it is evident, that every 
 building ought to have a certain character or expression suited to its 
 destination ; yet this refinement has scarcely been attempted by any 
 artist. A death's head and bones employed in monumental build- 
 ings, will indeed produce an emotion of gloom ^nd melancholy; but 
 such ornaments, if these can be termed so, ought to be rejected, 
 because they are, in themselves, disagreeable. The other thing 
 wanted to bring the art to perfection, is, to ascertain the precise 
 impression made by every single part and ornament, cupolas, spires, 
 columns, carvings, statues, vases, &c. : for in vain will an artist 
 attempt rules for employing these, either singly or in combination, 
 until the different emotions they produce be distinctly explained. 
 Gardening in that particular also, has the advantage : the several 
 emotions raised by trees, rivers, cascades, plains, eminences, and its 
 other materials, are understood ; and each emotion can be described 
 with some degree of precision, which is attempted occasionally in 
 the foregoing parts of this work. 
 
 In gardening as well as in architecture, simplicity ought to be a 
 ruling principle. Profuse ornament has no better effect than to con- 
 found the eye, and to prevent the object from making an impression 
 as one entire whole. An artist destitute of genius for capital beau- 
 ties, is naturally prompted to supply the defect by crowding his plan 
 with slight embellishments :, hence in a garden, triumphal arches, 
 Chinese houses, temples, obelisks, cascades, fountains, without end ; 
 , and in a building, pillars, vases, statues, and a profusion of carved 
 work. Thus some women defective in taste, are apt to overcharge 
 every part of their dress with ornament. Superfluity of decoration 
 has another bad effect : it gives the object a diminutive look : an 
 island in a wide extended lake makes it appear larger ; but an arti- 
 ficial lake, which is always little, appears still less by making an 
 island in it.* 
 
 In forming plans for embellishing a field, an artist without taste 
 employs straight lines, circles, squares; because these look best upon 
 paper. He perceives not, that to humor and adorn nature, is the 
 perfection of his art ; and that nature, neglecting regularity, dis- 
 tributes her objects in great variety with a bold hand. A large field 
 laid out with strict regularity, is stiff and artificial.! Not,, indeed, 
 in organized bodies comprenended unaer one view studies regu- 
 larity, which, for the same reason, ought to be studied in architec- 
 
 * See Appendix to Part 5. Chap. 2. 
 
 t In France and Italy, a garden is disposed like tho human body, att*ys. like 
 le^s and arms, answering each other; the great walk in the middle representing 
 the trunk of the body. Thus an artist void of taste carries seit along int., every 
 operation.
 
 444 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24. 
 
 ture: but in large objects, which cannot otherwise be surveyed but 
 in parts and by succession, regularity and uniformity would be use- 
 less properties, because they cannot be discovered by the eye.* 
 Nature therefore, in her large works, neglects these properties ; and 
 in copying nature, the artist ought to neglect them. 
 
 Having thus far carried on a comparison between gardening and 
 architecture ; rules peculiar to each come next in order, beginning 
 with gardening. The simplest plan of a garden, is that of a spot 
 embellished Avith a number of natural objects, trees, walks, polished 
 parterres, flowers, streams, &c. One more complex comprehends 
 statues and buildings, that nature and art may be mutually ornamen- 
 tal. A third, approaching nearer perfection, is of objects assembled 
 together in order to produce, not only an emotion of beauty, but also 
 some other particular emotion, grandeur, for example, gayety, or 
 any other above mentioned. The most complete plan of a garden is 
 an improvement upon the third, requiring the several parts to be so 
 arranged, as to inspire all the different emotions that can be raised 
 by gardening. In this plan, the arrangement is an important cir- 
 cumstance ; for it has been shown, that some emotions figure best in 
 conjunction, and that others ought always to appear in succession, 
 and never in conjunction. It is mentioned above,f that when the 
 most oppositee motions, such as gloominess and gayety, stillness and 
 activity, follow each other in succession, the pleasure, on the whole, 
 will be the greatest; but that such emotions ought not to be united, 
 because they produce an unpleasant mixture.]: For this reason, a 
 ruin affording a sort of melancholy pleasure, ought not to be seen 
 from a flower-parterre which is gay and cheerful.^ But to pass 
 from an exhilarating object to a ruin, has a fine effect ; for each of 
 the emotions is the more sensibly felt by being contrasted with the 
 other. Similar emotions, on the other hand, such as gayety and 
 sweetness, stillness and gloominess, motion and grandeur, ought to 
 be raised together ; for their effects upon the mind are greatly 
 heightened by their conjunction. 
 
 Kent's method of embellishing a field is admirable; which is to 
 replenish it with beautiful objects, natural and artificial, disposed as 
 they ought to be upon a canvass in painting. It requires indeed more 
 genius to paint in the gardening way: in forming a landscape upon 
 a canvass, no more is required than to adjust the figures to each other : 
 an artist who would form a garden in Kent's manner, has an addi- 
 tional task ; which is, to adjust his figures to the several varieties of 
 the field. 
 
 A single garden must be distinguished from a plurality; and yet 
 it is not obvious in what the unity of a garden consists. We have, 
 indeed, some notion of unity in a garden surrounding a palace, with 
 views from each window, and walks leading to every corner : but 
 there may be a garden without a house ; in which case, it is the 
 
 * A square field appears not such to the eye when viewed from any part of it; 
 and the centre is the only place where a circular field preserves hi appearance its 
 regular figure. 
 
 t Chap. 8. * Chap. 2. Part 4. See the place immediately above cited.
 
 CL 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 445 
 
 unity of design that makes it one garden ; as where a spot of ground 
 is so artfully dressed as to make the several portions appear to be 
 parts of one whole. The gardens of Versailles, properly expressed 
 in the plural number, being no fewer than sixteen, are indeed all of 
 them connected with the palace, but have scarcely any mutual con- 
 nection : they appear not like parts of one whole, but rather like 
 small gardens in contiguity. A greater distance between these gar- 
 de'fts would produce a better effect ; their junction breeds confusion 
 of ideas, and upon the whole gives less pleasure than would be felt 
 in a slower succession. 
 
 Regularity is required in that part of a garden which is adjacent 
 to the dwelling-house ; because an immediate accessory ought to par- 
 take the regularity of the principal object ;* but in proportion to the 
 distance from the house considered as the centre, regularity ought 
 less and less to be studied ; for in an extensive plan, it has a fine 
 effect to lead the mind insensibly from regularity to a bold variety. 
 Such arrangement tends to make an impression of grandeur : and 
 grandeur ought to be studied as much as possible, even in a more 
 confined plan, by avoiding a multiplicity of small parts. f A small 
 garden, on the other hand, which admits not grandeur, ought to be 
 strictly regular. 
 
 Milton, describing the garden of Eden, prefers justly grandeur 
 before regularity : 
 
 Flowers worthy of paradise, which not nice art 
 
 In beds and curious knols, but Nature boon 
 
 Pour'd forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain ; 
 
 Both where the morning-sun first warmly smote 
 
 The open field, and where the unpierc'd shade 
 
 Imbrown'd the noontide bow'rs. Paradise Lost, B. IV. 
 
 A hill covered with trees, appears more beautiful as well as more 
 lofty than when naked. To distribute trees in a plain requires more 
 art : near the dwelling-house they ought to be scattered so distant 
 from each other, as not to break the unity of the field; and even at 
 the greatest distance of distinct vision, they ought never to be so 
 crowded as to hide any beautiful object. 
 
 In the manner of planting a wood or thicket, much art may be 
 displayed. A common centre of walks, termed a star, from whence 
 are seen remarkable objects, appears too artificial, and consequently 
 
 * The influence of this connection surpassing all bounds, is still visible in many 
 gardens, formed of horizontal plains forced with great labour and expence, per- 
 pendicular faces of earth supported by massy stone walls, terrace- walks in stages 
 one above another, regular ponds and canals without the least motion, and the 
 whole surrounded, like a prison, with high walls excluding every external objrc t. 
 At first view it may puzzle one to account for a taste so opposite to nature in every 
 particular. But nothing happens without a cause. Perfect regularity and uni- 
 formity are required in a house ; and this idea is extended to its accessory the gar- 
 den, especially if it be a small spot incapable of grandeur or of much variety ; 
 the house is regular, so must the garden be ; the floors of the house are horizontal, 
 and the garden must have the same position ; in the house we are protected from 
 every intruding eye, so must we be in the garden. This, it must be confessed, is 
 carrying the notion of resemblance very far: but where reason and taste are laid 
 asleep, nothing is more common than to carry resemblance beyond proper bounds. 
 
 t See Chap. 4. 
 38
 
 446 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24. 
 
 too stiff and formal, to be agreeable : the crowding withal of so 
 many objects together, lessens the pleasure that would be felt in a 
 slower succession. Abandoning, therefore, the star, let us try to 
 substitute some form more natural, that will display all the remark- 
 able objects in the neighborhood. This may be done by various 
 apertures in the wood, purposely contrived to lay open successively 
 every such object ; sometimes a single object, sometimes a plurality 
 in a line, and sometimes a rapid succession of them : the mind at 
 intervals is roused and cheered by agreeable objects ; and by sur- 
 prise, upon viewing objects of which it had no expectation. 
 
 Attending to the influence of contrast, explained in the eighth 
 chapter, we discover why the lowness of the ceiling increases in 
 appearance the size of a large room, and why a long room appears 
 still longer by being very narrow, as is remarkable in a gallery : 
 by the same means, an object terminating a narrow opening in a 
 wood, appears at a double distance. This suggests another rule for 
 distributing trees in some quarter near the dwelling-house; which 
 is to place a number of thickets in a line, with an opening in each, 
 directing the eye from one to another ; which will make them appear 
 more distant from each other than they are in reality, arid in appear- 
 ance enlarge the size of the whole field. To give this plan its 
 utmost effect, the space between the thickets ought to be consider- 
 able : and in order that each may be seen distinctly, the opening 
 nearest the eye ought to be wider than the second, the second wider 
 than the third, and so on to the end.* 
 
 By a judicious distribution of trees, other beauties may be pro- 
 duced. A landscape so rich as to engross the whole attention, and 
 so limited as sweetly to be comprehended under a single view, has a 
 much finer effect than the most extensive landscape that requires a 
 wandering of the eye through successive scenes. This observation 
 suggests a capital rule in laying out a field; which is, never at any 
 one station to admit a larger prospect than can easily be taken in at 
 once. A field so happily situated as to command a great extent of 
 prospect, is a delightful subject for applying this rule: let the pros- 
 pect be split into proper parts by means of trees ; studying at the 
 same time to introduce all the variety possible. A plan of this kind 
 executed with taste will produce a charming effect : the beautiful 
 prospects are multiplied : each of them is much more agreeable 
 tiian the entire prospect was originally: and, to crown the whole, 
 the scenery is greatly diversified. 
 
 As gardening is not an inventive art, but an imitation of nature, 
 or rather nature itself ornamented ; it follows necessarily, that every 
 thing unnatural ought to be rejected with disdain. Statues of wild 
 beasts vomiting water, a common ornament in gardens, prevail in 
 those of Versailles. Is that ornament in a good taste ? A jet cPeau, 
 being purely artificial, may, without disgust, be tortured into a thou- 
 
 * An object will appear more distant than it really is, if different colored ever- 
 greens be planted between it mid the eye. Suppose holly and laurel, and the holly 
 which is of the deeper color, nearer the eye : the degradation of color in the 
 laurel, makes it appear at a great distance from the holly, and consequently re- 
 moves the object, m appearance, to a greater distance than it really is.
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 447 
 
 sand shapes : but a representation of what really exists in nature, 
 admits not any unnatural circumstance. In the statues of Ver- 
 sailles the artist has displayed his vicious taste without the least color 
 or disguise. A lifeless statue of an animal pouring out water, may 
 be endured without much disgust : but here the lions and wolves are 
 put in violent action, each has seized its prey, a deer or a lamb, in act 
 to devour ; and yet, as by hocus-pocus, the whole is converted into a 
 different scene : the lion, forgetting his prey, pours out water plenti- 
 fully ; and the deer, forgetting its danger, performs the same work : 
 a representation no less absurd than that in the opera, where Alex- 
 ander the Great, after mounting the wall of a town besieged, turns 
 his back to the enemy, and entertains his army with a song.* 
 
 In gardening, every lively exhibition of what is beautiful in nature 
 has a fine effect : on the other hand, distant and faint imitations are 
 displeasing to every one of taste. The cutting of evergreens in the 
 shape of animals, is very ancient ; as appears from the epistles of 
 Pliny, who seems to be a great admirer of the conceit. The pro- 
 pensity to imitation gave birth to that practice ; and has supported 
 it wonderfully long, considering how faint and insipid the imitation 
 is. But the vulgar, great and small, are entertained with the odd ness 
 and singularity of a resemblance, however distant, between a tree 
 and an animal. An attempt in the gardens of Versailles to imitate 
 a grove of trees by a group of jets d'eau, appears, for the same rea- 
 son, no less childish. 
 
 In designing a garden, every thing trivial or whimsical ought to 
 be avoided. Is a labyrinth then to be justified ? It is a mere conceit, 
 like that of composing verses in the shape of an axe or an egg : the 
 walks and hedges may be agreeable ; but in the form of a labyrinth, 
 they serve to no end but to puzzle : a riddle is a conceit not so mean ; 
 because the solution is proof of sagacity, which affords no aid in 
 tracing a labyrinth. 
 
 The gardens of Versailles, executed with boundless expense by 
 the best artists of that age, are a lasting monument of a taste the 
 most depraved : the faults above mentioned, instead of being avoided, 
 are chosen as beauties, and multiplied without end. Nature, it 
 would seem, was deemed too vulgar to be imitated in the works of a 
 magnificent monarch : and for that reason preference was given to 
 things unnatural, which probably were mistaken for supernatural. I 
 have often amused myself with a fanciful resemblance between these 
 gardens and the Arabian tales : each of them is a performance in- 
 tended for the amusement of a great king : in the sixteen gardens 
 of Versailles there is no unity of design, more than in the thousand 
 and one Arabian tales: and, lastly, they are equally unnatural; 
 groves of jets d'eau, statues of animals conversing in the manner of 
 ^Esop, water issuing out of the mouths of wild beasts, give an im- 
 
 * Ulloa, a Spanish writer, describing the city of Lima, says, that the great 
 square is finely ornamented. " In the centre is a fountain, equally remarkable 
 for its grandeur and capacity. Raised above the fountain is a bronze statue of 
 Fame, and four small basons on the angles. The water issues from the trumpet 
 of the statue, and from the mouths of eight lions surrounding it, which" in his 
 ~">nion " greatly heighten the beauty of the whole."
 
 448 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24. 
 
 pression of fairy-land and witchcraft, no less than diamond-palaces, 
 invisible rings, spells and incantations. 
 
 A straight road is the most agreeable, because it shortens the 
 journey. But in an embellished field, a straight walk has an air of 
 formality and confinement : and at any rate is less agreeable than a 
 winding or waving walk; for in surveying the beauties of an orna- 
 mented field, we love to roam from place to place at freedom. Wind- 
 ing walks have another advantage : at every step they open new 
 views. In short, the walks in pleasure-grounds ought not to have 
 any appearance of a road: my intention is not to make a journey, 
 but to feast my eye on the beauties of art and nature. This rule 
 excludes not openings directing the eye to distant objects. Such 
 openings, beside variety, are agreeable in various respects : first, as 
 observed above, they extend in appearance the size of the field : next, 
 an object, at whatever distance, continues the opening, and deludes 
 the spectator into a conviction, that the trees which confine the view 
 are continued till they join the object. Straight walks in recesses 
 do well ; they vary the scenery, and are favorable to meditation. 
 
 Avoid a straight avenue directed upon a dwelling-house: better 
 far an oblique approach in a waving line, with single trees and other 
 scattered objects interposed. In a direct approach, the first appear- 
 ance is continued to the end : we see a house at a distance, and we 
 see it all along in the same spot without any variety. In an oblique 
 approach, the interposed objects put the housa seemingly in motion: 
 it moves with the passenger, arid appears to direct .its course so 
 as hospitably to intercept him. An oblique approach contributes 
 also to variety : the house, seen successively in different directions, 
 assumes at each step a new figure. 
 
 A garden on a flat ought to be highly and variously ornamented, 
 in order to occupy the mind, and prevent our regretting the insipi- 
 dity of an uniform plain. Artificial mounts in that view are com- 
 mon : but no person has thought of an artificial walk elevated high 
 above the plain. Such a walk is airy, and tends to elevate the mind: 
 it extends and varies the prospect ; and it makes the plain, seen from 
 a height, appear more agreeable. 
 
 Whether should a ruin be in the Gothic or Grecian form ? In 
 the former, I think; because it exhibits the triumph of time over 
 strength; a melancholy, but not unpleasant thought: a Grecian ruin 
 suggests rather the triumph of barbarity over taste ; a gloomy and 
 discouraging thought. 
 
 There are not many fountains in a good taste. Statues of animals 
 vomiting water, which prevail every where, stand condemned as 
 unnatural. A statue of a whale spouting water upward from its 
 head is in one sense natural, as certain whales have that power ; 
 but it is a sufficient objection, that its singularity would make it 
 appear unnatural ; there is another reason against it, that the figure 
 of a whale is in itself not agreeable. In many Roman fountains, 
 statues of fishes are employed to support a large bason of water. 
 This unnatural conceit is not accountable, unless from the connec- 
 tion that water has with the fish that swim in it ; which by the way
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 449 
 
 shows the influence of even the slighter relations. The best design 
 for a fountain I have met with, is what follows. In an artificial rock, 
 rugged and abrupt, there is a cavity out of sight at the top: the water, 
 conveyed to it by a pipe, pours or trickles down the broken parts 
 of the rock, and is collected into a bason at the foot : it is so con- 
 trived, as to make the water fall in sheets or in rills at pleasure. 
 
 Hitherto a garden has been treated as a work intended solely for 
 pleasure, or, in other words, for giving impressions of intrinsic 
 beauty. What comes next in order, is the beauty of a garden des- 
 tined for use, termed relative beauty;* and this branch shall be 
 dispatched in a few words. In gardening, luckily, relative beauty 
 need never stand in opposition to intrinsic beauty : all the ground 
 that can be requisite for use, makes but a small proportion of an 
 ornamented field; and may be put in any corner without obstruct- 
 ing the disposition of the capital parts. At the same time, a kitchen- 
 garden or an orchard is susceptible of intrinsic beauty; and may 
 be so artfully disposed among the other parts, as by variety and 
 contrast to contribute to the beauty of the whole. In this respect, 
 architecture requires a greater stretch of art, as will be seen imme- 
 diately; for as intrinsic and relative beauty must often be blended 
 in the same building, it becomes a difficult task to attain both in any 
 perfection. 
 
 In a hot country it is a capital object to have what may be termed 
 a summer-garden; that is, a spot of ground disposed by art and by 
 nature to exclude the sun, but to give free access to the air. In a 
 cold country, the capital object should be a winter-garden, open to 
 the sun, sheltered from wind, dry under foot, and taking on the 
 appearance of summer by variety of evergreens. The relish of a 
 country life, totally extinct in France, is decaying fast in Britain. 
 But as still many people of fashion, and some of taste, pass the win- 
 ter, or part of it, in the country, it is amazing that winter-gardens 
 should be overlooked. During summer, every field is a garden ; 
 but during half of the year, the weather is seldom so good in Britain 
 as to afford comfort in the open air without shelter ; and yet seldom 
 so bad as not to afford comfort with shelter. I say more, that beside 
 providing for exercise and health, a winter-garden may be made 
 subservient to education, by introducing a habit of thinking. In 
 youth, lively spirits give too great a propensity to pleasure and 
 amusement, making us averse to serious occupation. That unto- 
 ward bias may be corrected in some degree by a winter-garden, 
 which produces in the mind a calm satisfaction, free from agitation 
 of passion, whether gay or gloomy; a fine tone of mind for medi- 
 tation and reasoning.! 
 
 * See these terms defined, Chap. 3. 
 
 t A correspondent, whose name I hitherto have concealed, that I might not be 
 thought vain, and which I can no longer conceal,* writes to me as follows : " In 
 life we generally lay our account with prosperity, and seldom, very seldom pre- 
 pare for adversity. We carry that propensity even into the structure of our gar- 
 dens : we cultivate the gay ornaments of summer, relishing no plants but what 
 flourish by mild dews and gracious sunshine : we banish from our lhoughts t 
 
 Mr*. Moulagu. 
 
 38*
 
 450 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24. 
 
 Gardening being in China brought to greater perfection than in 
 any other known country, we shall close our present subject with a 
 slight view of Chinese gardens, which are found entirely obsequious 
 to the principles that govern every one of the fine arts. In general, 
 it is an indispensable law there, never to deviate from nature : but 
 in order to produce that degree of variety which is pleasing, every 
 method consistent with nature is put in practice. Nature is strictly 
 imitated in the banks of their artificial lakes and rivers : which 
 sometimes are bare and gravelly, sometimes covered with wood 
 quite to the brink of the water. To flat spots adorned with flowers 
 and shrubs, are opposed others steep and rocky. We see meadows 
 covered with cattle ; rice-grounds that run into lakes ; groves into 
 which enter navigable creeks and rivulets : these generally conduct 
 to some interesting object, a magnificent building, terraces cut in a 
 mountain, a cascade, a grotto, an artificial rock. Their artificial rivers 
 are generally serpentine; sometimes narrow, noisy, and rapid ; some- 
 times deep, broad, and slow : and to make the scene still more active, 
 mills and other moving machines are often erected. In the lakes are 
 interspersed islands; some barren, surrounded with rocks and shoals; 
 others enriched with everything that art and nature can furnish. Even 
 in their cascades they avoid regularity, as forcing nature out of its 
 course: the waters are seen bursting from the caverns and windings of 
 the artificial rocks, here a roaring cataract, there many gentle falls ; 
 and the stream often impeded by trees and stones, that seem brought 
 down by the violence of the current. Straight lines are sometimes in- 
 dulged, in order to keep in view some interesting object at a distance. 
 
 Sensible of the influence of contrast, the Chinese artists deal in 
 sudden transitions, and in opposing to each other, forms, colors, and 
 shades. The eye is conducted, from limited to extensive views, 
 and from lakes and rivers to plains, hills, and woods : to dark and 
 gloomy colors, are opposed the more brilliant : the different masses 
 of light and shade are disposed in such a manner, as to render the 
 composition distinct in its parts, and striking on the whole. In 
 plantations, the trees are artfully mixed according to their shape 
 and color ; those of spreading branches with the pyramidal, and the 
 light green with the deep green. They even introduce decayed 
 trees, some erect, and some half out of the ground.* In order to 
 heighten contrast, much bolder strokes are risked : they sometimes 
 introduce rough rocks, dark caverns, trees ill formed, and seemingly 
 rent by tempests, or blasted by lightning ; a building in ruins^or 
 half consumed by fire. But to relieve the mind from the harshness 
 ghastly winter, when the benign influences of the sun cheering us no more, are 
 doubly regretted by yielding to the piercing north wind and nipping frost. Sage 
 is the gardener, in the metaphorical as well as literal sense, who procures a 
 friendly shelter to protect us from December storms, and cultivates the plants that 
 adorn and enliven that dreary season. He is no philosopher who cannot retire 
 into the Stoic's walk, when the gardens of Epicurus are out of bloom : he is too 
 much a philosoplier who will rigidly proscribe the flowers and aromatics of sum- 
 mer, to sit constantly under the cypress-shade." 
 
 * Taste has suggested to Kent the same artifice. A decayed tree placed pro- 
 perly, contributes to contrast ; and also in a pensive or sedate state of mind 
 produces a sort of pity, grounded on an imaginary personification.
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 451 
 
 of such objects, the sweetest and most beautiful scenes always 
 succeed. 
 
 The Chinese study to give play to the imagination : they hide 
 the termination of their lakes ; and commonly interrupt the view of 
 a cascade by trees, through which are seen obscurely the waters as 
 they fall. The imagination once roused, is disposed to magnify 
 every object. 
 
 Nothing is more studied in Chinese gardens than to raise wonder 
 or surprise. In scenes calculated for that end, every thing appears 
 like fairy-land ; a torrent, for example, conveyed under ground, 
 puzzles a stranger by its uncommon sound to guess what it may be ; 
 and to multiply such uncommon sounds, the rocks and buildings 
 are contrived with cavities and interstices. Sometimes one is led 
 insensibly into a dark cavern, terminating unexpectedly in a land- 
 scape enriched with all that nature affords the most delicious. At 
 other times, beautiful walks insensibly conduct to a rough unculti- 
 vated field, where bushes, briers, and stones interrupt the passage : 
 looking about for an outlet, some rich prospect unexpectedly opens 
 to view. Another artifice is, to obscure some capital part by trees, 
 or other interposed objects : our curiosity is raised to know what 
 lies beyond ; and after a few steps, we are greatly surprised with 
 some scene totally different from what was expected. 
 
 These cursory observations upon gardening, shall be closed with 
 some reflections that must touch every reader. Rough uncultivated 
 ground, dismal to the eye, inspires peevishness and discontent. May 
 not this be one cause of the harsh manners of savages? A field 
 richly ornamented, containing beautiful objects of various kinds, 
 displays in full lustre the goodness of the Deity, and the ample 
 provision he has made for our happiness. Ought not the spectator 
 to be filled with gratitude to his Maker, and with benevolence to his 
 fellow-creatures ? Other fine arts may be perverted to excite irregu- 
 lar, and even vicious, emotions : but gardening, which inspires the 
 purest and most refined pleasures, cannot fail to promote every good 
 affection. The gayety and harmony of mind it produces, inclining 
 the spectator to communicate his satisfaction to others, and to make 
 them happy as he is himself, tend naturally to establish in him a 
 habit of humanity and benevolence.* 
 
 It is not easy to suppress a degree of enthusiasm, when we reflect 
 on the advantages of gardening with respect to virtuous education. 
 In the beginning of life the deepest impressions are made; and it is 
 a sad truth, that the young student, familiarized to the dirtiness and 
 disorder of many colleges pent within narrow bounds in populous 
 cities, is rendered in a measure insensible to the elegant beauties of 
 art and nature. Is there no man of fortune sufficiently patriotic to 
 think of reforming this evil ? It seems to me far from an exaggera- 
 tion, that good professors are not more essential to a college, than a 
 
 * The manufactures of silk, flax, and cotton, in their present advance towards 
 perfection, may be held as inferior branches of the fine arts ; because their produc- 
 tions in dress and in furniture inspire, like them, gay and kindly emotions favor- 
 able to morality.
 
 452 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Cll. 24. 
 
 spacious garden sweetly ornamented, but without any thing glaring 
 or fantastic, so as upon the whole to inspire our youth with a taste 
 no less for simplicity than for elegance. In that respect, the univer- 
 sity of Oxford may justly be deemed a model. 
 
 Having finished what occurred on gardening, I proceed to rules 
 and observations that more peculiarly concern architecture. Archi- 
 tecture, being a useful as well as a fine art, leads us to distinguish 
 buildings and parts of buildings into three kinds; namely, what are 
 intended for utility solely, what for ornament solely, and what for 
 both. Buildings intended for utility solely, such as detached offices, 
 ought, in every part, to correspond precisely to that intention ; the 
 slightest deviation from the end in view will by every person of taste 
 be thought a blemish. In general, it is the perfection of every work 
 of art, that it fulfils the purpose for which it is intended ; and every 
 other beauty, in opposition, is improper. But in things intended for 
 ornament, such as pillars, obelisks, triumphal arches, beauty alone 
 ought to be regarded. A Heathen temple must be considered as 
 merely ornamental ; for being dedicated to some deity, and not 
 intended for habitation, it is susceptible of any figure and any 
 embellishment that fancy can suggest and beauty admit. The great 
 difficulty of contrivance, respects buildings that are intended to be 
 useful as well as ornamental. These ends, employing different and 
 often opposite means, are seldom united in perfection; and the only 
 practicable method in such buildings is, to favor ornament less or 
 more according to the character of the building : in palaces, and 
 other edifices sufficiently extensive to admit a variety of useful con- 
 trivance, regularity justly takes the lead; but in dwelling-houses 
 that are too small for variety of contrivance, utility ought to prevail, 
 neglecting regularity as far as it stands in opposition to convenience.* 
 
 Intrinsic and relative beauty being founded on different principles, 
 must be handled separately. I begin with relative beauty, as it is 
 of the greater importance. 
 
 The proportions of a door are determined by the use to which it 
 is destined. The door of a dwelling-house, which ought to corres- 
 pond to the human size, is confined to seven or eight feet in height, 
 and three or four in breadth. The proportions proper for the door 
 of a barn or coach-house, are widely different. Another considera- 
 tion enters. To study intrinsic beauty in a coach-house or barn, 
 intended merely for use, is obviously improper. But a dwelling- 
 house may admit ornaments ; and the principal door of a palace 
 demands all the grandeur that is consistent with the foregoing pro- 
 portions dictated by utility : it ought to be elevated, and approached 
 by steps ; and it may be adorned with pillars supporting an archi- 
 trave, or in any other beautiful manner. The door of a church 
 ought to be wide, in order to afford an easy passage for a multitude : 
 the width, at the same time, regulates the height, as will appear 
 hereafter. The size of windows ought to be proportioned to that of 
 
 * A building must be large to produce any sensible emotion of regularity, pro- 
 portion, or beauty ; which is an additional reason for minding convenience only 
 in a dwelling-house of small size.
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 453 
 
 the room they illuminate ; for if the apertures be not sufficiently 
 large to convey light to every corner, the room is unequally lighted, 
 which is a great deformity. The steps of a stair ought to be accom- 
 modated to the human figure, without regarding any other propor- 
 tion : they are accordingly the same in large and in small buildings, 
 because both are inhabited by men of the same size. 
 
 I proceed to consider intrinsic beauty blended with that which is 
 relative. Though a cube in itself is more agreeable than a paral- 
 lelopipedon, yet a large parallelopipedon set on its smaller base, is 
 by its elevation more agreeable; and hence the beauty of a Gothic 
 tower. But supposing this figure to be destined for a dwelling- 
 house, to make way for relative beauty, we immediately perceive 
 that utility ought chiefly to be regarded, and that the figure, incon- 
 venient by its height, ought to be set upon its' larger base: the lofti- 
 ness is gone ; but that loss is more than compensated by additional 
 convenience; for which reason, a figure spread more upon the 
 ground than raised in height, is always preferred for a dwelling- 
 house, without excepting even the most superb palace. 
 
 As to the divisions within, utility requires that the rooms be 
 rectangular; for otherwise void spaces will be left, which are of no 
 use. A hexagonal figure leaves no void spaces ; but it determines 
 the rooms to be all of one size, which is inconvenient. A room of 
 a moderate size may be a square; but in very large rooms this 
 figure must, for the most part, give place to a parallelogram, which 
 can more easily be adjusted, than a square, to the smaller rooms 
 contrived entirely for convenience. A parallelogram, at the same 
 time, is the best calculated for receiving light; because, to avoid 
 cross lights, all the windows ought to be in one wall ; and the oppo- 
 site wall must be so near as to be fully lighted, otherwise the room 
 will be obscure. The height of a room exceeding nine or ten feet, 
 has little or no relation to utility ; and therefore proportion is the 
 only rule for determining a greater height. 
 
 As all artists who love what is beautiful, are prone to entertain 
 the eye, they have opportunity to exert their taste upon palaces and 
 sumptuous buildings, where, as above observed, intrinsic beauty 
 ought to have the ascendant over that which is relative. But such 
 propensity is unhappy with respect to dwelling-houses of moderate 
 size ; because in these, intrinsic beauty cannot be displayed in any 
 perfection, without wounding relative beauty: a small house admits 
 not much variety of form ; and in such houses there is no instance 
 of internal convenience being accurately adjusted to external regu- 
 larity : I am apt to believe that it is beyond the reach of art. And 
 yet architects never give over attempting to reconcile these two 
 incompatibles. How otherwise should it happen, that of the endless 
 variety of private dwelling-houses, there is scarcely an instance of 
 any one being chosen for a pattern? The unwearied propensity 
 to make a house regular as well as convenient, forces the architect, 
 in some articles, to sacrifice convenience to regularity, and in others, 
 regularity to convenience ; and the house, which turns out neither 
 regular nor convenient, never fails to displease: the faults are
 
 454 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24. 
 
 obvious ; and the difficulty of doing better is known to the artist 
 only.* 
 
 Nothing can be more evident, than that the form of a dwelling- 
 house ought to be suited to the climate : and yet no error is more 
 common, than to copy in Britain the form of Italian houses ; not 
 forgetting even those parts that are purposely contrived for air, and 
 for excluding the sun. I shall give one or two instances. A colon- 
 nade along the front of a building, has a fine effect in Greece and 
 Italy, by producing coolness and obscurity agreeable properties in 
 warm and luminous climates: but the cold climate of Britain is 
 altogether averse to that ornament ; and therefore a colonnade can 
 never be proper in this country, unless for a portico, or to communi- 
 cate with a detached building. Again, a logio laying the house open 
 to the north, contrived in Italy for gathering cool air, is, if possible, 
 still more improper for this climate: scarcely endurable in summer, 
 it, in winter, exposes the house to the bitter blasts of the north, and 
 to every shower of snow and rain. 
 
 Having said what appeared necessary upon relative beauty, the 
 next step is, to view architecture as one of the fine arts ; which will 
 lead us to the examination of such buildings, and parts of buildings, 
 as are calculated solely to please the eye. In the works of Nature, 
 rich and magnificent, variety prevails ; and in works of Art that are 
 contrived to imitate Nature, the great art is to hide every appearance 
 of art ; which is done by avoiding regularity, and indulging variety. 
 But in works of art that are original, and not imitative, the timid 
 hand is guided by rule and compass ; and accordingly, in architec- 
 ture strict regularity and uniformity are studied, as far as consistent 
 with utility. 
 
 Proportion is no less agreeable than regularity and uniformity ; 
 and therefore in buildings intended to please the eye, they are all 
 equally essential. By many writers it is taken for granted, that in 
 buildings there are certain proportions that please the eye, as in 
 sounds there are certain proportions that please the ear ; and that 
 4n both equally the slightest deviation from the precise proportion is 
 disagreeable. Others seem to relish more a comparison between 
 proportion in numbers and proportion in quantity ; and hold that 
 the same proportions are agreeable in both. The proportions, for 
 example, of the numbers 16, 24, and 36, are agreeable ; and so, say 
 they, are the proportions of a room, the height of which is 16 feet, 
 the breadth 24, and the length 36. May I hope from the reader, 
 that he will patiently accompany me in examining this poim, which 
 is useful as well as curious. To refute the notion of a resemblance 
 between musical proportions and those of architecture, it might be 
 sufficient to observe in general, that the one is addressed to the ear, 
 the other to the eye ; and that objects of different senses have no 
 resemblance, nor indeed any relation to each other. But more par- 
 ticularly, what pleases the ear in harmony, is not proportion among 
 the strings of the instrument, but among the sounds that these strings 
 
 * " Houses are built to live in, and not to look on ; therefore let use be preferred 
 before uniformity, except where both may be had." Lord Vertdam, Essay 45.
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 455 
 
 produce. In architecture, on the contrary, it is the proportion of 
 different quantities that please the eye, without the least relation to 
 sound. Were quantity to be the ground of comparison, we have no 
 reason to presume, that there is any natural analogy between the 
 proportions that please in a building, and the proportions of strings 
 that produce concordant sounds. Let us take for example an octave, 
 produced by two similar strings, the one double of the other in length. 
 This* is the most perfect of all concords ; and yet I know not that the 
 proportion of one to two is agreeable in any two parts of a building. 
 I add, that concordant notes are produced by wind-instruments, 
 which, as to proportion, appear not to have even the slightest resem- 
 blance to a building. 
 
 With respect to the other notion, namely, a comparison between 
 proportion in numbers and proportion in quantity ; I urge, that num- 
 ber and quantity are so different, as to afford no probability of any 
 natural relation between them. Quantity is a real quality of every 
 body ; number is not a real quality, but merely an idea that arises 
 upon viewing a plurality of things, whether conjunctly or in succes- 
 sion. An arithmetical proportion is agreeable in numbers ; but have 
 we any reason to infer that it must also be agreeable in quantity ? 
 At that rate, a geometrical proportion, and many others which are 
 agreeable in numbers, ought also to be agreeable in quantity. In an 
 endless variety of proportions, it would be wonderful, if there never 
 should happen a coincidence of any one agreeable proportion in both. 
 One example is given in the numbers 16, 24, and 36 ; but to be con- 
 vinced that this agreeable coincidence is merely accidental, we need 
 only reflect, that the same proportions are not applicable to the exter- 
 nal figure of a house, and far less to a column. 
 
 That we are framed by nature to relish proportion as well as regu- 
 larity, is indisputable ; but that agreeable proportion should, like 
 concord in sounds, be confined to certain precise measures, is not 
 warranted by experience. On the contrary, we learn from experi- 
 ence, that proportion admits more and less ; that several proportions 
 ire each of them agreeable ; and that we are not sensible of dispro- 
 portion, till the difference between the quantities compared become 
 the most striking circumstance. Columns evidently admit different 
 proportions, equally agreeable; and so do houses, rooms, and other 
 parts of a building. This leads to an interesting reflection : the 
 foregoing difference between concord and proportion, is an additional 
 instance of that admirable harmony which subsists among the several 
 branches of the human frame. The ear is an accurate judge of 
 sounds, and of their smallest differences ; and that concord in sounds 
 should be regulated by accurate measures, is perfectly well suited to 
 this accuracy of perception. The eye is more uncertain about the 
 size of a large object, than of one that is small ; and at a distance an 
 object appears less than at hand. Delicacy of perception, therefore, 
 with respect to proportion in quantities, would be an useless quality ; 
 and it is much better ordered, that there should be such a latitude 
 with respect to agreeable proportions, as to correspond to the uncer- 
 tainty of the eye with respect to quantity.
 
 456 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24. 
 
 But all the beauties of this subject are not yet displayed ; and it is 
 too interesting to be passed over in a cursory view. I proceed to 
 observe, that to make the eye as delicate with respect to proportion 
 as the ear is with respect to concord, would not only be an useless 
 quality, but be the source of continual pain and uneasiness. I need 
 go no farther for a proof than the very room I occupy at present : 
 for every step I take varies to me, in appearance, the proportion of 
 length to breadth : at that rate, I should not be happy but in one pre- 
 cise spot, where the proportion appears agreeable. Let me farther 
 observe, that it would be singular indeed to find, in the nature of 
 man, any two principles in perpetual opposition to each other : and 
 yet this would be the case, if proportion were circumscribed like 
 concord; for it would exclude all but one of those proportions that 
 utility requires in different buildings, and in different parts of the 
 same building. 
 
 It provokes a smile to find writers acknowledging the necessity of 
 accurate proportions, and yet differing widely about them. Laying 
 aside reasoning and philosophy, one fact, universally allowed, ought 
 to have undeceived them, that the same proportions which a,re agree- 
 able in a model, are not agreeable in a large building: a room 40 
 feet in length and 24 in breadth and height, is well proportioned ; 
 but a room 12 feet wide and high and 24 long, approaches to a 
 gallery. 
 
 Perault, in his comparison of the ancients and moderns,* is the 
 only author who runs to the opposite extreme; maintaining, that the 
 different proportions assigned to each order of columns are arbitrary, 
 and that the beauty of these proportions is entirely the effect of cus- 
 tom. This betrays ignorance of human nature, which evidently 
 delights in proportion as well as in regularity, order, and propriety. 
 But without any acquaintance with human nature, a single reflection 
 might have convinced him of his error that if these proportions 
 had not originally been agreeable, they could not have been esta- 
 blished by custom. 
 
 To illustrate the present point, I shall add a few examples of the 
 agreeableness of different proportions. In a sumptuous edifice, the 
 capital rooms ought to be large, for otherwise they will not be pro- 
 portioned to the size of the building: and for the same reason, a 
 very large room is improper in a small house. But in things thus 
 related, the mind requires not a precise or single proportion, reject- 
 ing all others ; on the contrary, many different proportions are made 
 equally welcome. In all buildings, accordingly, we find rooms of 
 different proportions equally agreeable, even where the proportion is 
 not influenced by utility. With respect to the height of a room, the 
 proportion it ought to bear to the length and breadth, is arbitrary; 
 and it cannot be otherwise, considering the uncertainty of the eye as 
 to the height of a room, when it exceeds seventeen or eighteen feet 
 In columns again, even architects must confess, that the proportion 
 of height and thickness varies betwixt eight diameters and ten, and 
 that every proportion between these extremes is agreeable. But 
 
 * Page 94.
 
 Ch. 2 
 
 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 457 
 
 this is not all. There must certainly be a farther variation of pro- 
 portion, depending on the size of the column ; a row of columns ten 
 feet high, and a row twice that height, require different proportions: 
 the iritercol animations must also differ according to the height of the 
 row. 
 
 Proportion of parts is not only itself a heauty, but is inseparably 
 connected with a beauty of the highest relish, that of concord or 
 harmony: which will be plain from what follows. A room of which 
 the parts are all finely adjusted to each other, strikes us with the 
 beauty of proportion. It strikes us at the same time with a pleasure 
 far superior: the length, the breadth, the height, the windows, raise 
 each of them separately an emotion: these emotions are similar; 
 and though faint when felt separately, they produce in conjunction 
 the emotion of concord or harmony, which is extremely pleasant.* 
 On the other hand, where the length of a room far exceeds the 
 breadth, the mind, comparing together parts so intimately connected, 
 immediately perceives a disagreement or disproportion which dis- 
 gusts. But this is not all ; viewing them separately, different emotions 
 are produced, that of grandeur from the great length, and that of mean- 
 ness or littleness from the small breadth, which in union are disa- 
 greeable by their discordance. Hence it is, that a long gallery, 
 however convenient for exercise, is not an agreeable figure of a 
 .room : we consider it, like a stable, as destined for use, and expect 
 not that in any other respect it should be agreeable. f 
 
 Regularity and proportion are essential in buildings destined 
 chiefly or solely to please the eye, because they produce intrinsic, 
 beauty. But a skilful artist will not confine his view to regularity 
 and proportion : he will also study congruity, which is perceived 
 when the form and ornaments of a structure are suited to the pur- 
 pose for which it is intended. The sense of congruity dictates the 
 following rule that every building have an expression correspond- 
 ing to its destination : a palace ought to be sumptuous and grand ; 
 a private dwelling, neat and modest; a play-house, gay and splendid ; 
 and a monument, gloomy and melancholy-! A heathen temple has 
 a double destination : It is considered chiefly as a house dedicated to 
 some divinity ; and in that respect it ought to be grand, elevated, and 
 magnificent: it is considered also as a place of worship ; and in that 
 respect it ought to be somewhat dark or gloomy, because dimness 
 produces that tone of mind which is suited to humility and devotion. 
 
 * Chap. 2. Part 4. 
 
 t A covered passage connecting a winter garden with the dwelling house, would 
 answer the purpose of walking in bad weather much better than a gallery. A 
 slight roof supported by slender pillars, whether of wood or stone, would be suffi- 
 cient ; filling up the spaces between the pillars with evergreens, so as to give \ 
 dure and exclude wind. 
 
 t A house, for the poor ought to have an appearance suited to its destination. 
 The new hosoital in Paris for foundlings, errs against this rule ; for it has more 
 the air of a palace than of an hospital. Propriety and convenience ought to be 
 studied in lodging the indigent ; but in such houses splendor and magnificence are 
 out cf all rule? For the same reason, a naked statue or picture scarce decent any 
 where, is in a church intolerable. A sumptuous charity school, beside its impro- 
 priety, gives the children an unhappy taste for high living. 
 39
 
 458 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24. 
 
 A Christian church ig not considered to be a house for the Deity, 
 but merely a place of worship : it ought therefore to be decent and 
 plain, without much ornament : a situation ought to be chosen low 
 and retired; because the congregation during worship, ought to be 
 humble and disengaged from the world. Columns, beside their 
 chief service of being supports, may contribute to that peculiar 
 expression which the destination of a building requires: columns 
 of different proportions, serve to express loftiness, lightness, &c. 
 as well as strength. Situation also may contribute to expression. 
 Conveniency regulates the situation of a private dwelling-house ; but, 
 as I have had occasion to observe,* the situation of a palace ought 
 to be lofty. 
 
 And this leads to a question, whether the situation, where there 
 happens to be no choice, ought, in any measure, to regulate the form 
 of the edifice ? The connection between a large house and the 
 neighboring field?, though net intimate, demands however some 
 congruity. It would, for example, displease us to find an elegant 
 building thrown away upon a wild uncultivated country : congruily 
 requires a polished field for such a building; and beside the plea- 
 sure of congruity, the spectator is sensible of the pleasure of con- 
 cordance from the similarity of the emotions produced by the two 
 objects. The old Gothic form of building, seems well suited to the 
 rough uncultivated regions where it was invented : the only mistake 
 was, the transferring this form to the fine plains of France and Italy, 
 better fitted for buildings in the Grecian taste; but by refining upon 
 the Gothic form, every thing possible has been done to reconcile it to 
 its new situation. The profuse variety of wild and grand objects 
 about Inverary, demanded a house in the Gothic form ; and every 
 one must approve the taste of the proprietor, in adjusting so finely 
 'lie appearance of his bouse to that of the country where it is-placed. 
 
 The external structure of a great house, leads naturally to its ii 
 nal structure. A spacious room, which is the first that commonly 
 receives us, seems a bad contrivance in several respects. In the first 
 place, when immediately from the open air we step into such a room, 
 its size in appearance is diminished by contrast: it looks little com- 
 pared with that great canopy the sky. In the next place, when it 
 recovers its grandeur, as it soon does, it gives a diminutive appear- 
 ance to the rest of the house: passing from it, every apartment looks 
 little. This room therefore may be aptly compared to the swoln 
 commencement of an epic poem. 
 
 Bella per Emathios plusquam civilia compos. 
 
 In the third place, by its situation it serves only for a waiting-room, 
 and a passage to the principal apartments: instead of being reserved 
 as it ought to be, for entertaining company : a great room, which 
 enlarges the mind, and gives a certain elevation to the spirits, is 
 destined by nature for conversation. Rejecting therefore this form, 
 I take a hint from the climax in writing for another form that appears 
 more suitable. A handsome portico, proportioned to the size and 
 
 * Chap. 10.
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 459 
 
 fashion of the front, leads into a waiting-room of a larger size, and 
 that to the great room ; all by a progression from small to great. 
 the house be very large, there may be space for the following suit of 
 rooms : first, a portico ; second, a passage within the house, bounded 
 by a double row of columns connected by arcades; third, an octagon 
 room, or of any other figure, about the centre of the building ; and, 
 lastly, the great room. 
 
 A double row of windows must be disagreeable, by distributing 
 the" light unequally: the space in particular between the rows is 
 always gloomy. For that reason, a room of greater height than 
 can be conveniently served by a single row, ought regularly to be 
 lighted from the roof. Artists have generally an inclination to form 
 the great room into a double cube, even with the inconvenience of a 
 double row of windows : they are pleased with the regularity, over- 
 looking that it is mental only, and not visible to the eye, which 
 seldom can distinguish between the height of 24 feet and that of 
 
 Of all the emotions that can be raised by architecture, grandeur 
 is that which has the greatest influence on the mind ; and it ought, 
 therefore, to be the chief study of the artist, to raise this emotion in 
 <rreat buildings destined to please the eye. But as grandeur 
 depends partly on size, it seems so far unlucky for architects 
 that it is governed by regularity and proportion, which never 
 deceive the eye by making objects appear larger than they are in 
 reality : such deception, as above observed, is never found but with 
 some remarkable disproportion of parts. But though regularity 
 and proportion contribute nothing to grandeur as far as that emotion 
 depends on size, they in a different respect contribute greatly t< 
 as has been explained above.f 
 
 Next of ornaments, which contribute to give buildings a pec; 
 expression. It has been doubted whether a building can regularly 
 admit any ornament but what is useful, or at least has that appear- 
 ance But considering the different purposes of architecture, a fa 
 as well as a useful art, there is no good reason why ornaments 
 may not be added to please the eye without any relation to u 
 This liberty is allowed in poetry, painting, and gardening and why 
 not in architecture considered as a fine art? A private dwelling- 
 house, it is true, and other edifices where use is the chief aim, 
 admit not regularly any ornament but what has the appearance, a 
 least, of use: but temples, triumphal arches, and other buildings, 
 intended chiefly or solely for show, admit every sort of ornament. 
 
 A thing intended merely as an. ornament, may be of any ft 
 and of any kind that fancy can suggest; if it please the spectator, 
 the artist gains his end. Statues, vases, sculpture upon stone 
 whether basso or alto relievo, are beautiful ornaments relished in s 
 civilized countries. The placing of such ornaments so as o prc 
 
 has not given peculiar attention, will scarce imagine how imperfect 
 !n t is about distances, without experience. . Our looks bemg generally 
 objects upon the ground around us, we judge tolerably of horizontal 
 Stances: bVt seldom having 5 occasion to look upward UK , a perpendicular line, 
 we scarce can form any judgment of distances in that direction. 
 
 t Chap. 4, 
 
 * One who has not 
 our lament
 
 460 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [CL 24. 
 
 duce the best effect, is the only nicety. A statue in perfection is an 
 enchanting work ; and we naturally require that it should be seen 
 in every direction and at different distances ; for which reason, 
 statues employed as ornaments are proper to adorn the great stair- 
 case that leads to the principal door of a palace, or to occupy the 
 void between pillars. But a niche in the external front is not a 
 proper place for a statue : and statues upon the roof, or upon the 
 top of a wall, would give pain by seeming to be in danger of 
 tumbling. To adorn the top of a wall with a row of vases is an 
 unhappy conceit, by placing things apparently of use where they 
 cannot be of any use. As to basso and alto relievo, I observe, that 
 in architecture as well as in gardening, contradictory expressions 
 ought to be avoided : for which reason, the lightness and delicacy 
 of carved work ill suits the firmness and solidity of a pedestal : 
 upon the pedestal, whether of a statue or a column, the ancients 
 never ventured any bolder ornament than the basso relievo. 
 
 One at first view will naturally take it for granted, that in the 
 ornaments under consideration beauty is indispensable. It goes a 
 great way undoubtedly ; but, upon trial, we find many things 
 esteemed as highly ornamental that have little or no beauty. 
 There are various circumstances, beside beauty, that tend to make 
 an agreeable impression. For instance, the reverence we have for 
 the ancients is a fruitful source of ornaments. Amalthea's horn has 
 always been a favorite ornament, because of its connection with a 
 lady who was honored with the care of Jupiter in his infancy. A 
 fat old fellow and a goat are surely not graceful forms ; and yet 
 Selinus and his companions are every where fashionable ornaments. 
 What else but our fondness for antiquity can make the horrid form, 
 of a Sphinx so much as endurable? Original destination is another 
 circumstance that has influence to add dignity to things in them- 
 selves abundantly trivial. In the sculpture of a marble chimney- 
 piece, instruments of a Grecian or Roman sacrifice are beheld with 
 pleasure ; original destination rendering them venerable as well as 
 their antiquity. Let some modern cutlery ware be substituted, 
 though not less beautiful ; the artist will be thought whimsical, if not 
 absurd. Triumphal arches, pyramids, obelisks, are beautiful forms ; 
 but the nobleness of their original destination has greatly enhanced 
 the pleasure we take in them. A statue, supposed to be an Apollo, 
 will with an antiquary lose much of its grace when discovered to 
 have been done for a barber's apprentice. Long robes appear 
 noble, not singly for their flowing lines, but for their being the 
 habit of magistrates; and a scarf acquires an air of dignity by 
 being the badge of a superior order of churchmen. These examples 
 may be thought sufficient for a specimen : a diligent inquiry into, 
 human nature will discover other influencing principles ; and hence 
 it is, that of all subjects ornaments admit the greatest variety in 
 point of taste. 
 
 Things merely ornamental appear more gay and showy than 
 things that take on the appearance of use. A knot of diamonds in 
 the hair is splendid ; but diamonds have a more modest appearance
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 461 
 
 when used as clasps or buttons. The former are more proper for a 
 young beauty, the latter after marriage. 
 
 And this leads to ornaments having relation to use. Ornaments 
 of that kind are governed by a different principle, which is, that 
 they ought to be of a form suited to their real or apparent destina- 
 tion. This rule is applicable as well to ornaments that make a 
 component part of the subject, as to ornaments that are only acces- 
 sory. With relation to the former, it never can proceed from a 
 good taste to make a tea-spoon resemble the leaf of a tree; for such 
 a form is inconsistent with the destination of a tea-spoon. An eagle's 
 paw is an ornament no less improper for the foot of a chair or table : 
 because it gives it the appearance of weakness, inconsistent with its 
 destination of bearing weight. Blind windows are sometimes in- 
 troduced to preserve the appearance of regularity: in which case 
 the deceit ought carefully to be concealed. If visible, it marks the 
 irregularity in the clearest manner, signifying, that real windows 
 ought to have been there, could they have been made consistent with 
 the internal structure. A pilaster is another example of the same 
 sort of ornament; and the greatest error against its seeming desti- 
 nation of a support, is to sink it so far into the wall as to make it 
 lose that seeming. A composition representing leaves and branches, 
 with birds perching upon them, has been long in fashion for a can- 
 dlestick; but none of these particulars is in any degree suited to that 
 destination. 
 
 A large marble bason supported by fishes, is a conceit much 
 relished in fountains. This is an example of accessory ornaments 
 in a bad taste ; for fishes here are unsuitable to their apparent 
 destination. No less so are the supports of a coach, carved in the 
 figure of Dolphins or Tritons : for what have these /narine beings 
 to do on dry land ? and what support can they be to a coach. 
 
 In a column we have an example of both kinds of ornament. 
 Where columns are employed in the front of a building to support 
 an entablature, they belong to the first kind : where employed to 
 connect with detached offices, they are rather of the other kind. 
 As a column is a capital ornament in Grecian architecture, it well 
 deserves to be handled at large. 
 
 With respect to the form of this ornament, I observe that a circle 
 is a more agreeable figure than a square, a globe than a cube, and 
 a cylinder than a parallelopipedon. This last, in the language of 
 architecture, is saying that a column is a more agreeable figure 
 than a pilaster ; and for that reason, it ought to be preferred, all 
 other circumstances being equal. Another reason concurs, that a 
 column connected with a wall, which is a plain surface, makes a 
 greater variety than a pilaster. There is an additional reason for 
 rejecting pilasters in the external front of a building, arising from a 
 principle unfolded above,* namely, a tendency in man, to advance 
 every thing to its perfection, and to its conclusion. If, for example, 
 I see a thing obscurely in a dim light and by disjointed parts, that 
 tendency prompts me to connect the disjointed parts into a whole. 
 
 * Chap. 4. 
 39*
 
 462 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24. 
 
 I supposed it to be, for example, a horse; and my eyesight being- 
 obedient to the conjecture, I immediately perceive a horse, almost as 
 distinctly as in daylight. This principle is applicable to the case 
 in hand. The most superb front, at a great distance, appears a plain 
 surface : approaching gradually, we begin first to perceive inequali- 
 ties, and then pillars ; but whether round or square, we are uncer- 
 tain : our curiosity anticipating our progress, cannot rest in suspense: 
 being prompted, bv the tendency mentioned, to suppose the most 
 complete pillar, or that which is the most agreeable to the eye, we 
 immediately perceive, or seem to perceive, a number of columns : 
 if upon a near approach we find pilasters only, the disappointment 
 makes these pilasters appear disagreeable ; when abstracted from 
 that circumstance, they Avould only have appeared somewhat less 
 agreeable. But as this deception cannot happen in the inner front 
 inclosing a court, I see no reason for excluding pilasters from such 
 a front, when there is any cause for preferring them before columns. 
 
 With respect now to the parts of a column, a bare uniform cylinder 
 without a capital, appears naked ; and without a base, appears too 
 ticklishly placed to stand firm:* it ought therefore to have some 
 finishing at the top and at the bottom. Hence the three chief parts 
 of a column, the shaft, the base, and the capital. Nature, undoubt- 
 edly, requires proportion among these parts, but it admits variety of 
 proportion. I suspect that the proportions in use have been influ- 
 enced in some degree by the human figure: the capital being con- 
 ceived as the head, the base as the feet. With respect to the base, 
 indeed, the principle of utility interposes to vary it from the human 
 figure : the base must be so proportioned to the whole, as to give 
 the column the appearance of stability. 
 
 We find three orders of columns among the Greeks, the Doric, 
 the Ionic, and the Corinthian, distinguished from each other by their 
 destination as well as by their ornaments. It has been warmly dis- 
 puted, whether any new order can be added to these. Some hold 
 the affirmative, and give for instances the Tuscan and Composite : 
 others deny, and maintain that these properly are not distinct orders, 
 but only the original orders with some slight variations. Among 
 writers who do not agree upon any standard for distinguishing the 
 different orders from each other, the dispute can never have an end. 
 What occurs to me on this subject is what follows. 
 
 The only circumstances that can serve to distinguish one order 
 from another, are the form of the column, and its destination. To 
 make the first a distinguishing mark, without regard to the other, 
 would multiply these orders without end ; for a color is not more 
 susceptible of different shades, than a column is of different forms. 
 Destination is more limited, as it leads to distinguish columns into 
 three kinds or orders ; one plain and strong, for the purpose of 
 supporting plain and massy buildings ; one delicate and graceful, 
 
 * A column without a base is disagreeable, because it seems in a tottering 
 condition ; yet a tree without a base is agreeable ; and the reason is, that we know 
 it to be firmly rooted. This observation shows how much taste is influenced by 
 reflection.
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 46S 
 
 for supporting buildings of that character ; and between these, one 
 for supporting buildings of a middle character. This distinction, 
 which regards the different purposes of a column, is not naturally 
 liable to any objection, considering that it tends also to regulate the 
 form, and in some measure the ornaments, of a column. To enlarge 
 the division by taking in a greater variety of purposes, would be of 
 little use, and, if admitted, would have no end ; for from the very 
 na*ure of the foregoing division, there can be no good reason for 
 adding a fourth order, more than a fifth, a sixth, &c. without any 
 possible circumscription. 
 
 To illustrate this doctrine, I make the following observation. 
 If we reo-ard destination only, the Tuscan is of the same order with 
 the Doric, and the Composite with the Corinthian : but if we regard 
 form merely, they are of different orders. 
 
 The ornaments of these three orders ought to be so contrived as 
 to make them look like what they are intended for. Plain and 
 rustic ornaments would be not a little discordant with the elegance 
 of the Corinthian order; and ornaments sweet and delicate no less 
 so. with the strength of the Doric. For that reason, I am not alto- 
 gether satisfied with the ornaments of the last mentioned order : if 
 They be not too delicate, they are at least too numerous for a pillar 
 in which the character of utility prevails over that of beauty. The 
 crowding of ornaments would be more sufferable in a column of an 
 opposite & character. But this is a slight objection, and I wish I 
 could think the same of what follows. The Corinthian order has 
 been the favorite of two thousand years, and yet I cannot force 
 myself to relish its capital. The invention of this florid capital is 
 ascribed to the sculptor Callimachus, who took a hint from the plant 
 Acanthus, growing round a basket placed accidentally upon it: and 
 in fact the capital under consideration represents pretty accurately 
 a basket so ornamented. This object, or its imitation in stone, 
 placed upon a pillar, may look well; but to make it the capital ot a 
 pillar intended to support a building, must give the pillar an appear- 
 ance inconsistent with its destination: an acanthus, or any tender 
 plant, may require support, but is altogether insufficient to support 
 any thing heavier than a bee or a butterfly. This capital must also 
 bear the\veight of another objection : to represent a vine wreathing 
 round a column with its root seemingly in the ground, is natural; 
 but to represent an acanthus, or any plant, as growing on the top ot 
 a column, is unnatural. The elegance of this capital did probably 
 at first draw a veil over its impropriety; and now by long _ use i it 
 has gained an establishment, respected by every artist. Such is th 
 force of custom, even in contradiction to nature ! 
 
 It will not be gaining much ground to urge, that the basket, or 
 vase, is understood to be the capital, and that the stems and leaves 
 of the plant are to be considered as ornaments merely ; for, e: 
 a plant, nothing can be a more improper support for a great b 
 than a basket or vase even of the firmest texture. 
 
 With respect to buildings of every sort, one rule, dictated by 
 utility, is, that they be firm and stable. Another rule, dictated by
 
 464 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Cll. 24, 
 
 beauty, is, that they also appear so : for what appears tottering and 
 in hazard of tumbling, produces in the spectator the painful emotion 
 of fear, instead of the pleasant emotion of beauty ; and, accordingly, 
 it is the great care of the artist, that every part of his edifice appear 
 to be well supported. Procopius, describing the church of St. Sophia 
 in Constantinople, one of the wonders of the world, mentions with 
 applause a part of the fabric placed above the east front in form of 
 a half-moon, so contrived as to inspire both fear and admiration: 
 for though, says he, it is perfectly well supported, yet it is suspended 
 in such a manner as if it were to tumble down the next moment. 
 This conceit is a sort of false wit in architecture, which men were 
 fond of in the infancy of the fine arts. A turret jutting out from an 
 angle in the uppermost story of a Gothic tower, is a witticism of the 
 same kind. 
 
 To succeed in allegorical or emblematic ornaments, is no slight 
 effort of genius ; for it is extremely difficult to dispose them so in a 
 building as to produce any good effect. The mixing them with 
 realities, makes a miserable jumble of truth and fiction.* In a 
 basso-relievo on Antonine's pillar, rain obtained by the prayers of 
 a Christian legion, is expressed by joining to the group of soldiers 
 a rainy Jupiter, with water in abundance falling from his head and 
 beard. De Piles, fond of the conceit, carefully informs his reader, 
 that he must not take this for a real Jupiter, but for a symbol which 
 among the Pagans signified rain : he never once considers, that a 
 symbol or emblem ought not to make part of a group representing 
 real objects or real events ; but be so detached, as even at first view 
 to appear an emblem. But this is not all, nor the chief point : 
 every emblem ought to be rejected that is not clearly expressive of 
 its meaning: for if it be in any degree obscure, it puzzles, and does 
 not please. The temples of Ancient and Modern Virtue in the gar- 
 dens of Stow, appear not at first view emblematical; and when we 
 are informed that they are so, it is not easy to gather their meaning : 
 the spectator sees one temple entire, another in ruins ; but without 
 an explanatory inscription, he may guess, but cannot be certain, that 
 the former being dedicated to Ancient Virtue, the latter to Modern 
 Virtue, are intended a satire upon the present times. On the other 
 hand, a trite emblem, like a trite simile, is disgustful.! Nor ought 
 an emblem more than a simile to be founded on low or familiar 
 objects ; for if these be not agreeable as well as their meaning, the 
 emblem upon the whole will not be relished. A room in a dwelling- 
 house containing a monument to a deceased friend, is dedicated to 
 Melancholy: it has a clock that strikes every minute, to signify- 
 how swiftly time passes upon the monument, weeping figures and 
 other hackneyed ornaments commonly found upon tombstones, with 
 a stuffed raven in a corner verses on death, and other serious sub- 
 jects, inscribed all around. The objects are too familiar, and the 
 artifice too apparent, to produce the intended effect.^ 
 
 * See Chap. 20. sect. 5. t See Chap. 8. 
 
 t In the city of Mexico, there was a palace termed the house of affliction, where 
 Montezuma retired upon losing any of his friends, or upon any public calamity.
 
 Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 465 
 
 The statue of Moses striking a rock from which water actually 
 issues, is also in a false taste ; for it is mixing reality with repre- 
 sentation. Moses himself may bring water out of the rock, but this 
 miracle is too much for his statue. The same objection lies against 
 a cascade where the statue of a water-god pours out of his urn real 
 water. 
 
 I am more doubtful whether the same objection lies against the 
 employing statues of animals as supports, that of a negro, for exam- 
 ple, supporting a dial, statues of fish supporting a bason of water, 
 Termes supporting a chimney-piece ; for when a stone is used as a 
 support, where is the incongruity, it will be said, to cut it into the 
 form of an animal? But leaving this doubtful, another objection 
 occurs that such designs must in some measure be disagreeable, 
 by the appearance of giving pain to a sensitive being. 
 
 It is observed above of gardening, that it contributes to rectitude 
 of manners, by inspiring gayety and benevolence. I add another 
 observation, that both gardening and architecture contribute to the 
 same end, by inspiring a taste for neatness and elegance. In Scot- 
 land, the regularity and polish even of a turnpike-road has some 
 influence of this kind upon the low people in the neighborhood. 
 They become fond of regularity and neatness ; which is displayed, 
 first upon their yards and little inclosures, and next within doors. 
 A taste for regularity and neatness, thus acquired, is extended by 
 degrees to dress, and even to behavior and manners. The author 
 of a history of Switzerland, describing the fierce manners of the 
 plebeians of Bern three or four centuries ago, continually inured to* 
 success in war, which made them insolently aim at a change of 
 government in order to establish a pure democracy, observes, that 
 no circumstance tended more to sweeten their manners, and to make 
 them fond of peace, than the public buildings carried on by the 
 senate for ornamenting their capital ; particularly a fine town-house, 
 and a magnificent church, which to this day, says our author, stands 
 its ground as one of the finest in Europe. 
 
 This house was better adjusted to its destination : it inspired a sort of horror : all 
 was black and dismal : small windows shut up with grates, scarce allowing paa- 
 sage to the light.
 
 466 STANDARD OF TASTE. [Ch. 25. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 STANDARD OF TASTE. 
 
 No disputing about taste, a generally received saying The difficulty of sapping 
 the foundation of this proverb The proverb in some cases true and in . 
 not Nature sparing in her divisions of the scale of pleasures The diffir 
 to be encountered in applying the proverb to subjects of taste in general Our 
 conviction of a common nature The common nature of man invariable This 
 common nature also perfect A right and a wrong taste in morals accounted for 
 on this conviction of a common natxire Opinions in matters of importance 
 reject'-i. creates uneasiness The disgust produced by differing from w 
 iudged to be the common standard The final causes to which uniformity of 
 taste leads To ascertain what the standard of nature is, of importance The 
 common sense of mankind, the only standard in the fine arts The corrupting 
 effect of voluptuousness The number qualified to be judges in the fine arts, 
 few The difference of taste in the fine arts, less than is commonly imagined. 
 
 " THAT there is no disputing about taste," meaning taste in iix 
 figurative as well as proper sense, is a saying so generally received 
 as to have become a proverb. One thing even at first view is evi- 
 dent, that if the proverb hold true with respect to taste in its proper 
 meaning, it must hold equally true with respect to our other exter- 
 nal senses : if the pleasures of the palate disdain a comparative trial, 
 and reject all criticism, the pleasures of touch, of smell, of sound, and 
 even of sight, must be equally privileged. At that rate, a man is 
 not within the reach of censure, even where he prefers the Saracen's 
 head upon a sign-post before the best tablature of Raphael, or a rude 
 Gothic tower before the finest Grecian building ; or where he pre- 
 fers the smell of a rotten carcass to that of the most odoriferous 
 flower, or discords before the most exquisite harmony. 
 
 But we cannot stop here. If the pleasures of external sense be 
 exempted from criticism, why not every one of our pleasures, from, 
 whatever source derived? if taste in its proper sense cannot be dis- 
 puted, there is little room for disputing it in its figurative sense. The 
 proverb accordingly comprehends both ; and in that large sense may 
 be resolved into the following general proposition, that with respect 
 to the perceptions of sense, by which some objects appear agreeable, 
 some disagreeable, there is not such a thing as a good or a bad, a 
 right, or a 'wrong; that every man's taste is to himself an ultimate 
 standard without appeal ; and consequently that there is no ground 
 of censure against any one, if such a one there be, who prefers 
 Blackmore to Homer, selfishness to benevolence, or cowardice to 
 magnanimity. 
 
 The proverb in the foregoing exam pies is indeed carried very far : 
 it seems difficult, however, to sap its foundation, or with success to 
 attack it from any quarter: for is not every man equally a judge of 
 what ought to be agreeable or disagreeable to himself? does it seem 
 whimsical, and perhaps absurd, to assert, that a man ought not to be 
 pleased when he is, or that he ought to be pleased when he is not ? 
 
 This reasoning may perplex, but will never afford conviction : 
 every one of taste will reject it as false, however unqualified to detect
 
 Ch. 25.] STANDARD OF TASTE. 46T 
 
 the fallacy. At the same time, though no man of 'taste will assent to 
 the proverb as holding true in every case, no man will affirm that it 
 holds true in no case : objects there are, undoubtedly; that we may 
 like or dislike indifferently, without any imputation upon our taste. 
 Were a philosopher to make a scale for human pleasures, he would 
 not think of making divisions without end ; but would rank together 
 many pleasures arising perhaps from different objects, either as 
 equally conducing to happiness, or differing so imperceptibly as to 
 make a separation unnecessary. Nature has taken this course, at 
 least it appears so to the generality of mankind. There may be sub- 
 divisions without end ; but we are only sensible of the grosser divi- 
 sions, comprehending each of them various pleasures equally affect- 
 ing ; to these the proverb is applicable in the strictest sense ; for with 
 respect to pleasures of the same rank, what ground can there be for 
 preferring one to another 1 if a preference in fact be given by any 
 individual, it cannot proceed from taste, but from custom, imitation, or 
 some peculiarity of mind. 
 
 Nature, in her scale of pleasures, has been sparing of divisions : 
 she has wisely and benevolently filled every division with many 
 pleasures, in order that individuals may be contented with their own 
 lot, without envying that of others. Many hands must be employed 
 to procure us the conveniences of life ; and it is necessary that the 
 different branches of business, whether more or less agreeable, be 
 filled with hands : a taste too refined would obstruct that plan ; for 
 it would crowd some employments, leaving others, no less useful, 
 totally neglected. In our present condition, lucky it is that the plu- 
 rality are not delicate in their choice, but fall in readily with the 
 occupations, 1 pleasures, food, and company, that fortune throws in their 
 way; and if at first there be any displeasing circumstance, custom 
 soon makes it easy. 
 
 The proverb will hold true as to the particulars now explained ; 
 but when applied in general to every subject of taste, the difficulties 
 to be encountered are insuperable. We need only to mention the 
 difficulty that arises from human nature itself; do we not talk of a 
 good and a bad taste? of a right and a wrong taste? and upon that 
 supposition, do we not, with great confidence, censure writers, painters, 
 architects, and every one who deals in the, fine arts ? Are such cri- 
 ticisms absurd, and void of common sense? have the foregoing 
 expressions, familiar in all languages and among all people, no sort 
 of meaning ? This can hardly be ; for what is universal, must have 
 a foundation in nature. If we can reach that foundation, the stand- 
 ard of taste will no longer be a secret. 
 
 We have a sense or conviction of a common nature, not only in 
 our own species, but in every species of animals : and our conviction 
 is verified by experience ; for there appears a remarkable uniformity 
 among creatures of the same kind, and a deformity no less remarka- 
 ble among creatures of different kinds. This common nature is con- 
 ceived to be a model or standard for each individual that belongs to 
 the kind. Hence it is a wonder to find an individual deviating from 
 the common nature of the species, whether in its internal or external
 
 468 STANDARD OF TASTE. [CL 25. 
 
 construction : a child born with aversion to its mother's rnilk, is a 
 wonder, no less than if born without a mouth, or with more than 
 one.* This conviction of a common nature in every species, paves 
 the way finely for distributing things into genera, and species; to 
 which we are extremely prone, not only with regard to animals and 
 vegetables, where nature has led the way ; but also with regard to 
 many other things, where there is no ground for such distribution, 
 but fancy merely. 
 
 With respect to the common nature of man in particular, we have 
 a conviction that it is in\ariable not less than universal ; that it will 
 be the same hereafter as at present, and as it was in time past ; the 
 same among all nations and in all corners of the earth. Nor are 
 we deceived; because, giving allowance for the difference of cul- 
 ture and gradual refinement of manners, the fact corresponds to our 
 conviction. 
 
 We are so constituted as to conceive this common nature to Tie 
 not only invariable, but also perfect or right; and consequently that 
 individuals ought to be made conformable to it. Every remarkable 
 deviation from the standard makes, accordingly, an impression upon 
 us of imperfection, irregularity, or disorder : it is jle, raises 
 
 in us a painful emotion: monstrous births, exciting the curiosity of 
 a philosopher, fail not at the same time to excite a sort of horror. 
 
 This conviction of a common nature or standard and of its perfec- 
 tion, accounts clearly for that remarkable conception we have of a 
 right and a wrong sense or taste in morals. It accounts not less 
 clearly for the conception we have of a right and a wrong sense or 
 taste in the fine arts. A man who, avoiding objects generally agree- 
 able, delights in objects generally disagreeable, is condemned as a 
 monster : we disapprove his taste as bad or wrong, because we 
 a clear conception that he deviates from the common standard. If 
 man were so framed as not to have any notion of a common standard, 
 the proverb mentioned in the beginning would hold universally, not 
 only in the fine arts, but in morais: upon that supposition, the taste 
 of every man, with respect to both, would to himself be an ultimate 
 standard. But as the conviction of a common standard is universal 
 and a branch of our nature, we intuitively conceive a taste to be r 
 or good, if conformable to the common standard, and wrong or bad if 
 disconformable. 
 
 No particular in human nature is more universal, than the unea- 
 siness a man feels when in matters of importance his opinions are 
 rejected by others : why should difference in opinion create uneasi- 
 ness, more than difference in stature, in countenance, or in dress? 
 the conviction of a common standard explains the mystery: every 
 man, generally speaking, taking it for granted th;: ,'ons agree 
 
 with the common sense of mankind, is, therefore, disgusted with 
 those who think differently, not as differing from him, but as differ- 
 ing from the common standard: hence in all disputes, we find the par- 
 ties, each of them equally appealing constantly to the common sense 
 of mankind as the ultimate rule or standard. With respect to points 
 * See Essays on Morality and Natural Religion, Part I. Essay 2. ch. 1.
 
 Ch. 25.] STANDARD OF TASTE. 469 
 
 arbitrary or indifferent, which are not supposed to be regulated by 
 any standard, individuals are permitted to think for themselves with 
 impunity: the same liberty is not indulged with respect to points 
 that are reckoned of moment ; for what reason, other than that the 
 standard by which these are regulated, ought, as we judge, to pro- 
 duce a uniformity of opinion in all men ? In a word, to this convic- 
 tion of a common standard must be wholly attributed the pleasure 
 we take in those who espouse the same principles and opinions with 
 ourselves, as well as the aversion we have at those who differ from 
 us. In matters left indifferent by the standard, we find nothing of 
 the same pleasure or pain: a bookish man, unless swayed by con- 
 venience, relishes not the contemplative man more than the active ; 
 his friends and companions are chosen indifferently out of either 
 class: a painter consorts with a poet or musician, as readily as with 
 those of his own art ; and one is not the more agreeable to me for 
 loving beef, as I do, nor 'the less agreeable for preferring mutton. 
 
 I have ventured to say, that my disgust is raised, not by differing 
 from me, but by differing from what I judge to be the common stand- 
 ard. This point, being of importance, ought to be firmly established. 
 Men, it is true, are prone to flatter themselves, by taking it for granted 
 that their opinions and their taste are in all respects conformable to the 
 common standard ; but there may be exceptions, and experience shows 
 there are some: there are instances without number, of persons who 
 are addicted to the grosser amusements of gaming, eating, drinking, 
 without having any relish for more elegant pleasures; such, for exam- 
 ple, as are afforded by the fine arts: yet these very persons, talking the 
 same language with the rest of mankind, pronounce in favor of the 
 more elegant pleasures, and they invariably approve those who have a 
 more refined taste, being ashamed of their own as low and sensual. 
 It is in vain to think of giving a reason for this singular impartiality, 
 other than the authority of the common standard with respect to the 
 dignity of human nature:* and from the instances now given, we 
 discover that the authority of that standard, even upon the most gro- 
 velling souls, is so vigorous, as to prevail over self-partiality, and to 
 make them despise their own taste compared with the more elevated 
 taste of others. 
 
 Uniformity of taste and sentiment resulting from our conviction of 
 a common standard, leads to two important final causes; the one 
 respecting our duty, the other our pastime. Barely to mention the 
 first shall be sufficient, because it does not properly belong to the 
 present undertaking. Unhappy it would be for us did nci uni- 
 formity prevail in morals: that our actions should uniformly be 
 directed to what is good and against what is ill, is the greatest bless- 
 ing in society; and in order to uniformity of action, uniformity of 
 opinion and sentiment is indispensable. 
 
 With respect to pastime in general, and the fine arts in particular, 
 the final caiise of uniformity is illustrious. Uniformity of taste gives 
 opportunity for sumptuous and elegant buildings, for fine gardens, 
 and extensive embellishments, which please universally; and the rea- 
 
 * See Chap. 11. 
 40
 
 470 STANDARD OF TASTE. [Ch. 25. 
 
 son is, that without uniformity of taste, there could not be any suit- 
 able reward, either of profit or honor, to encourage men of genius to 
 labor in such works, and to advance them toward perfection. The 
 same uniformity of taste is equally necessary to perfect the art of mu- 
 sic, sculpture, and painting, and to support the expense they require 
 after they are brought to perfection. Nature is, in every particu- 
 lar, consistent with herself: we are framed by Nature to have a high 
 relish for the fine arts, which are a great source of happiness, and 
 friendly in a high degree to virtue : we are, at the same time, framed 
 with uniformity of taste, to furnish proper objects for that high relish ; 
 and if uniformity did not prevail, the fine arts could never have made 
 any figure. 
 
 And this suggests another final cause no less illustrious. The 
 separation of men into different classes, by birth, office, or occupation, 
 however necessary, tends to relax the connection that ought to be 
 among members of the same state : which bad effect is in some mea- 
 sure prevented by the access all ranks of people have to public spec- 
 tacles, and to amusements that are best enjoyed in company. Such 
 meetings, where every one partakes of the same pleasures in com- 
 mon, are no slight support to the social affections. 
 
 Thus, upon a conviction common to the species is erected a stand- 
 ard of taste, which without hesitation is applied to the taste of every 
 individual. That standard, ascertaining what actions are right what 
 wrong, what proper what improper, has enabled moralists to establish 
 rules for our conduct, from which no person is permitted to swerve. 
 We have the same standard for ascertaining in all the fine arts, what 
 is beautiful or ugly, high or low, proper or improper, proportioned 
 or disproportioned : and here, as in morals, we justly condemn every 
 taste that deviates from what is thus ascertained by the common 
 standard. 
 
 That there exists a rule or standard in nature for trying the taste 
 of individuals, in the fine arts as well as in morals, is a discovery; 
 but is not sufficient to complete the task undertaken. A branch still 
 more important remains upon hand : which is, to ascertain what is 
 truly the standard of nature, that we may not lie open to have a false 
 standard imposed on us. But what means shall be employed for 
 bringing to light this natural standard? This is not obvious: for 
 when we have recourse to general opinion and general practice, we 
 are betrayed into endless perplexities. History informs us, that 
 nothing is more variable than taste in the fine arts : judging by num- 
 bers, the Gothic taste of architecture must be preferred before that of 
 Greece, and the Chinese taste probably before either. It would be 
 endless to recount the various tastes that have prevailed in different 
 ages with respect to gardening, and still prevail in different coun- 
 tries. Despising the modest coloring of nature, women of fashion 
 in France daub their cheeks with a red powder; nay, an unnatural 
 swelling in the neck, peculiar to the inhabitants of the Alps, is 
 relished by that people. But we ought not to be discouraged by 
 such untoward instances, when we find as great variety in moral 
 opinions : was it not among some nations held lawful for a man to
 
 Ch. 25.] STANDARD OF TASTE. 471 
 
 sell his children for slaves, to expose them in their infancy to wild 
 beasts, and to punish them for the crime of their parents? was any 
 thing more common than to murder an enemy in cold blood ? nay, 
 more, did not law once authorise the abominable practice of human 
 sacrifices, no less impious than immoral? Such aberrations from 
 the rules of morality prove only, that men, originally savage and 
 brutal, acquire not rationality nor delicacy of taste till they be long 
 disciplined in society. To ascertain the rules of morality, we appeal 
 not to the common sense of savages, but of men in their more perfect 
 state : and we make the same appeal in forming the rules that ought 
 to govern the fine arts : in neither can we safely rely on a local or 
 transitory taste ; but on what is the most general and the most last- 
 ing among polite nations. 
 
 In this very manner, a standard for morals has been ascertained 
 with a good deal of accuracy, and is daily applied by able judges with 
 general satisfaction. The standard of taste in the fine arts, is not 
 yet brought to such perfection ; and we can account for its slower 
 progress : the sense of right and wrong in actions is vivid and dis- 
 tinct, because its objects are clearly distinguishable from each other ; 
 whereas the sense of right and wrong in the fine arts is faint and 
 wavering, because its objects are commonly not so clearly distin- 
 guishable from each other, and there appears to me a striking final 
 cause in thus distinguishing the moral sense from the sense of right 
 and wrong in the fine arts. The former, as a rule of conduct, arid 
 as a law we ought to obey, must be clear and authoritative. The 
 latter is not entitled to the same privilege, because it contributes to 
 our pleasure and amusement only : were it strong and lively, it 
 would usurp upon our duty, and call ofF the attention from matters 
 of greater moment : were it clear and authoritative, it would banish 
 all difference of taste, leaving no distinction between a refined taste 
 and one that is not so : which would put an end to rivalship, and 
 consequently to all improvement. 
 
 But to return to our subject. However languid and cloudy the com- 
 mon sense of mankind may be as to the fine arts, it is notwithstand- 
 ing the only standard in these as well as in morals. True it is indeed, 
 that in gathering the common sense of mankind, more circumspec- 
 tion is requisite with respect to the fine arts than with respect to 
 morals : upon the latter, any person may be consulted : but in the 
 former, a wary choice is necessary, for to collect votes indifferently 
 would certainly .mislead us. Those who depend for food on bodily 
 labor, are totally void of taste ; of such a taste at least as can be of 
 use in the. fine arts. This consideration bars the greater part of man- 
 kind ; and of the remaining part, many by a corrupted taste arc; 
 unqualified for voting. The common sense of mankind must then 
 be confined to the few that fall not under these exceptions. But as 
 such selection seems to throw matters again into uncertainty, we 
 must be more explicit upon this branch of our subject. 
 
 Nothing tends more than voluptuousness to corrupt the whole 
 internal frame, and to vitiate our taste, not only in the fine arts, but 
 even in morals : voluptuousness never fails, in course of time, to
 
 472 STANDARD OF TASTE. [Ch. 25. 
 
 extinguish all the sympathetic affections, and to bring on a beastly 
 selfishness, which leaves nothing- of man but the shape: about exclud- 
 ing such persons there will be no dispute. Let us next bring under 
 trial, the opulent who delight in expense: the appetite for superiority 
 and respect, inflamed by riches, is vented upon costly furniture, 
 numerous attendants, a princely dwelling, sumptuous feasts, every 
 thing superb and gorgeous, to amaze and humble all beholders : 
 simplicity, elegance, propriety, and things natural, sweet, or amia- 
 ble, are despised or neglected ; for these are not appropriated to the 
 rich, nor make a figure in the public eye: in a word, nothing is 
 relished, but what serves to gratify pride, by an imaginary exaltation 
 of the possessor above those who surround him. Such sentiments 
 contract the heart, and make every principle give way to self-love : 
 benevolence and public spirit, with all their refined emotions, are 
 little felt, and less regarded; and if these be excluded, there can be 
 no place for the faint and delicate emotions of the fine arts. 
 
 The exclusion of classes so many and numerous, reduces within a 
 narrow compass those who are qualified to be judges in the fine arts. 
 Many circumstances are necessary to form such a judge : there 
 must be a good natural taste ; that is, a taste approaching, at least in 
 some degree, to the delicacy of taste above described :* that taste 
 must be improved by education, reflection, and experience:! it must 
 be preserved in vigor by living regularly, by using the goods of for- 
 tune with moderation, and 'by following the dictates of improved 
 nature, which give welcome to every rational pleasure without 
 indulging any excess. This is the tenor of life which of all con- 
 tributes the most to refinement of taste ; and the same tenor of life 
 contributes the most to happiness in general. 
 
 If there appear much uncertainty in a standard that requires so 
 painful and intricate a selection, we may possibly be reconciled to it 
 by the following consideration, that with respect to the fine arts % 
 there is less difference of taste than is commonly imagined. Nature 
 
 * Chap. 2. Part 2. 
 
 t That these particulars are useful, it may be said necessary, for acquiring a 
 discerning taste in the fine arts, will appear from the following facts, which show 
 the influence of experience, singly. Those who live in the world and in good 
 company, are quick-sighted with respect to every defect or irregularity in beha- 
 vior: the very slightest singularity in motion, in speech, or in dress, which to a 
 peasant would be invisible, escapes not their observation. The most minute dif- 
 ferences in the human countenance, so minute as to be far beyond the reach of 
 words, are distinctly perceived by the plainest person: while at the same time, 
 the generality have very little discernment in the faces of other animals to which 
 they are lets accustomed : sheep, for example, appear to have all the same face, 
 except to the shepherd, who knows eveiy individual in his flock as he does his 
 relations and neighbors. The very populace in Athens were critics in language, 
 in pronunciation, and even in eloquence, harangues being their daily entertain- 
 ment. In Rome, at present, the most illiterate shopkeeper is a better judge of sta- 
 tues and of pictures, than persons of refined education in London. These facts 
 afford convincing evidence, that a discerning taste depends still more on expe- 
 rience than on nature. But these facts merit peculiar regard fof another reason, 
 that they open to us a sure method of improving our taste in the fine arts ; which, 
 with those who have leisure for improvements, ought to be a powerful incitement 
 to cultivate a taste in these arts: an occupation that cannot fail to embellish their 
 manners, and to sweeten societv.
 
 Ch. 25.] STANDARD OF TASTE. 473 
 
 has marked all her works with indelible characters of high or low, 
 plain or elegant, strong or weak: these, if at all perceived, are sel- 
 dom misapprehended ; and the same marks are equally perceptible 
 in works of art. A defective taste is incurable ; and it hurts none 
 but the possessor, because it carries no authority to impose upon 
 others. I know not if there be such a thing as a taste naturally bad or 
 wrong; a taste, for example, that prefers a grovelling pleasure before 
 on* that is high and elegant: grovelling pleasures are never prefer- 
 red ; they are only made welcome by those who know no better. 
 Differences about objects of taste, it is true, are endless ; but they 
 generally concern trifles, or possibly matters of equal rank, where 
 preference may be given either way with impunity : if, on any occa- 
 sion, persons differ where they ought not, a depraved taste will readily 
 be discovered on one or other side, occasioned by imitation, custom, 
 or corrupted manners, such as are described above. And consider- 
 ing that every individual partakes of a common nature, what is .there 
 that should occasion any wide difference in taste or sentiment ? By 
 the principles that constitute the sensitive part of our nature, a won- 
 derful uniformity is preserved in the emotions and feelings of the dif- 
 ferent races of men; the same object making upon every person the 
 same impression, the same in kind, if not in degree. There have 
 been, as above observed, aberrations from these principles ; but soon 
 or late they prevail, and restore the wanderer to the right tract. 
 
 I know but of one other means for ascertaining the common sense 
 of mankind; which I mention, not in despair, but in great confidence 
 of success. As the taste of every individual ought to be governed 
 by the principles above mentioned, an appeal to these principles must 
 necessarily be decisive of every controversy that can arise upon 
 matters of taste. In general, every doubt with relation to the com- 
 mon sense of man, or standard of taste, may be cleared by the same 
 appeal; and to unfold these principles is the declared purpose of 
 the present undertaking. 
 40*
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 
 
 1. EVERY thing we perceive or are conscious of, whether a being 
 or a quality, a passion or an action, is with respect to the percipient 
 termed an object. Some objects appear to be internal, or within the 
 mind; passion, for example, thinking, volition : some external ; such 
 as every object of sight, of hearing, of smell, of touch, of taste. 
 
 2. That act of the mind which makes known to me an external 
 object, is termed perception. That act of the mind which makes 
 known to me an internal object, is termed consciousness. The power 
 or faculty from which consciousness proceeds, is termed an internal 
 sense. The power or faculty from which perception proceeds, is 
 termed an external sense. This distinction refers to the objects of 
 our knowledge; for the senses, whether exltrnal or internal, are 
 all powers or faculties of the mind.* 
 
 3. But as self is an object that cannot be termed either external or 
 internal, the faculty by which I have knowledge of myself, is a sense 
 that cannot properly be termed either internal or external. 
 
 4. By the eye we perceive figure, color, motion, &c. : by the ear 
 we perceive the different qualities of sound, high, low, loud, soft: by 
 touch we perceive rough, smooth, hot, cold, &c. : by taste we per- 
 ceive sweet, sour, bitter, &c. : by smell we perceive fragrant, fetid, 
 &c. : These qualities partake the common nature of all qualities, 
 that they are not capable of an independent existence, but must belong 
 to some being of Avhich they are properties or attributes. A being 
 with respect to its properties or attributes is termed a subject or sub- 
 
 * I have complied with all who have gone before me in describing the senses 
 internal and external to be powers or f;iculties ; and yet, after much attention, I 
 have not discovered any thing active in their operations to entitle them to that 
 character. The following chain of thought has led me to hesitate. One being- 
 operates on another: the first is active, the other passive. If the first act, it must 
 have a power to act : if an effect be produced on the other, it must have a capacity 
 to have that effect produced upon it. Fire melts wax, ergo fire has a power to 
 produce that effect ; and wax must be capable to have that effect produced in it. 
 Now as to the senses. A tree in nourish makes an impression on me. and by that 
 means I see the tree. But in this operation I do not find that the mind is active; 
 seeing the tree is only an effect produced on it by intervention of the rays of light. 
 What seems to have led us into an error is the word seeing, which, under the form 
 of an active verb, has a passive signification. I feel is a similar example; for to 
 feel is certainly not to act, but the effect of being acted upon: the feeling of plea- 
 sure is the effect produced in my mind when a beautiful object is presented. Per- 
 ception, accordingly, is not an action, but an effect produced in the mind. Sensa- 
 tion is another effect : it is the pleasure I fed upon perceiving what is agreeable.
 
 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 475 
 
 stratum. Every substratum of visible qualities, is termed substance ; 
 and of tangible qualities, body. 
 
 5. Substance and sound are perceived as existing at a distance 
 from the organ ; often at a considerable distance. But smell, touch, 
 and taste, are perceived as existing at the organ of sense. 
 
 G. The objects of external sense are various. Substances are per- 
 ceived by the eye; bodies by the touch. Sounds, tastes, and smells, 
 passing commonly under the name of secondary qualities, require 
 more explanation than there is room for here. All the objects of 
 internal sense are attributes: witness deliberation, reasoning, resolu- 
 tion, willing, consenting, which are internal actions. Passions and 
 emotions, which are internal agitations, are also attributes. With 
 regard to the former, I am conscious of being active ; with regard to 
 the latter, I am conscious of being passive. 
 
 7. Again, we are conscious of internal action as in the head ; of 
 passions and emotions as in the heart. 
 
 8. Many actions may be excited internally, and many effects pro- 
 duced, of which we are unconscious: when we investigate the ulti- 
 mate cause of the motion of the blood, and of other internal motions 
 upon which life depends, it is the most probable opinion that some 
 internal power is the cause; and if so, we are unconscious of the 
 operations of that power. But consciousness being implied in the 
 very meaning of deliberating, reasoning, resolving, willing, con- 
 senting, such operations cannot escape bur knowledge. The same 
 is the case of passions and emotions ; for no internal agitation is 
 denominated a passion or emotion, but those of which we are con- 
 scious. 
 
 9. The mind is not always the same : by turns it is cheerful, melan- 
 choly, calm, peevish, &c. These differences may not improperly be 
 denominated tones. 
 
 10. Perception and sensation are commonly reckoned synonymous 
 terms, signifying that internal act by which external objects are 
 make known to us. But they ought to be distinguished. Perceiving 
 is a general term for hearing, seeing, tasting, touching, smelling; 
 and therefore perception signifies every internal act by which we 
 are made acquainted with external objects. Thus we are said to 
 perceive a certain animal, a certain color, sound, taste, smell, &c. 
 Sensation properly sjgnifies that internal act by which we are made 
 conscious of pleasure or pain felt at the organ of sense. Thus we have 
 a sensation of the pleasure arising from warmth, from a fragrant 
 smell, from a sweet taste ; and of the pain arising from a wound, 
 from a fetid smell, from a disagreeable taste. In perception, my 
 attention is directed to the external object: in sensation, it is directed 
 to the pleasure or pain I feel. 
 
 The terms perception and sensation are sometimes employed to 
 signify the objects of perception and sensation. Perception in that 
 sense is a general term for every external thing we perceive; and 
 sensation a general term for every pleasure and pain felt at the organ 
 of sense. 
 
 11. Conception is different from perception. The latter includes
 
 476 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 
 
 a conviction of the reality of its object : the former does not ; for I 
 can conceive the most extravagant stories told in a romance, without 
 having any conviction of their reality. Conception differs also from 
 imagination. By the power of fancy I can imagine a golden moun- 
 tain, or an ebony ship with sails and ropes of silk. When I describe 
 a picture of that kind to another, the idea he forms of it is termed a 
 conception. Imagination is active, conception is passive. 
 
 12. Feeling, beside denoting one of the external senses, is a general 
 term, signifying that internal act by which we are made conscious 
 of our pleasures and our pains ; for it is not limited, as sensation is, 
 to any one sort. Thus, feeling being the genus of which sensation 
 is a species, their meaning is the same when applied to pleasure and 
 pain felt at the organ of sense : and accordingly we say indifferently, 
 ' I feel pleasure from heat, and pain from cold," or, " I have a sensa- 
 tion of pleasure from heat,-and of pain from cold." But the mean- 
 ing of feeling, as is said, is much more extensive: it is proper to 
 suy, I feel pleasure in a sumptuous building, in love, in friendship ; 
 and pain in losing a child, in revenge, in envy: sensation is not pro- 
 perly applied to any of these. 
 
 The term feeling is frequently used in a less proper sense, to sig- 
 nify what we feel or of what we are conscious ; and in that sense it 
 is a general term for all our passions and emotions, and for all our 
 other pleasures and pains. 
 
 13. That we cannot perceive an external object till an impression 
 is made upon our body, is probable from reason, and is ascertained by 
 experience. But it is not necessary that we be made sensible of the 
 impression : In touching, in tasting, and in smelling, we are sensible 
 of the impression ; but not in seeing and hearing. We know, 
 indeed, from experiments, that before we perceive a visible object, its 
 image is spread upon the retina tunica ; and that before we per- 
 ceive a sound, an impression is made upon the drum of the ear : but 
 we are not conscious, either of the organic image, or of the organic 
 impression ; nor are we conscious of any other operation preparatory 
 to the act of perception ; all we can say, is, that we see that river, 
 or hear that trumpet.* 
 
 14. Objects once perceived may be recalled to the mind by the 
 power of memory. When I recal an object of sight in that manner, 
 it appears to me precisely the same as in the original survey, only 
 less distinct. For example, having seen yesterday a spreading oak 
 growing on the brink of a river, I endeavor to recal these objects to 
 my mind. How is this operation performed? Do I endeavor to 
 form in my mind a picture of them or representative image ? Not 
 
 * Yet a singular opinion that impressions are the only objects of perception, has 
 been espoused by some philosophers of no mean rank ; not attending to the fore- 
 going peculiarity in the senses of seeing and hearing, that we perceive objects 
 without being conscious of an organic impression, or of any impression. See 
 the Treatise upon Human Nature : where we find the following passage, book I. 
 p. 4. sect. 2. " Properly speaking, it is not our body we perceive when we regard 
 our limbs and members ; so that the ascribing of a real and corporeal existence 
 to these impressions, or to their objects, is an act of the mind as difficult to 
 explain," &c.
 
 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 477 
 
 so. I transport myself ideally to the place where I saw the tree and 
 river yesterday; upon which I have a perception of these objects, 
 similar in all respects to the perception I had when I viewed them 
 with my eyes, only less distinct. And in this recollection, I am not 
 conscious df a picture or representative image, more than in the 
 original survey; the perception is of the tree and river themselves, 
 as at first. I confirm this by another experiment. After attentively 
 surveying a fine statue, I close my eyes. What follows? The same 
 object continues, without any difference but that it is less distinct than 
 formerly.* This indistinct secondary perception of an object, is 
 
 * Tliis experiment, which every one may reiterate till entire satisfaction be 
 obtained, is of greater importance than at first view may appear ; for it strikes at 
 the root of a celebrated doctrine, which for more than two thousand years has mis- 
 led many philosophers. This doctrine as delivered by Aristotle is, in substance 
 " That of every object of thought there must be in the mind some form, phantasm 
 or species; that things sensible are perceived and remembered by means of scnsl 
 ble phantasms, and things intelligible by intelligible phantasms ; and that these 
 phantasms have the form of the object without the matter, as the impression of a 
 seal upon wax has the form of a seal without its matter." The followers of Aris- 
 totle add, " That the sensible and intelligible forms of things, are sent forth from 
 the things themselves, and make impressions upon the passive intellect, which 
 impressions are perceived by the active intellect." This notion differs very little 
 from that of Epicurus, which is, " That all things send forth constantly and in 
 every direction, slender ghosts, or films of themselves, (tenuia simulacra, as 
 expressed by his commentator Lucretius;) which striking upon the mind, are the 
 means of perception, dreaming," &c. Des Cartes, bent to oppose Aristotle, rejects 
 the doctrine of sensible and intelligible phantasms ; maintaining however the same 
 doctrine in effect, namely, that we perceive nothing external but by means of some 
 image either in the brain or in the mind : and these images he terms ideas. Ac- 
 cording to these philosophers, we perceive nothing immediately but phantasms or 
 ideas ; and from these we infer, by reasoning, the existence of external objects. 
 Locke, adopting this doctrine, employs almost the whole of his book about ideas. 
 He holds, that we cannot perceive, remember, nor imagine, any thing, but by 
 having an. idea or image of it in the mind. He agrees with Descartes, that we 
 can have no knowledge of things external, but what we acquire by reasoning 
 upon their ideas or images in the mind ; taking it for granted, that we are con- 
 scious of these ideas or images, and of nothing else. Those who talk the most 
 intelligibly explain the doctrine thus : When I see in a mirror a man stand- 
 ing behind me, the immediate object of my sight is his image, without which I 
 could not see him : in like manner, when I see a tree or a house, there must be an 
 image of these objects in my brain or in my mind ; which image is the immediate 
 object of my perception ; and by means of that image I perceive the external 
 object. 
 
 One would not readily suspect any harm in this ideal system, other than the 
 leading us into a labyrinth of metaphysical errors, in order to account for our 
 knowledge of external objects, which is more truly and more simply accounted for 
 by direct perception. And yet some late writers nave been able to extract from it 
 death and destruction to the whole world, levelling all down to a mere chaos of 
 ideas. Dr. Berkeley, upon authority of the philosophers named, taking for granted 
 that we cannot perceive any object but what is in the mind, discovered, that the 
 reasoning employed by Des Cartes and Locke to infer the existence of external 
 objects, is inconclusive; and upon that discovery ventured, against common sense, 
 to annihilate totally the material world. And a later writer, discovering that Berke- 
 ley's arguments might with equal success be applied against immaterial beings, 
 ventures still more boldly to reject by the lump the immaterial world as well as 
 the material ; leaving nothing in nature but images or ideas floating in vacua, 
 without affording them a single mind for shelter or support. 
 
 When such wild and extravagant consequences can be drawn from the ideal 
 system, it might have been expected, that no man who is not crazy would have 
 ventured to erect such a superstructure, till he should first be certain beyond all 
 
 !
 
 478 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 
 
 termed an idea. And therefore the precise and accurate definition 
 of an idea in contradistinction to an original perception, is, " That 
 perception of a real object which is raised in the mind by the power 
 of memory." Every thing, of which we have any knowledge, whe- 
 ther internal or external, passions, emotions, thinking, resolving, 
 willing, heat, cold, &c. as well as external objects, may be recalled 
 as above, by the power of memory.* 
 
 doubt of a solid foundation. And yet upon inquiry, we find the foundation of this 
 terrible doctrine to be no better than a shallow metaphysical argument, namely, 
 " That no being can act but where it is; and, consequently, that it cannot act 
 upon any subject at a distance." This argument possesses indeed one eminent 
 advantage, that its obscurity, like that of an oracle, is apt to impose upon the reader, 
 who is willing to consider it as a demonstration, because he does not clearly see 
 the fallacy. The best way to give it a fair trial, is to draw it out of its obscurity, 
 and to state it in a clear light, as follows. " No subject can be perceived unless it 
 suet upon the mind, but no distant subject can act upon the mind, because no being 
 can act but where it is : and, therefore, the immediate object of perception must be 
 something united to the mind, so as to be able to act upon it." Here the argument 
 is completed in all its parts ; and from it is derived the supposed necessity of 
 phantasms or ideas united to the mind, as the only objects of perception. It is 
 singularly unlucky, that this argument concludes directly against the very system 
 of which it is the only foundation : for how can phantasms or ideas be raised in 
 the mind by tilings at a distance, if things at a distance cannot act upon the mind 1 
 I say more, that it assumes a proposition as true, without evidence, Tiamely, That 
 00 distant subject can act upon the mind. This proposition undoubtedly requires 
 eridence, for it is not intuitively certain. And, therefore, till the proposition be 
 demonstrated, every man without scruple may rely upon the conviction of his 
 enses, that he hears and sees things at a distance. 
 
 But I venture a bolder step, which is. to show that the proposition is false. 
 Admitting that no being can act but where it is, is there any thing more simple or 
 more common, than the acting upon subjects at a distance by intermediate means ? 
 This holds in fact with respect both to seeing and hearing. When I see a tree, 
 for example, rays of light are reflected from the tree to my eye, forming a picture 
 upon the retina tunica ; but the object perceived is the tree itself, not the rays of 
 light, nor the picture. In this manner distant objects are perceived, without any 
 action of the object upon the mind, or of the mind upon the object. Hearing is in 
 a similar case : the air, put in motion by thunder, makes an impression upon the- 
 drum of the ear ; but this impression is not what I hear, it is the thunder itself by 
 means of that impression. 
 
 With rpspect to vision in particular, we are profoundly ignorant by what means 
 and in what manner the picture on the retina tunica contributes to produce a sight 
 of the object. One thing only is clear, that as we have no knowledge of that pic- 
 ture, it is as natural to conceive that it should be made the instrument of discover- 
 ing the external object, and not itself, as of discovering itself only, and not the 
 external object. 
 
 Upon the chimerical consequences drawn from the ideal system, I shall make 
 but a single reflection. Nature determines us necessarily to rely on the veracity 
 of our senses; and upon their evidence the existence of external objects is to us a 
 matter of intuitive knowledge and absolute certainty. Vain therefore is the attempt 
 of Dr. Berkeley and of his followers, to deceive us, by a metaphysical subtlety, 
 into a disbelief of what we cannot entertain even the slightest doubt. 
 
 * From this definition of an idea, the following proposition must be evident. 
 That there can be no such thin? as an innate idea. If the original perception of 
 an object be not innate, which is obvious ; it is not less obvious, that the idea or 
 secondary perception of that object cannot be innate. And yet. to prove this self- 
 evident proposition, Locke has bestowed a whole book of his Treatise upon 
 Human Understanding. So necessary it is to give accurate definitions, and so 
 preventive of dispute are definitions when accurate. Dr. Berkeley has taken great 
 pains to prove another proposition equally evident, That there can be no such 
 thing as a general idea : all our original perceptions are of particular objects, and 
 our secondary perceptions or ideas must be equally so.
 
 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 479 
 
 15. External objects are distinguishable into simple and complex. 
 Certain sounds are so simple as not to be resolvable into parts ; and 
 so are certain tastes and smells. Objects of touch are for the most 
 part complex : they are not only hard or soft, but also smooth or 
 rough, hot or cold. Of all external objects, visible objects are com- 
 monly the most complex: a tree is composed of a trunk, branches, 
 leaves : it has color, figure, size. But as an action is not resolvable 
 into parts, a perception, being an act of sense, is always simple. The 
 color, figure, umbrage of a spreading oak, raise not different percep- 
 tions : the perception is one, that of a tree, colored, figured, &c. A 
 quality is never perceived separately from the subject ; nor a part 
 from the whole. There is a mental power of abstraction, of which 
 we shall speak afterward ; but the eye never abstracts, nor any other 
 external sense. 
 
 16. Many particulars besides those mentioned, enter into the per- 
 ception of visible objects ; motion, rest, place, space, time, number, 
 &c. These, all of them, denote simple ideas, and for that reason 
 admit not of a definition. All that can be done, is to point out how 
 they are acquired. The ideas of motion and of rest, are familiar 
 even to a child, from seeing its nurse sometimes walking, sometimes 
 sitting : the former it is taught to call motion ; the latter, rest. Place 
 enters into every perception of a visible object : the object is perceived 
 to exist, and to exist somewhere, on the right hand or on the left, and 
 where it exists is termed place. Ask a child where its mother is, or 
 in what place : it will answer readily, she is in the garden. Space 
 is connected with size or bulk : every piece of matter occupies room 
 or space in proportion to its bulk. A child perceives that when its 
 little box is filled with playthings, there is no room or space for more. 
 Space is also applied to signify the distance of visible objects from 
 each other ; and such space accordingly can be measured. Dinner 
 comes after breakfast, and supper after dinner : a child perceives an 
 interval, and that interval it learns to call time. A child sometimes 
 is alone with its nurse : its mother is sometimes in the room ; and 
 sometimes also its brothers and sisters. It perceives a difference 
 between many and few; and that difference it is taught to call 
 number. 
 
 17. The primary perception of a visible object, is more complete, 
 lively, and distinct, than that of any other object. And for that rea- 
 son, an idea or secondary perception of a visible object, is also more 
 complete, lively, and distinct, than that of any other object. A fine 
 passage in music, may, for a moment, be recalled to the mind with 
 tolerable accuracy ; but, after the shortest interval, it becomes no less 
 obscure than the ideas of the other objects mentioned. 
 
 18. As the range of an individual is commonly within a narrow 
 space, it rarely happens, that every thing necessary to be known, 
 comes under our own perceptions. Language is an admirable con- 
 trivance for supplying that deficiency ; for by language every man's 
 perceptions may be communicated to all : and the same may be done 
 by painting and other imitative arts. The facility of communication 
 depends on the liveliness of the ideas; especially in language,
 
 480 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 
 
 which hitherto has not arrived at greater perfection than to express 
 clear ideas : hence it is, that poets and orators, who are extremely suc- 
 cessful in describing objects of sight, find objects of the other senses 
 too faint and obscure for language. An idea thus acquired of an object 
 at second hand, ought to be distinguished from an idea of memory, 
 though their resemblance has occasioned the same term idea to be 
 applied to both ; which is to be regretted, because ambiguity in the 
 signification of words is a great obstruction to accuracy of con- 
 ception. Thus nature has furnished the means of multiplying 
 ideas without end, and of providing every individual with a sufficient 
 stock to answer, not only the necessities, but even the elegancies 
 of life. 
 
 19. Farther, man is endued with a sort of creative power : he can 
 fabricate images of things that have no existence. The materials 
 employed in this operation, are ideas of sight, which he can take to 
 pieces and combine into new forms at pleasure: their complexity 
 and vivacity make them fit materials. But a man has no such power 
 over any of his other ideas, whether of the external or. internal 
 senses : he cannot, after the utmost effort, combine these into new 
 forms, being too obscure for that operation. An image thus fabri- 
 cated cannot be called a secondary perception, not being derived 
 from an original perception : the poverty of language, however, as 
 in the case immediately above mentioned, has occasioned the same 
 term idea to be applied to all. This singular power of fabricating 
 images without any foundation in reality, is distinguished by the 
 name of imagination. 
 
 20. As ideas are the chief materials employed in reasoning and 
 reflecting, it is of consequence that their nature and differences be 
 understood. It appears now, that ideas may be distinguished into 
 three kinds : first, ideas derived from original perceptions, pro- 
 perly termed ideas of memory ; second, ideas communicated by lan- 
 guage or other signs ; and, third, ideas of imagination. These ideas 
 differ from each other in many respects ; but chiefly in respect of 
 their proceeding from different causes : the first kind is derived 
 from real existences that have been objects of our senses: language 
 is the cause of the second, or any other sign that has the same power 
 with language: and a man's imagination is to himself the cause of 
 the third. It is scarcely necessary to add, that an idea, originally of 
 imagination, being conveyed to others by language or any other 
 vehicle, becomes in their mind an idea of the second kind; and 
 again, that an idea of this kind, being afterward recalled to the mind, 
 becomes in that circumstance an idea of memory. 
 
 21. We are not so constituted as to perceive objects with indiffer- 
 ence : these, with very few exceptions, appear agreeable or disagree- 
 able; and at the same time raise in us pleasant or painful emotions. 
 With respect to external objects in particular, we distinguish those 
 which produce organic impressions, from those which affect us from 
 a distance. When we touch a soft and smooth body, we have a 
 pleasant feeling as at the place of contact; which feeling we distin- 
 guish not, at least not accurately, from the agreeableness of the body
 
 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 481 
 
 itself; and the same holds in general with regard to all organic 
 impressions. It is otherwise in hearing and seeing ; a sound is per- 
 ceived as in itself agreeable, and raises in the hearer a pleasant emo- 
 tion : an object of sight appears in itself agreeable, and raises in the 
 spectator a pleasant emotion. These are accurately distinguished : 
 the pleasant emotion is felt as within the mind; the agreeableness of 
 the object is placed upon the object, and is perceived as one of its qua- 
 lities or properties. The agreeable appearance of an object of sight 
 is termed beauty; and the disagreeable appearance of such an object 
 is termed ugliness. 
 
 22. But though beauty and ugliness, in their proper and genuine 
 signification, are confined to objects of sight ; yet in a more lax and 
 figurative signification, they are applied to objects of the other senses : 
 they are sometimes applied even to abstract terms : for it is not unu- 
 sual to say, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful constitution of govern- 
 ment. 
 
 23. A line composed by a single rule, is perceived and said to be 
 regular : a straight line, a parabola, a hyperbola, the circumference 
 of a circle, and of an ellipse, are all regular lines. A figure com* 
 posed by a single rule, is perceived and said to be regular : a circle 
 a. square, a hexagon, an equilateral triangle, are regular figures, 
 being composed by a single rule, that determines the form of each. 
 When the form of a line or of a figure is ascertained by a single 
 rule that leaves' nothing arbitrary, the line and the figure are said to 
 be perfectly regular ; which is the case of the figures now mentioned, 
 and the case of a straight line and of the circumference of a circle. 
 A figure and a line that require more than one rule for their con- 
 struction, or that have any of their parts left arbitrary, are not per- 
 fectly regular: a parallelogram and a rhomb are less regular than 
 a square ; the parallelogram being subjected to no rule as to the 
 length of sides, other than that the opposite sides be equal ; the 
 rhomb being subjected to no rule as to its angles, other than that the 
 opposite angles be equal : for the same reason, the circumference of 
 an ellipse, the form of which is susceptible of much variety, is less 
 regular than that of a circle. 
 
 24. Regularity, properly speaking, belongs, like beauty, to objects 
 of sight ; and, like beauty, it is also applied figuratively to other 
 objects : thus we say, a regular government, a regular composition 
 of music, and regular discipline. 
 
 25. When two figures are composed of similar parts, they are said 
 to be uniform. Perfect uniformity is where the constituent parts of 
 two figures are equal : thus two cubes of the same dimensions are 
 perfectly uniform in all their parts. Uniformity less perfect is, where 
 the parts mutually correspond, but without being equal: the uni- 
 formity is imperfect between two squares or cubes of unequal dimen- 
 sions ; and still more so between a square and a parallelogram. 
 
 26. Uniformity is also applicable to the constituent parts of the 
 same figure. The constituent parts of a square are perfectly uni- 
 form; its sides are equal and its angles are equal. Wherein then 
 differs regularity from uniformity ? for a figure composed of uniform 
 
 41
 
 482 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 
 
 parts must undoubtedly be regular. Regularity is predicated of a 
 figure considered as a whole composed of uniform parts : uniformity 
 is predicated of these parts as related to each other by resemblance 
 we say, a square is a regular, not an uniform, figure ; but with respect 
 to the constituent parts of a square, we say not, that they are regu- 
 lar, but that they are uniform. 
 
 27. In things destined for the same use, as legs, arms, eyes, win- 
 dows, spoons, we expect uniformity. Proportion ought to govern 
 parts intended for different uses : we require a certain proportion 
 between a leg and an arm ; in the base, the shaft, the capital of a 
 pillar ; and in the length, the breadth, the height of a room : some 
 proportion is also required in different things intimately connected, 
 as between a dwelling-house, the garden, and the stables ; but we 
 require no proportion among things slightly connected, as between 
 the table a man writes on and the dog that follows him. Propor- 
 tion and uniformity never coincide: things equal are uniform ; but 
 proportion is never applied to them : the four sides and angles of a 
 square are equal and perfectly uniform ; but we say not that they are 
 proportional. Thus, proportion always implies inequality or differ- 
 ence ; but then it implies it to a certain degree only : the most agree- 
 able proportion resembles a maximum in mathematics ; a greater or 
 less inequality or difference is less agreeable. 
 
 28. Order regards various particulars. First, in tracing or sur- 
 veying objects, we are directed by a sense of order : we perceive it 
 to be more orderly, that we should pass from a principle to its acces- 
 sories, and from a whole to its parts, than in the contrary direction. 
 Next, with respect to the position of things, a sense of order directs 
 us to place together things intimately connected. Thirdly, in placing 
 things that have no natural connection, that order appears the most 
 perfect, where the particulars are made to bear the strongest relation 
 to each other that position can give them. Thus parallelism is the 
 strongest relation that position can bestow upon straight lines: if 
 they be so placed as by production to intersect, the relation is less 
 perfect. A large body in the middle, and two equal bodies of less 
 size, one on each side, is an order that produces the strongest relation 
 the bodies are susceptible of by position : the relation between the 
 two equal bodies would be stronger by juxtaposition j but they 
 would not both have the same relation to the third. 
 
 29. The beauty of agreeableness of a visible object, is perceived as 
 one of its qualities ; which holds, not only in the primary perception, 
 but also in the secondary perception or idea : and hence the plea- 
 sure that arises from the idea of a beautiful object. An idea of 
 imagination is also pleasant, though in a lower degree than an idea 
 of memory, where the objects are of the same kind ; for an evident 
 reason, that the former is more distinct and lively than the latter. 
 But this inferiority in ideas of imagination, is more than compensated 
 by their greatness and variety, which are boundless ; for by the 
 imagination, exerted without control, we can fabricate ideas of finer 
 visible objects, of mora noble and heroic actions, of greater wicked- 
 ness, of more surprising events, than ever in fact existed ; and in
 
 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 483 
 
 communicating such ideas by words, painting, sculpture, &c. the 
 influence of the imagination is no less extensive than great. 
 
 30. In the nature of every man, there is somewhat original, which 
 distinguishes him from others, which tends to form his character, 
 and to make him meek or fiery, candid or deceitful, resolute or 
 timorous, cheerful or morose. This original bent, termed disposi- 
 tion, must be distinguished from a principle : the latter, signifying a 
 law of human nature, makes part of the common nature of man ; 
 the former makes part of the nature of this or that man. Propen- 
 sity is a name common to both ; for it signifies a principle as well as 
 a disposition. 
 
 31. Affection, signifying a settled bent of mind toward a particu- 
 lar being or thing, occupies a middle place between disposition on 
 the one hand, and passion on the other. It is clearly distinguishable 
 from disposition, which, being a branch of one's nature originally, 
 must exist before there can be an opportunity to exert it upon any 
 particular object ; whereas affection can never be original, because, 
 having a special relation to a particular object, it cannot exist till the 
 object have once at least been presented. It is no less clearly dis- 
 tinguishable from passion, which depending on the real or ideal pre- 
 sence of its object, vanishes Avith its object : whereas affection is a 
 lasting connection ; and, like other connections, subsists even when 
 we do not think of the person. A familiar example will clear the 
 whole. I have from nature a disposition to gratitude, which, through 
 want of an object, happens never to be exerted ; and which therefore 
 is unknown even to myself. Another who has the same disposition, 
 meets with a kindly office which makes him grateful to his benefac- 
 tor : an intimate connection is formed between them, termed affection ; 
 which, like other connections, has a permanent existence, though not 
 always in view. The affection, for the most part, lies dormant, till 
 an opportunity offer for exerting it : in that circumstance, it is con- 
 verted into the passion of gratitude ; and the opportunity is greedily 
 seized of testifying gratitude in the warmest manner. 
 
 32. Aversion, I think, is opposed to affection ; not to desire, as it 
 commonly is. We have an affection to one person ; we have an 
 aversion to another: the former disposes us to do good to its object, 
 the latter to do ill. 
 
 33. What is a sentiment? It is not a perception ; for a perception 
 signifies the act by which we become conscious of external objects. 
 It is not consciousness of an internal action, such as thinking, sus- 
 pending thought, inclining, resolving, willing, &c. Neither is it the 
 conception of a relation among objects ; a conception of that kind 
 being termed opinion. The term sentiment is appropriated to such 
 thoughts as are prompted by passion. 
 
 34. Attention is that state of mind which prepares one to receive 
 impressions. According to the degree of attention, objects make a 
 strong or weak impression.* Attention is requisite even to the sim- 
 
 * Bacon, in his Natural History, makes the following observations. Sounds 
 are meliorated by the intension of the sense, where the common sense is collected 
 most to the particular sense of hearing, and the sight suspended. Therefore sounds
 
 484 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 
 
 pie act of seeing : the eye can take in a considerable field at on? 
 look ; but no object in the field is seen distinctly, but that singly 
 which fixes the attention : in a profound reverie that totally occupies 
 the attention, we scarce see what is directly before us. In a train of 
 perceptions, the attention being divided among various objects, no 
 particular object makes such a figure as it would do single and apart. 
 Hence, the stillness of night contributes to terror, there being nothing 
 to divert the attention : 
 
 Horror ubique animos, simul ipsa silentia terrent. ^Eneid, II. 
 
 All things were full of horror and affright, 
 And dreadful even the silence of the night. 
 
 Zara. Silence and solitude are ev'ry where ! 
 Through all the gloomy ways and iron doors 
 That hither lead, nor human face nor voice 
 Is seen or heard. A dreadful din was wont 
 To grate the sense, when enter'd here from groans 
 And howls of slaves condemn'd, from clink of chains, 
 And crash of rusty bars and creaking hinges : 
 And ever and anon the sight was dash'd 
 With frightful faces and the meagre looks 
 Of grim and ghastly executioners. 
 Yet more this stillness terrifies my soul 
 Than did that scene of complicated horrors. 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act V. Sc. 8. 
 
 And hence it is, that an object seen at the termination of a confined 
 view, is more agreeable than when seen in a group with the sur- 
 rounding objects : 
 
 The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark 
 
 When neither is attended ; and, I think, 
 
 The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
 
 When every goose is cackling, would be thought 
 
 No better a musician than the wren. Merchant of Venice. 
 
 35. In matters of slight importance, attention is mostly directed by 
 will; and for that reason, it is our own fault if trifling objects make 
 any deep impression. Had we po\ver equally to withhold our atten- 
 tion from matters of importance, we might be proof against any 
 deep impression. But our power fails us here: an interesting object 
 seizes and fixes the attention beyond the possibility of control ; and 
 while our attention is thus forcibly attached to ore object, others may 
 solicit for admittance ; but in vain, for they will not be regarded. 
 Thus a small misfortune is scarcely felt in presence of a greater : 
 
 Lear. Thou think' st 'tis much, that this contentious storm 
 Invades us to the skin : so 'tis to thee ; 
 But where the greater malady is fix'd, 
 The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear; 
 But if thy flight lay tow'rd the roaring sea, 
 Thou'dst meet the bear i' th' mouth. When the mind's free, 
 The body's delicate : the tempest in my mind 
 Doth from my senses take all feeling else, 
 Save what beats there. King I^ear, Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 are sweeter, as well as greater, in the night than in the day ; and I suppose they 
 are sweeter to blind men than to others : and it is manifest, that between sleeping 
 and waking, when all the senses are bound and suspended, music is far sweeter 
 than when one is fully waking.
 
 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 485 
 
 36. Genus, species, modification, are terms invented to distinguish 
 beings from each other. Individuals are distinguished by their quali- 
 ties. A number of individuals considered with respect to qualities that 
 distinguish them from others, is termed a species : a plurality of spe- 
 cies considered with respect to their distinguishing qualities, is termed 
 a genus. That quality which distinguished one genus, one species, 
 or even one individual, from another, is termed a modification : thus 
 the same particular that is termed a property or quality when con- 
 sidered as belonging to an individual, or a class of individuals, is 
 termed a modification when considered as distinguishing the indi- 
 vidual or the class from another : a black skin and soft curled hair, 
 are properties of a negro : the same circumstances considered as 
 marks that distinguish a negro from a man of a different species, 
 are denominated modifications. 
 
 37. Objects of sight, being complex, are distinguishable into the 
 several particulars that enter into the composition : these objects are 
 all colored ; and they all have length, breadth, and thicknefes. When 
 I behold a spreading oak, I distinguish in that object, size, figure, 
 color, and sometimes motion : in a flowing river, I distinguish color, 
 figure, and constant motion ; a die has color, black spots, six plain 
 surfaces, all equal and uniform. Objects of touch have all of them 
 extension : some of them are felt rough, some smooth : some of them 
 are hard, some soft. With respect to the other senses, some of their 
 objects are simple, some complex. A sound, a taste, a smell, may 
 be so simple as not to be distinguishable into parts : others are per- 
 ceived to be compounded of different sounds, different tastes, and dif- 
 ferent smells. 
 
 38. The eye at one look can grasp a number of objects, as of 
 trees in a field, or men in a crowd : these objects having each a 
 separate and independent existence, are distinguishable in the mind, 
 as well as in reality; and there is nothing more easy than to abstract 
 from some and to confine our contemplation to others. A large oak 
 with its spreading branches fixes our attention upon itself, and 
 abstracts us from the shrubs that surround it. In the same manner, 
 with respect to compound sounds, tastes, or smells, we can fix our 
 thoughts upon any one of the component parts, abstracting our atten- 
 tion from the rest. The power of abstraction is not confined to 
 objects that are separable in reality as well as mentally ; but also 
 takes place where there can be no real separation: the size, the 
 figure, the color, of a tree, are inseparably connected, and have no 
 independent existence ; the same of length, breadth, and thickness : 
 and yet we can mentally confine our observations to one of these, 
 abstracting from the rest. Here abstraction takes place where there 
 cannot be a real separation. 
 
 39. Space and time have occasioned much metaphysical jargon ; 
 but after the power of abstraction is explained as above, there remains 
 no difficulty about them. It is mentioned above, that space as well 
 as place enter into the perception of every visible object : a tree is 
 perceived as existing in a certain place, and as occupying a certain 
 space. Now, by the power of abstraction, space may be considered 
 
 41*
 
 486 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 
 
 abstractedly from the body that occupies it; and hence the abstract 
 term space. In the same manner, existence may be considered 
 abstractedly from any particular thing that exists ; and place may be 
 considered abstractedly from any particular thing that may be in it. 
 Every series or succession of things, suggests the idea of time; and 
 time may be considered abstractedly from any series of succession. 
 In the same manner, we acquire the abstract term motion, rest, num- 
 ber, and a thousand other abstract terms ; an excellent contrivance 
 for improving speech, as without it speech would be wofully imper- 
 fect. Brute animals may have some obscure notion of these circum- 
 stances, as connected with particular objects : an ox probably per- 
 ceives that he takes longer time to go round a long ridge in the 
 plough, than a short one ; and he probably perceives when he is one 
 of four in the yoke, or only one of two. But the power of abstrac- 
 tion is not bestowed on brute animals; because to them it would be 
 altogether useless, as they are incapable of speech. 
 
 40. This power of abstraction is of great utility. A carpenter 
 considers a log of wood with regard to hardness, firmness, color, 
 and texture : a philosopher, neglecting these properties, makes the 
 log undergo a chemical analysis; and examines its taste, its smell, 
 and its component principles : the geometrician confines his reason- 
 ing to the figure, the length, breadth, and thickness. In general, 
 every artist, abstracting from all other properties, confines his obser- 
 vations to those which have a more immediate connection with his 
 profession. 
 
 41. It is observed above, p. 478, that there can be no such thing 
 as a general idea ; that all our perceptions are of particular objects, 
 and that our secondary perceptions or ideas must be equally so. Pre- 
 cisely, for the same reason, there can be no such thing as an abstract 
 idea. We cannot form an idea of a part without taking in the whole ; 
 nor of motion, color, figure, independent of a body. No man will 
 say that he can form any idea of beauty, till he think of a person 
 endued with that quality ; nor that he can form an idea of weight, 
 till he takes under consideration a body that is weighty. And when 
 he takes under consideration a body endued with one or other of the 
 properties mentioned, the idea he forms is not an abstract or general 
 idea, but the idea of a particular body with its properties. But though 
 a part and the whole, a subject and its attributes, an effect and its 
 cause, are so intimately connected, as that an idea cannot be formed 
 of the one independent of the other; yet we can reason upon the one 
 abstracting from the other. 
 
 This is done by words signifying the thing to which the reason- 
 ing is confined; and such words are denominated abstract terms. 
 The meaning and use of an abstract term is well understood, though 
 of itself, unless other particulars be taken in, it raises no image nor 
 idea in the mind. In language it serves excellent purpose \ by it 
 different figures, different colors, can be compared, without the trou- 
 ble of conceiving them as belonging to any particular subject; and 
 they contribute with words significant to raise images or ideas in the 
 mind.
 
 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 487 
 
 42. The power of abstraction is bestowed on man, for the purpose sole- 
 ly of reasoning. It tends greatly to the facility as well as clearness of 
 any process of reasoning, that, layingaside every other circumstance, we 
 can confine our attention to *3je .- ir.^le prf >perty wedesireto investigate. 
 
 43. Abstract terms may be separated into three different kinds, all 
 equally subservient to the reasoning faculty. Individuals appear to 
 have no end ; and did we not possess the faculty of distributing them 
 into classes, the mind would be lost in an endless maze, and no progress 
 b& made in knowledge. It is by the faculty of abstraction that we distri- 
 bute beings into genera and species : finding a number of individuals 
 connected by certain qualities common to all, we give a name to these 
 individuals considered as thus connected, which name, by gathering 
 them together into one class, serves to express the whole of these- indi- 
 viduals as distinct from others. Thus the word animal serves to denote 
 every being that can move voluntarily; and the words man, horse, lion, 
 &,c. answer similar purposes. This is the first and most common sort 
 of abstraction ; and it is of the most extensive use, by enabling us to 
 comprehend in our reasoning whole kinds and sorts, instead of indivi- 
 duals, without end. The next sort of abstract terms comprehends a 
 number of individual objects, considered as connected by some occasion- 
 al relation. A great number of persons collected in one place, without 
 any other relation than merely that of contiguity, are denominated a 
 crowd : in forming this term, we abstract from sex, from age, from con- 
 dition, from dress, &c. A number of persons connected by the same 
 laws and by the same government, are termed a nation: and a number 
 of men under the same military command, arc termed an army. A third 
 sort ofabstraction is, where a single property or part, which may be com- 
 mon to many individuals, is selected to be the subject of our contempla- 
 tion ; for example, whiteness, heat, beauty, length, roundness, head, arm. 
 
 44. Abstract terms are a happy invention : it is by their means chief 
 ly, that the particulars which make the subject of our reasoning are 
 brought into close union, and separated from all others however natu- 
 rally connected. Without the aid of such terms, the mind could never 
 be kept steady to its proper subject, but be perpetually in hazard of as- 
 suming foreign circumstances, or neglecting what are essential. We 
 can, without the aid of language, compare real objects by intuition, 
 when these objects are present; and when absent, we can compare 
 them in idea. But when we advance farther, and attempt to make in- 
 ferences and draw conclusions, we always employ abstract terms, 
 even in thinking; it would be as difficult to reason without them, as 
 to perform operations in algebra without signs; for there is scarcely 
 any reasoning without some degree of abstraction, and we cannot 
 easily abstract without using abstract terms. Hence it follows, that 
 without language man would scarcely be a rational being. 
 
 45. The same thing, in different respects, has different names. With 
 respect to certain qualities, it is termed a substance ; with respect to 
 other qualities, a body ; and with respect to qualities of all sorts, a 
 subject. It is termed a passive subject with respect to an action exert- 
 ed upon it ; an object with respect to a percipient : a cause with res- 
 pect to the effect it produces ; and an effect with respect to its cause.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 ABSTRACTION, power of, 486. Its use, 
 487. 
 
 Abstract terms, ought to be avoided in 
 poetry, 122, 404. Cannot be com- 
 pared but by being personified, 326. 
 Personified, 351. Defined, 486. The 
 use of abstract terms, 487. 
 
 Accent, defined, 292. The musical ac- 
 cents that are necessary in an hexam- 
 eter line, 296. A low word must not 
 be accented, 310. Rules for accenting 
 English heroic verse, 309, 310. How 
 far affected by the pause, 311. Ac- 
 cent and pause have a mutual influ- 
 ence, 312. 
 
 Action, what feelings are raised by hu- 
 man actions, 27. 115. 172. We are 
 impelled to action by desire, 29. Some 
 actions are instinctive, some intended 
 as means to a certain end, 31. Ac- 
 tions great and elevated, low and gro- 
 velling, 115. Slowness and quickness 
 in acting, to what causes owing, 152. 
 157. Emotions occasioned by pro- 
 priety of action, 168. Occasioned by 
 impropriety of action, ib. Human 
 actions considered with respect to dig- 
 nity and meanness, 175. Actions the 
 interpreters of the heart, 208. Action 
 is the fundamental part of epic and 
 dramatic compositions, 420. Unity 
 of action, 429. We are conscious of 
 internal action as in the head, 475. 
 Internal action may proceed without 
 our being conscious of it, ib. 
 
 Action and reaction betwixt a passion 
 and its object, 65. 
 
 Actor, bombast actor, 126. The chief 
 talents of an actor, 206. An actor 
 should feel the passion he represents, 
 217. Difference as to pronunciation 
 betwixt the French and English ac- 
 tors, 219, note. 
 
 Admiration, 65. 131. 
 
 Mncid. See Virgil. 
 
 Affectation, 167. 
 
 Affection, to children accounted for, 43. 
 To blood-relations, ib. Affection for 
 what belongs to us, ib. Social affec- 
 tions more refined than selfish, 62. 
 Affection in what manner inflamed 
 into a passion, 65. Opposed to pro- 
 pensity, 67. Affection to children 
 endures longer than any other affec- 
 
 tion, ib. Opinion and belief influ- 
 enced by affection, 88. Affection de- 
 fined, 195. 484. 
 
 Agamemnon, of Seneca censured, 231. 
 
 Agreeable emotions and passions, 58, 
 &c. Things neither agreeable nor 
 disagreeable. Sec Object. 
 
 Alcestes, of Euripides censured, 242. 
 438, 439. 
 
 Alexandre, of Racine censured, 225. 
 
 Alexandrine line, 298. 
 
 Allegory, defined, 370. More difficult 
 in painting than in poetry, 376. In 
 an historical poem, 424. 
 
 All for Love, of Dryden censured, 235. 
 
 Alto Relievo, 459. 
 
 Ambiguity, occasioned by a wrong 
 choice of words, 255 ; occasioned by 
 a wrong arrangement, 270. 
 
 Amynta, of Tasso censured, 222. 
 
 Amor patria, accounted for, 45. 
 
 Amphibrachys, 324. 
 
 Amphimacer, 324. 
 
 Analytic and synthetic methods of rea- 
 soning compared, 22. 
 
 Anapestus, 323. 
 
 Anger, explained, 47, &c. Frequently 
 comes to its height instantaneously, 
 65. Decays suddenly, 66. Some- 
 times exerted against the innocent, 85. 
 and even against things inanimate, ib. 
 Not infectious, 95. Has no dignity 
 in it, 175. 
 
 Angle, largest and smallest angle of 
 vision, 92. 
 
 Animals, distributed by nature into 
 classes, 467. 
 
 Antibacchius, 324. 
 
 Anticlimax, 286. 
 
 Antispastus. 324. 
 
 Antithesis, 259. Verbal antithesis, 183. 
 259. 
 
 Apostrophe, 359, &c. 
 
 Appearance, things ought to be described 
 in poetry, as they appear, not as they 
 are in reality, 393. 
 
 Appetite, defined, 31. Appetites of hun- 
 ger, thirst, animal love, arise without 
 an object, 40. Appetite for fame or 
 esteem, 100. 
 
 Apprehension, dulness and quickness ot 
 apprehension, to what causes owing, 
 152. 
 
 Architecture, ch. xxiv. Grandeur 01
 
 INDEX. 
 
 480 
 
 manner in architecture, 119. The si- 
 tuation of a great house ought to be 
 lofty, 166. A playhouse or a music- 
 room susceptible of much ornament, 
 167. What emotions can be raised 
 by architecture, 443. Its emotions 
 compared with those of gardening, ib. 
 Every building ought to have an ex- 
 pression suited to its destination, 444. 
 ~457. Simplicity ought to be the go- 
 verning taste, 443. Regularity to be 
 studied, 445. 454. External form of 
 dwelling-houses, 452, 453. Divisions 
 within, -153. 458, 459. A palace ought 
 to be regular, but in a small house 
 convenience ought to be preferred, 
 452, 453. A dwelling-house ought to 
 be suited to the climate, 454. Con- 
 gruity ought to be studied, 457. Ar- 
 chitecture governed by principles that 
 produce opposite effects, 459, 460. 
 Different ornaments employed in it, 
 459, 460. Witticisms in architecture, 
 464. Allegorical or emblematical or- 
 naments, ib. Architecture inspires a 
 taste ibr neatness and regularity, 465. 
 
 Ariosto, censured, 160. 430. 
 
 Aristseus, the episode of Aristaeus in the 
 Georgics censured, 323. 
 
 Aristotle, censured, 477, note. 
 
 Army, 'defined, 488. 
 
 Arrangement, the best arrangement of 
 words is to place them if possible in 
 an increasing series, 252. Arrange- 
 ment, of members in a period, ib. Of 
 periods in a discourse, 253. Ambi- 
 guity from wrong arrangement, 270. 
 273. Arrangement natural and in- 
 verted, 280, 281. 
 
 Articulate sounds, how far agreeable, 
 248. 250. 
 
 Artificial mount, 448. 
 
 Arts. Sec Fine Arts. 
 
 Ascent, pleasant, but descent not pain- 
 ful, 114. 
 
 Athalie, of Racine censured, 231. 
 
 Attention, defined, 484. Impression 
 made by objects depends on the degree 
 of attention, ib. Attention not always 
 voluntary, 485. 
 
 Attractive passions, 210. 
 
 Attractive objects, 97. 
 
 Attractive signs of passion, 210. 
 
 Attributes, transferred by a figure of 
 speech from one subject to another, 
 365, &c. 
 
 Avarice, defined, 29. 
 
 Avenue, to a house, 448. 
 
 Aversion, defined, 65. 195. 
 
 Bacchius, 324. 
 
 Bajazet, of Racine censured, 241. 
 
 Barren scene, defined, 431. 
 
 Base, of a column, 462. 
 
 Basso-relievo, 460. 
 
 Batrachomuomachia, censured, 179. 
 
 Beauty, ch. iii. Intrinsic and relative, 
 103. 449. Beauty of simplicity, 104. 
 of figure, ib., of the circle, 105. of the 
 square, ib., of a regular polygon, 106. 
 of a parallelogram, ib., of an equila- 
 teral triangle, ib. Whether beauty is 
 a primary or secondary quality of ob- 
 jects, 107*. Beauty distinguished from 
 grandeur, 110. Beauty of natural 
 colors, 161. Beauty distinguished 
 from congruity, 166. Consummate 
 beauty seldom produces a constant 
 lover, 199. Wherein consists the 
 beauty of the human visage, 204* 
 Beauty proper and figurative, 482. 
 
 Behavior, gross and refined, 62. 
 
 Belief, of the reality of external objects, 
 51. Enforced by a lively narrative, 
 or a good historical painting, 56, 57. 
 Influenced by passion, 87. 361. In- 
 fluenced by propensity, 88. Influ- 
 enced by affection, ib. 
 
 Benevolence operates in conjunction 
 with self-love to make us happy, 97. 
 Benevolence inspired by gardening, 
 451. 
 
 Berkeley, censured, 477, note. 
 
 Blank verse, 298. 315. Its aptitude for 
 inversion, 317. Its melody, ib. How 
 far proper in tragedy, 428. 
 
 Body, defined, 475. 
 
 Boileau, censured, 360. 417. 
 
 Bombast, 124. Bombast in action, 1516. 
 
 Bossu, censured, 432, note. 
 
 Burlesque, machinery does well in a 
 burlesque poem, 57. Burlesque u'- 
 tinguished into two kinds, 179. 
 
 Business, men of middle age best quali- 
 fied for it, 152. 
 
 Cadence, 287. 292. 
 
 Capital, of a column, 463. 
 
 Careless husband, its double plot wU 
 contrived, 426. 
 
 Cascade, 129. 
 
 Cause, resembling causes may produce 
 effects that have no resemblance ; and 
 causes that have no resemblance 
 may produce resembling effects, 283. 
 Cause, defined, 488. 
 
 Chance, the mind revolts against misfor- 
 tunes that happen by chance, 418. 
 
 Character, to draw a character is the 
 master-stroke of description, 397, 398. 
 
 Characteristics, of Shaftsbury criticised, 
 167, note. 
 
 Children, love to them accounted for, 43. 
 A child can discover a passion from 
 its external signs, 211. Hides none 
 of its emotions, 215.
 
 490 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Chinese, gardens, 450. Wonder and 
 surprise studied in them, 451. 
 
 Choreus, 323. 
 
 Choriambus, 324. 
 
 Chorus, an essential part of the Grecian 
 tragedy, 433. 
 
 Church, what ought to be its form and 
 situation, 458. 
 
 Cicero censured, 280. 287. 290. 
 
 Cid, of Corneille censured, 221. 233. 
 
 Cinna, of Corneille censured, 168. 219. 
 232. 
 
 Circle, its beauty, 105. 
 
 Circumstances, in a period, where they 
 should be placed, 273. 275. 
 
 Class, all living creatures distributed 
 into classes, 470, 471. 
 
 Climax, in sense, 116. 220. 278. In 
 sound, 253. When these are joined, 
 the sentence is delightful, 286. 
 
 Ccephores, of Eschylus censured, 203. 
 
 Coexistent emotions and passions,67,&c. 
 
 Colonnade, where proper, 454. 
 
 Color, gold and silver esteemed for their 
 beautiful colors, 104. A secondary 
 quality, 59. Natural colors, 161. Co- 
 loring of the human face, exquisite, ib. 
 
 Columns, every column ought to have a 
 base, 94. The base ought to be 
 square, 95. Columns admit different 
 proportions, 456 458. What emo- 
 tions they raise, 458. Column more 
 beautiful than a pilaster, 462. Its 
 form, ib. Five orders of columns, ib. 
 Capital of the Corinthian order cen- 
 sured, 463. 
 
 Comedy, double plot in a comedy, 425, 
 426. Modern manners do best in 
 comedy, 420. Immorality of English 
 comedy, 36. 
 
 Comet, motion of the comets and planets 
 compared with respect to beauty, 128. 
 
 Commencement, of a work ought to be 
 modest and simple, 39. 
 
 Common nature, in every species of 
 animals, 60. 467. We have a convic- 
 tion that this common nature is inva- 
 riable, 468. Also that it is perfect or 
 right, 60. 468. 
 
 Common sense, 467. 473. 
 
 Communication of passion to related 
 objects. See. Passion. 
 
 Communication of qualities to related 
 objects. See Propensity. 
 
 Comparison, 140, &c. ch. xix. In the 
 early composition of all nations, com- 
 parisons are carried beyond proper 
 bounds, 325. Comparisons that re- 
 solve into a play of words, 343. 
 
 Complex emotion, 68, &c. 
 
 Complex object, its power to generate 
 passion, 45. 122. 
 
 Complex perception, 479. 
 
 in all composi- 
 
 Complexion, what colour of dress is the 
 most suitable to different complexions. 
 148. 
 
 Conception, defined, 475. 
 
 Concord, or harmony in objects of 
 sight, 69. 
 
 Concordant sounds, defined, 67. 
 
 Congreve, censured, 37. 180. 207. note. 
 
 Congruity and propriety, chap. x. A 
 secondary relation, 165, note. Con- 
 gruity distinguished from beauty, 166. 
 Distinguished from propriety, ib. As 
 to quantity, congruity coincides with 
 proportion, 170. 
 
 Connection essential 
 tions, 23. 
 
 Conquest of Granada, of Dryden cen- 
 sured, 234. 
 
 Consonants, 249. 
 
 Constancy, consummate beauty the 
 cause of inconstancy, 199. 
 
 Construction, of language explained. 
 264, &c. ' 
 
 Contemplation, when painful, 156. 
 
 Contempt, raised by improper action, 
 138. 
 
 Contrast, chap. viii. Its effect in lan- 
 guage, 251. In a series of objects, 
 252. Contrast in the thought requires 
 contrast in the members of the expres- 
 sion, 251. The effect of contrast in 
 gardening, 450. 
 
 Conviction, intuitive. See Intuitive Con- 
 viction. 
 
 Copulative, to dfop the copulative en- 
 livens the expression, 264, &c. 
 
 Coriolanus, of Shakspeare censured, 
 234. 
 
 Corneille, censured, 219. 229. 240. 243. 
 
 Corporeal pleasure, 11 13. Low and 
 sometimes mean, 174. 
 
 Couplet, 298. Rules for its composi- 
 tion, 316. 
 
 Courage, of greater dignity than jus- 
 tice, 174. 
 
 Creticus, 324. 
 
 Criminal, the hour of execution seems to 
 him to approach with a swift pace, 89. 
 
 Criticism, its advantages, 14, 15. Its 
 terms not accurately defined, 212. 
 
 Crowd, defined, 485. 
 
 Curiosity, 131. 139, &c. 
 
 Custom and habit, ch. xiv. Renders 
 objects familiar, 131. Custom distin- 
 guished from habit, 193. Custom 
 puts the rich and poor upon a level, 
 201. Taste in the fine arts improved 
 by custom, 472, note. 
 
 Dactyle, 324. 
 Davila, censured, 159. 
 Declensions, explained, 267.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 491 
 
 Dedications. See Epistles Dedicatory. 
 
 Delicacy, of taste, 61. 472. 
 
 Derision, 169. 179. 
 
 Des Cartes, censured, 477, note. 
 
 Descent, not painful, 114. 
 
 Description, it animates a description to 
 represent things past as present, 55. 
 The rules that ought to govern it, 
 392, &c. A lively description is 
 agreeable, though the subject describ- 
 ed be disagreeable, 409. No objects 
 but those of sight can be Well des- 
 cribed, 480. 
 
 Descriptive personifications, 351. 
 
 Descriptive tragedy, 217. 
 
 Desire, defined, 29. It impels us to ac- 
 tion, 31. It determines the will, 96. 
 Desire in a criminal to be punished, 
 99. Desire tends the most to happi- 
 ness when moderate, 108. 
 
 Dialogue,dialogue writing requires great 
 genius, 216, &c. In dialogue every 
 expression ought to be suited to the 
 character of the speaker, 404. Dia- 
 logue makes a deeper impression than 
 narration, 415. Qualified for express- 
 ing sentiments, 416. Rules for it, 
 427, &c. 
 
 Dignity and grace, chap. xi. Dignity 
 of human nature, 469. 
 
 Diiambus, 324. 
 
 Diphthongs, 249. 
 
 Disagreeable emotions and passions, 
 58, &c. 
 
 Discordant sounds, defined, 68. 
 
 Dispondeus, 324. 
 
 Disposition, defined, 483. 
 
 Dissimilar emotions, 68. Their effects 
 when coexistent, 71. 444. 450. 457. 
 
 Dissimilar passions, their effects, 76. 
 
 Dissocial passions, 33. All of them 
 painful, 59. and also disagreeable, 60. 
 
 Distance, the natural method of com- 
 puting the distance of objects, 92, &c. 
 Errors to which this computation is 
 liable, 455. 459. 
 
 Ditrochasus, 324. 
 
 Door, its proportion, 452. 
 
 Double action, in an epic poem, 430. 
 
 Double Dealer, of Congreve censured, 
 231. 431. 
 
 Double plot, in a dramatic composition, 
 425. 
 
 Drama, ancient and modern compared, 
 432, &c. 
 
 Dramatic poetry, ch. xxii. 
 
 Drapery, ought to hang loose, 95. 
 
 Dress, rules about dress, 167. 443. 
 Dryden, censured, 375. 427. 431. 
 
 Duties, moral duties distinguished into 
 those which respect ourselves and 
 those which respect others, 170. Foun- 
 dation of duties that respect ourselves, 
 
 ib., of those that respect others, ib. 
 Duty of acting up to the dignity of 
 our nature, 173. 175. 
 Dwelling-house, its external form, 452, 
 &c. Internal form, 453. 458. 
 
 Education, promoted by the fine arts, 14. 
 45 1 . Means to promote in young per- 
 sons a habit of virtue, 40. 
 
 Effects, resembling effects may be pro- 
 duced by causes that have no resem- 
 blance, 283. 
 
 Effect, defined, 488. 
 
 Efficient cause, of less importance than 
 the final cause, 175. 
 
 Electra, of Sophocles censured, 204. 
 
 Elevation, 110, &c. Real and figurative 
 intimately connected, 114. Figura* 
 tive elevation distinguished from figu- 
 rative grandeur, 333, 334. 
 
 Emotion, what feelings are termed emo- 
 tions, 26. Emotions defined, 27, &c. 
 And their causes assigned, 28. Dis- 
 tinguished from passions, 30. Emo- 
 tion generated by relations, 41, &c. 
 Emotions expanded upon related ob- 
 jects, 41, &c. 275. 283. 309. 349, 350. 
 380. Emotions distinguished into pri- 
 mary and secondary, 43. Raised by 
 fiction, 50, &c. Raised by painting, 
 54. Emotions divided into pleasant 
 and painful, agreeable and disagree- 
 able, 59, &c. 480. The interrupted ex- 
 istence of emotions, 63, &c. Theis 
 growth and decay, 64, &c. Their 
 identity, ib. Coexistent emotions, 67, 
 &c. Emotions similar and dissimilar, 
 
 68. Complex emotions, 69, 70. Ef- 
 fects of similar coexistent emotions, 
 
 69. 457. Effects of dissimilar coex- 
 istent emotions, 71, 444. Influence of 
 emotions upon our perceptions, opi- 
 nions, and belief, 82, &c. 92, 93. 144. 
 146. 347. 359. 361. 365, '&c. Emo- 
 tions resemble their causes, 94, &c. 
 Emotions of grandeur, 109, &c., of 
 sublimity, 110. A low emotion, 115. 
 Emotion of laughter, ch. vii., of ridi- 
 cule, 138. Emotions when contrasted 
 should not be top slow .nor too quick 
 in their succession, 149. Emotions 
 raised by the fine arts ought to be con- 
 trasted in succession, ib. Emotion of 
 congruity, 165, &c., of propriety, 167. 
 Emotions produced by human actions, 
 172. Ranked according to their dig- 
 nity, 173. External signs of emo- 
 tions, ch. xv. Attractive and repul- 
 sive emotions, 210. What emotions 
 do best in succession, what in con- 
 junction, 444. What emotions are 
 raised by the productions of manu- 
 factures, 451, note. Man is passive
 
 492 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 with regard to his emotions, 475. 
 We are conscious of emotions as in 
 the heart, ib. 
 Emphasis, defined, 309, note. Ought 
 never to be but upon words of im- 
 portance, 287. 310. 
 
 Eneid, its unity of action. See Virgil. 
 English plays, generally irregular, 439. 
 English comedies generally licen- 
 tious, 36. 
 
 English tongue, too rough, 251. In 
 English words the long syllable is put 
 early, 250, note. English tongue more 
 grave and sedate in its tone than the 
 French, 311, note. Peculiarly quali- 
 fied for personification, 350, note. 
 
 Entablature, 461. 
 
 Envy, defined, 30. How generated, 65. 
 Why it is perpetual, 66. It magni- 
 fies every bad quality in its object, 84. 
 
 Epic poem, no improbable fact ought to 
 be admitted, 57. Machinery in it has 
 a bad effect, ib. It doth not always 
 reject ludicrous images, 151. Its com- 
 mencement ought to be modest and 
 simple, 392. In what respect it dif- 
 fers from a tragedy, 414. Distin- 
 guished into pathetic and moral, 415. 
 Its good effects, 417. Compared with 
 tragedy as to the subjects proper for 
 each, 416. How far it may borrow 
 from history, 419. Rule for dividing 
 it into parts, 420. 
 
 Epic poetry, ch. xxii. 
 
 Epicurus, censured, 477, note. 
 
 Episode, in an historical poem, 424. 
 Requisites, 425. 
 
 Epistles dedicatory, censured, 165, 
 note. 
 
 Epithets, redundant, 407. 
 
 Epitritus, 324. 
 
 Essays on man, criticised, 322. 
 
 Esteem, love of, 101. 118. 
 
 Esther, of Racine censured, 231. 233. 
 
 Eunuch, of Terence censured, 242. 439. 
 
 Euripides, censui'ed, 242. 438. 
 
 Evergreens, cut in the shape of animals, 
 447. 
 
 Effect of experience with respect to taste 
 in the fine arts, 472, note. 
 
 Expression, elevated, low, 115. Ex- 
 pression that has no distinct meaning, 
 246. Members of a sentence ex- 
 pressing a resemblance betwixt two 
 objects, ought to resemble each other, 
 26 1, &c. Force of expression by 
 suspending the thought till the close, 
 279. 
 
 External objects, their reality, 51. 
 
 External senses, distinguished into two 
 kinds, 11. External sense, 474. 
 
 External signs, of emotions and pas- 
 sions, ch. xv. External signs of pas- 
 
 sion, what emotions they raise. in a 
 spectator, 209. 
 
 Eye-sight, influenced by passion, 93. 
 144, 145. 
 
 Face, though uniformity prevail in the 
 human face, yet every face is distin- 
 guishable from another, 163. 
 
 Faculty, by which we know passion 
 from its external signs, 214. 
 
 Fairy Queen, criticised, 373. 
 
 False quantity, painful to the ear, 299. 
 
 Fame, love of, 101. 
 
 Familiarity, its effect, 64. 131. 380., it 
 wears on by absence, 134. 
 
 Fashion, its influence accounted for, 42. 
 Fashion is in a continual flux, 107. 
 
 Fear, explained, 47, &c. Rises often to 
 its utmost pitch in an instant, 65. 
 Fear arising from affection or aver- 
 sion, ib. Fear is infectious, 95. 
 
 Feeling, its different significations, 476. 
 
 Fiction, emotions raised by fiction, 50, 
 &c. 
 
 Figure, beauty of, 104. Definition of a 
 regular figure, 481. 
 
 Figures, some passions favourable to 
 figurative expression. 237. 335. 
 
 Figures, ch. xx. Figure of speech, 353. 
 370. 379, &c. Figures were of old 
 much strained, 325. 372. 
 
 Final cause, defined, 175. Final cause 
 of our sense of order and connection, 
 26., of the sympathetic emotion of 
 virtue, 40., of vhe instinctive passion 
 of fear, 48., of the instinctive passion 
 of anger., 50., of ideal presence, 52, 
 &c., of the power that fiction has over 
 the mind, 51., of emotions and pas- 
 sions, 9t>, &c., of the communication 
 of passion to related objects, 101., of 
 regularity, uniformity, order, and sim- 
 plicity, 104., of proportion, ib., of 
 beauty, 108. Why certain objects are 
 neither pleasant nor painful, 113. 127., 
 of the pleasure we have in motion 
 and force, 130., of curiosity, 131., of 
 wonder, 136., of surprise, ib., of the 
 principle that prompts us to perfect 
 every work, 147., of the pleasure or 
 pain that results from the different 
 circumstances of a train of percep- 
 tions, 157, &c.. of congruity and pro- 
 priety, 170, &c., of dignity and mean- 
 ness, 175, &c., of habit, 201, &c., of 
 the external signs of passion and emo- 
 tion, 211, &c. Why articulate sounds 
 singly agreeable are always agree- 
 able in conjunction, 249., of the plea- 
 sure we have in language, 409., of our 
 relish for various proportions in quan- 
 tity, 455. Why delicacy of taste is 
 withheld from the bulk of mankind,
 
 INDEX. 
 
 493 
 
 467., of our conviction of a common 
 standard in every species of beings, 
 469., of uniformity of taste in the fine 
 arts, 469, 470. Why the sense of a 
 right and a wrong in the fine arts is 
 less clear than the use of a right and 
 a wrong in actions, 471. Final cause 
 of greater importance than the effi- 
 cient cause, 175. 
 
 Fthe arts, defined, 12. 16. A subject of 
 reasoning, 14. Education, promoted 
 by the fine arts, 14, 15. 451. The 
 fine arts a great support to morality, 
 13. 452. 465, &c. Their emotions 
 ought to be contrasted in succession, 
 149. Uniformity and variety in the 
 fine arts. 159. Considered with res- 
 pect to dignity, 175. How far they 
 may be regulated by custom, 202. 
 None of them are imitative but paint- 
 ing and sculpture, 247. Aberrations 
 from a true taste in these arts, 470. 
 Who qualified to be judges in the fine 
 arts, 472. 
 
 Fluid, motion of fluids, 128. 
 
 Foot, the effect that syllables collected 
 into feet have upon the ear, 265. 
 Musical feet defined, 293, note. A 
 list of verse-feet, 323, 324. 
 
 Force, produces a feeling that resembles 
 it, 93. Force, ch. v. 
 
 Moving force, 128. Force gives a plea- 
 sure differing from that of motion, 
 129. It contributes to grandeur, 130. 
 
 Foreign, preference given to foreign cu- 
 riosities, 135. 
 
 Fountains, in what form they ought to 
 be, 448. 
 
 French dramatic writers, criticised, 219. 
 232. 4C9, note. 
 
 French verse, requires rhyme, 322. 
 
 French language, more lively to the ear 
 than the English, 311, note. In French 
 words the last syllable generally long 
 and accented, ib. note. 
 
 Friendship, considered with respect to 
 dignity and meanness, 173. 
 
 Gallery, why it appears longer than it is 
 in reality, 446. Is not an agreeable 
 figure of a room, 457. 
 
 Games, public games of the Greeks, 129. 
 
 Gardening, a fine garden gives lustre to 
 the owner, 43, not-e. Grandeur of 
 manner in gardening, 122. Its emo- 
 tions ought to be contrasted in succes- 
 sion, 149. A small garden should be 
 confined to a single expression, 150. 
 442. A garden near a great city 
 should have an air of solitude, 150. 
 A garden in a wild country should be 
 gay and splendid, ib. Gardening, 
 ch. xxiv. What emotions can be 
 42 
 
 raised by it, 442. Its emotions com- 
 pared with those of architecture, ib. 
 Simplicity ought to be the governing 
 taste, 443. Wherein the unity of a 
 garden consists, 444. How far should 
 regularity be studied in it, 445. Re- 
 semblance carried too far in it, 445, 
 note. Grandeur in gardening, ib. 
 Every unnatural object ought to be 
 rejected, 446. Distant and faint imi- 
 tations displease, 447. Winter-gar- 
 den, 450. The effect of giving play 
 to the imagination, 451. Garden- 
 ing inspires benevolence, ib. And 
 contributes to rectitude of manners, 
 465. 
 
 General idea, there cannot be such thing, 
 478, note. 
 
 General terms, should be avoided in com- 
 positions for amusement, 122. 404. j 
 
 General theorems, why agreeable, 107. 
 
 Generic habit, defined, 198. 
 
 Generosity, why of greater dignity than 
 justice, 174. 
 
 Genus, defined, 485. 
 
 Gestures, that accompany the different 
 passions, 205, &c. 
 
 Gierusalemme Liberata, censured, 422, 
 423. 
 
 Globe, a beautiful figure, 160. 
 
 Good-nature, why of less dignity than 
 courage or generosity, 174. 
 
 Gothic tower, its beauty, 458. Gothic 
 fonn of buildings, 464. 
 
 Government, natural foundation of sub- 
 mission to government, 100. 
 
 Grace, ch. xi. Grace of motion, 128. 
 Grace analyzed, 177, &c. 
 
 Grandeur and sublimity, ch. iv. Dis- 
 tinguished from beauty, 110. Gran- 
 deur demands not strict regularity, 
 111. Regularity, order, and propor- 
 tion, contribute to grandeur, ib. Real 
 and figurative grandeur intimately 
 connected, 114. Grandeur of manner, 
 149. Grandeur may be employed in- 
 directly to humble the mind, 124. 
 Suits ill with wit and ridicule, 150. 
 Fixes the attention, 163. Figurative 
 grandeur distinguished from figura- 
 tive elevation, 333. Grandeur in gar- 
 dening, 445. Irregularity and dispro- 
 portion increase in appearance the 
 size pf a building, 459. 
 
 Gratification, of passion, 32. 35. 80. 86. 
 348. 359. 361, &c. Obstacles to gra- 
 tification inflame a passion, 65. 
 
 Gratitude, considered with respect to its 
 gratification, 64. Exerted upon the 
 children of the benefactor, 84. Pu- 
 nisliment of ingratitude, 171. Grati- 
 tude considered with respect to dig- 
 nity and meanness, 175.
 
 494 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Greek words, finely composed of long 
 and short syllables, 319. 
 
 Grief, magnifies its cause, 85. Occa- 
 sions a false reckoning of time, 92. 
 Is infectious, 95. When immoderate 
 is silent, 236. 
 
 Gross pleasure, 62. 
 
 Group, natural " objects readily form 
 themselves into groups, 160. 
 
 Guido, censured, 376. 
 
 Habit, ch. xiv. Prevails in old age, 
 152. Habit of application to busi- 
 ness, 155, 156, 157. Converts pain 
 into pleasure, 158. Distinguished 
 from custom, 193. Puts the rich and 
 poor upon a level, 201, 202. 
 
 Harmony, or concord in objects of 
 sight, 68, 69. Harmony distinguish- 
 ed from melody, 290, note. 
 
 Hatred, how produced, 65. Signifies 
 more commonly affection than pas- 
 sion, ib. Its endurance, 67. 
 
 Hearing, in hearing we feel no impres- 
 sion, 476. 
 
 Henriade, censured. 395. 422. 424. 
 
 Hexameter, Virgil's hexameter's ex- 
 tremely melodious, those of Horace 
 seldom so, 290. And the reason why 
 they are not, 292. Structure of an 
 hexameter line, 294. Rules for its 
 structure, 294. 297. Musical pauses 
 in an hexameter line, 293, note, 296. 
 Wherein its melody consists, 297. 
 
 Hiatus, defined, 250. 
 
 Hippolytus, of Euripides censured, 229. 
 438. 
 
 History, why the history of heroes and 
 conquerors is singularly agreeable, 
 40. 117. By what means does his- 
 tory raise our passions, 54. It rejects 
 poetical images, 392. 
 
 History-painting. See Painting. 
 
 Homer, defective in order and connec- 
 tion, 23. His language finely suited 
 to his subject, 402. His repetitions 
 defended, 400. His poems in a great 
 measure dramatic, 415. Censured, 
 423. 
 
 Hope, 65. 
 
 Horace, defective, in connection, 24. 
 His hexameters not melodious, 290. 
 Their defects pointed out, 297. 
 
 Horror, objects of horror should be ba- 
 nished from poetry and painting, 411. 
 
 House, a fine house gives lustre to the 
 owner, 43, note. 
 
 Human nature, a complicated machine, 
 27. 
 
 Humanity, the finest temper of mind. 62. 
 
 Humor, defined, 180. Humor in wri- 
 ting distinguished from humor in cha- 
 racter, ib. 
 
 Hyperbole, 124. 361, dec. 
 Hippobachius, 324. 
 
 Iambic verse, its modulation faint, 290. 
 
 Iambus, 323. 
 
 Jane Shore, censured, 222. 228. 
 
 Idea, not so easily remembered as a per- 
 ception is, 91, 92. 152. Succession of 
 ideas, 152. Pleasure and pain of 
 ideas in a train, 155, 156. Idea of 
 memory defined, 476. Cannot be in- 
 nate, 478, note. There are no general 
 ideas, ib., note. Idea of an object of 
 sight more distinct than of any other 
 object, 479. Ideas distinguished into 
 three kinds, 480. Ideas of imagina- 
 tion not so pleasant as ideas of me- 
 mory, 482. 
 
 Ideal presence, 52, &c., raised by thea- 
 trical representation, 54., raised by 
 painting, ib. 
 
 Ideal system, 477, note. 
 
 Identity of a passion or of an emotion, 
 64. 
 
 Jet d'eau, 129. 447, 448. 
 
 Jingle of words, 316. 320. 
 
 Iliad, criticised, 430. 
 
 Images the life of poetry and rhetoric, 
 53. 122. 
 
 Imagination, the great instrument of re- 
 creation, 137. To give play to it has 
 a good effect in gardening, 451. Its 
 power in fabricating images. 480. 482. 
 Agreeableness of ideas of imagina- 
 tion. 482. 
 
 Imitation, we naturally imitate virtu- 
 ous actions, 95. Not those that are 
 vicious, ib. Inarticulate sounds imi- 
 tated in words, 282. None of the fine 
 arts imitate nature except painting 
 and sculpture, 247. The agreeable- 
 ness of imitation overbalances thedis- 
 agreeablcness of the subject. 409. 
 Distant and faint imitations displease. 
 H47. 
 
 Impression, made on the organ of sense, 
 11. 476. Success! ve impressions, 252. 
 
 Impropriety in action raises contempt, 
 138. Its punishment, 169. 
 
 Impulse, a strong impulse succeeding a 
 weak, makes a double impression : a 
 weak impulse succeeding a strong, 
 makes scarce any impression, 252. 
 
 Infinite series, becomes disagreeable 
 when prolonged, 146, note. 
 
 Innate idea, there cannot be such a 
 tiling, 478, note. 
 
 Instinct, we act sometimes by instinct, 
 31. 47, &c. 
 
 Instrument, the means or instrument 
 conceived to be the agent, 365. 
 
 Intellectual pleasure, 12. 
 
 Internal sense, 475.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 495 
 
 Intrinsic beauty, 103. 
 
 Intuitive conviction, of the veracity of 
 our senses, 51., of the dignity of hu- 
 man nature, 174.469., of a common 
 nature or standard in every species of 
 beings, 467., of this standard being in- 
 variable, 468., and of its being perfect 
 or right, ib. Intuitive conviction that 
 the external signs of passion are na- 
 -tural, and also that they are the same 
 in all men, 211,212. 
 
 Intuitive knowledge of external ob- 
 jects, 51. 
 
 Inversion, and inverted style described, 
 268, &c. Inversion gives force and 
 liveliness to the expression by sus- 
 pending the thought till the close, 277. 
 Inversion how regulated, 281. Beau- 
 ties of inversion, ib. Inversion fa- 
 vourable, to pauses, 306. Full scope 
 for it in blank verse, 317. 
 
 Involuntary signs, of passion, 205 208. 
 
 lonicus, 324. 
 
 Joy, its cause, 37, 38. Infectious, 95. 
 Considered with respect to dignity 
 and meanness, 175. 
 
 Iphigenia of Racine, censured, 203. 
 
 Iphigenia in Tauris, censured, 242. 438. 
 
 Irony, defined, 182. 
 
 Italian tongue, too smooth, 251, note. 
 Italian words finely diversified by long 
 and short syllables, 250, note. 
 
 Judgment, and memory in perfection, 
 seldom united, 21. Judgment seldom 
 united with wit, ib. 
 
 Julius Ca:sar, of Shakspeare censured, 
 233, 234. 
 
 Justice, of less dignity than generosity 
 or courage, 174. 
 
 Kent, his skill in gardening, 444. 
 
 Key-note, 287. 292. 
 
 Kitchen-garden, 441. 
 
 Knowledge, intuitive knowledge of ex- 
 ternal objects, 51. Its pleasures never 
 decay, 200. 
 
 Labyrinth, in a garden, 447. 
 
 Landscape, why so agreeable, 69. 164. 
 More agreeable when comprehended 
 under one view, 446. A landscape in 
 painting ought to be confined to a sin- 
 gle expression, 150. Contrast ought 
 to prevail in it, 159. 
 
 Language, power of language to raise 
 emotions, whence derived, 53, 54. 
 Language 'of passion, chap. xvii. 
 Ought to be suited to the sentiments, 
 216. 236238., broken and interrupt- 
 ed, 236., of impetuous passion, 238., 
 of languid passion, ib., of calm emo- 
 tions, ib., of turbulent passions, ib. 
 Examples of language elevated above 
 
 the tone of the sentiment, 243. Of 
 language too artificial or too figura- 
 tive, 244., too light or airy, 245. Lan- 
 guage how far imitative, 247. Its 
 beauty with respect to signification, 
 248. 254, &c. Its beauty with respect 
 to sounds, 248, &c. It ought to cor- 
 respond to the subject, 257. 400. Its 
 structure explained, 266, &c. Beauty 
 of language from a resemblance be- 
 twixt sound and signification, 266. 
 248, &c. The character of a lan- 
 guage depends on the character of the 
 nation whose language it is, 311, note. 
 The force of language consists in 
 raising complete images, 57. 409. Its 
 power of producing pleasant emo- 
 tions, 408. Without language man 
 would scarce be a rational being, 4*7. 
 
 Latin tongue, finely diversified with 
 long and short syllables, 319. 
 
 L'Avare, of Moliere censured. 233. 
 
 Laughter, 137. 
 
 Laugh, of derision or scorn, 138. 169. 
 
 Law, defined, 171. 
 
 Laws of human nature, necessary suc- 
 cession of perceptions, 20. 152. We 
 never act but through the impulse ot 
 desire, 30. 96. An object loses its 
 relish by familiarity, 64. Passions 
 sudden in their growth are equally 
 sudden in their decay, 66. 196. Every 
 passion ceases upon obtaining its ul- 
 timate end, 66. An agreeable cause 
 produceth always a pleasant emotion, 
 and a disagreeable cause a painful 
 emotion, 96. 
 
 Laws of motion, agreeable, 107. 
 
 Les Freres ennemies of Racine, cen- 
 sured, 225. 
 
 Lewis XIV. of France, censured, 165 
 note.. 
 
 Lex talionis, upon what principle found- 
 ed, 148. 
 
 Line, definition of a regular line, 481. 
 
 Littleness, is neither pleasant nor pain- 
 ful, 113. Is connected with respect 
 and humility, 206, note. 
 
 Livy, censured, 256. 
 
 Locke, censured, 477, 478, note. 
 
 Logic, cause of its obscurity and intri- 
 cacy, 211. 
 
 Logio, improper in this climate, 454. 
 
 Love, to children accounted for, 43. 
 The love a man bears to his country 
 explained, 45. Love produced by 
 pity, 46. Love gradual, 64. It sig- 
 nifies more commonly affection than 
 passion, 65. Love inflamed by the 
 caprices of a mistress, 66. Its endu- 
 rance, 67. To a lover absence ap- 
 pears long, 89. Love assumes the 
 qualities of its object, 95., when ex-
 
 496 
 
 1JNDEX. 
 
 cessive becomes selfish, 108., consi- 
 dered with respect to dignity anc 
 meanness, 174., seldom constant when 
 founded on exquisite beauty, 191)., i! 
 represented in French plays, 232. 
 when immoderate is silent, 236. 
 
 Love for Love, censured, 431. 
 
 Lowness, is neither pleasant nor pain- 
 ful, 113. 
 
 Lucan, too minute in his descriptions, 
 21., censured, 415 
 
 Ludicrous, 137., may be introduced into 
 an epic poem, 151. 
 
 Lutrin, censured for incongruity, 166., 
 characterised, 179. 
 
 Luxury, corrupts our taste, 471, 472. 
 
 Machinery, ought to be excluded from 
 an epic poem, 57. 421., does well in a 
 burlesque poem, 57. 
 
 Malice, how generated, 64. Why it is 
 perpetual, 66. 
 
 Man, a benevolent as well as a selfish 
 being, 97, 98., fitted for society, 100. 
 Conformity of the nature of man to 
 his external circumstances, 113. 127. 
 130. 163. 208. Man intended to be 
 more active than contemplative, 175. 
 The different branches of his internal 
 constitution finely suited to each other, 
 455. 470. 
 
 Manners, gross and refined, 62. The 
 bad tendency of rough and blunt man- 
 ners, 212, note. Modern manners 
 make a poor figure in an epic poem, 
 
 Manufactures, the effect of their produc- 
 tions with respect to morality, 451, 
 note. 
 
 Marvellous, in epic poetry, 423. 
 
 Means, the means or instrument con- 
 ceived to be the agent, 365, &c. 
 
 Measure, natural measure of time, 89, 
 &c., of space, 92, &c. 
 
 Meaux, Bishop of, censured, 149. 
 
 Medea, of Euripides censured, 438. 
 
 Melody or modulation defined, 290., dis- 
 tinguished from harmony, ib., note. 
 In English heroic verse are four dif- 
 ferent sorts of melody, 300. 311. Me- 
 lody of blank verse superior to that of 
 rhyme, and even to that of hexameter, 
 317. 
 
 Members of a period have a fine effect 
 placed in an increasing series, 252. 
 
 Memory, and judgment in perfection 
 seldom united, 21. Memory and wit 
 often united, ib., greater with respect 
 to perceptions than ideas, 91. Me- 
 mory, 476 478. 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor, its double 
 plot well contrived, 456. 
 
 Metaphor, 3t>9, &c, In early composi- 
 
 tions of nations we find metaphors 
 much strained, 372. 
 
 Metre, 298. 
 
 Mile, the computed miles are longer ii> 
 a barren than in a populous coun- 
 try, 91. 
 
 Milton, his style much inverted, 317. 
 The defect of his versification is the 
 want of coincidence betwixt the 
 pauses of the s r :nse and sound, 319. 
 The beauty of Milton's comparisons. 
 328, &c. 
 
 Moderation in our desires contributes 
 the most to happiness, 108. 
 
 Modern manners, make a poor figure in 
 nn epic poem, 419. 
 
 Modification, defined, 484. 
 
 Modulation, defined, 289. 
 
 Molossus, 323. 
 
 Monosyllables, English, arbitrary as to 
 quantity, 298. 
 
 Moral duties. See Duties. 
 
 Morality, a right and a wrong taste in 
 morals, 468. Aberrations from its 
 true standard, 471. 
 
 Moral sense, 28. Our passions as well 
 as actions are governed by it, 60. 
 
 Moral tragedy, 415. 
 
 Motion, requires the constant exertion of 
 an operating cause, 63., productive of 
 feelings that resemble it, 94. Its laws 
 agreeable, 127. Motion and force, 
 ch. v. What motions are the most 
 agreeable, 128, &c. Regular motion, 
 128. Accelerated motion, ib. Up- 
 ward motion, ib. Undulating mo- 
 tion, ib. Motion of fluids, ib. A 
 body moved neither agreeable nor dis- 
 agreeable, ib. The pleasure of mo- 
 tion differs from that of force, 129. 
 Grace of motion, 130. Motions of 
 the human body, ib. Motion explain- 
 ed, 479. 
 
 Motive, defined, 32. A selfish motive 
 arising from a social principle, 32, 
 note. 
 
 Movement, applied figuratively to me- 
 lody, 284. 
 
 Mount, artificial, 448. 
 
 Mourning Bride, censured, 226. 233. 243. 
 435. 439. 
 
 Music, emotions raised by instrumental 
 music have not an object, 39. Music 
 disposes the heart to various passions, 
 437., refined pleasures of music, 35. 
 Vocal distinguished from instrumen- 
 tal, 74, 75. What subjects proper for 
 vocal music, 75, &c. Sentimental 
 music, 74, note. Sounds fit to accom- 
 pany disagreeable passions cannot be 
 musical, io. note. What variety pro- 
 per, 157. Music betwixt the acts of a 
 play, the advantages that may b
 
 INDEX. 
 
 497 
 
 drawn from it, 437. It refines our 
 nature, 35. 
 
 Musical instruments, their different ef- 
 fects upon the mind, 118. 
 
 Musical measure, defined, 290. 
 
 Narration, it animates a narrative to re- 
 
 Ssent things past as present, 55. 
 arration and description, ch. xxi. 
 It animates a narrative to make it 
 dramatic, 404, 405. 415, 416. 
 
 Nation defined, 487. 
 
 Note, a high note and a low note in 
 music, 115. 
 
 Noun, 266. 
 
 Novelty soon degenerates into familiari- 
 ty, 66. Novelty and the unexpected 
 appearance of objects, ch. vi. No- 
 velty a pleasant emotion, 132, &c., 
 distinguished from variety, 134., its 
 different degrees, iff., &c., fixes the 
 attention, 153. 
 
 Number, defined, 455., explained, 479. 
 
 Numerus, defined, 290. 
 
 Object, of a passion defined, 31., distin- 
 guished into general and particular, ib. 
 An agreeable object produces a plea- 
 sant emotion, and a disagreeable ob- 
 ject a painful emotion, 59. Attractive 
 object, 97. Repulsive object, ib. Ob- 
 jects of sight the most complex, 103. 
 Objects that are neither agreeable nor 
 disagreeable, 113 127. Natural ob- 
 jects readily form themselves into 
 groups. 160. An object terminating 
 an opening in a wood, appears doubly 
 distant, 446. Object defined, 474. 
 Objects of external sense in what 
 place perceived, 474, 475. Objects 
 of internal sense, 475. All objects of 
 sight are complex, 479. 485. Objects 
 simple and complex, 485. 
 
 Obstacles, to gratification inflame a pas- 
 sion, 65. 
 
 Old Bachelor, censured, 431. 
 
 Opera, censured, 167. 
 
 Opinion, influenced by passion, 87.361., 
 influenced by propensity, 88., influ- 
 enced by affection, ib. Why differing 
 from me in opinion is disagreeable, 
 469. Opinion defined, 483. 
 
 Oration, of Cicero pro Archia po'eta 
 censured, 280. 
 
 Orchard, 449. 
 
 Order, 21. 105. 442. Pleasure we have 
 in order, 22, &c., necessary in all 
 compositions, 23. Sense of order has 
 an influence upon our passions, 45. 
 Order and proportion contribute to 
 grandeur, 111. When a list of many 
 particulars is brought into a period, 
 in what order should they be placed, 
 42* 
 
 278. &c. Order in stating- facts, 
 429. 
 
 Organ of sense, II, 12. 
 
 Organic pleasure, 12, &c. 
 
 Orlando Furioso, censured, 430. 
 
 Ornament, ought to be suited to the sub- 
 ject, 166, 167. Redundant ornaments 
 ought to be avoided, 391. Ornaments 
 distinguished into what are merely 
 such, and what have relation to use, 
 403. Allegorical or emblematic orna- 
 ments, 407. 
 
 Ossian, excels in drawing characters. 
 398. 
 
 Othello, censured, 411. 
 
 Ovid, censured, 160. 
 
 Pa;on, 324. 
 
 Pain, cessation of pain extremely plea- 
 sant, 38. Pain, voluntary and invo- 
 luntary, 62. Different effects of pain 
 upon the temper, ib. Social pain less 
 severe than selfish, ib. Pain of a train 
 of perceptions in certain circum- 
 stances, 155. Pain lessens by cus- 
 tom, 201. 467. Pain of want, 201.* . 
 
 Painful, emotions and passions, 58, &c.' 
 
 Painting, power of painting to move 
 our passions, 54. Its power to en- 
 gage our belief, 57. What degree of 
 variety is requisite, 159. A picture 
 ought to be so simple as to be seen at 
 one view, ib. In grotesque painting 
 the figures ought to be small, in histo- 
 rical painting as great as the life, 116. 
 Grandeur of manner in painting, 122. 
 A landscape admits not variety of ex- 
 pression, 159. Painting is an imita- 
 tion of nature, 247. In history-paint- 
 ing, the principal figure ought to be in 
 the best light, 405. A good picture 
 agreeable, though the subject be dis- 
 agreeable, 409. Objects that strike 
 terror have a fine effect in painting, 
 410. Objects of horror ought not to 
 be represented, 411. Unity of action 
 in a picture, 435. What emotions can 
 be raised by painting, 442. 
 
 Panic, cause of it, 95. 
 
 Paradise Lost, the richness of its melo- 
 dy, 317., censured, 420. 
 
 Parallelogram, its beauty, 106. 
 
 Parody, defined, 182. 219, note. 
 
 Particles. 305., not capable of an ac- 
 cent, 309. 
 
 Passion, no pleasure of external sens* 
 denominated a passion, except of see- 
 ing and hearing, 26. Passion distin- 
 guished from emotion, 29, &c. Ob- 
 jects of passion, 31, 32. Passions, 
 distinguished into instinctive and de- 
 liberative, 32. 47, 48, &c., what are 
 selfish, what social, 32., what dio-
 
 498 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 cial, 33. Passion communicated to 
 related objects. 42, &c., 275. 283. 295. 
 309. 349. 380. Generated by a com- 
 plex object, 45. A passion paves the 
 way to others of a similar tone, 46, 
 47. A passion paves the way to 
 others in the same tone, ib. Passion 
 raised by painting, 54. Passions 
 considered as pleasant or painful, 
 agreeable or disagreeable, 58, &c. 
 Our passions governed by the mori " 
 sense, 60. Social passions more plea- 
 sant and less painful than the selfish, 
 62. Passions are infectious, 60. 95., 
 are refined or gross, 61. Their inter- 
 rupted existence, 63, &c. Their 
 growth and decay, 64, &c. The 
 identity of a passion, 64. The bulk 
 of our passions are the affections of 
 love or hatred inflamed into a passion, 
 65. Passions have a tendency to ex- 
 cess, ib. Passions swell by opposi- 
 tion, 65, 66. A passion sudden in 
 growth is sudden in decay, 64. A 
 passion founded on an original pro- 
 pensity endures for life, 65., founded 
 on affection or aversion is subject to 
 decay, 66. A passion ceases upon 
 attaining its ultimate end, 6G, 67. 
 Coexistent passions, 67, &c. Pas- 
 sions similar and dissimilar, 68, &c. 
 Fluctuation of passion, 68. 220, &c. 
 222. Its influence upon our percep- 
 tions, opinions and belief, 87, &c., 
 147. 348. 359. 361363, &c. Pas- 
 sions attractive and repulsive, 97. 213. 
 Prone to their gratification, 98. Pas- 
 aions ranked according to their dig- 
 nity, 174, 175. Social passions of 
 greater dignity than selfish, 176. Ex- 
 ternal signs of passions, chap. xv. 
 Our passions should be governed by 
 reason, 223. Language of passion, 
 chap. xvii. A passion when immo- 
 derate is silent, 236. Language of 
 passion broken and interrupted, ib. 
 What passions admit of figurative 
 expression, 237. 335. 336. Language 
 proper for impetuous passion, '2)57., 
 for melancholy, 238., for calm emo- 
 tions, ib., for turbulent passion, ib. 
 In certain passions the mind is prone 
 to bestow sensibility upon tilings in- 
 animate, 348. 354. 357. With regard 
 to passion man is passive, 475. We 
 are conscious of passions as in the 
 heart, ib. 
 
 Passionate, personification, 353, &c. 
 
 Passive subject, defined, 488. 
 
 Pathetic tragedy, 415. 
 
 Pause, pauses necessary for three differ- 
 ent purposes, 291. Musical pauses 
 in an hexameter line, 294. Musical 
 
 pauses ought to coincide with those in 
 the sense, 296, &c. What musical 
 pauses are essential in English heroic 
 verse, 300. Rules concerning them, 
 300 302. Pause that includes a 
 couplet, 307. Pause and accent have 
 a mutual influence, 312, 313. 
 Pedestal, ought to be sparingly orna- 
 mented, 460. 
 
 Perceptions, more easily remembered 
 than ideas, 91, 92. 152. Succession 
 of perceptions, 19. 152. Unconnect- 
 ed perceptions find not easy admit- 
 tance to the mind. 153. 156. Pleasure 
 and pain of perceptions in a train, 
 155, &c. Perception defined, 475., 
 described, 486. Original and second- 
 ary, 476, 477, &c. Simple and com- 
 plex, 476. 
 
 Period, has a fine effect when its mem- 
 bers proceed in the form of an in- 
 creasing series, 252. In the periods ot 
 a discourse variety ought to be studied, 
 253. Different thoughts ought not to 
 be crowded into one period, 260. The 
 scene ought not to be changed in a 
 period, 263. A period so arranged as 
 to express the sense clearly, seems 
 more musical than where the sense is 
 left doubtful, 273. In what part of 
 the period doth a word make the 
 greatest figure, 277. A period ought 
 to be closed with that word which 
 makes the greatest figure, 278. When 
 there is occasion to mention many 
 particulars, in what order ought they 
 to be. piaced, 278, &c. A short period 
 is lively and familiar, a long period 
 grave and solemn, 279. A discourse 
 ought not. to commence with a long 
 period, 280. 
 
 Personification, 347, &c. Passionate 
 and descriptive, 353, &c. 
 
 Perspicuity, a capital requisite in wri- 
 ting, 255. Perspicuity in arrange- 
 ment, 270. 
 
 Phantasm, 478, note. 
 
 Phur.sulia, censured, 415. 
 
 Phedra^ of Racine censured, 203. 240. 
 
 Picture. See Painting. 
 
 Pilaster, less beautiful than a column, 
 4G2. 
 
 Pindar, defective in order and connec- 
 tion, 23. 
 
 Pity, defined. 30., apt to produce love, 
 47., always painful, yet always agree- 
 able, 60., resembles its cause, 95. 
 What are the proper objects for 
 raising pity, 417, &c. 
 
 Place, explained, 486. 
 
 Plain, a large plain a beautiful object, 
 93. 
 
 Planetary system, its beauty, 128. 130.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 499 
 
 Plautus, the liberty he takes as to place 
 and time, 439. 
 
 Play, is a chain of connected facts, each 
 scene making a link, 431. 
 
 Play of words, 189, &c. 245, &c., gone 
 into disrepute, 190. Comparisons 
 that resolve into a play of words. 
 343, &c, 
 
 Peasant emotions and passions, 59, 
 &c. Social passions more pleasant 
 than the selfish, 176. Pleasant pain 
 explained, 69. 
 
 Pleasure, pleasures of seeing and hear- 
 ing distinguished from those of the 
 other senses, II, &c., pleasure of or- 
 der, 22, &c., of connection, 22. Plea- 
 sures of taste, touch, and smell, not 
 termed emotions or passions, 26. 
 Pleasure of a reverie, 53. 156. Plea- 
 sures refined and gross, 62. Pleasure 
 of a train of perceptions in certain 
 circumstances, 155, &c. Corporeal 
 
 fleasure low, and sometimes mean, 
 74. Pleasures of the eye and ear 
 never low or mean, ib. Pleasures of 
 the understanding are high in point of 
 dignity, 175. Custom augments mo- 
 derate pleasures, but diminishes those 
 that are inti-nse, 201. Some pleasures 
 felt internally, some externally, 481. 
 
 Poet, the chief talent of a poet who 
 deals in the pathetic, 205. 
 
 Poetical flight?;, in what state of mind 
 they are most relished, 335. 
 
 Poetry, grandeur of manner in poetry, 
 119, &c. How far variety is proper, 
 159. Objects that strike terror have a 
 fine effect in it, 410. Objects of hor- 
 ror ought to be banished from it, 411. 
 Poetry has power over all the human 
 affections, 412. The most successful 
 in describing objects of sight, 486. 
 
 Polite behaviour, 62. 
 
 Polygon, regular its beauty, 106. 
 
 Polysyllables, how far agreeable to the 
 ear, 253., seldom have place in the 
 construction of English verse, 299. 
 311. 
 
 Pompey, of Corneille censured, 225. 
 231, 232. 
 
 Poor, habit puts them on a level with 
 the rich, 201, 202. 
 
 Pope, excels in the variety of his melo- 
 dy, 307., censured, 338. 344. 400. 
 His style compared with that of 
 Swift, 404. 
 
 Posture, constrained posture disagree- 
 able to the spectator, 95. 
 
 Power of abstraction, 485, 486., its use, 
 387. 
 
 Prepositions explained, 270. 
 
 Pride, how generated, 64., why it is 
 perpetual, 66. incites us to ridicule 
 
 the blunders and absurdities of others, 
 169., a pleasant passion, 169, 170., 
 considered with respect to dignity and 
 meanness, 175. Its external expres- 
 sions or signs disagreeable, 210. 
 
 Primary, and secondary qualities of 
 matter, 107. Primary and secondary 
 relations, 165, note. 
 
 Principle of order, 22., of morality, 
 28. 40. 168, &c., of self-preservation, 
 47., of selfishness, 97., of benevo- 
 lence, ib., &c., of punishment, 100. 
 169. Principle that makes us fond of 
 esteem, IOC. 118., of curiosity. 131. 
 139., of habit, 200, 201. Principle that 
 makes us wish others to lw of our 
 opinion, 4G8, 469. Principle de- 
 nned, 483*, sometimes so enlivened as 
 to become an emotion, 40. See Pro- 
 pensity. 
 
 Principles of the fine arts, 14. 
 
 Proceleusmaticus, 324. 
 
 P-odigies, find ready credit with the 
 vulgar, 88. 
 
 Prologue, of the ancient tragedy, 433. 
 
 Pronoun, defined, 274. 
 
 Pronunciation, rules for it, 283, &c., 
 287., distinguished from singing, 287. 
 Singing and pronouncing compared, 
 288. 
 
 Propensity, sometimes so enlivened as 
 to become an emotion, 40. 65., op- 
 
 Eosed to affection, 67. Opinion and 
 e'ief influenced by it, 88. Propen- 
 sity to justify our passions and ac- 
 tions, 83. Propensity to punish guilt 
 and reward virtue, 100, &c. Pro- 
 pensity to carry along the good or bad 
 properties of one subject to another, 
 42. 95. 103. 247. 275. 283. 295. 309. 
 366. 380. Propensity to complete 
 every work that is begun, and to carry 
 things to perfection, 146. 461. Pro- 
 pensity to communicate to others every 
 thing that affects us, 235. Propensity 
 to place together things mutually con- 
 nected, 283. Propensity defined, 483. 
 See Principle. 
 
 Properties, transferred from one subject 
 to another, 42. % 103. 247. 275. 283. 
 295. 309. 366. 380. 
 
 Property, the affectiup man bears to his 
 property, 43. A rerondary relation, 
 166, note. 
 
 Prophecy, those who believe in prophe- 
 cies wish the accomplishment, 101. 
 
 Propriety, ch. x., a secondaiy relation 
 165., note., distinguished from coa- 
 gruity, 166., distinguished from pro- 
 portion, 170. Propriety in buildings, 
 457. 458. , 
 
 Proportion, contributes to grandeur, 
 111., distinguished from propriety,
 
 500 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 170. As to quantity coincides with 
 congruity, ib., examined as applied 
 to architecture, 454. Proportion de- 
 fined, 482. 
 
 Prose, distinguished from verse, 289, &c. 
 
 Prospect, an unbounded prospect dis- 
 agreeable, 146., note. By what means 
 a prospect may be improved, 446. 
 
 Provoked Husband, censured, 426. 
 
 Pun, defined, 191. 
 
 Punishment, in the place where the 
 crime was committed, 148. Punish- 
 ment of impropriety, 169, &c. 
 
 Public games, of the Greeks, 129. 
 
 Phyrrhichus, 323. 
 
 dualities, primary and secondary. 107. 
 A quality cannot be conceived inde- 
 pendent of the subject to which it be- 
 longs. 269. Different qualities per- 
 ceived by different senses, 474, 475. 
 Communicated to related objects. 
 See Propensity. 
 
 Quantity, with respect to melody, 291. 
 Quantity with respect to English 
 verse, 298. False quantity, 299. 
 
 Quintilian, censured, 362. 
 
 Quintus Curtius, censured, 222. 
 
 Racine, criticised, 240. Censured, 243. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, characterized, 179. 
 Its verse admirable, 292. 
 
 Reading, chief talent of a fine reader, 
 205. Plaintive passions require a 
 slow pronunciation, 219, note. Rules 
 for reading, 286, &c., compared with 
 singing, 287. 
 
 Reality, of external objects, 51. 
 
 Reason, reasons to justify a favourite 
 opinion are always at hand, and 
 much relished, 83. 
 
 Recitative, 290. 
 
 Refined pleasure, 61. 
 
 Regularity, not so essential in great ob- 
 jects as in small, 111., not in a small 
 work so much as in one tl at is ex- 
 tensive, ib. How far to be studied in 
 architecture, 442. 445. 454. How far 
 to be studied in a garden, 443, 444. 
 Regular line defined, 481. Regular 
 figure defined, 481. Regularity pro- 
 per and figurative, 482. 
 
 Relations, 19. Have an influence in 
 generating emotions and passions, 42. 
 &c. Are the foundation of congruity 
 and propriety, 165. Primary and 
 secondary relations, ib. note. In what 
 manner are relations expressed in 
 words, 266, &c. The effect that even 
 the slighter relations have on the 
 mind, 449. 
 
 Relative beauty, 103. 449. 
 
 Remorse, anguish of remorse, 95., its 
 
 gratification, 99. Punishment pro- 
 vided by nature for injustice, 172., 
 is not mean, 175. 
 
 Repartee, 192. 
 
 Repetitions, 406. 
 
 Representation, its perfection lies in 
 hiding itself and producing an im- 
 pression of reality, 435. 
 
 Repulsive, object, 97. Repulsive pas- 
 sions, 97. 213. 
 
 Resemblance, and dissimilitude, ch. viii. 
 Resemblance in a series of objects, 
 252. The members of a sentence sig- 
 nifying a resemblance betwixt objects 
 ov.ght to resemble each other, 261, &c. 
 Resemblance betwixt sound and sig- 
 nification, 282 284. No resemblance 
 betwixt objects of different senses, 
 283. Resembling causes may pro- 
 duce effects that have no resemblance, 
 and causes that have no resemblance 
 may produce resembling effects, ib., 
 &c. The faintest resemblance be- 
 twixt sound and signification gives 
 tne greatest pleasure, 284, &c. Re- 
 semblance carried too far in some 
 gardens, 445, note. 
 
 Resentment, explained, 48, &c. Dis- 
 agreeable in excess, 61. Extended 
 against relations of the offender, 85. 
 Its gratification, 99. When immo- 
 derate is silent, 236. 
 
 Rss;, neitr.er agreeable nor disagreeable, 
 127., explained, 243. 
 
 Revenge, animates but doth not elevate 
 the mind, 118. Has no dignity in it, 
 175. When immoderate is silent, 
 236., improper, but not mean, 174. 
 
 Reverie, cause of the pleasure we have 
 in It. 53. 156. 
 
 Rhyme, for what subjects it is proper, 
 322, &c. Melody of rhyme, 322. 
 
 Rhythmus, defined, 290. 
 
 Rich and poor put upon a level by ha- 
 bit, 201, 202. 
 
 Ric'-es, love of, corrupts the taste, 472. 
 
 Riddle, 447. 
 
 Ridicule, a gross pleasure, 62. Is losing 
 ground in England, ib. Emotion 01 
 ridicule, 138. Not concordant with 
 grandeur, 150. Ridicule, 169, ch. 
 xii. Whether it be a test of truth, 
 183. 
 
 Ridiculous, distinguished from risible. 
 138. 
 
 Right and wrong as to actions, 28. 
 
 Risible objects, ch. vii. Risible distin- 
 guished from ridiculous, 138. 
 
 Room, its form, 453. 
 
 Rubens, censured, 376. 
 
 Ruin, ought not to be seen from a flower- 
 parterre, 444. In what form it ought 
 to be, 448.
 
 INDEX, 
 
 501 
 
 Sallust, censured for want of connec- 
 tion, 24. 
 
 Sapphic verse, has a very agreeable 
 modulation, 290. 
 
 Savage, knows little of social affec- 
 tion, 62. 
 
 Scorn, 169. 179. 
 
 Sculpture, imitates nature, 247. What 
 emotions can be raised by it, 442. 
 
 Secekia Rapita, characterized, 179. 
 
 Secondary qualities of matter, 107, &c. 
 Secondary relations, 165, note. 
 
 Seeing, in seeing we feel no impression, 
 
 476. Objects of sight are all of them 
 complex, 479. 
 
 Self-deceit, 83. 230. 
 
 Selfish, passions, 32, 33. Are pleasant, 
 61. Less refined and less pleasant 
 than the social, 62. The pain of self- 
 ish passions more severe than of so- 
 cial passions, ib. Inferior in dignity 
 to the social, 176. A selfish emotion 
 arising from a social principle, 32. A 
 selfish motive arising from a social 
 principle, 32., note. 
 
 Selfishness, promoted by luxury, 471., 
 and also by love of riches, 472. 
 
 Self-love, its prevalence accounted for, 
 34. In excess disagreeable, 60. Not 
 inconsistent with benevolence, 97. 
 
 Semipause, in an hexameter line, 294. 
 What semipauses are found in an 
 English heroic line, 309. 
 
 Sensation, defined, 475., described, 479. 
 
 Sense, of order, 23, &c., contributes to 
 generate emotions, 43, note., and pas- 
 sions, 45. Sense of right and wrong, 
 28. The veracity of our senses, 51. 
 
 477, note. Sense of congruity or pro- 
 priety, 165., 6f the dignity of human 
 nature, 173. 469. Sense of ridicule, 
 179. Sense by which we discover a 
 passion from its external signs, 211. 
 Sense of a common nature in every 
 species of beings, 60. 467. Sense, in- 
 ternal and external, 474. In touch- 
 ing, tasting, and smelling, we feel the 
 impression at the organ of sense, not 
 in seeing and hearing, 476. 
 
 Senses, whether active or passive, 488. 
 
 Sentence, it detracts from neatness to 
 vary the scene in the same sentence, 
 263. A sentence so arranged as to 
 express the sense clearly, seems al- 
 ways more musical than where the 
 sense is left in any degree doubtful, 
 273. 
 
 Sentiment, elevated, low, 115. Senti- 
 ments, ch. xvi., ought to be suited 
 to the passion, 216. Sentiments ex- 
 pressing swelling of passion, 219., 
 expressing the different stages of pas- 
 sion, 220., dictated by coexistent pas- 
 
 sions, 221. Sentiments of strong pas- 
 sions are hid or dissembled, 222. Sen- 
 timents above the tone of the passion, 
 223., below the tone of the passion, 
 225. Sentiments too gay for a seri- 
 ous passion, ib., too artificial for a 
 serious passion, ib., fanciful or finical, 
 226., discordant with character, 227., 
 misplaced, 229. Immoral sentiments 
 expressed without disguise, 230 233., 
 unnatural, 233. Sentiments both in 
 dramatic and epic compositions ought 
 to be subservient to the action, 420. 
 Sentiment defined, <*80. 
 
 Sentimental music, 74, note. 
 
 Series, from small to great agreeable, 
 114. Ascending series, ib. Descend- 
 ing series, ib. The effect of a num- 
 ber of objects placed in an increasing 
 or decreasing series, 252. 
 
 Serpentine river, its beauty, 128. 450. 
 
 Sertorius, of Corneille censured, 220. 
 
 Shaft of a column, 462. 
 
 Shakspeare, his sentiments just repre- 
 sentations of nature, 218., is superior 
 to all other writers in delineating pas- 
 sions and sentiments, 239, 240., ex- 
 cels in the knowledge of human na- 
 ture, 240, note., deals little in inver- 
 sion, 317., excels in drawing charac- 
 ters, 397., his style in what respect 
 excellent, 404., his dialogue finely 
 conducted, 427., deals not in barren 
 scenes, 431. 
 
 Shame, arising from affection or arer- 
 sion, 65., is not mean, 175. 
 
 Sight, influenced by passion, 93. 146. 
 
 Similar emotions, 68., their effects when 
 coexistent^ 69. 457. 
 
 Similar passions, 68, &c. Effects of co- 
 existent similar passions, 71. 
 
 Simple perception, 480. 
 
 Simplicity, taste for simplicity has pro- 
 duced many Utopian systems of hu- 
 man nature, 27. Beauty of simpli- 
 city, 104., abandoned in the fine arta, 
 107., a great beauty in tragedy, 425., 
 ought to be the governing taste in gar- 
 dening and architecture, 443. 
 
 Singing, distinguished from pronoun- 
 cing or reading, 287. Singing and 
 pronouncing compared, 288. 
 
 Situation, different situations suited to 
 different buildings, 458. 
 
 Sky, the relish of it lost by familiarity, 
 
 Smelling, in smelling we feel an impres- 
 sion upon the organ of sense, 11. 476. 
 
 Smoke, the pleasure of ascending smoke 
 accounted for, 128. 
 
 Social passions, 32., more refined and 
 more pleasant than the selfish, 62. 
 The pain of social passions more mild
 
 502 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 than of selfish passions, ib. Social 
 passions are of greater dignity, 176. 
 
 Society, advantages of, 101. 
 
 Soliloquy, has a foundation in nature, 
 242. Soliloquies, 241, &c. 
 
 Sophocles, generally correct in the dra- 
 matic rules, 438. 
 
 Sounds ; power of sounds to raise emo- 
 tions, 35, 36., concordant, 68., dis- 
 cordant, ib., disagreeable sounds, 74., 
 fit for accompanying certain passions, 
 74, 75. Sounds produce emotions 
 that resemble them, 94., articulate how 
 far agreeable to the ear, 248 250. A 
 smooth sound soothes the mind, and a 
 rough sound animates, 251. A con- 
 tinued sound tends to lay us asleep, an 
 interrupted sound rouses and ani- 
 mates, 265. 
 
 Space, natural computation of space, 
 92, &c. Space explained, 485, 486. 
 
 Species, defined, 485. 
 
 Specific habit, defined, 198. 
 
 Speech, power of speech to raise emo- 
 tions, whence derived, 53. 56. 
 
 Spondee, 293, 294. 323. 
 
 Square, its beauty, 106. 160. 
 
 Stairs, their proportion, 453. 
 
 Standard of taste, ch. xxv. Standard 
 of morals, 4G8 471. 
 
 Star, in gardening, 445. 
 
 Statue, the reason why a statue is not 
 coloured, 149. The limbs of a statue 
 ought to be contrasted, 159. An 
 equestrian statue is placed in a centre 
 of streets, that it may be seen from 
 many places at once, 405. Statues 
 for adorning a building, where to be 
 placed, 459, 460. Statue of an animal 
 pouring out water, 448., of a water- 
 god pouring water out of his urn, 
 465. Statues of animals employed 
 as supports condemned, ib. Naked 
 statues condemned, 457, note. 
 
 Steeple, ought to be pyramidal, 159. 
 
 Strada, censured, 392. 
 
 Style, natural and inverted, 270, &c. 
 The beauties of a natural style, 281., 
 of an inverted style, ib. Concise 
 style a great ornament, 406. 
 
 Subject, may be conceived independent 
 of any particular quality, 269. Sub- 
 ject with respect to its qualities, 474. 
 
 ' 486. Subject defined, 488. 
 
 Sublimity, ch. iv. Sublime in poetry, 
 1 15. General terms ought to be avoid- 
 ed where sublimity is intended, 122. 
 Sublimity may be employed indirectly 
 to sink the mind, 124. False sub- 
 lime, 125. 
 
 Submission, natural foundation of sub- 
 mission to government, 100, &c. 
 
 Substance, defined, 475. 
 
 Substratum, defined, 475. 
 
 Succession, of perceptions and ideas, 
 19. 152, &c. In a quick succession of 
 the most beautiful objects we are 
 scarce sensible of any emotion ; 53. 
 Succession of syllables in a word, 
 249., of objects, 252. 
 
 Superlatives, inferior writers deal in su- 
 perlatives, 367. 
 
 Surprise, the essence of wit, 21. 185. 
 Instantaneous, 64, 65. 186., decays 
 suddenly, 65. 186., pleasant or painful 
 according to circumstances, 133, &c. 
 Surprise the cause of contrast, 144., 
 has an influence upon our opinions, 
 and even upon our eye-sight, 147. 
 Surprise a silent passion, 236. studi- 
 ed in Chinese gardens, 451. 
 
 Suspense, an uneasy state, 90. 
 
 Sweet distress, explained, 68. 
 
 Swift, his language always suited to 
 his subject, 403., has a peculiar energy 
 of style. 404., compared with Pope, ib. 
 
 Syllable, 248, &c. Syllables considered 
 as composing words, 249. Syllables 
 long and short, 250. 292. Many syl- 
 lables in English are arbitrary, 298. 
 
 Sympathy, sympathetic emotion of vir- 
 tue, 40, &c. The pain of sympathy 
 is voluntary, 62. It improves the tem- 
 per, ib. 
 
 Sympathy, 98., attractive, 93. 212., ne- 
 ver low nor mean, 174., the cement 
 of society, 212. 
 
 Synthetic, and analytic methods of rea- 
 soning compared, 22. 
 
 Tacitus, excels in drawing characters, 
 397., his style comprehensive, 407. 
 
 Tasso, censured, 422. 424. 
 
 Taste, in tasting we feel an impression 
 upon the organ of sense, 11. 476. 
 Taste in the fine arts though natural 
 requires culture, 13. 472, note. Taste 
 in the fine arts compared with the 
 moral sense, 13., its advantages, 14, 
 15. Delicacy of taste, 61. 472., a low 
 taste, 115. Taste in some measure 
 influenced by reflection, 462, note. 
 The foundation of a right and wrong 
 in taste, 466. Taste in the fine arts 
 as well as in morals corrupted by vo- 
 luptuousness, 471., corrupted by love 
 of riches, 472. Taste never naturally 
 bad or wrong, 473. Aberrations from 
 a true taste in the fine arts, 476. 
 
 Tautology, a blemish in writing, 407. 
 
 Telemachus, an epic poem, 414, note. 
 Censured, 425, note. 
 
 Temples, of ancient and modern virtue 
 in the gardens of Stow, 464. 
 
 Terence, censured, 242. 439. 
 
 Terror, arises sometimes to its utmost
 
 INDEX. 
 
 503 
 
 height instantaneously, 64, &c., a si- 
 lent passion, 236. Objects that strike 
 terror have a fine effect in poetry and 
 painting, 410. The terror raised by 
 tragedy explained, 418. 
 Theorem, general theorems agreeable, 
 
 Time, past time expressed as present, 
 .65, &c. Natural computation of time, 
 89, &c. Time explained, 485. 
 
 Titus Livius. See Livy. 
 
 Tone, of mind, 475. 
 
 Touch, in touching we feel an impres- 
 sion upon the organ of sense, 11. 476. 
 
 Trachimens, of Sophocles censured, 438. 
 
 Tragedy, the deepest tragedies are the 
 most crowded, 213, note. The later 
 English tragedies censured, 217. 
 French tragedy censured, 219, note., 
 232. The Greek tragedy accompa- 
 nied with musical notes to ascertain 
 the pronunciation, 289. Tragedy, 
 ch. xxii., in what respect it differs 
 from an epic poem, 414, &c., distin- 
 guished into pathetic and moral, 415., 
 its good effects, 416., compared with 
 the epic as to the subjects proper for 
 each, 416, 417., how far it may bor- 
 row from history, 419., rule for di- 
 viding it into acts, 420, 421., double 
 plot in it, 425., admits not violent ac- 
 tion or supernatural events, 426., its 
 origin, 432. Ancient tragedy a con- 
 tinued representation without inter- 
 ruption, 433. Constitution of the 
 modern drama, 434. 
 
 Tragi-comedy, 426. 
 
 Trees, the best manner of placing them, 
 445, 446. 
 
 Triangle, equilateral, its beauty, 106. 
 
 Tibrachys, 323. 
 
 Trochams, 323. 
 
 Tropes, ch. xx. 
 
 Ugliness, proper and figurative, 482. 
 
 Unbounded prospect disagreeable, 146, 
 note. 
 
 Uniformity of the operations of nature, 
 161, &c. Uniformity apt to disgust 
 hy excess, 106. Uniformity and va- 
 riety, ch. ix., conspicuous in the 
 works of nature, 163. The melody 
 of the verse ought to be uniform 
 where the things described are uni- 
 form, 308. Uniformity defined, 481. 
 
 Unity, the three unities, ch. xxiii., of 
 actions, 430, &c. Unity of action in 
 a picture, 431., of time and of place, 
 432, &c. Unities of time and of place 
 not required in an epic poem, ib. 
 Strictly observed in the Greek tra- 
 gedy, ib. Unity of place in the an- 
 cient drama, ib. Unities of place and 
 
 time ought to be strictly observed in 
 each act of a modern play, 434, &c. 
 Wherein the unity of a garden con- 
 sists, 444. 
 
 Unwrnqundque eodem modo dissolvii/ui 
 quo colligatum est, 147. 
 
 Vanity, a disagreeable passion, 61., al- 
 ways appears mean, 175. 
 
 Variety, distinguished from novelty, 134. 
 Variety, ch. ix. Variety in pictures, 
 159., conspicuous in the works of na- 
 ture, 163., in gardening, 450. 
 
 Veracity of our senses, 51. 
 
 Verb, active and passive, 266, 267. 
 
 Verbal antithesis, defined, 190. 259. 
 
 Versailles, gardens of, 447. 
 
 Verse, distinguished from prose, 289 
 Sapphic verse extremely melodious, 
 290. Iambic less so, ib. Structure of 
 an hexameter line, 292, &c. Struc- 
 ture of English heroic verse, 298, 
 note., 308. &c. 318. English mono- 
 syllables arbitrary as to quantity, 298, 
 English heroic lines distinguished into 
 four sorts, 300. 311., they have a due 
 mixture of uniformity and variety, 
 315. English rhyme compared with 
 blank verse, 316. Rules for compo- 
 sing each, 316, &c. Latin hexameter 
 compared with English rhyme, 318., 
 compared with blank verse, ib. 
 French heroic verse compared with 
 hexameter and rhyme, ib. The En- 
 glish language incapable of the melo- 
 dy of hexameter verse, 319. For 
 what subject is rhyme proper, 320, 
 &c. Melody of rhyme, ib. Rhyme 
 necessary to French verse, 322. Me- 
 lody of verse is so enchanting as to 
 draw a veil over gross imperfections, 
 323. Verses composed in the shape 
 of an axe or an egg, 447. 
 
 Violent action, ought to be excluded 
 from the stage, 426. 
 
 Virgil, censured for want of connection, 
 24., his verse extremely melodious, 
 296., his versification criticised, 308., 
 censured, 323. 399. 402. 408. 411, 
 412. 423. 
 
 Virgil travcstie, characterised, 179. 
 
 Virtue, the pleasures of virtue never de- 
 cay, 40. 
 
 Vision, the largest and smallest angle ot 
 vision, 92. 93. 
 
 Voltaire, censured, 395. 419. 422. 424. 
 
 Voluntary signs of passion, 205, 206. 
 
 Voluptuousness tends to vitiate our 
 taste, 471, 472. 
 
 Vowels, 248, 249. 
 
 Walk, in a garden, whether it ought 
 to be straight or waving, 448. Arti-
 
 504 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 I perpendicular 
 feeling, 94. 
 
 ficial walk elevated above the plain, 
 448. 
 
 Wall, that is not 
 sions an uneasy 
 
 Waterfall, 94. 129. 
 
 Water-god, statue of, pouring out wa- 
 ter, 465. 
 
 Way of the world, censured, 431., the 
 unities of place and time strictly ob- 
 served in it, 440. 
 
 Will, how far our train of perceptions 
 can be regulated by it, 20. 154156.. 
 determined by desire, 96. 
 
 Windows, their proportion, 452., double 
 row, 459. 
 
 Winter garden. 449. 
 
 Wish, distinguished from desire, 30. 
 
 Wit, defined, 21. 183., seldom united 
 with judgment, 21., but generally 
 with memory, ib., not concordant with 
 grandeur, 150. Wit, ch. xiii. Wit 
 in sounds, 192. Wit in architecture, 
 464. 
 
 Wonder, instantaneous, 64., decays sud- 
 denly, ib. Wonders and prodigies 
 find ready credit with the vulgar, 88. 
 Wonder defined, 131., studied in Chi- 
 nese gardens, 451. 
 
 Words, rules for coiling words, 33, 
 
 note. Play of words, 189. 245, &c. 
 Jingle of words, 246. Words consi- 
 dered with respect to their sound, 250. 
 Words of different languages com- 
 pared, 250, &c. What are their best 
 arrangement in a period, 252. A con- 
 junction or disjunction in the mem- 
 bers of the thought ought to be imi- 
 tated in the expression, 259, 261, &c. 
 Words expressing things connected 
 ought to be placed as near together as 
 possible, 273, &c. In what part of a 
 sentence doth a word make the great- 
 est figure, 277. Words acauire a 
 beauty from their meaning, 28:2. 380. 
 Some words make an impression re- 
 sembling that of their meaning, 282. 
 The words ought to accord with the 
 sentiment, 215. 237, 238. 247. 283. 
 403. A word is often redoubled to 
 add force to the expression, 238. 405. 
 See Language. 
 
 Writing, a subject intended for amuse- 
 ment may be highly ornamented, 167. 
 A grand subject appears best in a 
 plain dress, ib. 
 
 Youth, requires more variety of amuse- 
 ment than old age, 152.
 
 s 
 
 c-> 
 
 /^ 
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY ^FACILITY 
 
 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-138J 
 
 Return this material to the library 
 
 from which it was borrowed. 

 
 IONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 '%. 
 
 %)J!]V;HO